Targets of Opportunity (15 page)

The barracks were presently occupied by three policemen and four soldiers. The seven had been moving toward the small foyer at the entry to their quarters until the shots were fired. Now they quickly retreated to the rear of the large room. The senior policeman looked to the ranking military officer. “What do we do?” he asked in a quiet voice.

The lieutenant shook his head. “We have no idea how many there are, or what weapons they have.” He was still shaking his head. “But in ten minutes, who knows? They might kill us all if we don’t take action.”

“What could they want here? What is it that you people are doing down there?” The
gendarme
was looking at the floor, as if it might hold an answer.

“I’m afraid that is still classified, regardless of the circumstances.”

“Classified.
Merde
,” the French cop spit angrily. “They want to kill us for something and we don’t even have the right to know what?”

As they argued their inequitable fate, the voice from the outside corridor said, “I advise you gentlemen to stand down. And maintain silence.”

The policeman shrugged his shoulders and looked at his two fellow officers. “We should do what he says,” he told the others in a whisper. “I will take my chances in here. Why should I be killed for an answer no one is willing to give me?”

As he led the other two policemen farther away from the door, the lieutenant ignored them and said to his soldiers, “Collect your weapons, see how many men here will fight with us, then we’ll sort this out. We can’t sit here hoping they won’t rush in and kill us all.”

“Have you tried your cell phone again?” one of his men asked.

The lieutenant, name of Henri Vauchon, nodded. “They must be jamming the signals. I get nothing.”

“Neither do I.”

“Well,” Vauchon said, “we’ve got to do something. The question is, what?”

————

The action on the level below had accelerated as the terrorists entered from their opposite sides in a pincer move designed to gain immediate control of the facility downstairs. Each of them stayed in a crouch as they reached the floor level, taking cover behind desks and cabinets while they assessed the situation.

In addition to four French soldiers, three of whom were bleeding from injuries sustained in the grenade attack, there were men and women who had apparently been working in front of computer screens and other electronic equipment and were now seeking refuge under tables and wherever else they could hide. All of them, military and civilians alike, were coughing and gagging in the haze of the putrid gas.

Two of the soldiers, off to the right and partially hidden by a half wall, immediately began shooting as Renaldo’s team entered. Renaldo called out to them, “Cease your firing, there does not need to be more injury,” but they persisted, so the six intruders unleashed a barrage that came from both sides, slaughtering the two soldiers in a rapid fusillade. Witnessing the brutal conclusion to that exchange, the other two French soldiers surrendered. They were swiftly disarmed by Cardona’s men. Cardona then picked out an older man from among the huddled workers, grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him to his feet.

“Who is in charge here?” Cardona demanded.

“I am the supervisor of these people,” the tall Frenchman replied nervously as he struggled with the effects of the tear gas.

“Well you listen to me, supervisor,” Cardona said, jabbing the barrel of the Uzi into the man’s side, “you do what I say or I’ll kill you.”

“I can’t breathe,” the man gasped, spittle and vomit running down the side of his mouth.

Cardona ignored him, shouting through his mask. “First, you tell these people to get together in a corner.” He looked around the large room. “Over there,” he motioned with his head. “They will be safe from the explosions over there.”

“Explosions?” the man asked in a quavering voice.

Cardona ignored the question, nodding at Renaldo, whose team went about attaching explosive charges to various components that appeared to be the most vulnerable and important pieces of equipment in the room. Cardona returned his attention to the supervisor. “If you don’t want me to kill you right here, you will do as I say.” When the man hesitated, followed by a nauseating cough, Cardona again prodded him with the gun barrel. “Tell them,” he growled.

The man managed to call out the instructions. The venting system was finally alleviating some of the effects of the acrid smoke, and he watched as his coworkers left their hiding places and fearfully huddled together at the far end of the room, not sure if they were being given sanctuary or herded together for ease of execution.

Cardona watched them, ever fascinated at the cowardice of people when faced with life-and-death choices. He turned back to the man in his grasp. “Now, tell me how we get below, and make sure we do not have any problems getting there. You are understanding this?”

