Targets of Revenge (2 page)

Suddenly, as if an oasis had appeared in an endless desert, the clearing was visible among the dense, towering trees. Sandor pushed on the hand lever until the flaps were virtually perpendicular to the long, graceful wings. He held the foot pedals steady on a course of dead reckoning as he pulled the release switch for the water tank that serves as ballast beneath the fuselage. The rear of the aircraft released what might have appeared as some sort of liquid jet stream.

Even with all of this, Sandor knew he was coming in too high and too fast. He had simply not seen the clearing early enough.

Under the best of circumstances a glider this size would need more than five hundred feet of runway to come safely to a stop. Although the clearing appeared to be three times that long, Sandor realized that he was not going to get the glider on the ground until it was more than two-thirds of the way into the field, which would be too late.

He strained against the lever to hold the flaps down, but that was not going to work; there was not enough time. He knew he had only one remaining chance. Atop the wings were his fail-safe mechanisms, the so-called terminal velocity air brakes. They would create a forced crash, something just short of a complete nosedive. Sandor did not hesitate. There was no time to weigh options; there was barely enough time to react. He let go of the flap control and reached out with both hands, tugging hard at the two emergency loops.

The result was instantaneous. The glider shuddered as if he had hit a pothole in the sky. The nose of the plane dipped and Sandor felt himself careening headlong to earth.

He strained to pull on the main lever again as the ground appeared to race toward him at a breathtaking pace. At the last moment he yanked at the controls to pull the nose up, then pushed himself back in the seat and braced for the crash.

After flying in total silence, the sounds of the glider smashing to pieces all around him was deafening. The wings acted as land-based pontoons until they were finally shattered, and the torque of the violent impact caused the windshield to explode into pieces. But the reinforced cockpit held fast as the remnants of what remained of the glider skidded along the soft, vegetation-covered ground until it came to a jarring stop against a stand of trees at the end of the clearing.

Then everything became quiet and dark.

A
WEEK EARLIER,
S
ANDOR’S
boss at the Central Intelligence Agency, Deputy Director Mark Byrnes, had not only refused to sanction the proposed mission into the Venezuelan jungle. He had specifically ordered Sandor not to undertake the operation.

Sandor had been careful not to make a formal request for approval when he discussed his idea with Byrnes. He had merely floated a trial balloon.

The DD shot it down without hesitation.

“We’re not in the vendetta business,” Byrnes told him. “We’ll take care of this in due course.”

It had been less than a month since Sandor and his team prevented an attack on American oil refineries along the Gulf Coast, but Sandor argued it was past the time for them to address the unfinished business of that mission. Although the main damage had been averted, several soldiers had died in the process of disarming one of the explosive devices. Before that, terrorists had taken down a commercial airliner in the Caribbean, followed by a deadly assault on a communications center. All told, those attacks cost the lives of hundreds of civilians and military personnel. And then there was the matter of a CIA operative, Sandor’s close friend, who was killed in action during an incursion in North Korea where the terrorist plot was first uncovered.

The mastermind behind all of these calamities had never surfaced, keeping a safe distance from the action as he played out his murderous scheme. Rafael Cabello, a Venezuelan known in the intelligence community
as Adina, had orchestrated the entire affair, never putting himself in harm’s way as all of those innocent people died in the wake of his treachery.

Sandor was not inclined to wait for action in
due course,
as the Deputy Director suggested. He was determined to act now.

“Sir, there’s no telling what Adina may be up to next. At the very least a reconnaissance mission could gather some valuable intelligence.”

Byrnes fixed his subordinate with a knowing stare. “Reconnaissance? Come on Sandor, we didn’t just meet this morning. I know exactly what you have in mind.”

Sandor responded with the most innocent look he could muster. “Sir?”

“You’re not thinking about intelligence gathering. You’re thinking about liquidating Adina.”

“Aren’t you?”

Byrnes stood up, walked around his desk, and leaned against the edge, looking down at his agent. “Of course I am. But losing you or Raabe or Bergenn isn’t going to help me right now, is it?”

