Targets of Opportunity Read online

  Sternlich frowned. Huddle up? “I’ll see what I can do,” he lied.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  AN ESTATE OUTSIDE LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  WHEN MARK BYRNES received word of the airplane explosion outside St. Maarten, he immediately called for his car and headed directly for the safe house where Ahmad Jaber was still in residence. Unlike some of his subordinates, notably Jordan Sandor, the Deputy Director was a man with an even temperament not given to easy fits of anger. Today, however, was another matter. By the time he reached the estate he was not disposed to a diplomatic approach.

  Byrnes stormed into the room and demanded, “What the hell kind of scam are you running here, Jaber?”

  The Iranian responded with a blank stare.

  “Answer me, damnit.”

  “Mr. Byrnes, I, uh, I am at a loss here.”

  “You’re going to be at a loss. Now tell me what you know about the destruction of a commercial jet in the Caribbean.”

  As Sandor had observed just a few days before, either Jaber was a great actor or a great traitor to his people. He said, “I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.”

  Jaber was in an isolated environment with no access to television or newspapers or radio or the Internet. Even if he was part of the plot to destroy the airliner, Byrnes realized that he had no way of knowing the sabotage had succeeded.

  “Sit down,” the DD said gruffly, then took a chair opposite Jaber, drew a deep breath, and gave the man a summary of what he had learned so far.

  Jaber’s look of surprise turned to a pensive expression. “Could that have been their plan?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “When Seyed came to me, as I have described to you, he knew little of their intentions. For my purposes, the identity of the men involved was more important than their mission. Seyed Asghari knew practically nothing of their plans, so I felt it would be more valuable to find out who was involved.”

  “The men who were involved, according to your information, were Asian, probably Korean. That was as much information as this Seyed Asghari gave you?”

  Jaber nodded, then stared down at the floor, holding his forehead in his left hand, his left elbow resting on the arm of the chair, apparently lost in his own thoughts. He was not ready to divulge what Seyed had also told him about the Spanish-speaking men who were involved, undoubtedly the same men who had engineered the destruction of Jaber’s home as he sat on the hillside and watched. There were only a few things he had managed to keep to himself, knowing that in the end his fate would become a negotiation and he had very little else to trade.

  “And you believe this was their scheme?” Byrnes demanded. “To destroy a commercial aircraft in the Caribbean?”

  Jaber paused, then finally looked up. “Frankly, I do not.”

  “So,” Byrnes said, less angrily this time, “I return to my original question. What scam are you running here?”

  “I am not the one running the scam, as you put it, Mr. Byrnes. I have come here, as I told you, to share whatever information I have. If you are asking me for an opinion, then I must say I do not believe this was their ultimate goal. No. It makes absolutely no sense. Why travel to Iran? Why involve so many different people? I say again, no. In my opinion, this was merely a diversion.”

  “A diversion? Over two hundred people are presumed dead. What the hell kind of diversion is that?”

  “In my estimation,” the Iranian responded calmly, “an extremely effective one.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ST. BARTHÉLEMY, F.W.I.

  THERE ARE THREE types of people who inhabit St. Barths. The first are the true natives, that group of hardy islanders descended from French, Swedish, and assorted other ancestries. The second are the visitors who fall in love with the natural attributes of the island, who rise at dawn, jog on the beaches, soak up the sun, eat salads for lunch, and are at home in their rented villas or expensive little hotels by ten. The third are those who come to St. Barths, not for its innate splendor, but for its reputation as the place to see and be seen. They are the late-night revelers who eschew gorgeous sunrises, opting instead for drunken sunsets. They are the denizens of the hilltop palazzos, the suites in the finest of hotels like the Isle de France or Guanahani, or the occupants of the megayachts that choke the small harbor of Gustavia.

  Yachts like the Misty II.

  Adina was well aware of these three disparate worlds, interested not for sociological reasons, but for how the movements of these people would affect his plans to infiltrate the telecommunications center at Fort Oscar.

  He was seated on the uppermost deck of the Misty II, puffing calmly on a Partagas D4, staring across the clear blue water at the cliff where the walls of the old fort were visible. Ironically, it was the portion of this fortress that was not visible that presently held his interest.

  Adina had just received word that the airliner had gone down. He chuckled aloud at Hicham’s concern that he might not be part of the operation here in Gustavia. Their departed Arab friend had indeed been an integral part of that plan.

  The destruction of the airliner was critical to his scheme. Adina had instructed Renaldo to line Hicham’s suitcase with plastic explosives, then check the bag through to New York. Once Renaldo obtained the boarding passes for the flights from St. Barths and St. Maarten, he destroyed the luggage receipt.

  Making Hicham the unwitting carrier of the bomb was easy. The Moroccan never even knew a suitcase had been checked in his name.