The man nodded, his eyes wide with fear.

“I know there are more soldiers down there. We do not want to have to kill anyone else, do you understand?”

“Yes,” the man moaned.

“Good. Now lead us downstairs.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

RUNGRADO MAY DAY STADIUM, PYONGYANG

O
NCE
S
ANDOR LED
his team out of the tiled restroom into the deserted concrete corridor, he knew moving around the arena would become increasingly dangerous. There were military guards posted throughout the facility, and access from one level to the next was well protected.

Sandor pointed to the right and Bergenn moved first, Zimmermann following him. They reached a portal that opened to the ramp leading above, and Bergenn gave the all clear. Sandor checked behind him, then he and Craig Raabe ran down the corridor, past the other two men, pausing at the opening, bracketing the entry-way.

Sandor nodded to Raabe, who immediately sauntered out into the open and up the incline. He was met by an armed soldier before he could reach the next landing.

The sentry showed Raabe his palm, the international signal for “Halt!” His other hand was now on the grip of his North Korean– made AK-47. “Where are you going?” he demanded gruffly in his native tongue.

Raabe, displaying no comprehension of Korean, responded with a blank stare and a shrug, then held up his ticket and offered a friendly smile.

The soldier took his eyes from Raabe just long enough to have a look at his seat assignment, but that moment was enough. The much taller American rammed his closed fist into the man’s neck, then, as the Korean reeled backward, Raabe followed him down, his thumbs pressing hard against the man’s larynx as he took him to the ground, keeping him quiet as he choked the air out of him, the soldier instinctively letting go of his weapon as he reached for his assailant’s wrists.

The instant the others heard the first sound of the struggle they came charging up the ramp. Bergenn rendered the guard senseless with a hard blow to his left temple from the butt of his automatic rifle.

“Kill him,” Zimmermann hissed.

Sandor shook his head. “He’s out, now let’s go.”

But Zimmermann was not taking any chances. He bent over and picked up the man’s assault rifle, then made a move to step away from the inert figure sprawled on the concrete. Before Sandor could react, Zimmerman spun around and kicked the man, very hard, three times in the side of his head. “Now he’s out.”

Sandor gritted his teeth but said nothing. He ordered Raabe and Bergenn to grab the man and carry him with them, not willing to risk leaving the body in plain sight. Then, with a wave of his hand, he led them on a run up the ramp to the opening at the next level. He made a quick check to see if anyone was coming in response to the sound of the quick scuffle, but all seemed quiet. They made the turn and moved cautiously up another ramp to the elite level, where they knew the private boxes were located.

Sandor stopped a few paces before they entered the corridor. “There are going to be more men up here,” he reminded them in a hoarse whisper. “Probably teams of two.”

The other three nodded.

“Craig and I go first, you two hang back until the fun starts.”

Bergenn and Raabe dropped the dead soldier on the cement floor, then pushed him against the wall. Sandor was holding the pistol he had taken from the guard downstairs. He shoved it into his waistband and covered it with his jacket. Then, without another word, he and Raabe finished the short walk up the cement rise, holding out their tickets like two lost tourists.

As they came to the portal they were prepared to see armed soldiers. They moved to their right, where, suddenly, someone stepped out of the shadows.

It was Hea, the girl Sandor had met at the kiosk near the Arch of Triumph that afternoon.

“Where have you been?” she asked. “You’re late.”

Sandor nodded. “Where are the guards?”

“They patrol back and forth on this level,” she said as she guided them back onto the ramp. “They’ll be here in a few seconds.”

“How many?”

“Two.”

“How did you get here?”

“I’m part of the international hospitality crew,” she answered with a nervous smile.

Sandor nodded. “How far is Hwang’s box?”

“Three to the right,” she told them, then said, “Shhh.”

They could hear the guards coming.

