Targets of Opportunity (22 page)

“I have already told you,” the former IRGC operative said, “I knew nothing of an airline explosion, nothing. And it makes no sense to me, based on what little Seyed knew. Whoever these men were, they did not need to travel to Tehran to sabotage a plane in St. Maarten.”

Byrnes was seated across from Jaber in the comfortable, soundproof interview room where they had met with Jordan Sandor just a few days before. “What could they have been planning in Iran then?”

“I’ve told you, I do not know.”

Byrnes shook his head in disgust. “You’ve come here, an avowed enemy of my country, seeking asylum, and all you have to sell is some rumor about a planned attack without any detail and without a target. Before that plane went down, we were willing to work with you, we were willing to try to develop the intelligence and see where your lead would take us. But now your value has plummeted to the point where it is hard to justify any sort of accommodation at all. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

Jaber returned his unblinking gaze. “I understand fully, just as I understood the risk I took when I surrendered to your troops in Halabjah.”

“I hope you do.”

The Iranian permitted himself a slight smile. “You and I know that my position in Iran became untenable. The attempt to assassinate me could not have been undertaken without the approval of the IRGC.”

“What if it had been an outside group, on a rogue mission?”

“Possible, but not likely, not in Tehran. Violence is not tolerated there, not without receiving prior sanctions. It is not New York City, Mr. Byrnes.”

The Deputy Director ignored the remark. “So you became expendable. Simply because this Seyed spoke with you.”

“It appears so.”

“And life here, even in custody, was preferable to death in Iran.”

“So it would seem.” The grin returned. “Despite the recent devaluation of my value to your government, you Americans are not butchers.”

“Whereas your people are.”

“Let us say that my people have a different cultural and religious perspective.”

“Including a complete lack of respect for the sanctity of human life, just to mention one notable distinction.”

“Come, come, Mr. Byrnes. A moral debate in the face of what we have to confront here? What am I to say in response? Vietnam? The invasion of Iraq? Lynching of African-Americans? The annihilation of what your media so charmingly calls Native Americans?”

Byrnes responded with a world-weary sigh. “You must be kidding me, Jaber. You consider the war in Southeast Asia a fair comparison to the random killing and mutilation of schoolchildren? Suicide bombers on commuter buses? Rockets launched into the middle of open-air markets?”

“Casualties of war.”

“Victims of terrorism, you mean. When you call Ahmadinejad and the IRGC butchers, you’re insulting butchers everywhere.”

Jaber offered no reply.

“And what of our American family values your media is so quick to mock?”

“Excuse me?”

“The way you described your hasty departure from Mother Iran, it seems you left behind the graves of your two sons. And what of your wife of thirty years? You also left her behind to fend for herself.”

Jaber was silent again.

“How long did you think she would be safe, hiding at her sister’s home?”

The Iranian shifted in his seat, eyeing the CIA Deputy Director warily now as he shuffled through the papers in his lap.

“Yes,” Byrnes continued, “we have sources too, as you may recall.” He removed his reading glasses from inside his suit jacket pocket and made a show of perusing one of the documents he was holding. “After you sent Mrs. Jaber to her sister’s home she took flight. By the time the authorities tracked her there she had already gone, apparently making her way west on a path not unlike the one you took toward northern Iraq.” He looked up. “She was not as successful as you were.”

As the color drained from Jaber’s face, Byrnes was fascinated to see that there was actually something or someone in the world about whom this cold-blooded killer cared, other than himself. “They have Rasa in custody?” he barely whispered.

“Yes,” Byrnes told him, “they picked her up on the beltway northwest of Marand.” Then, with no attempt to conceal his satisfaction, he added, “What is worse, we believe they confirmed that you’re here, in the United States.”

Jaber’s formal posture sagged, his arrogant mien dissolving into a careworn expression of sudden and utter despair. The implications were inevitable. He would be branded a traitor, not only to his country but now to his wife as well. Whatever she would have refused to divulge in loyalty to her husband she might now reveal in consequence of his abandonment. Or worse, as a result of torture. Whatever cooperation she might offer the IRGC would not forgive his betrayal and his wife would be made to suffer for his treason.

