Targets of Opportunity (5 page)

These clandestine battles were still being waged along with the fierce struggles on the ground in Afghanistan and Iraq, but somehow they did not touch the rhythm of life at home, not in the way past battles had gripped the nation.

Americans did not actually feel they were at war, not really. There were no rallies to sell savings bonds as there were during the Second World War, or marches in protest such as the ones we saw against the debacle in Vietnam. As the horrors of 9/11 faded in the rearview mirror of the national consciousness, America simply parked its worries in an opinion poll and went back to the mall.

Unfortunately, as Sandor knew with painful intimacy, these dangers remained real and present, and he was one of those sworn to repel the ongoing assaults on our security and our freedom. A secret war against the United States was being waged every day, and Sandor knew that someone had to stand and fight.

Sandor also knew that Jaber had worked with Vincent Traiman, who was directly responsible for the murder of Sandor’s local operatives during a mission in Bahrain. When his team was exposed in Manama, Sandor was the only one to make it out alive, and he looked forward to the opportunity to confront the IRGC terrorist who may have been behind that massacre.

So, even if Jaber’s defection made no sense, Sandor was willing to hear what he had to say.

Then, if it was up to him, he would be pleased to rip the man’s throat out with his bare hands.

CHAPTER FOUR

ST. BARTHÉLEMY, FRENCH WEST INDIES

T
HE FLIGHT FROM
St. Maarten to St. Barths lasts just ten minutes, but the final moments seem like an eternity. The airport is small and the only runway is so short it cannot accommodate a plane larger than a sixteen-seat twin prop. The final sixty seconds of the approach require the pilot to navigate through an ever-present wind shear as the small aircraft passes from the calm air above the open Caribbean across the rocky hills that form the port of Gustavia below. At the entrance to the airstrip the plane must squeeze the tips of its wingspan through a narrow V formed by mountains on either side, forcing the captain to execute a drop of a hundred feet until the wheels bounce onto the runway, then struggle to bring the aircraft to a stop before it slides onto the beach of St. Jean and into the sea.

This morning, two men sat in the last of the three passenger rows, watching as they passed through that mountain cut, the wheels of the small plane nearly touching the tops of the cars traveling on the road below before the precipitous drop to the sun-bleached tarmac and then the rush toward the runway’s end. When they were finally brought to a halt at the edge of the tarmac, the plane made an about-face, then taxied safely back to the small terminal. Almost immediately the rear hatch was pulled down, and a welcoming breath of tropical air greeted them as they disembarked down the short stairway.

Hicham was a French-speaking Moroccan, a tall man in his thirties, with an olive complexion and handsome features, his head shaved clean, his amber eyes sleepy, his manner deferential. He led the way to the immigration booth, where he presented his passport, then exchanged pleasantries in the local language with the officer behind the glass-fronted counter.

The man beside him, known as Cardona, said nothing as he handed over his Venezuelan passport, waiting for it to be stamped and returned. Unlike his more elegant companion, Cardona was short, dark, and brutish looking, his deep-set eyes distrustful, his gaze constantly in motion as if endlessly surveying the landscape from side to side.

They picked up their luggage from the small carousel, one large suitcase each, and Hicham led them to a small row of courtesy booths where a local car rental service had a chalkboard with his name on it. He had reserved a small Japanese SUV for three weeks and, after presenting a credit card, he signed some papers and was handed the keys. They found the car in the parking lot and were on their way.

Hicham was at the wheel, guiding them along the island’s main road toward the area known as Pointe Milou. “Nothing to it,” he said in English as he took a hairpin turn that spun them up a steep rise.

Cardona grunted in response.

They followed the hilly path through St. Jean, around Lorient, and ultimately toward a small circle at the road’s end that sat above a large cliff overlooking the sea. There they found the entrance to a steep driveway, which led to a compound of small, attached buildings that sat on a promontory jutting out over the water.

Hicham stopped the car and had a look at the spectacular views. “Nice, eh?”

Cardona said nothing.

