Targets of Opportunity (38 page)

“She knew the risks. We all know the risks in this lousy business.”

“But that doesn’t include our selling them out, does it?”

Byrnes looked down at the floor.

“What is it? There’s more?”

Byrnes nodded slowly, then let the other shoe drop with a loud thud. “This is a two-for-two deal, Sandor. They’re demanding Hea back as part of the trade.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

N
IGHT HAD FALLEN
and, after several hours of fruitless surveillance, the two Iranians assigned to tail Rasa Jaber suspected they had been duped. They followed the signals sent from the transmitters that had been planted in Rasa Jaber’s luggage. They moved twice, but had yet to catch a glimpse of the woman. They were now positioned outside a Holiday Inn, but there was no sign of government protection on the street or in the lobby.

“If they brought her here,” one of them finally decided, “we would have seen her.”

Just then the driver’s cell phone rang.

Vahidi was the senior IRGC operative in Washington, a friend to Al Qaeda, but officially part of the Saudi Arabian diplomatic corps and thus protected by immunity—at least until there was proof he had engaged in some terrorist act.

He demanded an update and, when the driver admitted they had lost Jaber’s wife, Vahidi told the man to put the call on speakerphone. Then he said, “You are both imbeciles. Why would they take her to the FBI Headquarters and keep her there all day? They have the same use for her that we do, to pressure her husband. What could she tell the FBI that could not be said in five minutes? The woman knows nothing and neither do the two of you. You are fools,” Vahidi screamed. “Not a working brain between you.”

When the tirade ended, the driver asked, “Where do you want us to go?”

“Go? Where do I want you to go?” He became quiet for a minute. “All right, all right. We received word the lead American agent they sent to St. Barths has returned to Washington. Perhaps it has something to do with Jaber. Find this agent and you should find the Jabers.”

The two men in the car shared a look of utter incredulity. “How do you expect us to find this man?” the driver asked.

“It may be easier than you think,” Vahidi told them. “The CIA maintains a safe house not far from Langley.”

“And as well guarded as their Fort Knox.”

“Of course,” Vahidi said impatiently. “But if the Jabers are being held there, the agent may come and go to meet with them, am I right?”

His men did not reply.

“If we cannot get inside their fortress, perhaps we can reach their man outside, you understand?”

“Ah, yes.”

“Good. Come to the southwestern corner of Massachusetts and Constitution in exactly ten minutes. I’ll have someone meet you with a dossier and instructions.”

————

President Forest’s National Security Advisor said, “More bad news, sir,” as he approached the desk in the Oval Office. Peter Forelli held an updated weather report. “That tropical storm is heading directly for St. Maarten, going to make a mess of the NTSB investigation.”

President Forest responded with an irritated look. “As if a downed airplane and two hundred casualties isn’t a mess already.”

“They’re going to call in all the boats conducting the search, probably no way to continue for the next couple of days.” The NSA hesitated. “Worse than that, the remaining debris is going to be scattered all over the Caribbean.”

“Not to mention the remaining bodies, is that what you’re trying not to say?” The President leaned back and gazed up at the ceiling. “Sit down,” he said. After a moment he looked across the desk again. “You didn’t come in to give me another weather report, Peter. What’s on your mind?”

“Well, sir, CIA set up their own team to investigate the attack on Fort Oscar. Sandor was there, now he’s back in Washington, made his report, left men down there to continue working with the French.” The NSA paused again. “Mr. President, you’ve said you’re on a need-to-know basis only for all of this.”

Forest peered at him from beneath his famously furrowed brow. “When I say need to know, Sam, I mean don’t feed me a bunch of rumor with whipped bullshit on top, okay? You got something real, I want to hear it.”

“Well, sir, Walsh thinks they may have a lead on some sort of alliance between Chavez and Kim.”

The President began vigorously rubbing his eyes with the palms of both hands. “Well now, isn’t that just dandy. And what about Ahmadinejad, wasn’t he invited to the party?”