  The difficult part was finding a way to detonate the explosives. Adina’s men realized there was no effective way to implant a timing mechanism. Such gadgets could be too uncertain and even the most casual security check would detect the equipment. They opted instead for an altitude-sensitive device. It was constructed of clear glass that contained mercury, sulfuric acid, and an explosive cocktail containing liquid oxygen. When combined in the proper sequence the concoction would have enough firepower to set off both the C-4 and the secondary inflammables.

  Unlike the interior of the passenger and crew areas, the luggage compartment of the airplane was not fully pressurized, so the device would work as the plane rose. The crucial feature was to have the glass container strong enough to withstand the large bag being tossed about by luggage handlers in the transfer from one airplane to the next—they obviously did not want the suitcase to explode on the ground—but delicate enough to shatter when the mercury and acid expanded as the flight rose somewhere above twenty thousand feet. Once the glass membrane separating the components cracked, the mixture would ignite.

  The appearance of the tube and the liquid, seen through the airport scanning machine, approximated a large bottle of cologne, nothing that would raise undue suspicion inside checked luggage. The top compartment contained the mercury, and it was full and airtight, designed to appear on the X-ray machine like the cap of the bottle.

  As anticipated, no one in security gave it a second look, not in St. Barths, nor in the check-through baggage area at Princess Juliana International Airport in St. Maarten. As the aircraft rose high above the sea and approached the critical level, pressure built until the lethal container detonated.

  Now, as the authorities occupied themselves with a downed aircraft, Adina could proceed with the next phase of his operation.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  PYONGYANG

  THEIR COMPULSORY SIGHTSEEING tour concluded, Sandor and his men were taken to the Yanggakdo International Hotel, a huge rectangular building of no architectural distinction which was set on a small island in the middle of the Taedong River.

  On their arrival, Craig Raabe made a comment about the likeness between the setting of this large, monolithic structure and New York’s Rikers Island prison facility. Not only were they similar in style, but each was only accessible by a bridge. “Tourists here are like inmates in a detention center, right? Easily monitored and not able to enter or leave without permission.”

  Mr. Choi was not
amused. He was quick to point out that the Yanggakdo had a nightclub, assorted dining rooms, a revolving cocktail lounge on the top floor, conference rooms of various sizes, and spectacular views across Pyongyang and beyond. All of this was available to be enjoyed and explored by Sandor’s group under the watchful eyes of their ever-present guide and others who remained unseen but were obviously in attendance.

  Choi shepherded them through the check-in process, explaining that they would be sharing two rooms, and that once the room assignments were given there would be no switching. Sandor glanced at Raabe. They understood that limiting them to two rooms made surveillance that much easier than four.

  “Is there any way to pay for a single-room upgrade?” Raabe asked. “These jokers all snore.”

  When Choi shook his head, Sandor said he would bunk in with Raabe, Bergenn with Zimmermann.

  “You may rest now,” Mr. Choi advised them, “or have a look around our wonderful hotel. Almost two hours before dinner, in Dining Room Three. Six o’clock.”

  “Dining Room Three?” Raabe asked. “Is that the steakhouse, or do I have it confused with Dining Room Two?”

  Mr. Choi ignored him. “After dinner, you will be honored to attend the Arirang Festival.”

  “That’s what we’re here for,” Sandor said. Then the four of them followed Choi, their suitcases in hand, to the elevator bank.

  They realized the rooms were probably wired for audio, and perhaps even video. Their discussions would therefore be limited, as would their ability to organize the explosives Raabe had secreted in his luggage.

  Before entering the lift, Sandor said, “I’m not tired. After I clean up I’ll be heading for the revolving bar.”

  The others nodded.

  “Thirty minutes,” Sandor told them.

  ————

  They were all staying on the tenth floor at the Yanggakdo, undoubtedly to further ease the surveillance of their movements. They were shown to their rooms by Choi, where they found the accommodations spacious but cold, in keeping with the character of the building. The rooms were identical, each containing two double beds, a square nightstand between them, and two rectangular dressers against the wall. There didn’t seem to be a curved line anywhere. A television was secured to the top of one of the bureaus. It offered exactly two channels, each broadcasting state-created news.

  One side of the room consisted of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor. Two others had large mirrors built into them, a perfect arrangement for covert placement of the audio and video equipment that was undoubtedly rigged behind the glass. Sandor and Raabe bid the others good-bye, then shut the door. They looked over the setup and then at each other. Neither man spoke, neither voiced the obvious need to find a way to remove the small charges of plastique and magnesium fuses from Craig’s bag without being observed.

  Sandor headed for the bathroom, where he turned on the shower, all hot water, at full blast. With the door closed and the shower curtain pulled back, the mirror in there steamed up in just a couple of minutes.

  He came back and said, “You want to shower first?”

  Raabe nodded, grabbed his suitcase, and disappeared into what had developed into a humid cloud.

  Sandor turned one of the small armchairs toward the large window and sat, treating himself to the panoramic view of North Korean countryside as it stretched out toward the horizon, wondering what the evening would bring.

  Their plan was actually quite simple, but Sandor knew the execution was going to be complicated.

