Targets of Opportunity (26 page)

“On a Russian freight train? No way. But I can tell you who definitely will open fire if you don’t do what I say, then I’ll run this old jalopy myself.
Pon’yal?
”

The man reluctantly complied, receiving an instant and irate reply over the air. “Stop now,” he was instructed.

Sandor nodded. “Slow it down a bit, just make it appear you’re going to stop. We had a look at this yard earlier today. We’ve got to get past that last switch where they can send you off to the siding. After that they can’t divert us. Tell them you’re stopping. Ask them what’s going on.”

The Russian nodded and said in English, “Buy time, you Americans say.”

“Exactly.”

Speaking into the microphone in his friendliest tone, the engineer inquired as to why he was being delayed. The reaction over the radio remained angry, telling him he was in the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, that he was under their jurisdiction and had no right to question their authority. The arrogant speech was just long enough to get them to the last of the switching tracks.

“How far to the border now?” Sandor asked.

“A few kilometers.”

“Good. Ask them if you can stop up ahead. Then, while they’re answering, let’s get this bucket of bolts rolling.” Sandor, moving in a crouch, had a look out of the port window. He could see soldiers lined up in front of the main terminal building. Several were already making their way on foot across the far tracks toward the train. “You better get it going now, Boris, or you’re not going to make it home for dinner tonight.”

As soon as the Russian moved the throttle forward, the old locomotive belched out a dark cloud of smoke. The line of cars accelerated slowly, and Sandor grabbed the brakeman by his shirt collar. “The emergency release,” he hollered in the man’s face, his Russian crystal clear. “Cut the line of cars loose right now.”

The brakeman led him to the rear of the locomotive cabin, pointing to a series of switches and a huge lever. “It will take both of us,” the man said in Russian.

Sandor eyed him warily, then shoved the gun inside his waistband. “You screw with me and I’ll kill you where you stand.”

The man had a look into Sandor’s steely dark gaze and responded with a nod. “I understand,” he said. Then, after hitting several switches, the two men bent to the task of unhooking the line of boxcars by raising the long steel lever.

As if a great weight had been lifted from its back, the entire trail of cars was set loose and the old engine surged forward. The unit of North Korean soldiers broke into a run, but it was too late. Sandor watched as a few turned back, hustling toward vehicles that would pursue them by road as they steamed toward Russia.

Not a shot had been fired, at least not yet.

Sandor took Kwan’s cell phone from Hea and turned on the power. If North Korean intelligence was going to intercept the signal, it wouldn’t matter now.

Sandor entered the series of numbers he had recited earlier for Hea and was soon connected to a secure line. He used one of his code names, then demanded an immediate connection to Byrnes. Within moments he heard the DD’s voice assuring him, “We’re clean on this end, go ahead.”

“I’m doing a Casey Jones to the Bolshoi.”

“Copy that,” Byrnes replied. The route through Khasan was one of their contingency exfiltration plans. Byrnes knew exactly where Sandor was headed.

“I’m on my own,” Sandor reported, “but we have company for dinner, one for each side of the table. We also have unfriendly locals on our tail.”

“I copy. How far are you?”

“Couple of miles, but the stretch run is going to be hot.”

“We’ll work on the border stop for your trailers.”

“Good. But I need a taxicab home, and pronto.”

“We’ll get that done too.”

“I hope so, because we’re very close to curtain time.”

“I read that,” Byrnes told him. “Any reviews for me on the out-of-town performance?”

“Yes, we have reason to think the bird was a diversion.”

“We have the same indications here.”

“I believe this is being orchestrated by Adina,” Sandor told him. “You copy that?”

“I do. Is that confirmed?”

“Best I can for now. We may have some help getting more specifics.”

“We’ll talk once you’re secure on your end.” Byrnes paused. “Any word on the other ticket holders?”

Sandor dreaded the question. It meant that Bergenn and Raabe had not been heard from. “That’s a negative. Z is definitely going to miss the show. Not sure about the other two.”

“All right,” Byrnes replied, the concern audible over the garbled wireless connection. “Let me get your ride set up.”