“You are certain?” was all Jaber could manage.

“As certain as we can be in these matters. We know that your sister-in-law and her husband were questioned, but your wife had already gone. The latest report has her in a detention center in Marand.”

Ahmad Jaber drew a deep breath and let it out slowly as he stared at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap.

“So,” Byrnes said. “If there’s any chance we can help you with this, it’s time for you to share whatever you’ve been holding back.”

When he was first taken into CIA custody and Byrnes arranged a chemically engineered interrogation, the results made it clear that the man had information, although the particulars elicited in his drug-induced haze were typically vague and confused, as they generally are in that process. He had since volunteered enough to confirm the initial reports—that something appeared to be in the works between the regimes of Kim and Ahmadinejad. Byrnes had been willing to give Jaber some time to bargain his way through the hoary process typical of most defections, since the Agency believed it would be helpful to have Jaber’s cooperation as they developed more data on their own. Now, however, the downing of the airliner had foreshortened the timeline, and Byrnes cursed himself for his indulgence.

“I’ve had no sleep,” the Deputy Director said. “I’m being pressured for answers and my tolerance level is extremely low. I am only going to ask you once more. We know that you are holding back on us. You apparently think this is some sort of a negotiation but I am here to tell you that you are mistaken in that belief. This is not some rug sale in the bazaar. You have no leverage here. I can snap my fingers and they’ll put you on a plane back to Tehran within the hour. So it’s your choice. What is it going to be?”

Jaber looked up slowly, then began to speak. “My wife,” he said, but Byrnes cut him off.

“No trading. You give me everything you have, then we’ll talk about what we can do for you.”

The Iranian nodded slowly. “The North Koreans,” he said. “They have been in discussion with highly placed people in South America. They want to trade arms for oil, according to what Seyed understood.”

“And you’re just telling me now?”

Jaber said nothing.

“South America is a continent. I need better than that.”

“I don’t know more than that, but I would guess Venezuela.”

“Venezuela?”

“That’s my guess.”

Byrnes shook his head. “Why does that involve terrorist action? They can make an economic trade like that anytime they like. What does that have to do with destroying a commercial aircraft?”

“I don’t know,” Jaber admitted. “Since you told me about the airplane explosion, I have been trying to put it together. It makes no sense.” He paused. “Seyed came to me because he was confused about several aspects of this operation.”

“I’m listening.”

“Neither of us understood why I was not involved or informed. Why was this being done outside normal government and IRGC channels? If North Korea wanted to trade for oil with Venezuela, why would Iran be involved if the oil was not to come from us?”

“Who were the North Koreans talking with? I need names.”

He shook his head. “Seyed never had names. As I told you, his involvement was peripheral; it almost made no sense.”

Byrnes shook his head. “You’re still holding out on me,” he said, but before Jaber could reply they were interrupted by a knock on the door. The DD rose slowly from his chair and said, “Come in.”

The duty officer entered and held out a folded piece of paper, then left the room. Byrnes read it, then looked at Jaber.

“This is the latest report on an attack made yesterday on Fort Oscar.”

“Fort Oscar?” Jaber appeared genuinely perplexed.

“Yes, in Gustavia. St. Barths,” Byrnes said, but none of this seemed to be registering with the Iranian. “You’re going to tell me you know nothing of this either?”

“Nothing.”

Byrnes uttered a long, frustrated sigh. He suspected that Jaber had likely given him all he had. The unfortunate truth was that the Iranian had come here with little to trade other than some vague rumors of an arms-for-oil deal between North Korea and someone in South America, most likely the Venezuelans. Anything else he had given them was old news—names of Al Qaeda assassins the CIA already had in their databank, details of Iranian-led terrorist attacks that had long ago been vetted by others and solutions to bygone mysteries that had already been solved. As Jaber conceded in the meeting with Jordan Sandor and again this morning, he had not chosen to defect based on an ideological change of heart, or some epiphany about the monstrous nature of the work he had done over the years, or even the obvious lunacy of his dictator Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. No, the fact was that Ahmad Jaber believed he had been betrayed by those he served for reasons he could not fathom, and so he was simply in search of shelter from that storm.

