Targets of Opportunity (13 page)

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.

“Cardona will command your team,” he said, pointing to the three men on his left, “Renaldo is in charge of the rest. You will move separately, advancing on the hill from two directions.” He pointed to a map on the table, depicting the U-shaped harbor. “Cardona’s team will arrive first and circle here, to the west. Once Renaldo is in place on the south hill, on his signal, you will both move toward the two entrances. As we have discussed, there should be little resistance at ground level. The real assets within this fortress lie beneath, and that is where the fighting will come,” he told them with a grim smile. “Any questions?”

No one spoke.

“Good. I will be in radio contact at all times.” He gestured to the wireless setup on the table. “You have already been briefed on your extraction. Two powerboats will be awaiting you here,” he said, pointing again to the map, “at the northern end of the Rue des Quais.” He looked around the room. “You know your assignments. Now go.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

MARAND, IRAN

T
HE THREE
IRGC agents who had taken Rasa Jaber into custody commandeered the interrogation room of a local police station. Once their identities as members of the Revolutionary Guard had been established, the Marand police had no problem relinquishing the room and staying clear of whatever this was about.

Mrs. Jaber sat at a small table, two of the men seated opposite her, the leader of the group pacing behind them.

“You are not providing the help we had hoped for, madame. This will not go well for you if you refuse to cooperate.”

Rasa Jaber was a proud woman. She sat upright in the uncomfortable metal chair, fighting back tears as she stared at this stranger. “As I have already said, there is nothing for me to tell you.”

He stepped forward and slammed his fist on the table. “You have nothing to tell us or you are unwilling to speak? Which is it?”

She drew a deep, uneven breath. “My husband is a loyal Iranian. He has fought for the IRGC and for the glory of this country.”

“He is a traitor,” the man bellowed. “And,” he added in a modulated tone, “may I remind you that he has also abandoned you to this fate.”

Rasa had been struggling with the possibility that this was true, that she had been forsaken by her beloved husband. It did not seem plausible, nor was she prepared to believe that he had betrayed his country. She shook her head. “Ahmad was murdered, our home destroyed. Why are you not chasing the villains who are responsible for this atrocity? Why are you persecuting me?”

“Is that what you really think, madame? That your husband is dead?”

She stared at him without blinking.

“Odd, then, that we discovered you driving across the country rather than returning to Tehran to mourn your great loss.”

Rasa stared down at her hands.

“Dead indeed,” the man said disdainfully, then reached for a leather portfolio on the table, shuffled through some papers, and removed a group of photographs. “Perhaps this will change your mind,” he said as he placed a series of eight-by-tens in front of her. The first was a photograph of Ahmad Jaber. Two men were standing on either side of him.

“What is this supposed to mean to me?”

“Please, have a more careful look,” he said. “We have gone to the trouble of having it enlarged, so that all of the details are evident. Have another look.”

And so she did, not trusting her own eyes as she studied the picture more carefully. It was obviously a recent photo of Ahmad, that much was clear. But now she realized the two men were American soldiers. As she looked through the other prints she realized that he was being escorted into an American military vehicle. He did not appear to be under arrest or in handcuffs or otherwise coerced. He seemed to be acting voluntarily, apparently cooperating with these men. She looked up, her expression a mixture of outrage and confusion. “This is a lie,” she insisted. “This is some trick.”

“No, Madame Jaber,” the man said in a voice that now bordered on sadness. “I am afraid it is the truth,” he said as he pointed at the image of her husband. “You will see that these photos were taken over the border, in Iraq.”

She stared at the photographs once again, then returned her bewildered gaze to this tall stranger.

“Now,” the man said more calmly, “perhaps you are prepared to share with us everything your husband said to you in the days before his defection.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

PYONGYANG

T
HE FOUR MEN
were seated at a round, black lacquer table in the lounge on the top floor of the Yanggakdo Hotel. The entire room revolved slowly atop the tall building, treating each of them in turn to the full spectrum of the view below.

Craig Raabe made a show of craning his neck around, then said, “This would be great, if there was something to see.”

Sandor smiled. “Easy, big guy. We Canadians are polite guests, remember?”

“Sure,” Craig said, then took a gulp of his club soda and lime. He was taking no chances with alcohol, not with an explosive pack strapped to the small of his back. “It is one helluva view though.”

Sandor nodded, then had a look around the almost empty bar. “Not exactly doing land office business, are they?”

“Maybe it’s too early for most tourists,” Jim Bergenn suggested. “They’re probably still out there oohing and aahing over the Arch of Triumph.”

“Quite an authentic history tour,” Raabe said. “Sort of like visiting Epcot Center in an alternate universe.”

Bergenn and Sandor laughed.

“We’ve got company,” Kurt Zimmermann told them as he spotted Mr. Choi making his way across the room to their window table.

“Gentlemen,” the slightly built Korean greeted them. “You are enjoying our beautiful views?”

“Oh yeah,” Craig Raabe told him. “Breathtaking.”

Sandor took a sip of his scotch—no American bourbon was in evidence—and looked up at their guide. “I thought we were going to be allowed some time on our own.”

Choi gave a theatrical look at his watch, then said, “Just wanted to remind you, dinner in forty-five minutes.”

Raabe nodded thoughtfully. “Thanks for the update. You’ll be coming by every fifteen minutes, I expect, like a town crier?”

Choi began to say something, then stopped, turned, and headed off to whatever vantage point they had assigned him to keep an eye on this foursome of travelers.

