Targets of Revenge (13 page)

The three agents reviewed the balance of what they had gleaned from their debriefing. With help from the NCTC, Sandor confirmed there was evidence of financial activity in Sharm el-Sheikh consistent with the information he had gathered. They also helped him fill in some blanks.

He explained to Bergenn and Raabe what he was up to, insisting they remain in place until he had more specific intel. After that, Sandor made his travel arrangements and took the long flight that ultimately led him to the Ritz-Carlton hotel along Sharm el-Sheikh’s Naama Bay.

————

Sandor checked in under his own name. Although he carried alternate identity papers in the liner of his carry-on, he did not want to raise any suspicions back at Langley by suddenly disappearing under a non-official cover. Using a NOC would be a red flag to the DD. He told Byrnes where he would be, and so here he was.

The room was a typically luxurious Ritz-Carlton room, and he immediately called the front desk and asked to have it changed. Old habits die hard, and tradecraft dictates certain precautions even in the most innocuous situations. The bellman waited with him as the woman at the front desk sent up a new electronic keycard for a room on a higher floor with a better view of the water. Once there, he quickly unpacked, took a cool shower, and prepared for action.

It had been a long flight, but Sandor had long ago developed the ability to sleep restfully on planes, a valuable skill when arriving at a destination refreshed was an absolute necessity. Which was all the time. After cleaning up he dressed in tan linen pants, brown loafers, and a black linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had no weapons, but he knew where they could be gotten—along with some of the information he needed—and that would be his first stop. He snapped on his stainless steel Rolex, pulled on his sunglasses, slung his black leather bag over his shoulder, and got started.

————

A short cab ride took Sandor to SOHO Square. He took his time in the area, walking in and out of a couple of shops, then circling around toward the back of the square, which was away from the water and the main thoroughfare.

Whether it was a heightened sense of danger after the clash in Venezuela, his years of training and experience, or a real threat, Sandor had the unshakable feeling someone was following him.

He hailed another taxi, took a ride down to the shore, then had the driver circle back to the square. Convinced he had shaken whoever might have been trailing him, he got out and found his way to Naama Heights Street. There he strolled at an unhurried pace, stopping twice to look in store windows as he confirmed no one was on his tail. Halfway down the block he walked into a shop called Red Sea Excursions. The only person in the place was an attractive, dusky-skinned young woman standing behind the counter. Sandor asked for Farrar.

“Farrar?” she repeated, as if she had never heard the name before.

“Just tell him it’s Sandor,” he replied with a knowing smile. The girl nodded, then disappeared through a door off to her right.

A few moments later she returned, followed by a man who appeared to be in his early sixties. He had a dark complexion, beaked nose, and a scar just below his right eye, all of which contributed to a surly demeanor that became incongruously brightened by the wide grin with which he greeted his old friend. “Jordan Sandor,” he said, holding out his arms.

Sandor embraced the man, then took a step back. “Damn, you look as nasty as ever. Still scaring the customers away with that scowl of yours?”

Farrar gave his head a slight tilt to the side. “That’s why I have Dendera here. She brings them in, I close the sale.” He slapped Sandor on the arm. “What a surprise. It’s so good to see you.”

“And you.”

When Sandor said nothing more, the older man nodded his understanding. “Come, we will go in the back, have some coffee, and catch up”

The rear of the shop was a cramped space filled with merchandise stacked against the walls, all of it surrounding a small desk and two chairs that served as a makeshift office. Atop a dented file cabinet was a Nespresso machine. Sandor laughed when he spotted it.

“Not exactly traditional.”

“Ah well, you know my love of dark coffee. In the modern age, things become easier.”

“Not all things.”

“No, I suppose not,” Farrar agreed. “So, I’m glad to see your skills have not diminished since we last met.”

Sandor responded with an appreciative nod. “That was your man?”

Farrar smiled. “It was, and you managed to lose him even though he knew you were most likely coming here.”

Sandor laughed.

Farrar opened a desk drawer and pulled out some capsules filled with ground espresso beans. “So, you will join me?”

“Sure.”