“Perhaps not. They have reason to believe the Iranians are being set up here.”

President Forest shook his head. “If things weren’t so awful I might have to laugh at that one. Ahmadinejad is being set up?”

“We’re not sure, sir, but it’s possible.”

“Is this based on information from the Jaber defection?”

“Yes, sir, that as well as what Sandor developed in St. Barths.”

“Do we know whether they’re planning anything else?”

“Yes, Mr. President. That’s what I came to tell you.”

“Well spit it out.”

The National Security Advisor removed his glasses. “Mr. President, Sandor thinks they’re planning an attack on the oil refinery in Baytown, Texas.”

————

Rasa Jaber was staring out the window of her hotel room as dusk began to blur the Washington skyline. She realized, as if for the first time, that she had never been to the United States before. Odd, she thought, how that had not even occurred to her during this journey west. Her entire focus had been on reaching Ahmad.

There were so many things she wanted to say, so many things that she needed to tell him. But there was only one important question she had to ask.

How could you have done this to me?

In all of their years together she had been a faithful, even unquestioning, wife. She had never once revealed to him how difficult it was for her to reconcile the intimacy and tenderness of the man she knew and loved so completely with the evil deeds he had perpetrated on others. Oh yes, even as she tried to look away, and despite his efforts to shield her from the truth, she was forced to confront who he was and what he did. She came to know that he was the engineer of unspeakable horrors, all in the name of his country and his God.

Would Allah really approve such atrocities?

She knew that hate was a part of their culture. The despised Jews in Israel, the meddling infidels in America, the reviled barbarians in Iraq. But did such hate justify the murder of women and children and innocent men who were no part of these conflicts?

Even in an era where the education of women was discouraged, she had read of Hitler and the Holocaust, the genocide of Stalin, the contemporary horrors of ethnic cleansing throughout the world. Was this really Ahmad’s goal, to rid the planet of every enemy, young and old, as if such a thing were possible? As if Allah would condone such carnage?

How could Ahmad pursue such an unthinkable destiny? How could anyone? Rasa did not imagine herself a political thinker, but she believed herself to be a person of intelligence and compassion. She knew, deep in her aching heart, that this was no answer to the problems men and women of the world faced. Death to all enemies was no solution. She knew from history, if history teaches us anything at all, that the destruction of your enemy only gives rise to another enemy. What better proof than Ahmad’s defection to the United States?

But when he fled from Iran he left her behind, not explaining that they might never meet again in this lifetime, not providing for her safety. They had buried their sons, and now he was not giving the slightest consideration to what might happen to her. Or her sister. Or her sister’s family.

What sort of man was this? Could this be the man to whom she had given her love and devotion for these many years?

Now, left to struggle with these harsh and painful questions, a bigger conflict loomed for her. Even in the face of his treachery, his abandonment, his faithlessness, was she capable of becoming his betrayer, and perhaps the instrument of his death?

The sky over Washington had darkened, but she took no notice. She stood there, unmoving, staring ahead without seeing, not knowing what she felt anymore, not knowing what she would do when the time came.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

WASHINGTON, D.C.

T
HE TWO MEN
who were assigned to follow Rasa Jaber arrived at the corner of Massachusetts and Constitution Avenues at the appointed time. A man stepped quickly from the shadows of a nearby doorway and climbed into the backseat of their car.

They were surprised to see it was Ali Vahidi himself.

“Drive,” he told them. As the car pulled out, Vahidi said, “Turn right, park in the first open space, then kill your lights.” When they came to a stop, the head of the IRGC’s Washington cell passed a folder to the two men in the front seat. It contained a map describing the general location of the safe house where Ahmad Jaber was being held.

The Agency’s well-fortified retreat was an open secret in a netherworld where true secrets do not survive for long. Shortly after the first defector was taken there for interrogation several years ago the existence of this sanctuary was discovered. The inviolability of the facility was owed in part to an unspoken truce among foreign intelligence agencies—that such installations were both necessary and off-limits—but in an era of renegade adversaries its sanctity was even more reliant on security details, advanced weaponry, and sophisticated electronic systems. If its location could not be concealed, the Agency would leave no reasonable means for a hostile combatant to breach its defenses.