“If the others have been taken, I have something they may want to exchange.”

“Thank you for that,” Byrnes said. “See you back here.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

KHASAN, RUSSIA

R
ELATIONS BETWEEN
R
USSIA
and the United States had turned chilly under Putin’s leadership, which had morphed without convincing artifice into the Putin shadow regime. Putin was no Gorbachev and there was no Ronald Reagan to confront him. President Forest had his hands full with the struggles in the Middle East, the collapse of the global economy, and re-election. Prospects were far less rosy than they had once appeared for a lasting friendship between these two great powers.

Nevertheless, Byrnes had mobilized his skeleton crew of operatives in Vladivostok, and they had traveled to Khasan long before Sandor phoned in from the freight train. This border between the northeast corner of North Korea and the eastern edge of Russia was one of the potential escape points for Sandor and his team. Well aware of the logistical difficulties in exfiltration, the Deputy Director left nothing to chance that was within his power to control, especially after hearing of the skirmish outside the Arirang Festival. Diplomatic lines had been humming for the past ten hours and Moscow realized this was no time to quarrel with the Department of State in Washington. A commercial jetliner had been downed in the Caribbean and the communications center at Fort Oscar had been demolished. President Forest and his intelligence team were in no mood for a negotiation. If Sandor made his way into Russia, cooperation was expected.

Now that Byrnes received Sandor’s call, his American operatives and Russian liaison were waiting at the offices of the Khasan stationmaster. Even so, Sandor was far from being out of danger. As the engineer did his best to outrun the North Koreans, the front line of DPRK soldiers opened fire. A fusillade of shots were striking the old locomotive and ricocheting treacherously around the cabin. The thick steel that lined the compartment made it a sort of lethal pinball machine.

Sandor ordered Hea, Hwang and the brakeman to lie flat on the metal floor, and he told the engineer to keep as low as he could.

“There’s nothing to see out there,” he reminded him, “it’s a damned train and it’s running on tracks, so all you have to do is keep it moving forward.”

The AK-47 Sandor still held did not have the range or power to answer the assault from their rear. He also knew his ammunition was limited, so he held his fire in case any of their pursuers got close enough for him to take a meaningful shot. He crouched behind the metal-plated cab of the locomotive, watching as the foot soldiers behind the accelerating train fell back. But trucks suddenly appeared off their left flank, charging up the road that ran parallel to the tracks.

Sandor had not warned the engineer that his kidnapping of Hwang might embolden the Koreans to ignore the usual border restraints and remain on their tail all the way across the Tumen River into Khasan. Sandor was counting on Byrnes to lean on the Russians to have their military stop the convoy, at least long enough for him to escape. He was also counting on plain old Russian arrogance, expecting their border guards to bring the Koreans to a quick halt.

They were only a minute or so from the crossing when the soldiers in the troop transports opened fire. The road rose above the level of the train tracks along this section of the route, and the trucks were moving faster now, giving the North Koreans an excellent vantage point. Several shots crashed through the windows of the cab and caromed off the steel, one of them striking the engineer, who fell to the floor. Sandor raced forward, finding the man clutching his arm, his face a dark scowl.

“Bastards,” he grumbled in Russian.

“You all right?”

The man nodded. “Let’s get home,” he said as he struggled to his feet and retook the controls.

As the train surged ahead, the firing diminished. Sandor saw that the road had veered off farther to the west, now separating them from the tracks by a dense stand of trees as they emerged from the woods into the opening above the Tumen River. The only concern was that the Koreans, figuring all had been lost, might forsake the rescue of Hwang and launch a rocket attack at the locomotive.

“Ah!” the engineer cried out, and Sandor turned quickly, thinking the man might have been hit again. Instead he saw him pointing in front of them, to the border just ahead, where Russian guards had gathered outside to see what was going on.

Without reducing speed, they swept past the checkpoint and the Russian soldiers who were lining the tracks. Whatever Byrnes had done, he had obviously done it well. They proceeded on for the last kilometer with no shots being fired and no sign of the DPRK military. They only slowed when they entered the Khasan rail yard.

