Targets of Opportunity (34 page)

There was nowhere to run, he knew that. What could he do to them? Who could he tell? How could he harm them? He was the one who had his neck in the noose. He didn’t even know who the hell they were. There was only the possibility they would take these new plans and just let him go.

He had done his best to prepare. He had the papers in a brown envelope on the passenger seat beside him. Before he picked it up, he opened the center console and pulled out his Smith & Wesson .38 revolver.

He shook his head as he stared down at the gun. These bastards were professionals. He knew his life meant nothing to them. They had threatened the lives of his wife and children. They were prepared to murder innocents to get what they wanted. And here he was, with a .38 revolver, as if he were going to be able to stop them. His face tensed, a grim mask of realization. There was nothing heroic in Peter Amendola. He was not interested in stopping anyone. He was only interested in survival.

He lifted the S&W and shoved it into his jacket pocket, picked up the envelope and opened the car door, then began his walk into the park.

Amendola had no trouble finding the path they described. He plodded slowly along toward the train tracks that ran along the northern edge of the park. To his surprise there was plenty of illumination from the lampposts along the trail of packed dirt, at least in this area closest to the road. It was quiet, and he listened to the crunching sound of his boots on the ground, not breaking stride as he dropped the envelope in the second waste can he passed. Then he turned left as the path veered toward the interior of the park and he headed up a knoll, the darkness closing in on him now as he got farther from the lamplights and nearer the appointed rendezvous.

When he reached the crest of the hill he could see there were three men waiting. Amendola was surprised that his contact was one of them. For some inexplicable reason he never expected his handler to be there. His contact had always seemed so corporate. Amendola had imagined a tougher type for this sort of encounter and the other two men were more of that ilk—broader, less refined looking and, even in the dark, more sinister.

“Good evening, Peter,” his contact said.

Amendola nodded.

“The papers?”

“We need to talk first.”

The contact, who was leaning against a tree, took a step forward. “We’re not here to have a conversation, Peter. We’re here to exchange information for money.” He reached into his sport coat pocket and took out an envelope.

Amendola managed a grim smile. “Three of you just to exchange cash for papers?”

“Where is the package, Peter?”

“I want you to leave my family alone. They have nothing to do with this.”

The contact nodded. “Is that it?”

“What are you going to do with me?”

The contact sighed. “Isn’t it a bit late for you to be worried about that?”

Amendola blinked. He was standing with his hands in the pockets of his zipper jacket, his right hand clutching the revolver. “I can’t hurt you. I don’t even know who the hell you are. If I ever breathed a word of this to anyone I’d spend the rest of my life in jail.”

The contact appeared to be thinking this over. Then, with growing impatience, he said, “We know all of that, Peter.”

“Why not just leave me alone. Keep your money. Just take what you want and let me be.”

“Let me have the papers, Peter.”

Amendola drew a deep breath. “I don’t have them. Not with me.”

The contact shook his head. “There are two things I must be wary of in my line of work. The first is conscience, the unfortunate possibility that someone’s innate greed might be overtaken by a fit of remorse or an attack of latent morality. I was never worried about that with you. From the moment we chose you, we felt confident you were the sort of man who would, shall we say, stick to his principles.” He paused, but no one else spoke. “The second problem is more complicated in its way. It can arise from a combination of fear or greed or stupidity which leads to a lack of truthfulness. It appears we have reached that crossroad in our relationship.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Amendola saw a fourth man coming up the hill from the left. He was holding the envelope. “Here it is,” the man said.

“Under the circumstances, Peter, did you really think we were going to allow you to enter this park unwatched? You might have brought the authorities. Or a meddling friend. You might even have armed yourself, as indeed you have. Please remove your hands from your jacket. Without the gun, of course.”

Amendola did not move.

“Foolish of you, stashing the envelope that way. I thought we had a fair arrangement, you and I.”

“You have what you came for,” Amendola said, surprised to hear the timbre of his voice weaken.