With no silencer on his weapon Sandor knew he could not fire the gun, not unless it became absolutely necessary. A single gunshot would bring scores of Korean soldiers on the run and the mission would be over, not to mention the lives of his entire team. He watched the attractive young girl, her face taut with both fear and resolve as she said in a hushed tone, “Just follow me.”

Sandor and Raabe exchanged a quick look but she was already stepping into the corridor, so they moved right behind her into the open, where they were promptly met by two approaching soldiers. Bergenn and Zimmermann remained around the corner, on the ramp, their AK-47s in hand.

Hea began speaking quickly, in Korean, and Sandor assumed she was telling them that she had found these tourists wandering around looking for their seats. Sandor responded with a smile and held up his ticket. The problem was that Hea was standing between them, making it difficult for him to initiate the first move. The girl must have sensed this, because she stepped to her left as if allowing the two uniformed guards to have a better look at the tickets. But these two were not looking at the tickets, they were staring directly into the eyes of the two Americans.

When they barked something, Hea turned to Sandor and said, “They want you to step back, against that wall.”

Sandor nodded, still smiling, then turned slightly, as if about to move toward the wall. As he did, he shot a quick glance at Craig. Raabe responded, leveling a rapid kick aimed at the neck of the shorter soldier on the left, while Sandor spun back and lunged at the man to their right.

This time the Koreans seemed ready for the assault. The first made a deft move, Raabe’s karate kick glancing off the top of his head, the other man averting a direct hit by Sandor, then reacting with a sweeping maneuver that just missed knocking Sandor off his feet.

Sandor knew that time was against them. These men had weapons they would not be afraid to use and radios that, once engaged, would be equally fatal. He regained his balance and drove forward with the crown of his head, crashing into the Korean’s chin, knocking him backward as Sandor hit him again, this time with the heel of his hand. He followed with three short chops into the man’s throat, snapping his windpipe, leaving him to clutch desperately at his neck as he gasped his last breath.

Raabe, after missing with his kick, was left in a more vulnerable position than Sandor, and the soldier had time to level his automatic weapon at Craig’s chest. But Hea had come from behind and dug two fingers deep into the man’s right eye, jerking his head to the side as he reached up and let out a shriek, giving Craig time to hit him several times in the solar plexus, knocking the air out of him, the weapon falling back on its sling and slapping across his chest as he stumbled backward on top of the girl.

By now Bergenn and Zimmermann had reached the scene. The first soldier was dead and Sandor was holding down the second man’s arms as Raabe put his knee into the man’s chest and then, using both hands and a forceful twist, broke his neck.

No one spoke as Hea, Raabe, and Sandor got to their feet and retrieved the weapons and radios from the two dead Koreans. Sandor looked to the girl.

“Any of these other suites vacant?”

She nodded and pointed to a door down the hallway.

“Let’s get rid of these two,” he told his men. “And the other guy on the ramp. Fast.”

Hea let them into the unoccupied luxury box, where they deposited the three corpses, then shut the door and headed for their destination, two doors away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

ST. BARTHÉLEMY, F.W.I.

C
ARDONA WAS STILL
holding Fort Oscar’s graveyard shift supervisor tight in his grasp. Together they moved toward the door that led to the basement level. Adina’s men were not about to risk a ride on the elevator, too many things could go wrong there. When the elderly Frenchman hesitated at the head of the stairwell, Cardona shoved him forward. The muscular Venezuelan was not as tall as his hostage, but he was much younger and much stronger. And he was carrying a gun.

“Move,” he ordered.

Adina’s men had removed their gas masks, the ventilation system having already cleared the air of most of the nauseating smell. This gave them better visibility, which would be crucial as they descended to the main nerve center downstairs.

They realized that the staff stationed on the lower level was already aware of this invasion. Even before the grenades went off, security cameras and silent alarms would have alerted them to the incursion. As soon as Cardona, Renaldo, and their four men entered the inner sanctum on the main floor, everyone would have been on alert. The ensuing explosions and gunfire, even through these thick, reinforced walls, would have been heard throughout this part of the compound. With a welcoming committee gathering for them below, Adina’s men were not going to take any chances.