Sandor freed up Hwang’s ankles but kept his hands secured behind his back and his mouth taped. “Come on,” he said to Hea, “time to go.”

The train rolled to a stop and the five of them were met on the ground by several armed soldiers, an elegant Russian man in a well-tailored suit, and two Americans. It was the Russian who spoke, his English impeccable.

“We have interceded on behalf of our countrymen, who reported coming under improper attack from the North Korean military. The three of you,” he continued, eyeing Sandor, Hea and Hwang, “were never here. Is that understood?”

When Hwang tried to speak through the tape over his mouth, the Russian reached out and unceremoniously ripped it from his face. The Korean uttered a loud yelp.

“You wish to say something?”

But when Hwang began an angry diatribe, three soldiers leveled their rifles at his head.

“Does anyone else have anything to say?”

Sandor grinned, gesturing toward the engineer and brakeman. “Only that these two men are heroes, and should be well provided for.” He directed himself to the two Americans. “Is that understood?” The two agents nodded their assent as Sandor eyed the attaché cases they were carrying. “I assume one of you has something to give these gentlemen.”

The older of the two agents nodded as he held out his case.

“Nice work,” Sandor said as he took the briefcase. “I thought you’d show up with the money in a paper bag.”

The man from State said nothing in reply.

Sandor passed the attaché to the engineer. “This is a thank-you from me and my Uncle Sam. And get that arm fixed.”

The burly man nodded.

“It was nice never having met you,” Sandor said.

The younger man responded with a confused look, but the engineer uttered a chuckle. “Go ahead,” the engineer said in English, “before I think that maybe you were really here.”

Sandor took his hand and said, “
Do svidaniya,
” then followed the two Americans to a waiting car where he, the girl and Hwang were whisked away for the flight home.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

BAYTOWN, TEXAS

P
ETER
A
MENDOLA WAS
never going to win any popularity contests at the Baytown oil refinery, not among his superiors and certainly not among his coworkers. He was arrogant, irritable, and generally unpleasant, even if his most vocal detractors would concede he was one of the most effective supervisors on the line. He was a pain in the ass to work with, but they couldn’t deny he got the job done.

Amendola was also an intensely private man. He did not spend his after-work hours carousing at the local pubs, would not attend company picnics, and could not be persuaded to play in the corporate softball league. He generally kept to himself.

In short, his behavior presented the classic profile of a man who might engage in just the sort of treachery the security forces at the plant were charged to root out. Yet somehow, perhaps due to his talents on the job, his peculiarities were overlooked. It just never seemed to occur to anyone that Amendola posed a risk for information leaks.

Sometimes what is most obvious is not seen.

————

The facility at Baytown is a massive complex but, contrary to what some might assume, the largest oil refinery in the Western Hemisphere is not in the United States. Venezuela owns that distinction for its combined enterprises at Cardon, with a capacity that is nearly double that of the refineries in either Baytown or Baton Rouge, America’s two largest plants. Nevertheless, these refineries in Texas and Louisiana, just miles from one another along the Gulf of Mexico, are enormous, satisfying a large portion of the nation’s oil needs.

Security is obviously a major issue since oil, being a highly volatile and flammable substance depending on the form of its refinement, poses numerous safety and health hazards. Leaving aside the geopolitical implications of how the need, supply and use of oil has reshaped the world in the past hundred years, there is a simple truth that transcends these imperatives—oil is dangerous. It is disastrous if a single tanker disgorges its cargo into the ocean. It creates horrendous environmental implications if an oil rig is damaged and its bounty is allowed to leak onto the land or into the sea, as the nation witnessed with the BP disaster. And it would be cataclysmic if the holding tanks in a large refinery were somehow compromised, if overall safety precautions were breached, or, worst of all, if the facility were attacked.

Precautions are taken and defensive measures put in place, anticipation of problems being of the utmost importance in an uncertain world. In simpler times, tours of large oil refineries were routinely open to the public. No such access is provided anymore. Employees are vetted before hiring, periodically subjected to screening and subjected to spot checks. This sort of scrutiny intensifies for those workers occupying higher and more sensitive positions. Anyone dealing with classified data is carefully watched.