Targets of Opportunity (27 page)

An insider who determines to pass on such information must therefore be incredibly furtive in his actions. Those seeking it have to be more careful still.

————

The first approaches made to Peter Amendola came slowly. The fishing line was let out a little at a time until the hook could be set. Originally, the information requested seemed utterly benign and the cash rewards welcome. His benefactors were corporate spies, or so he was assured. This was nothing more than keeping up with new processes, maintaining a competitive edge. It was like Nike and Adidas they told him or, for those with longer memories, Macy’s and Gimbels.

As the money increased and the demand for records grew, so did Amendola’s doubts, and he was not shy about expressing those feelings. His handler was empathetic, claiming that he was going out on a limb by revealing the second layer of the tale. In the end, he said, Amendola’s doubts were well placed—his benefactors were not corporate competitors after all. The truth, his contact ruefully admitted, was that the principals were well-financed environmental activists interested in having an inside look at the workings of a refinery, wanting to ensure that proper safeguards were in place and that no shortcuts were being taken at the expense of a green planet.

Sounds like bullshit to me,
Amendola told himself, but he took the money again, even as his misgivings grew. He had a demanding wife, a spoiled daughter, and a young son with serious health issues, all of which helped him rationalize his deceit. And yet he was no one’s fool, at least he thought not, and he realized that the data he was now being asked for could not possibly square with the story he was being fed. When he voiced his latest doubts, his contact assured him everything would be all right, that from here on they would just ask for periodic reports.

And then he was summoned to a meeting at a local Starbucks for a little chat after work. That had been their modus operandi, brief meetings in public places such as bars, coffee shops, malls, which were followed by exchanges of cash for information at various drop-off locations. The meetings were typically brief and reasonably cordial, but this evening the tone of the discussion was different. When his handler completed an explanation of what was being requested, Amendola leaned forward in his chair, his blunt features expressionless while his eyes flashed anger across the small table.

“Why the hell would a bunch of tree huggers need information about perimeter defenses?”

The man facing him was dressed in tan slacks and a white polo shirt, his sandy-colored hair slightly tousled, his appearance altogether forgettable, just as intended. He was the sort of man you might walk past four times in a single day and never notice once. “It’s all about the safety of the refinery I suppose. I don’t try to figure these things out, Peter,” he said with a friendly smile, his manner relaxed as he sat back in his seat. “Just doing a job, like you.”

Amendola shook his head without realizing it. “This is not my job, buddy. This may be your job, this is not my job,” he repeated.

“Have it your way,” the man replied affably. “All the same, we need the information.”

“You told me there wasn’t going to be anything more than some periodic reports on operations,” he protested.

“Hey, things change.”

Amendola looked away, making a quick scan of the room. “Well I can’t get that sort of information anyway. It’s way beyond my pay grade. Outside the scope of my duties.”

The smile did not leave the man’s face as he said, “You’re lying, Peter. It may be beyond the scope of your duties, but we know you can get it.”

Amendola finally sat back, taking a moment to study the man. Then he said, “But I won’t.” He picked up his coffee and took a sip.

“I have to disagree,” the man said as he slowly shook his head. “I think you will.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. You see, we need this data, we know you can get it, and that’s the basis of our little, uh, arrangement. Right?”

Amendola leaned forward again, straining to keep his voice low. “You never said anything about defense systems. You wanted to know about safety measures, cross-checks, fail-safes. This goes way too far.”

“Too far for whom?”

“For me, that’s
whom
.”

The man raised up from his seat slightly and reached into his hip pocket, pulled out an envelope, and placed it on the table. “Our affiliation is almost done, Peter, I promise you that, but I also assure you that we need what we’ve asked for.” He slid the brown envelope across and stared at Amendola, his grin having momentarily vanished. “I think you’ll cooperate.”

Amendola hesitated, finally picking up the wrapper and pulling out several photographs and a printed card. The pictures included his wife, his children, and an array of candid photos of him retrieving envelopes containing cash from various drop-off points. He looked at the card, which was a list of all his wife’s immediate relatives, as well as his own.

