Targets of Opportunity (9 page)

“What do you want me to do?”

“Our sun-loving North African friend will begin the operation for us.”

Cardona nodded.

Adina placed a hand on Cardona’s powerful shoulder. “I have already arranged his passage, from here to St. Maarten, then connecting on the afternoon flight to New York.” Speaking to Renaldo, he said, “While we have lunch on the yacht you can arrange for his boarding pass.”

Renaldo said that he understood, but Cardona seemed to be mulling it over.

“Is something wrong, my friend?”

“No, I’m sorry, no, I was just thinking, that was all.”

The older man smiled indulgently. “Thought is the assassin of action. Do you know who said that?”

Cardona gave a confused look, then shook his head.

“I did,” Adina announced, followed by a hearty laugh that he prolonged until the two younger men joined in. When he resumed his serious demeanor, he said, “Tell me your concern.”

“Well, once he arrives in St. Maarten, won’t he have to claim the bag and run it through customs?”

“Ah, a good question. You see, Renaldo, why I tell you I am so pleased with this man? He leaves nothing to chance.” Turning back to Cardona, he explained: “There is a service here that allows a check-through, as well as a connecting boarding pass, both of which Renaldo will arrange for a small fee. We’ll take care of everything.”

Cardona responded with a satisfied look.

“Good,” Adina said in a way that made it clear the subject was closed to any further discussion.

Cardona closed the suitcase and followed Adina and Renaldo from the bedroom back to the deck, where Hicham had just returned.

“Well,” Adina said, “this is quite a glorious setting, is it not?” He did not await a response. “And you will also enjoy our yacht. Your comrade here has already had the pleasure,” he said, giving Cardona a fraternal clap on the arm. “Your turn will be for a fine luncheon onboard.”

“Thank you so much,” the Moroccan replied with obvious satisfaction.

“It’s settled,” Adina said as he held out his hand and led them to four chairs arranged in a circle around the small table on the deck. “First it is time for you to tell us what you two have learned about the technology inside the depths of Fort Oscar.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

EN ROUTE TO PYONGYANG

S
ANDOR REJOINED HIS
team early the next morning. They met in a conference room adjacent to a private hangar at Reagan International Airport in Washington, where they were presented passports, visas, credit cards, and dossiers containing background information on their identities as Canadian businessmen. Then they were flown by charter to Toronto, where they would connect with the Air Canada flight that would take them nonstop to Beijing.

“Canadian,” Craig Raabe mused on the ride from D.C. “I don’t have to fake some silly accent, do I Zimmermann? Sound like a Canuck or something?”

Kurt Zimmermann grunted.

“Hey, you’re the language expert.” He turned to Sandor. “What if they start grilling us about hockey? I hate hockey, don’t know diddly about it. They’ll see right through me.”

Sandor responded with a sage nod. “Yes, I’d say it’s your lack of hockey knowledge that’s putting us at risk here, Craig. Tell you what, we have twenty hours or so on the flight to Beijing. I’ll spend the entire time regaling you with the history of the NHL.”

Bergenn laughed. “Just make sure you’re sitting at least three rows away from me.”

At Pearson International Airport in Toronto their first-class check-in went without a hitch. Their bags held no weaponry and no electronics. Only Raabe’s suitcase was fitted with plastic explosives and they were undetectable, or so Craig was assured at Langley. He knew the real test of that would come at airport security in Beijing and then Pyongyang. Meanwhile, the other three carried no contraband, not wanting to risk an arrest before they even made their way inside the DPRK. As Sandor reminded them, they would be unarmed and very much on their own.

Sandor also told them that it was important, right from the start, that they assume the identities they’d been given. “Four businessmen on a trip like this don’t move like a Special Forces advance unit.” Once they received their boarding passes, he said, “Do your own thing, we’ll meet back at the bar in the First Class Club in an hour or so.”