Bergenn was about to speak, but Sandor held up his hand. “How about those Toronto Blue Jays,” he said. Then he laid three pins on the table. He was already wearing his. “Put these on,” Sandor said. “You’ll feel like a local.”

————

Dining Room Three was as cavernous as the penthouse bar upstairs and as antiseptic in décor as their rooms. The four men suffered no surprise to discover the cuisine was consistent with the surroundings. What the food lacked in visual and culinary flair it made up for in the variety of hot sauces offered, each intended to mask the inferior quality of the ingredients. Mr. Choi joined them for dinner, which Sandor did not see as any particular hindrance, since open conversation was out of the question anyway.

Shortly after their plates were cleared and tea was served, Choi announced that it was time to go. They followed him downstairs, out through the lobby, and into the van, where the reliable Mr. Sang awaited their arrival.

Each of the four men was carrying a small bag, knowing they would never see the Yanggakdo Hotel again. As they took their seats, Choi frowned, then told them, “You will not be able to bring anything into the stadium.”

Sandor did his best to look surprised, then said, “Well, that’s okay. We’ll just leave them. We all trust Mr. Sang.”

Choi appeared to be thinking that over, then with a short nod gave permission to Mr. Sang to set off. As the van pulled away from the curb, Choi said, “You should be prepared for one of the world’s greatest spectacles.”

He was not wrong, but he had no idea the spectacle would not be provided on the field.

The arena, Rungrado May Day Stadium, is a colossal structure housing one of the largest arenas in the world, seating more than 150,000 spectators and accommodating more than 100,000 performers. The Arirang Festival is part circus and part gymnastics performance, famous for the human mosaics that are so intricate and so precisely executed they dazzle even the most jaded observer.

As they approached the stadium Mr. Sang circumvented the throngs of native attendees who were coming on foot toward the eight main entrance gates. Sandor had not discerned any special markings on their van, but somehow they were allowed to bypass these pedestrians, as well as several remote parking areas and the ubiquitous security checkpoints, eventually finding a special access area reserved for foreigners and dignitaries.

Sandor tapped Mr. Choi on the shoulder as they came to a stop. “This is rather an elitist entrance for a socialist country, don’t you think?”

Choi fixed him with a cold stare. “I understand that you and your associates enjoy your Western sarcasm. It would be best, however, to refrain from such comments while you enjoy the festival.”

Sandor returned the hard look. “Best for whom, Mr. Choi?”

The Korean gave no answer. He stood and faced the four of them. “You will leave your bags on your seats and follow me. I have your tickets. It is most important that you remain close to me at all times for the rest of the evening, gentlemen. Do you understand?”

Craig Raabe said, “It’s good to feel loved, Mr. Choi.” When their guide did not react, Raabe said, “I don’t suppose this show opens with a stand-up comedian from Pyongyang?”

At least that earned him a frown. Then, without giving any instructions to Mr. Sang, Choi led them off the bus and into the crowd.

————

The DPRK often hosts large excursions of honored guests at the Arirang Festival, particularly from the People’s Republic of China. Those contingents are typically accompanied by several thousand Chinese security personnel, making the arena virtually impenetrable. Byrnes and his team checked timing with the KCIA to be sure that Sandor’s team would not be encumbered by that additional problem.

The four men followed Mr. Choi, wading into the crowd around the perimeter of the stadium. The walls were buttressed by massive support arches that covered the entrances. Inside there were several stands featuring posters, soft drinks, tiny mementos, T-shirts, and the ubiquitous Korean pins. “So this is where we can stock up on souvenirs,” Sandor said, but Choi hustled them past, clearly not wanting any of his charges to become lost in the crush of people on either side of the exclusive, narrow entryway. “Come,” he said, and hurried them inside.

They obediently remained in lockstep, following Choi through the gateway and along a series of concrete ramps to an upper level. There they were handed programs and led to the front row of a mezzanine section. Sandor noticed the military presence everywhere—on the field, in the stands, and, to his dismay, on guard within the interior corridors behind them. He and Bergenn exchanged concerned looks, but said nothing. The only good news was the continuing mystery about the health of the Great Leader. As Sandor and his team knew, Kim Jong-Il had not been seen in public for months and was certainly not going to be at tonight’s performance. That meant the security, although in evidence, was at a much lower level than it would have been if Kim were on-site.

They found their seats, Jordan taking the aisle and Choi placing himself in the middle of them.

The field below, which was the size of several football fields, was already populated by more than seventy thousand people, all of whom were working with a series of colorful cards, readying themselves for the upcoming display of coordinated colors that would depict everything from vivid sunsets to martial arts to pictures of Kim Jong-Il. In between, acrobats of all ages would perform.

Choi chattered away about the spectacular colors and precision movements and how it all served to exemplify the Juche ideal.

Sandor tried not to yawn.

Following a preliminary array of automatonic card flipping that was a sort of visual overture, Act 1 began. The programs they had been provided contained several languages, thankfully including English. A quick review informed them that they were about to sit through a pictorial history of the North Korean motherland in all her resplendent glory. Amazing, Sandor thought, that they can mount a production like this while their people are starving to death in the countryside nearby. He waited impatiently as the show slowly made its way through displays of carefully chosen historical events, a few of them real, but most of them imagined. The finale was an enormous replica of the North Korean flag presented by two hundred thousand perfectly aligned hands wielding small cards. As this first act concluded, the performers began rearranging themselves for the next series of choreographed moves. After a long break, when they were almost ready to begin Act 2, Sandor stood up.