“That would be impossible, sir. I’m your punishment from God. You’ll never lose me.”

Byrnes treated Sandor to one of his famous scowls, a look that was somewhere between indigestion and a reaction to a rotten odor. Byrnes was a patient man, but he was not renowned for his sense of humor. “Spare me your witty repartee. I’m ordering you to stay away from this. We’ve met with DHS and we’re developing plans with the NCTC to deal with what happened. And, just so you know how far up the food chain this goes, the Director of National Intelligence is all over this as well. You’re on a need-to-know basis, and right now you don’t need to know.”

“If plans are being made I think I’ve earned the right to be read in.”

“I’ll be sure to make a note of that in the file,” Byrnes said as he returned to his chair. “Meantime, let me remind you that you’re an agent of the United States government under my command, and you’ll do as I say. Is that clear?”

“Completely.”

“Venezuela is a hostile nation. If one of my agents were caught in an act of espionage within that country, the repercussions would be severe. Are you clear on that, too?”

“Not exactly. Are you saying that the key is not to get caught?”

“Sandor . . .”

“I understand.”

“Is there anything else?”

“I’m entitled to some leave. I was planning to take a week, if that’s all right.”

“That’s fine, you really should take some time. You’ve certainly earned that.” As Sandor stood, the DD added, “But mark my words. You head off on some escapade of your own and I promise you, none of the good you’ve done will stop me from turning your world upside down. You read me?”

“Completely,” Sandor said again, then turned and was gone.

————

Bergenn and Raabe had been on the mission in North Korea with Sandor and they shared his views of Adina. When Sandor invited them for drinks that night and explained what he had in mind, there was no need to ask twice if they wanted in.

“You should know that Byrnes warned me off any nonsanctioned activities.”

“There’s a shock,” Raabe replied.

Sandor then told them that the National Counter-Terrorism Center was already working out some strategies of their own, and that the DNI was also reviewing the situation.

“I doubt they’re thinking what you’re thinking,” Raabe said.

“Just wanted you to know everything I know.”

Bergenn said there was no reason for them to get in the way of the other agencies.

“By the time they put a plan in place we’ll be all done and back home,” Raabe said.

“My thinking exactly,” Sandor agreed.

Bergenn said he would make the contacts Sandor requested. Raabe was still on a medical leave for the injuries he sustained during the operation in Pyongyang. He agreed to work from home, arranging for the equipment they would need. Then they planned to meet in three days in Curaçao.

Meanwhile, Sandor was going to take a short trip to visit a friend in St. Barths.

S
ANDOR WAS GREETED
at the St. Barths airport by Lieutenant Henri Vauchon. After a warm embrace Sandor took a step back and had a good look at his friend.

“Seems your shoulder healed up pretty well.”

The Frenchman shrugged. “Not too bad.”

“I take it you’ve been receiving the proper attention. Medical and otherwise.”

“Several women I know have been most helpful with my recovery.”

“I’ll bet. You still a local hero?”

“Glory fades quickly.”

Sandor smiled. “Isn’t that the truth.”

As they headed outside to the small parking lot, Vauchon said, “When you called you said you were coming down here for a short rest. I assume that’s a lie.”

“Why would you think such a thing?”

Vauchon grinned. “You booked yourself into Guanahani for only one night.”

“Come on, Henri. A lie is not a lie if the truth should not be expected.”

“Who said that?”

“A clever lawyer I know.”

“Sounds like it might have been written by Voltaire.”

“You’re so French. More likely came from Machiavelli.”

“What are you really here for?”

“Adina.”

“As I expected, although I doubt you’ll find him on St. Barths.”

“You may be surprised what we’ll find.”

Vauchon responded with a skeptical look, but Sandor let it go.

They reached the parking lot, where Sandor tossed his bag into the backseat of Vauchon’s car, then the two men headed into the port town of Gustavia. They parked along the main dock and made their way to the outdoor patio at Le Select. The lieutenant ordered burgers, grabbed a couple of bottles of beer, and led them to a small table on the patio.

“Look at you, Henri, drinking on duty in the middle of the day.”