Sandor spent the time seated in a comfortable armchair in the lounge, going over the information that Byrnes had furnished, for his eyes only, to be destroyed before he boarded the flight to Beijing. There were several aspects of the mission he had been told that his men had not. The DD had left it up to him to decide when and how much of the data to share.

Sandor put the file on his lap and stared out the window. Given the level of danger he and his men were facing, he wanted to be sure his mission would not be complicated by any information leaks.

As he knew only too well, when people in government start talking, the discussions are quickly picked up by the media. That meant the secret of Jaber’s defection was not likely to stay secret very long, which would have a wide range of consequences.

One aspect of those consequences was particularly troubling.

If Jaber was telling the truth—that he had defected for fear of his own safety—those who believed they had already murdered him would not take kindly to the news that Jaber was still alive, especially since he was now cooperating with the Americans. It would be no leap of faith for his enemies to assume Jaber was sharing any intelligence he had about the scheme being hatched with the North Koreans.

Carrying the thought forward, Sandor knew that the only edge he had in his incursion into Pyongyang was surprise. If the North Koreans learned that the CIA had information about these plans, the danger of their mission would increase by an exponential factor.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and called Sternlich. “Bill it’s me.”

“How do I know it’s you? Recite the code.”

“Not funny. This is likely the last time I’ll be able to call you in the next few days. I need you to check something for me.”

“I’m listening.”

Sandor believed the best place to gauge whether a breach had already occurred was among the denizens of the fourth estate. If the channels of confidential communications had been penetrated, the media would be the first to know. Sandor trusted Sternlich as much as he could trust anyone, and time was short, so he elected a frontal approach. “Bill, I have to ask you something, but the entire discussion, even the topic we discuss, ends with this conversation.”

“I understand,” Sternlich said.

Sandor hesitated. “You remember our discussion about Ahmad Jaber yesterday?”

“Of course.”

“I never asked if you’d heard anything about him.”

“I haven’t, but I can check around if you want.”

“I do want you to. But tread lightly, Bill.”

“I will.”

“I need to know what the rumor mill is churning out about him. Anything at all you can dig up in the next twenty-four hours. Then I need you to text me ‘yes’ or ‘no’ on my international cell number at this time tomorrow. If it’s yes, I’ll know I need to get back to you.”

“All right.”

“And Bill, there’s one more thing.”

“Go ahead.”

“It’s extremely serious.”

“I’m listening,” Sternlich assured him in a grave voice.

“I forgot to cancel my newspaper delivery,” Sandor said, then started laughing.

Sternlich took a moment to name the anatomical part of a horse his friend most closely resembled, then hung up.

Sandor went to the men’s room. In one of the toilet stalls he tore up the contents of the file Byrnes had given him and flushed them away. Then he broke his cell phone in two, removed the battery, and gouged the internal transistor board with his pen. When he left, he deposited each piece in a different trash bin, then made his way to the bar and ordered a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

TABRIZ, IRAN

T
HE WIFE OF
Ahmad Jaber did not learn of the destruction of her home until several days after it happened, when the Iranian minister of communications finally gave Al Jazeera permission to release the story. She was sitting in the living room of her sister’s home in Tabriz, watching the evening news, when the report was aired.

An overwhelming sense of disbelief quickly turned to shock as the sketchy details were recounted. She stared at the screen as video footage displayed the wreckage of her demolished house from several angles. The reporter on the scene offered the government-sanctioned view—that the blast was caused by a faulty gas line. She sat motionless, gazing at the television, realizing that she had been waiting for something like this, expecting something like this, ever since her husband sent her away a week ago.

And then the fearful moment came when the reporter said, “Only one body was recovered at the scene.” Then he said, “It is believed to be the body of a longtime civil servant in the administration.”

Rasa Jaber waited, but they gave no name. She managed to draw a deep breath, then let it out slowly, unevenly, but she did not weep. She had been the wife of an international terrorist for three decades, so she watched the entire segment in stoic silence, then stood and trudged slowly into the kitchen, where her sister was preparing dinner.

