Targets of Opportunity (33 page)

Although Sandor never said the word
Baytown,
he hinted around it, all of which received blank stares from the prisoner.

When Sandor was done, he gagged Jorge and tossed him on the bed beside his dead compatriot. Sandor figured it would do the man some good, stretched out there for a while beside the bloody corpse as he decided whether to cooperate when it came time for him to make his phone call to Adina.

That left Vauchon and Sandor to search the room. They found a cell phone, an Uzi SMG, and a Glock. They took the phone and weapons and went off to see what else they might find.

With guns in hand they checked the remaining bedrooms, all of which were empty. The master suite, where Jorge was staying, turned up several bricks of C-4 explosive, two remote detonators, an AK-47, a transponding device, a satellite telephone, a laptop computer, and another cell phone.

Sandor sat down on the bed, studying the transponder and two phones. “I can have these placed on a reverse trace, but whoever we find on the other end is probably on the move already.”

Lieutenant Vauchon agreed. “I believe what he told us. The men who attacked the fort came here by boat. As I mentioned last night, that was our assumption.”

“And they probably intended to leave by boat as well.” Sandor sighed, figuring he was not going to like the answer to his next question. “Any way to track that?”

“There’s really no effective immigration screening, boats are in and out of here all the time. If the communications were up and running at Fort Oscar…”

“I got it. But there must be some other record of the major yachts that enter the harbor.”

“Of course, but there are also vessels that anchor offshore. It’s impossible to document every boat that comes and goes.” Then Vauchon gave him a look that would have been an appropriate response to overripe Camembert.

“What?”

“This is a party island,” the Frenchman apologized. “The government tends to look the other way when the rich and beautiful arrive with everything from cocaine to high-priced call girls.”

“You mean models, don’t you?”

Vauchon smiled. “They ignore these improprieties, which they regard as victimless crimes.”

“My favorite kind.”

“Armaments are a different matter entirely, but something we have never dealt with here before.”

“I understand,” Jordan said, “but it’s worth a try. Maybe someone saw something on one of the big yachts. You never know unless you ask.”

“Yes,” Vauchon agreed, “we can try.”

Sandor pulled out his own phone and called one of the techies Byrnes had sent as part of the forensics team. “Sorry to wake you, Leo, it’s Sandor. I’ve got some communications links you need to have a look at.”

Leo paused, obviously trying to shake the sleep away. “Is it morning?”

“It’s morning for you.”

“All right, all right, I’m listening.”

“I’ve got two cells, a satellite link, and something that looks like a transponder. I need to find out who and where they’ve been used to contact, but I can’t have anyone on the other end knowing we’re running the trace. We can’t take any chances; they’re probably rigged somehow.”

“Rigged?”

“Whatever you guys call it when the other party can detect a trace. Just get your ass over here, pronto.” He told him where they were and rung off.

“You think one of these might lead us to Adina?” Vauchon asked.

“It might. It might also tell us who else is involved. How about you wake someone in port security and get us a rundown on the yachts in and out of the island over the past several days.”

After Vauchon made a couple of calls Sandor told him they had one more precautionary stop to make, then he led him to the small building at the foot of the steep driveway where he had seen the housekeeper the night before. Dawn was approaching and they moved quietly, entering the tiny home through an unlocked door, moving past a small sitting room and into the bedroom, where they found the attractive young woman alone in bed. Stefanie was more than a little surprised to be awakened by two men carrying pistols.

Vauchon displayed his official ID, offering profuse apologies in an effort to calm the girl as she sat up clutching the bedsheet to her neck. The way the linen clung to her Sandor got a pretty good idea of what was underneath. He offered a polite smile of approval. He also gave the girl high marks for not screaming.