Many of the beautiful villas in St. Barths were available for lease when not in use by their owners. The place they had chosen, known as Villa du Vent, was one of the finest on the island, its remote location well suited to their needs.

Hicham put the car in gear and wound his way down a steep, curved driveway that ended in a narrow turn. As they pulled to a stop, the housekeeper emerged from her
maisonette
to greet them. She was an attractive young Frenchwoman dressed in a short cotton skirt and an undersized halter top that displayed all of her significant assets to the best possible advantage.

Hicham introduced himself in French. She said her name was Stefanie. He politely declined her offer to help with the bags.

“We are here for rest and quiet,” he told her with a diffident smile. “I know of the services provided with the villa, but we will require very little from you.”

Stefanie appeared slightly displeased at the news, responding with that signature pout Frenchwomen use when expressing anything from unhappiness to flirtation.

“All we require,” he went on, “is that you come every morning at ten, make the beds, clean the kitchen, and take care of the towels and so forth. Otherwise, we would prefer to be left to ourselves.”

“You do not want your beds turned down in the evening?” she asked in her heavily accented English. “No assistance with cooking?”

“No,” he replied pleasantly. “We are quite self-sufficient.”

Stefanie responded with a curious look, obviously reaching a conclusion about the intimate preferences of these two guests. She told him that she understood.

Hicham read her thoughts, but ignored them. “Other than your morning chores, we prefer not to be disturbed,” he told her again.

Stefanie nodded. “Would you like me to show you around before you settle in?”

“Of course,” he agreed.

She led them down the cobbled path to the main entrance and into the entry foyer, where they dropped their bags. She took them outside again, to a concrete deck that surrounded the entire property. There were wraparound paths, stairs, and short walls all running to the edge of the property, which stood more than eighty feet above the sea and provided a panoramic vista three-quarters of the way around. The sea cliffs allowed for no entrance to the villa from any of these sheer sides. A large swimming pool on the far side of the deck was lined with a dark-blue tile that reflected the color of the sky, creating the illusion that the water disappeared into the horizon.

After Stefanie concluded her brief tour of these spectacular views she walked them through the open-air dining room, then the kitchen and living room.

“I can show you to your rooms now,” she said.

There were four bedrooms, each a separate structure with its own bath. Cardona grabbed his suitcase from the entry foyer and tossed it on a bench in the master suite. Hicham was left a comfortable room that faced the pool.

“Please let me know if I can help with anything else.”

Hicham said, “
Merci bien
,” then handed her five one-hundred-euro notes, which finally earned them a slight smile.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” she said again, a bit more sincerely this time, then the two men were left to admire her rhythmic walk as she exited through the main entryway, closing the door behind her.

Cardona nodded his approval.

“Forget it,” Hicham told him. “There’s more of that on the island, just not here, eh?”

Cardona frowned. “Come,” he said.

They returned to the master suite, where Cardona opened his valise, lifted out his clothing and toiletries, placed them on the bed, then went to work on the false linings within the four sides of the rectangular bag. He extracted four packages of C-4 explosive, all of which had been coated and then molded into the corner frame of the suitcase. They had passed through security without arousing the slightest suspicion.

“I told you there was nothing to worry about,” Hicham said.

Cardona dismissed him with a wave of his beefy hand. “Why was this necessary? They’re coming by sea anyway.”

“I told you, they had a point to prove.”

“Bullshit,” the burly man growled.

Hicham shrugged. “Perhaps you’re right. Meantime, we have a couple of days to organize ourselves,” he said. Then with a smile he added, “And to relax.”

“Too much planning, not enough action,” Cardona grumbled.

“You may be right again,” Hicham agreed. Then he turned for the door. “As for action, I’m going for a swim.”

CHAPTER FIVE

AN ESTATE OUTSIDE LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

O
N HIS ARRIVAL
at the Gables, having been cleared through the outside security checkpoints, Jordan Sandor was admitted to the large stone house. Mullioned windows framed bulletproof glass, metal detectors and X-ray machines were discreetly set behind the wainscoted panels of oiled walnut, and multiple layers of crown molding disguised the ubiquitous surveillance cameras. All in all, the subtlety of these precautions left the Gables with the appearance of a proper men’s club in London.