The Egyptian quickly brewed two small cups, then the two men sat at his desk. “You are here on business.”

Sandor nodded, then took a sip of the hot coffee.

“Just once I wish you would visit me and enjoy the pleasures of our beautiful port city.”

“Someday, but not today.”

Farrar drank his espresso down in one noisy gulp. “It has been too long.”

“Since Bahrain.”

Farrar paused, his expression turning to sadness. “I will never forget those we could not save.”

Sandor nodded. “Hasani is well?”

At the mention of his son, Farrar looked down. It was the unbreakable bond between them, regardless of what either man felt about it. “I do not hear from him much. His mother still worries for him. I’m not sure what to feel.” He looked up again, his eyes warmer than they had been before. “But he is my son. And you understand that.”

“I do.”

“His cowardice is a disgrace.”

“No, my friend. He is young. And, as you say, he is your son.”

Farrar could only sigh in response, then he changed the subject. “I heard about Traiman.”

“Yes. And Covington.”

“You did what you had to do, Jordan. They were evil men.”

“The world is full of evil men.”

“Too true. So, which of them brings you to Sharm el-Sheikh?”

“Adina.”

“Ah, Rafael Cabello. This region is a bit far afield for the man from Venezuela.”

“Not lately. Seems he did some business in Iran not too long ago. I have word that he now has contacts here.”

“Financing?”

Sandor smiled. “As usual you’re a step ahead of me.”

“I prefer to think of myself as moving alongside you.”

“What have you heard?”

Farrar sat back and rubbed his unshaved chin. “Narcotics from South America. Not a surprising commodity to be funded through our banks. The product itself does not pass through here, of course. Those who indulge locally have more convenient sources.”

“That’s my understanding. The movement of their goods is from South America into Mexico, then into the States.”

“Yes. Which means one of the questions you have come here to answer is, why travel all the way to Egypt to make these arrangements?”

“It certainly is one of the questions.”

“And the other might be, who is at the receiving end of these trades?”

Sandor grinned, then finished off his coffee and placed the small cup on the desk. “And you, as usual, are right again.”

“The first matter is fairly simple. We have banks that welcome large deposits and ask very little. I can make inquiries.”

“I have a head start,” Sandor told him. “I have two names from my people. One is called the Bank of the Nile Valley. The other is the Sharm el-Sheikh International Reserve. We hear they welcome these accounts.”

Farrar smiled. “Such grand names for the type of business they conduct. I know them both. How do you intend to approach them?”

“As a representative of a potential new customer.”

“A large customer, I assume.”

“Very.”

“Then you will need to meet with the head of each of these banks.”

“That’s how I see it.”

“I will make the contacts.”

“Good. I also have two names, major players in this field.”

“Are you prepared to share the names?”

“Jaime Rivera, from Mexico. One of the so-called drug lords. Ruthless. Feared even in his own violent world. Apparently he has a presence here.”

“But not personally.”

“No. From what I’ve learned he never leaves Mexico.”

Farrar uttered a short laugh. “All that money and all that power, to end up a prisoner in Mexico of all places.”

“Home sweet home.”

“Yes, I know that name and I know that he has people who come and go on his behalf.”

“I’d like to meet them if they’re in town.”

“I’ll see what can be arranged. And the other name?”

“Sudakov.”

“Yes, Ronny Sudakov.”

“Ronny?”

Farrar shrugged. “He deals on behalf of the Russian syndicate, Moscow and New York. He’s here now.”

Sandor leaned back in the chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Then that’s the man I need to find.”

“Don’t worry,” Farrar said. “After you meet with these two bankers Sudakov will find you.”

F
ARRAR STOOD, LOCKED
the door to the small room, then went to work moving some of the cartons stacked against the wall behind his desk. Hidden there was the entrance to a walk-in safe.

“Can’t be too careful nowadays,” he explained as he punched a combination into the electronic keypad and swung open the heavy door.

Inside was an imposing array of weapons.

Sandor got up and stood beside him. “Impressive. You expecting a major assault sometime soon?”