After a brief exchange they learned that she lived here alone, was employed by the owner of the villa as its caretaker—she made it clear she was no one’s housekeeper—and she had almost nothing whatever to do with the recent guests, all of whom she found to be boorish and unpleasant. The two men left her alone to dress and, when Stefanie emerged just a few minutes later, Sandor marveled yet again at the mystery of how Frenchwomen can appear so sexy in the unlikeliest circumstances or attire. She had barely enough time to comb her hair and brush her teeth, but she had also managed to put on a touch of pink lipstick, did something to her eyes he could not quite figure out, and squeezed herself into a tight-fitting white tank top and a pair of extremely short denim cutoffs. The entire effect was unmistakably
soigné
, the best part being the cutoffs, which revealed that provocative crease that forms between the top of a woman’s upper thigh and the bottom of her ass, which, when the thigh is slim and the ass is firm, was Sandor’s favorite naturally occurring shape in all the world. It took a loud clearing of the throat by Vauchon to restore his companion’s attention to business.

“Nice outfit,” Jordan observed pleasantly. Vauchon began to say something, but Sandor added, “I forget which philosopher said, ‘That which is offered for view should be admired,’ or something like that.”

Stefanie responded with an appreciative smile. “A philosopher said that?”

Sandor shook his head. “I actually just made it up. So, do we have any coffee around here?”

By the time the sun had climbed above the blue expanse of the Caribbean, the compound at Pointe Milou was populated with men from Byrnes’s CIA team, an NSA advisor, two soldiers under Vauchon’s command, and a French port security officer.

Stefanie was more than cooperative, making the coffee, squeezing fresh orange juice, and laying out croissants as well as baguettes with ham and brie. As she confessed to Vauchon, she was more than pleased to have “those people” gone.

Vauchon gave her no explanation of what had become of her guests and Sandor was careful not to allow her near the first bedroom, where the corpse and prisoner yet remained. He also asked Vauchon not to call in the coroner or local authorities, not yet anyway. He didn’t want some officious French bureaucrat taking Jorge into custody and interfering with his singular style of interrogation—at least not before the eleven o’clock call to Adina. Vauchon had summoned two men he trusted, assigning one to stand guard over Jorge and the other to block the entrance to the villa.

“You are going to get me in trouble, Mr. Sandor.”

Sandor clapped him on the shoulder. “No way, Henri. You’re a local hero. For the time being I’m counting on the mileage that’ll get us.”

Sandor turned his attention back to the girl. “Tell me about the people who were here, why you didn’t like them.”

Stefanie told them that the men who arrived first did not allow her inside the main compound to fulfill her customary duties overseeing the cleaning and maintenance of the place. She explained that this villa, Villa du Vent, was one of the priciest on the island, and the owners were particular about its upkeep, not to mention the guests their broker allowed.

Sandor laughed. “I would say your broker needs to upgrade its vetting process.”

Stefanie was not sure what he was saying, but smiled anyway.

“What else?”

The girl began in English, but quickly reverted to French, Vauchon providing the translation as Sandor gazed into her eyes, trying for the moment to decide if they would be called sea green or aqua.

“It seems there was something of a revolving door policy that made her uncomfortable,” the lieutenant explained. “Other men showed up last week but did not stay. These men only arrived two days ago.”

“Just after the attack on Fort Oscar.”

“Yes,” Vauchon said.

Sandor excused himself with a smile at Stefanie, then led Vauchon to the edge of the large deck. “Which means our friend Adina really did send a cleanup squad. But why? Why take the risk?”

Vauchon shook his head. “Perhaps this man Jorge is telling the truth.”

“Yes, they want to know what we’re doing here. Which means the fact we’ve taken Jorge and disposed of his friend is information we definitely don’t want Adina to have.”

Vauchon replied with a perplexed look. “I am not used to this sort of intrigue, my friend.”

“Well I am, and I know about Adina,” Sandor said. “He has no conscience about sacrificing his own men.”

Vauchon nodded solemnly. “Exactly what that man Renaldo was trying to tell me that night at the fort. He and his team had been betrayed.”