Ali Vahidi was well aware of these obstacles, but he was convinced that this was where Jaber was being sequestered. He needed to find a way to get to him, to determine how Jaber’s defection was related to the recent terrorist actions in the Caribbean and how all of that might impact Iran.

No one under the IRGC’s high command had participated in the preparation or execution of these attacks. Tehran made it plain to Vahidi that neither the aircraft explosion nor the destruction of Fort Oscar was an Iranian operation, but the timing of Jaber’s flight gave them pause. Why had this loyal soldier suddenly left the country and surrendered to the Americans? Who had destroyed his home? And what happened to Jaber’s subordinate, Seyed Asghari, who had seemingly vanished from sight shortly before these assaults?

The interrogation of Rasa Jaber in Marand convinced the IRGC that she was as much in the dark as they were, which meant her use as bait may or may not pay dividends. As matters stood they might never find that out, since Vahidi’s men had lost her trail. Now, with no means of reaching Jaber directly, Vahidi decided his only play was to intercept the agent who was spearheading the investigation into these incidents.

“This dossier is on Jordan Sandor,” Vahidi said as the two operatives looked through the papers. “Our other team was tracking the agents who met Rasa Jaber at the airport. They have been waiting near CIA Headquarters.” Here he paused for effect. “In the hope of finding her again.”

The two men shared a quick look of concern but said nothing.

“They have not seen the woman, but they spotted Sandor leaving Langley just before I called you. He is traveling in the back of a black Lincoln Town Car with his deputy director. His driver made several diversionary turns. I believe it is likely they are heading here.” Vahidi leaned forward and pointed to the map. “They lost him, but from our location you have a head start; you have time to get there first.” He paused. “I want this man alive.”

Sandor was well-known to the IRGC, and so the driver asked, “What if that is not possible?”

“You have already lost Jaber’s wife today, I expect you to be able to take one man into custody.”

“We understand.”

“The map tells you where you are going. You should stay as far from the perimeter of this estate as possible. Intercept him before he gets there.”

Without another word, Ali Vahidi got out of the car and walked away. The driver turned back onto Massachusetts Avenue and sped off toward McLean, Virginia.

————

Sandor and Byrnes were riding through the evening gloom, seated in the back of a Town Car being chauffeured by a junior agent, making the thirty-minute drive to the safe house.

“This really is a miserable business,” Sandor said.

“Yes,” the DD agreed, “it is.”

“Hea is the reason I made it out of North Korea.”

“I understand.”

“It’s only because of her I’m still alive,” Sandor said, as if by repeating that simple truth it might help him solve the dilemma.

Byrnes remained silent, knowing there was nothing he could say to make any of this easier. There was no way to justify the exchange being contemplated. Once the girl was sent back she would be tortured and murdered. If the Agency refused to make the trade, Craig Raabe and Jim Bergenn would be left to suffer that same gruesome fate.

“We know they want Hwang. Maybe if we stonewall it they’ll deal without involving her.”

Byrnes shook his head. “We’ve obviously been making that offer. They want the girl.”

“Tell them she was taken against her will.”

“We tried that too, they’re not buying it. They saw her on the train when you entered Khasan and she didn’t look like any sort of hostage.” He paused. “They also took long-range photos of her holding a weapon.”

“Damn. Which means they have her picture to work with, and that already puts her family at risk.”

According to KCIA sources from inside North Korea, the DPRK had yet to confirm Hea’s identity. But that was only a matter of time, especially if they really had her photo. In Kim’s totalitarian state the entire population was accounted for, and it would not be long before they matched her disappearance with the events at the Rungrado May Day Stadium. Her family would then be taken into custody and held in anticipation of her return. Once Hwang was released, the end for Hea’s family would be inevitable.