His contact took the envelope from the other man. He opened it and, with a small penlight, had a quick glance at the papers. “Yes,” he agreed, “it appears we have what we came for.”

Without another word, the two men who were standing on either side of the contact raised their silenced automatics and opened fire. Amendola barely managed to get the gun out of his pocket, squeezing off two random shots as he fell to the ground.

“Damn,” the contact said as he stepped forward and kicked Amendola’s revolver out of his hand. “We didn’t need the fireworks, gentlemen. Now let’s get moving before we have company.”

Amendola stared up at him. “You were going to kill me anyway,” he gasped.

The contact nodded slowly. “If it’s any consolation, yes, that is so.”

Those were the last words Amendola heard. The last thing he saw were the two assassins silently approaching. One was leveling a pistol at his head. The other was carrying a large black plastic bag he would use to remove Amendola’s body from the scene.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

TORTOLA, B.V.I.

T
HE CREW OF
the
Misty II
prepared to depart from the placid lagoon along the shore of Tortola. As Adina had predicted, tropical storms were gaining intensity in the southeastern Caribbean and he needed to advance his preparations.

His team had reported in from Texas, confirming they were now in possession of the information describing the perimeter defenses of the Baytown refinery. As expected, the design was similar in configuration to the fortifications used at other major facilities. Although the data obtained from Amendola provided less than the total specifications, they contained enough to enable their plan.

Adina also heard from the group that had begun their journey in Tehran, the men with whom Seyed Asghari had worked until he betrayed them to Ahmad Jaber. This cell was charged with obtaining low-yield nuclear materials similar in type to those employed in the tests jointly performed by North Korea and Iran a few years back. The materials had ultimately been obtained, not in Iran, but in Kazakhstan. They were secured with the aid of men from Kim’s allegedly defunct nuclear program.

Over the years, officials from the Soviet Union—and then Russia—issued repeated denials that these “suitcase nukes” ever existed. When the highly placed GRU operative Stanislav Lunev defected to the West, he put an end to all efforts by Vladimir Putin and his subordinates to persuade the world that these bombs had never been built. Lunev gave irrefutable details about their composition, including the legendary RA-115s and, more importantly for Adina’s purposes, the submersible RA-115-01s. Not only did these devices exist, Lunev explained, but the location of many could no longer be accounted for by the Russian government. The nightmare scenarios became almost endless, with the ultimate fear being the likelihood that they would fall into the hands of terrorists.

Some of the raw materials in these devices were used in the tests conducted in the Syrian desert by the DPRK, as it experimented with techniques it had developed at its Yongbyon nuclear reactor. The CIA confirmed both the tests and the sources of the enriched nuclear material and, in 2008, the United States negotiated and paid for the destruction of that facility with the nominal cooperation of Kim’s regime. What could not be confirmed was a real end to Kim’s efforts to utilize nuclear weapons if and when he chose to do so.

The men Adina had assigned to this part of his operation, Francisco and Luis, reported that they had now acquired sufficient firepower to implement the plan. They would deliver the first shipment to Cuba, then another directly into southeast Texas.

————

As the captain of the
Misty II
ordered his men to weigh anchor and set a course to the south, Adina was joined on deck by his chief technical consultant, Eric Silfen, and the liaison from Caracas, Antonio Bastidas. After bringing them up to date on the latest developments, he returned to the business at hand. Laying out a large map before them, the three men had a look at the geography of the greater Houston area.

“The issue, gentlemen, is the stretch of land that acts as a breaker outside Galveston Bay. As you can see, access to the interior Gulf waters, and ultimately to Baytown, is limited to a single cut between Port Bolivar to the north and Galveston to the south. Any vessel passing through, whether above or below the waterline, is subjected to the most rigorous surveillance.”

“Why a submarine, then?” asked Bastidas. “Why all of this subtlety? Why not a ground-to-ground missile, or an unmanned air attack?”