“Perhaps no longer a celebrated hero, but still enjoying certain privileges.”

Sandor gave an approving nod.

“So tell me, what makes you think you will find Adina hiding here, of all places?”

“I didn’t say he was hiding here,” Sandor replied, then took a swig of his Caribe. “But we now know he was staying on a yacht here when he coordinated the attack on Fort Oscar. And he had men at that villa in Pointe Milou, both before and after the attack.”

“So this is the starting place for your search?”

“In a manner of speaking. I believe you can help.”

“You know I will if I can.”

“I want to review the electronic tracking records, see if we can identify his phone calls.”

Vauchon did not hide his pessimism. “Do you have any idea how many cellular calls are made in and out of here every day?”

“Of course,” Sandor said as he held up his hand. “I’m talking about a very limited search. I want to see if we can trace any calls to and from his base of operations in Venezuela during that short time frame. How many calls into and out of Venezuela could there have been?”

“Not many,” Vauchon conceded.

“We have some general intelligence about the area where Adina currently has his command center. If we can triangulate some of those calls from last month it might help to pinpoint the location.”

Vauchon thought it over. “Why not work this through Washington?”

Sandor took a gulp of beer without responding.

“Ah, I see. You have come all this way rather than simply phoning in the request or sending an email.” When Sandor remained silent Vauchon nodded. “Would it be fair to say that your visit is not official?”

“That would be fair.”

“Would it also be fair to say that you have been told not to pursue this matter on your own?”

“
Fair
seems such a strange word in that context. Couldn’t we just say that one friend is asking another friend for help?”

Their food came and Vauchon paid. “The least I can do,” he explained. “Last visit you bought me dinner at Maya’s.”

“I’ll buy dinner wherever you like tonight.”

“Because you need this help. Unofficially.”

“Because I enjoy your company.”

“Of course.” The lieutenant bit into his hamburger. Sandor waited. “Our systems are not what they were. The explosions at Fort Oscar were devastating.”

“I understand. But you can do it?”

“I believe so.”

“Without creating a problem for yourself?”

Vauchon drank some beer. “That’s another matter entirely. As I have mentioned, I do enjoy a certain, how would you call it, standing. And I am still well regarded by the DGSE,” he added, referring to the French intelligence service.

Sandor responded with an appreciative nod. “Don’t tell me you’re on a second payroll now, Henri.”

Vauchon smiled. “Using your expression, let’s just say they enjoy my company.”

————

Given the unofficial status of Sandor’s request and the anxieties of the local military after the recent invasion of Fort Oscar, Vauchon reminded his friend that subtlety in their approach to this fact-finding
mission would be at a premium. Sandor agreed. He knew that if any word were leaked to Washington about what he was up to the consequences would be dire. He would be disciplined by Byrnes and CIA Director Walsh, but that was of no great concern. The important thing was that he would be put under watch and his operation scrubbed, and that worried him far more than any bureaucratic scolding.

“Just think of me as Mr. Subtle,” he said.

Vauchon shot him a knowing glance. He had seen Sandor in action before. “All right, Mr. Subtle, let’s see what we can do.”

The destruction of the telecommunications center that had been secretly maintained in the lower levels of Fort Oscar had been damaging to the defenses in the Western Hemisphere, not to mention a horrific black eye for the French. It would be fair to say that no one in the world expected a terrorist attack on the glamorous island of St. Barths. And, since it came on the heels of the downing of a jetliner just outside St. Maarten, the lax precautions in defending the old fortress became a humiliation that reached from Gustavia to Paris. Vauchon told Sandor that enough heads were rolling to evoke historic memories of the Bastille in its heyday.

The lieutenant was the one man who had emerged as a hero from the debacle, having rescued a number of the fort’s civilian personnel as well as military guards who were taken captive during the attack. Yet even for Vauchon, gaining entrance to the new computers and gathering the information Sandor needed was going to be difficult. Much of the replacement hardware had been relocated to Guadeloupe, where access was simply out of the question. Whatever technology remained on St. Barths was now temporarily situated in a makeshift facility above the hills of St. Jean, under tight security.