“You see, Peter, I didn’t want to be heavy-handed about this, but we have no time to negotiate here and, to be blunt about it, you simply have no bargaining leverage. I hope you understand our position. We never meant this to become unpleasant.” The smile returned, as if he were about to pass on some good news. “So then,” he continued as he lifted his cup of coffee, “shall we say day after tomorrow?”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

OVER THE PACIFIC, EN ROUTE TO WASHINGTON

A
FTER HIS CLAUSTROPHOBIC
ride beneath the floorboards of a Korean truck and a bumpy ride on an old Russian prop jet, Sandor appreciated the luxury of the Gulfstream that carried them from Osan Air Base in South Korea, then on to Elmendorf Air Force Base in Alaska for refueling, and finally, to Washington. After nearly two days of continuous action without time to rest, exhaustion swept over him like a series of crashing waves.

He was seated next to Hea, who, as an undocumented foreign national, posed some interesting issues for the officials he had spoken with in Osan. As far as Sandor was concerned, there was no doubt that she would be coming along for the ride. As he patiently explained, she had been the reason he had gotten through and he was not leaving her behind. The word from Langley ultimately came, endorsing that position.

Hea was already more than a little nervous, less from the aftershock of all they had been through than the realization of what might lie ahead. She was traveling to the United States for the first time, leaving her entire family behind to God only knew what fate, and she had no idea what the future held. Sandor stayed close to her, making sure she had something to eat and drink, encouraging her to rest, and trying his best to assure her things would all work out.

After they boarded for the Alaska–Washington leg Hea turned to Sandor and said, “I had never been on an airplane before today.”

“Nothing to it. Takeoff was the tough part. You did just fine.”

“I was a little frightened,” she admitted. “I did not want to tell you.”

Sandor smiled at her. “You’ve certainly been through tougher moments these past two days.”

She looked into his eyes. “All those men, all the dying, it was very difficult for me.”

“I understand. It was for me too.”

“It did not appear so.” She hesitated, then said, “You have killed before.”

It was not a question so he offered no reply.

“Can I ask you how many men you have personally killed?”

Sandor pressed his lips together, then said, “The number is not important but believe me, if I killed them it was always personal to me.”

Hea turned to look out the window and, before long, she fell into a deep sleep. Sandor watched her for a while. He knew her life was about to become an unpredictable jumble of bureaucratic decisions largely beyond her control. He promised himself he would do everything he could to help her through that transition.

He fought to stay awake long enough to make some final notes on his report for Byrnes, then had a look to the back of the plane, where Hwang was handcuffed hand and foot and watched over by two armed escorts. Somewhere over Vancouver he finally gave in to sleep.

————

It was morning in Washington, more than twenty hours after they began their journey from Khasan, when the plane landed at Dulles. Two waiting Suburbans took the three travelers and their military escort to the safe house in Virginia.

Hwang remained in custody, shuttled off to the infirmary, where his shoulder was treated again. He was then placed under lock and key and twenty-four-hour surveillance.

Hea was treated far more cordially. She was shown to a suite where she could bathe. Fresh clothing was provided, as was a sumptuous meal. Still, there was no mistaking the fact that she too was being detained, at least for now.

Sandor was led to one of the secure offices in the basement, where Deputy Director Byrnes awaited him.

“Good to have you back,” the DD said as he extended a welcoming hand.

Without so much as a hello, Sandor asked, “Any word from Bergenn yet?”

Byrnes shook his head. “Nothing. And no indication from any of our sources that Kim’s people are claiming their capture. Whatever went down with Bergenn and Raabe, the North Koreans are playing this one very carefully.”

Sandor sat in one of the comfortable armchairs. “That’ll change. At this point they know I got Hwang out of the country. They’ve had the best part of a day to figure out how to approach us on that.”

“Agreed.”