“This just isn’t enough,” Byrnes said.

Jaber nodded slowly. “I understand. I wish I knew more. For so many reasons.”

“We have a downed airliner, an attack on a vital communications center, and all you can tell me is that Kim made a deal for oil, probably but not positively with Chavez. What do I tell my superiors?”

Jaber thought that over, then responded with a grim smile. “Perhaps you can convince them that it is better to have me here than operating from Tehran.”

Byrnes was far too tired and much too depressed to find any humor in that notion. “What about Ahmadinejad’s nuclear installations?”

“I’ve told you already, that was not within my area of expertise or authority.”

Byrnes winced at Jaber’s euphemistic description of his career. “All right,” he said, getting slowly to his feet, “I’ll report our conversation. It’s all I can do.”

Jaber also stood. “My wife,” he said.

“Nothing to be done about that. Not right now,” Byrnes replied, leaving that last thought hanging between them as he left the room.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

SOUTHWEST OF PYONGYANG, NORTH KOREA

A
S
H
EA DROVE
Sandor and Hwang north toward the mountains near Hyesan, Mr. Sang guided the small Fiat sedan carrying Jim Bergenn and Craig Raabe in a circuitous route around the main roads of Songnim. He was heading west, toward the coastal town of Namp’o, which was situated at the mouth of a large inlet to the Korea Bay. Sang was not as cautious as Hea, using his headlights and opting for wider, well-paved roads, racing toward what he believed was their best chance of escape as quickly as possible. Their journey to safety was much shorter than Hea’s, and he regarded speed as more important now than stealth.

Once they arrived outside Namp’o, Sang knew there would be numerous small fishing boats docked at the piers, any one of which could easily be commandeered if they could elude the military patrols along the shoreline. Once at sea, surrounded by the darkness, he would navigate their passage south, to one of the villages just north of Inchon, in South Korea.

As they barreled ahead into the night, he explained his plan to Bergenn. Bergenn leaned over and described the situation to Raabe, who was laid out across the backseat.

“You hear that, cowboy? Just a little boat ride to freedom.”

Raabe barely managed a grunt in response.

“You holding up okay?”

Raabe uttered something that Bergenn took for a yes. Craig had taken shots in the side of his chest and his leg, although the hemorrhaging had stopped under the pressure Bergenn had applied with strips of torn cloth. Now the initial shock had been replaced by severe pain and a dizzy weakness from the loss of blood.

As Bergenn turned back to face the road ahead he heard the unwelcome sound of approaching helicopters. The route they had taken was too exposed for Sang to take cover now, their headlights a homing beacon for the pursuing choppers.

“Step on it,” Bergenn barked instinctively, but Sang had already accelerated into a sweeping curve that for a moment took them out of view of their pursuers. They sped over a slight incline, then banked off to the left.

But the helicopters were quickly gaining and bracketed them on the left and right. In the darkness, Bergenn could make out a pair of Hughes MD 500s, probably bought by the North Koreans back in the seventies, before Reagan slammed the door on any more deliveries. The choppers were antiquated by modern American standards but they were agile, and most of the eighty or so that the DPRK purchased had since been retrofitted as gunships.

Bergenn had no weapon capable of taking the helicopters down, so the best they could do was outrun them until they found some sort of shelter along this open stretch of road. “Kill the lights,” he ordered Sang, and the husky Korean complied. The small Fiat Palio he was driving surged ahead at eighty miles an hour, but the chopper to their right circled around and suddenly shined its high-powered halogen spotlight, sweeping the highway until it found them.

Sang did the best he could, but racing forward at this speed without headlights left them too vulnerable. When the beam of light from the chopper found them, Sang was momentarily blinded. He instinctively hit the brake, causing the sedan to swerve wildly, glancing off a high curb on the right that sent them careening across the road and onto the dirt-covered median. Sang struggled to bring the Fiat back under control, but the second helicopter rose into view on the left, using its light beam to further disorient him as the car caromed back onto the pavement.