  Inside the Rungrado May Day Stadium, where the Arirang Festival was held, they would wait for the conclusion of the first act. When the second act began, Sandor would leave his seat. Their guide would not want him wandering off on his own, so the other three would agree to accompany him, just to make it more convenient. Once they were out of view they would dispatch Mr. Choi in any manner they deemed best, then head up two levels to the private boxes. There they would need to locate the suite where their mole would be meeting with key players from Kim’s inner circle. It was Sandor’s assignment to find these men, extract whatever information he could without compromising their North Korean collaborator, then make an escape.

  They had no weapons and no clear plan for extraction from the stadium, relying as they must on agents within the country to provide them help along the way. They would not be able to return to the van, since the driver, Sang, was certainly not going anywhere without Mr. Choi. This meant that timing, stealth, and luck would be imperative.

  Not to mention the assistance of the young woman who had given Sandor those four pins at the Arch of Triumph.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  NORTHWEST IRAN

  RASA JABER STEERED her late-model Mercedes along the Marand Road beltway, heading northwest from Tabriz, bypassing the town of Marand en route to the Turkish border. She realized that time was critical, but was careful of her speed, repeatedly forcing herself to slow the car. She knew that if she were stopped in Iran and her identity discovered, she would be taken into custody to face repercussions she could not even allow herself to contemplate. Ahmad had schooled her well, so she proceeded with caution, once again bringing herself back into line with the flow of traffic.

  In the silence of her car, left to think about her husband and the predicament she faced, she became increasingly distraught. How had things gone so wrong? She had already suffered enough for the perils of Ahmad’s chosen life—they had lost both of their sons in the war with Iraq and had a tragic familiarity with how suddenly things could change. Over the years she was forced to admit to herself, infrequently and with the greatest reluctance, that death was a specter under which they constantly lived. But this was something else, a fate she had never imagined. This was a threat coming from her own country.

  Her husband obviously knew of the coming danger. He had moved her out of harm’s way to protect her and, she told herself, had somehow managed to escape himself. But now so many days had gone by and there had not been a word or a message. He knew where she was, where she could be found. He could have sent her some sort of signal, could he not?

  So where was he? What did he expect her to do? Had he abandoned her forever?

  The visit to Tabriz had placed her sister’s family in jeopardy. Ahmad had been thoughtless in arranging that as her safe haven. Rasa left her sister’s home as soon as she learned of the explosion—remaining there would have been worse for all of them, and she hoped she had acted quickly enough so that her sister would not suffer. But now she was alone, on a journey into oblivion, to give herself up to the despised Americans, to seek quarter from those Ahmad had spent his life battling. She was traveling a route her husband had outlined for her long ago, in anticipation of the day when he was gone and she would be expendable in the eyes of his enemies. What lunacy, she told herself. Could her own people have become the enemy? If Ahmad was alive, as she was sure he must be, why had he left her to this fate?

  Rasa became so upset that she failed to notice her speed increasing again, but it no longer mattered. They had already spotted her vehicle, and their sirens suddenly pierced the haze of her tortured thoughts with the harsh chill of reality. Two official cars swiftly pulled alongside her, one remaining even with her sedan, the other moving out in front. Together they forced her to the side of the road.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ST. BARTHÉLEMY, F.W.I.

  THE REAL FUN in St. Barths begins long after nightfall. People are done with frolicking on the beach, shopping in overpriced shops and enjoying their late-afternoon rendezvous and siestas. After a late dinner session the bars fill up, the discos swing into action, and the party gets under way. Fortunately, Adina told his men, by then almost everyone on the street will be drunk or stoned, or both. His two teams would be able to move around the harbor undisturbed and virtually unnoticed. Their only issue would be the increased level of security at Fort Oscar.

  Adina had favored this timing, carrying out the disruption of the
telecommunications at the fort after the plane was downed. In reverse order, word of an assault on the fort might have caused the airport in St. Maarten to cancel flights or, at the least, wake up and pay attention to the luggage passing in transit through its porous checkpoints. An attack on Fort Oscar, coming after the crash, would be seen as part of a larger conspiracy focused on this sleepy corner of the Caribbean—exactly as he intended.

  In addition to the team leaders, Renaldo and Cardona, there were six men assigned to this mission. They were now all onboard the Misty II, and tonight, just after midnight, they convened in the main salon. All eight men were dressed in large tropical shirts of various patterns and shapes, the loose-fitting fabric serving to hide their body armor, automatic weapons, radios, and assorted other gear. They were assembled for final instructions.

  Adina reveled in these enterprises. The former college professor turned militarist had come to prefer action over analysis, regretting only that he would not accompany them on this operation tonight.

  “Men,” he said, addressing them in their native Spanish, “I remind you again to take nothing for granted. Do not let these tropical surroundings fool you. There are French soldiers and local gendarmes on duty inside and outside the fort. These men are professionals, and the crash of flight six sixty-one will only serve to intensify their vigilance.”

  The eight men nodded without speaking.