“But they’re involved in a larger plan, and they’re not going to screw it up over one man.”

“Unless that one man can screw it up for them.”

“Exactly,” Sandor said.

“Do you think he knows enough to throw a monkey wrench into the works?”

“I’m not sure,” Sandor conceded. “He’s certainly impressed with his own importance, I’ll give him that much. I got what I could, but the circumstances were limited, if you know what I mean.”

“I understand. But now we’ve got him here. Let’s find out what else he knows.”

Sandor frowned. “He’s a tough old bird. And time is not on our side.”

“I know. So let’s see what you have.”

Sandor reached in his pocket and took out the four handwritten pages of notes he had made during the flight. “Here’s my report,” he said as he handed the papers to Byrnes. “What have you got so far on the airliner?”

“You’re up to speed on the mess at Fort Oscar?”

Sandor nodded. “I downloaded the intel from the sat-com link during our flight. Have we been able to tie the two events together?”

Byrnes frowned. “Not yet. They obviously seem to be of a piece, as they say. So far it appears the bomb that took down the plane was passed through luggage coming from St. Barths into St. Maarten. Other than that, we’re at a dead end.”

“And I take it from what I read that our pal Jaber thinks the downed flight was a diversion?”

“I believe he really does. He thinks the operation has to do with some sort of attack on our oil reserves.”

“That’s consistent with what Kyung and Hwang had to say. If it’s true, why take out a commercial flight and the communications hub at Fort Oscar? What sense does that make?”

Byrnes looked up from Sandor’s notes. “None, as far as I’m concerned. Which is why you’ve got to head down there and make sense of it for us.” He stood. “You want to get yourself a shower and something to eat before we go through everything?”

Sandor waved him off as he also got to his feet. “Later. First I want to know what we’re going to do about Bergenn and Raabe.”

Byrnes nodded. “We’re working on it already, believe me.”

Sandor stared at him with that look that the DD had come to recognize only too well. “I realize they may be willing to make a trade for Hwang,” Sandor said. “If not, you and the Director know I’m going back to get them out myself.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

NEW YORK CITY

B
YRNES ALLOWED
S
ANDOR
a few hours at home before he sent him off to the Caribbean. The DD arranged to have Sandor flown back to Westchester Airport and driven to his apartment on the west side of Manhattan. There Sandor packed some clothes for the trip and picked up the past week’s mail from Florence, his downstairs neighbor. As with most of his assignments, Sandor could never be sure when he would return, and he couldn’t have weeks of mail spilling out of the box in the small vestibule of their brownstone. Florence, an attractive African-American woman who alternated careers between waiting tables and attending casting calls, collected the assortment of catalogues and bills and watered his plants whenever he was away. She was especially devoted to Sandor, since he had once saved her from an intruder who tried to shoot his way through her front door. To this day, Sandor had not told Florence that he was actually the man’s target.

“How goes the acting gig?” he asked as he sorted through the pile of envelopes she handed him.

“I have a second call from one of the network soaps.”

“That’s great, which one?” he asked, not that he was likely to recognize any of the names she might have given.

“Not sure, this is through an agency.”

“Is that how it’s done?”

“Sometimes, I guess. It’s a blind audition.”

Sandor looked up from his phone bill and gave her a skeptical look. “Just make sure it’s a reputable outfit, right?”

“Yes, Daddy,” she said with a smile.

Sandor gathered up the papers he had ripped through and stood up. “I’ll take these and get out of your way.” As he walked to the door he spotted a newspaper on the credenza. “Mind if I borrow this?”

“Keep it. I’ve been through it already.”

As he trotted upstairs, he glanced at the front page of the
Times
. A small headline, on the lower left, stopped him in his tracks. It was a report of a United States incursion into North Korea. His mission.

He entered his apartment, dropped the box of mail on the living room table, and read the article. There were no names, a lot of “allegedly” this and “reportedly” that, but it was a highly inflammatory piece, especially since Bergenn and Raabe remained in harm’s way.