“Something has happened,” Rasa said, fighting back tears. Then, as calmly as she could manage, she recounted what she had just heard.

Her sister nearly fainted.

“Please,” Rasa implored her as she helped her sit down, “we must be strong. This situation remains dangerous.” What she did not say was that the danger now extended to her sister, her brother-in-law, and her two nieces. “Does anyone know I have come to visit with you?”

“Only my neighbors.”

Rasa shook her head. “All right. I will finish preparing the dinner. You need to go out and buy every available newspaper from Tehran. They are available nearby?”

Her sister nodded.

“See if you can find
Hamshahri
and
Shargh
. And your local paper, what is it called?”

“
Durna.
”

“Yes. And also try to find them from yesterday, even the day before. I need to look for every possible report.”

“What about the English paper?”

“The
Tehran Times
? Yes, that too, if you can get it.”

The younger woman hesitated before speaking. “You know that they will all carry the same story, the one the government has approved.”

“Yes, but every detail is important if I am going to find Ahmad.” Her sister still appeared unconvinced. “What is it?”

“I am sorry to have to ask this, Rasa, but if Ahmad survived, would he not have contacted you by now?”

Rasa shook her head slowly and managed a grim smile. “No, that is exactly what he would not have done. Now go, quickly.”

Once her sister left, Rasa went to the closet, removed her suitcase, and began to pack. She forced herself to methodically fold each article of clothing, placing them neatly until she suddenly stopped, gripped by a painful spasm of fear, a palpable sense that froze her in place. She dropped the sweater she was holding and wrapped her arms around her shoulders, as if that might alleviate the awful chill. In a moment the sensation passed, but she still did not allow herself tears. There was too much to do.

She knew her sister would protest her leaving, but Rasa realized she must depart immediately. It was for her safety as well as the protection of her sister’s family. At some point the people responsible would come for her, and this would be one of the first places they would look.

Only one body had been recovered at the scene, Rasa reminded herself, and the reporter said the remains were yet to be conclusively identified. Rasa believed her husband was still alive. He had sent her away abruptly, so he must have known there was serious trouble ahead. Now her home was in ruins and a man was dead.

She believed that man was their servant, Mahmud, and she suspected Ahmad had arranged things to make it appear that he was the one who perished in the explosion. She also believed her husband’s ruse would soon be discovered and, assuming Ahmad was beyond their reach, they would search for her.

All of this was more than mere speculation, Rasa told herself as she finished packing. She actually felt certain of these things. She had no idea how her husband knew their house would be destroyed, or why he would have anticipated events so as to leave Mahmud behind, but she knew the cleverness of Ahmad Jaber. Whatever he had done had bought them time, and now she must use that time wisely. Over the years he had tutored her in the means of escape, preparing for the possibility that flight would become necessary. He had mentioned it again last week, as they parted. Now that day had arrived, and she must act with both dispatch and caution.

She took a moment to organize the cash that Ahmad had given her that night. Some was in rials, some in euros, some in American dollars. It was quite enough to fund her way to safety. She also removed from the inner compartment of her valise the handgun he had left her. She was no marksman, that was sure, but she knew how to load, to disengage the safety, to point, and to fire. If it ever became necessary, and now it well might, she would be prepared to act.

Rasa replaced the gun and the cash, closed the suitcase, and returned to the kitchen. This would be a sad dinner, likely the last time she would ever see her sister and her nieces. She only hoped no trouble would befall them from all of this.

She also hoped Allah would permit her to survive.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EN ROUTE TO PYONGYANG

T
HE FLIGHT TO
the People’s Republic of China was uneventful, and the four men got as much sleep as they could, knowing rest would be at a premium once they reached their destination. In Beijing they collected their luggage, passed through the “In Transit” procedures, then were directed to the North Korean airline desk.