Sandor was ushered downstairs and shown into a soundproof room in the basement. The Deputy Director was waiting.

Byrnes was a handsome man of about sixty with narrow, well-defined features, short, graying hair, and shrewd blue eyes that his subordinates, other than Sandor, often found unsettling. He was attired in his customary gray suit and white shirt. When Sandor entered the room Byrnes looked up from the armchair in which he was seated, but he did not stand.

“Sir.”

Byrnes nodded to a large screen on the wall to their right. “There’s our boy.”

Sandor had never met Ahmad Jaber, but as he viewed him on the closed-circuit monitor, he recognized him from surveillance photos. Although he looked older than Sandor had expected, the agent knew him at once. “What have we got so far?”

Byrnes motioned for Sandor to have a seat opposite him, then quickly brought his top counterterrorism agent up to speed. Jaber’s physical was clean. He still had family in Iran, including his wife, which put them at risk, unless of course the entire defection was part of a larger subterfuge. Thus far he had been candid about his past, admitting his complicity in the Israeli embassy bombing in Buenos Aires, the attack on the Marine barracks in Lebanon, the training of insurgents in Iraq, and several other terrorist missions.

“I assume he agreed to a chemically enhanced interview.”

Byrnes nodded. “What I’ve told you are the highlights of everything we’ve gotten from him.”

Sandor shrugged. “Those drugged-up interrogations are only as good as the questions asked.”

The DD raised an eyebrow.

“No offense meant,” Sandor said, “but we know all about Jaber and the IRGC. All he’s bringing us is last month’s newspaper. What does he expect for that, a house in Malibu and a book deal for his memoirs?”

Byrnes responded with a thin-lipped frown that Sandor had often seen from his superior officers. He figured it was something they taught in the first year at the State Department. “Actually,” the DD explained, “he does have some requests, and that’s one of the reasons I brought you down here. He asked to speak with you.”

The statement took Sandor by surprise but all he did was nod. “Did he mention the topic?”

“No. He just said he wanted you here.”

“Uh huh. Well, I’m here,” Sandor said as he stood up. “Let’s go see what he has to say.”

Byrnes also stood, placing a hand on Sandor’s shoulder. “Remember, this whole thing is being recorded. No antics, no violence, no gun in his ear.”

Sandor offered up his best impression of an innocent look. It was not convincing. “I get to say whatever I want though, right?”

Byrnes responded with a resigned shake of his head. “Where’s your weapon?”

“They checked it at the door.”

“Sandor. Your weapon. Now.”

Sandor reluctantly reached his hand under his blazer and removed the Walther and holster from the small of his back.

“Just put it on the table,” the DD ordered. “You can have it back when we’re done.”

————

The room in which Jaber waited was furnished as a small, comfortable den. The walls were painted a dark green with walnut wainscoting. There were several easy chairs set in a circle and an oval cocktail table in the middle that held a tray with coffee and tea carafes, cups and saucers, cream, sugar, and pastries. This was obviously the soft sell, Sandor noted as he followed Byrnes inside. He would have chosen something a little less comfortable.

Jaber stood when they entered. He ignored Byrnes, with whom he had already spent considerable time, and said in thickly accented English, “Mr. Sandor, I am glad to see you are here.”

Sandor stared at him for a moment, then said, “If I wasn’t already standing I wouldn’t have gotten up for you.” Then he sat in the chair directly opposite the Iranian.

Jaber nodded, then retook his seat. “All the same, thank you for joining us.”

Sandor stuck out his lower lip as he looked his man up and down. Then he said, “Let’s be clear where we stand, you and I. I don’t believe your defection is real and, even if it is, I wouldn’t care if you could tell me where to find the Holy Grail; if it were up to me I’d take you out right here and now—”

“Sandor!” Byrnes barked.

Jaber waved off the DD with a sweep of his hand. “As you Americans say,” he observed in a polite tone as he continued to look squarely at Sandor, “at least we know where we stand.”