“By the remote detonation of the explosives,” Sandor said, finishing the thought. “That’s typical of how Adina operates. So he sent these two on a recon mission. If they get him any valuable information that’s a bonus. If we catch them it tells him something about how far along we’ve gotten in our investigation. Maybe even how close we are to reaching him.” He looked over at the attractive young woman. “If we don’t let him know they’ve been taken, he’ll assume he’s just that much farther ahead of us,
n’est-ce pas
?”

Vauchon winced at the butchered pronunciation. “Yes,” the lieutenant agreed, “but it would be easier on my ears if you stayed with the English.”

“All right,” Sandor agreed with a shrug. “So when Jorge calls in today we’ll let Adina think his boys are still on the loose.”

“What if he refuses? Or tries to warn this Adina when they speak?”

Sandor shrugged, then began walking back to Stefanie. “Then I’ll kill him,” he said. Reaching the girl, he asked, “You busy for dinner tonight? Henri thinks I need to work on my French.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

BAYTOWN, TEXAS

P
ETER
A
MENDOLA STAYED
late at the refinery, waiting until it was dark before locking his office and heading off to the parking lot. Several of the men had gone for a quick beer at a local pub, but, as usual, Amendola was no part of that after-hours camaraderie. They had long ago given up on inviting him along.

He climbed into his Ford Explorer and headed past the gatehouse to the turnoff for West Main. Then he doubled back on Lee Drive and made a left onto Market Street, doing his best to see if anyone was following him. That’s a laugh, he told himself, realizing there was little chance he would be able to spot a professional on his tail. Still, he followed a circular route until he reached North Civic Drive and approached N. C. Foote Park.

There was no indication that anyone at work suspected him, as he had smuggled paperwork out of the plant. Yet in the past twenty-four hours he noticed an increased level of security at the refinery. It could have been his imagination or simple coincidence, but there certainly appeared to be additional guards on duty and a heightened sense of urgency at the various checkpoints.

The information he had previously passed on was fairly harmless, but this new data about defense systems was another matter entirely. It had been difficult for him to gain access to the schematics, and given the encryptions built into the computer systems and the vigilance of the security precautions, he had to believe they would detect the breach sooner or later. He only hoped they would not trace it back to him. Given the activity he observed today he was glad he had already removed the paperwork. The real question was, were they about to catch up with him? It had been over thirty-six hours since he managed to gain access to the information and that was enough time for them to trace his clearance numbers. His fingerprints were all over the use of the access codes, literally and in cyber-tracks. For a moment it occurred to him that it might actually be a relief if, instead of heading off to make the drop, he was greeted by the authorities and hauled away. But he made his way out and was now traveling the last stretch of North Civic without interruption.

His anxiety tonight was intensified not only by the sensitivity of the information he was carrying, but because of the instructions he received for this meeting. All of his previous drop-offs had been in Bicentennial Park. This evening they called for the exchange in Foote Park. This worried him. To use his wife’s expression, it worried him mightily.

They had never insisted on a nighttime drop before. Up to now Amendola would take a morning run and leave his packages in a designated trash can or behind a specified tree, never venturing far from the jogging paths that crisscrossed through Bicentennial. He was more comfortable in broad daylight. At night he would have no chance to see who might be lurking in the dark, whether it was one of them or someone from security at the plant.

When Amendola told his handler that he was less than happy with this new arrangement, his contact made it clear these instructions were not negotiable. Amendola was left with no choice but to agree since, as he reminded himself, “They know where to find me.”

He considered arriving early, while there was still light, searching for some position of advantage, but he knew better. He knew if he were spotted the consequences could be dire. He decided he had best start off by following their orders.

As he pulled the car to a stop at the curb near Civic Circle he repeated that last thought to himself.

Just do as they say.

He stared out the windshield, wondering how in hell he had dug himself in so deep. They had the names and photos of his entire family, proof of him making drops and picking up cash, and, most damning of all, they were holding the actual data he had already supplied them. He felt his chest tighten as he struggled to take a deep breath. Then he turned the engine off and sat there without moving.