Farrar shrugged. “As I say, one cannot be . . .”

“Too careful, I got it. From the look of this arsenal I would say that business is good.”

“I’m not complaining.”

Sandor reached in and took hold of a hefty Glock 17. “Last time you helped me, everything you had could have fit in one of these cardboard boxes.”

Farrar’s smile revealed his tobacco-stained teeth. “At the time, it was all I needed to show you.”

Sandor replaced the seventeen-shot pistol and picked up a Sphinx AT 380. It was smaller than most of the 9mm’s and .45’s and therefore easier to conceal. Swiss made, some Sphinx models are standard issue at Interpol. It was a safe, double-action weapon, with features similar to the Walther that Sandor favored, even a bit smaller than the PPK. He checked the magazine and action, then placed the Sphinx and
some additional ammunition on the desk. “All right if I leave this with you for safekeeping?” he asked, gesturing to the black satchel he had brought with him.

“Of course. It will be safer here than at the hotel,” Farrar assured him.

“My feelings exactly,” Sandor replied, giving the soft leather an affectionate pat. “This bag and I have been through a lot together, wouldn’t want to lose it now.”

Sandor’s “go bag” could sometimes be the difference between escape and capture, even life and death. He had refined the inventory of its contents over the years, anticipation being the byword that determined inclusion or exclusion. Some items were as mundane as a change of clothes, others as sensitive as counterfeit passports and cash that were secreted within the lining at the base of the bag. Sandor was not going to entrust the case to a front-desk hotel clerk or the easily breached combination safe in his room.

He unzipped a side pocket and placed the Sphinx and ammunition inside, then pulled it closed again and handed the bag to Farrar. “Thanks.”

The Egyptian nodded, taking it and placing it on a shelf within the safe.

“I don’t need a lot of firepower for now, but this might come in handy,” Sandor said as he reached into the safe behind Farrar and picked up a Rohrbaugh R9, one of the smallest 9mm handguns made. It has no safety and holds only six rounds, but it weighs less than a pound and is easily concealed. Once again he checked the magazine and the action, then pocketed the weapon and sat down again as Farrar locked the safe.

“So the banks are in league with these drug smugglers,” Sandor said as his friend also took his seat.

“Money has to be laundered, and the banks in this part of the world are extremely friendly. Terrorism has changed the Western world in many ways. From air travel to increased military spending to banking, yes?”

“Sad but true.”

“They need bankers outside the United States, where the scrutiny is not so intense.”

“What a world.”

“But the reason you are here is beyond narcotics.”

“Anthrax.”

Farrar responded with a solemn nod.

“My goal is to stop a shipment of anthrax. If that shipment is tied to the cocaine it would seem I have to get to Rivera.”

“Which will be no easy task. But as I say, you should start with the Russians.”

“Isn’t that swimming up the stream in the wrong direction?”

“Not at all. The stream, as you say, flows on a current of money. Rivera is a phantom as far as we are concerned in Sharm el-Sheikh, but the Russians are here. Their syndicate banks here.”

“Sudakov . . .”

“Is the man you need to meet,” Farrar finished the thought. “His yacht is at anchor in the harbor as we speak.”

“All right. First the banks, then Sudakov.”

“Yes. The Russians are a cutthroat bunch, but at least you can count on the fact that they are all about the money. It’s another matter when you deal with the Islamic extremists, or the lunatics running North Korea or the socialists in Venezuela—they hate your country and your entire way of life. There’s no reasoning with them.” Farrar allowed himself a slight smile. “At least with the Russians you know you are dealing with capitalists.”

————

Farrar suggested that Sandor do what tourists do in Sharm el-Sheikh—go clubbing at night and scuba diving in the morning. “That way they will be certain to find you,” he told him again. Then he made a phone call and confirmed that a group from Sudakov’s yacht had chartered a dive boat for the next morning. He got the details of the excursion and passed them to Sandor.

“I assume it’s a private charter.”

“Of course. When I spread the word that you are a wealthy American, here on his own, in search of fun . . . you understand. They like to, uh, what is the expression? Mingle?”