Adina gave a patient nod. “These options have been considered, of course, but we must be realistic about the lack of sophistication of our systems when compared with American defenses. Missiles would be swatted from the sky like so many mosquitoes, and a drone attack would endure a similar fate. Even with the information we have gathered on their security mechanisms, stealth is absolutely required.”

“But aren’t you also telling us that a submarine has no chance of getting through?”

“No, I am not. I am telling you of the difficulty, not the impossibility. Given a hurricane for cover and the destruction of the communications center at Fort Oscar, it can be done.”

Bastidas was not convinced. “The entire area is on high alert, Rafael,” he said, one of the few men who had the familiarity with Adina to use his given name. “They are investigating the plane crash near St. Maarten and the invasion of the fortress in St. Barths. Why would you think such a plan will not be detected?”

“I assume it will be detected, Antonio, I absolutely expect it. But the discovery will come too late.”

The man from Chavez’s inner circle stared down at the map again. “And what about the men onboard? Won’t they be captured? Won’t that compromise your intentions?”

Their host deferred to Dr. Silfen, who was only too pleased to expound upon his plan to create the catastrophic subterranean explosion that would annihilate the Baytown refinery, including everything and everyone in the vicinity. And he would do it, in effect, by remote control.

“So,” Bastidas said when the proud scientist was done, “you’re telling me this submarine can operate without a crew?”

“Precisely,” Silfen replied. He described how American ingenuity had created the Super Scorpio class of unmanned submarines, also known as Autonomous Underwater Vehicles, or AUVs. The research and development had been conducted at the naval base in San Diego and resulted in what essentially became a submersible drone. In an ironic twist of fate, Moscow had hastened the progress and use of these vessels.

In August 2005, a Russian Akula class submarine became disabled, apparently having been caught in a maze of high-tensile fishing nets off Russia’s east coast. The lives of the entire crew were in danger.

Knowing of the San Diego project, the Kremlin asked Washington for help and the U.S. Navy responded, sending two of its Super Scorpios from California via an Air Force C-5 transport, together with the ancillary equipment, crew, and technicians to undertake the rescue. The American AUVs led the successful recovery, resulting in increased cooperation between the two countries. The project was expanded and then moved to Norfolk, Virginia, where it became known as ISMERLO, for International Submarine Escape and Rescue Liaison Office.

“The Russians benefited from the new technology,” Silfen continued, “as did others on the black market.”

“The Russians sold the plans?”

“It’s what they do,” Adina observed with an indulgent smile. “The cooperation of our friends in North Korea has also been essential. You’ve heard of narco subs?”

Bastidas nodded.

“Those units are not nearly as sophisticated as the AUVs,” Silfen said, then explained how drug runners from Colombia were using a simpler system for their SPSS boats, or Self-Propelled Semi-Submersibles, to transport cocaine. “They’re not actually submarines in the truest sense, since they cannot dive. They merely glide unseen just below the surface. And, unlike the AUVs, they are operated by a two-man crew. If detected by the authorities, the pilots simply scuttle the craft. They are designed with side chambers that can be opened to let the seawater rush in. In a matter of moments they sink to the bottom like a stone, while the men onboard are jettisoned from the cockpit to the surface. Under international law the crew must be rescued. They cannot be charged with any crime since the evidence by then has been dissolved in the seawater and washed away.”

“But these narco subs would be easy to spot in a highly protected area, such as this,” Bastidas said, pointing to the map.

“Of course,” Silfen sniffed, annoyed at the suggestion he might employ such primitive technology, “but the North Koreans have taken the U.S. plans and created a hybrid between these crude models and the American Scorpios. Their unit moves faster than an SPSS, operates without a crew, and runs in relative silence.”

Bastidas was impressed and said so. He also expressed surprise that he was not made aware that such a project was under way in Venezuela.

“Please take no offense, my friend,” Adina said. “The secrecy has been fueled more by our concerns about the factions in Bogota than in Washington. At some later date we may be willing to sell the plans to the drug lords in Medellin, but for now we have a more important purpose in mind.”