Targets of Opportunity (52 page)

Baton Rouge General features a burn center that is one of the finest such facilities in the South. Its state-of-the-art capabilities would be tested as the twelve-bed unit suddenly found itself crowded beyond capacity.

The others were left at the refinery to sort out what had just occurred—and what had almost occurred. Back on land Sandor assisted Captain Franz as she organized a cleanup operation. They were in possession of two containers holding weapons-grade plutonium, the remnants of the two fiberglass pods, and the two wounded prisoners. Military personnel appeared in force now to take control and, once matters were put in a semblance of order, Franz stepped away for a moment and found Sandor standing off to the side, soaking wet and staring out at the rainstorm.

Her eyes were still rimmed with red, bearing that vacant look that Sandor had seen too many times. “If you hadn’t found that truck in time…” She hesitated. “What would have happened is unimaginable.”

“Unfortunately, in my line of work the unimaginable is very much the reality, captain.”

She nodded slowly. “You saved so many lives here today.” She wanted to express her gratitude, to say something else, but her voice trailed off.

“I know,” Jordan said in a soothing voice. “But we couldn’t save everyone.”

Her eyes welled up again.

“You did a great job today. And so did Major Formanek.”

She drew an uneven breath. “Yes, I guess we all did.”

————

Sandor was shown to an office in the refinery administration building. He called CENTCOM and was promptly tied into Captain Krause as well as the team in the SitRoom at the White House. He made his report, and the group in Washington was obviously elated at the news.

“We lost some good men and women today,” Krause broke in.

“Of course,” the man from NSA replied, “but those men and women helped avert a major catastrophe.”

“Pieces on a chessboard,” Krause muttered. Sandor heard him and responded with a grim smile. The others did not make out what he said, or pretended not to.

“Gentlemen, I still have two prisoners down here,” Sandor reminded them, “and I think they may have a thing or two to tell us.”

“Sandor, Walsh here,” the Director of Central Intelligence said. “You need to get those men up here straightaway.”

Sandor stared out the window again and shook his head. The gale was blowing the rain sideways and he suddenly realized he was drenched from head to toe. “Well, sir, I could start driving north and probably make it back in a couple of days. Maybe I can stop over in Busch Gardens and show them the sights.”

Sandor could picture the grimace on the DCI’s face as he replied. “We understand you’re in the midst of a hurricane.”

“That would be affirmative, sir. I think it would make sense if we secure the hostiles on premises until this blows by, then perhaps Captain Krause could arrange transportation for us out of Corpus Christi.”

“I’ll send a chopper for you as soon as we can get one safely in the air,” Krause told him.

“All right,” Walsh agreed. “You keep them under lock and key for now. You have military on premises.”

“That’s correct.”

“Well use them.” He paused. “With Captain Krause’s cooperation, of course.”

“At your disposal,” the Navy man told the bureaucrat, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“And Sandor,” Walsh added, “don’t engage in any of your unique interrogation methods in the meantime.”

Sandor almost laughed, knowing the DCI was in a room full of Washington toadies. “Oh come on, sir, just a little torture?”

Before Walsh could ream him out, Sandor heard chairs and people moving, followed by the familiar voice of President Forest as it came booming over the line.

“Just got back down here, my NSA briefed me. Good job, Sandor.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“When you get back here I’ll want to hear all the details. And I’ll want them directly from you, you got that?”

“Of course, sir.”

“And Sandor.”

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“I heard that last comment you made.”

“I apologize, sir.”

“No apology required, son. You’re in charge down there, and you have my full confidence, all right?”

“Roger that, sir.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

PANMUNJOM, DEMILITARIZED ZONE BETWEEN NORTH KOREA AND SOUTH KOREA

K
IM’S GOVERNMENT WOULD
not agree to an exchange of prisoners inside the United States. They resented any implication of wrongdoing on their part or that of their minister, Hwang Hyun-Su. They claimed his kidnapping was an unprovoked violation of international law and they would not sanitize the barbaric actions of the United States by having him released to them in Washington, D.C. There should not even be an exchange, they insisted, since he was entitled to diplomatic immunity and should be returned to his country as a matter of course. They also categorically denied any involvement in an attempt to sabotage the refineries in Baytown and Baton Rouge, which attacks were not officially reported or confirmed by Washington.

James Bergenn and Craig Raabe were quite another matter, according to the emissary from Pyongyang. They were Americans who had posed as Canadian citizens, entered North Korea under false pretenses, wreaked havoc on the peaceful people of the Great Leader’s nation, and committed any number of capital crimes. They were spies and subject to the death penalty.

The White House saw things a bit differently.

There was no hard evidence of North Korean involvement in the failed attacks on the American refineries in Texas. However, as President Forest put it so succinctly in response to the North Korean denials, “I may not be able to tell the difference between
foie gras
and chicken liver, but I sure as hell know chickenshit when I smell it.” He made this observation in a debriefing just thirty-six hours after a nuclear cataclysm was averted through the efforts of Jordan Sandor and Captain Krause’s team. That meeting included the President’s National Security Advisor, DCI Walsh, and DD Byrnes. Sandor was also in attendance. He had just been flown back to Washington together with the two Venezuelan terrorists and Hea, who had spent the past two days under the safekeeping of Ronny Young.

Unfortunately, as the President conceded to the assembled group, without proof of Kim’s collusion in the assaults, the best he could do was trade for the safety of their men. Hwang was of no use to them now and, as Sandor observed, they were not doing him much of a favor by sending him back home, where he would be made to explain how the Americans had managed to frustrate their scheme to blow up two oil refineries.

Up to now the media had been kept away from the story, the explosion on the Mississippi being described as a Coast Guard accident amid the violent storm. There was no telling how long they could keep the terrorist assault under wraps, but for now the matter was referred to the State Department.

Later that afternoon Byrnes and Walsh met with a representative of the State Department to discuss the extraction of Raabe and Bergenn. When the Brooks Brothers–clad, thin-nosed, briefcase carrying bureaucrat arrived, Sandor requested that he be allowed to attend the meeting. Walsh agreed, his generosity due in no small part to the gratitude the White House continued to express for the remarkable services Sandor had provided his country.

Sandor remained uncharacteristically civil throughout the meeting as the functionary from State gave a presentation of the “back-channel” list of Kim’s complaints about the actions of Sandor and his colleagues.

“You have got to be kidding,” Sandor finally said.

The man from State suggested that a more measured response was required.

“Does ‘Kiss my ass’ get it done?”

Deputy Director Byrnes quickly interceded, sharing some of the information they were permitted to divulge—that they had reason to believe agents of the Kim and Chavez regimes had engineered an attack on the United States that had only recently been frustrated by the efforts of Jordan Sandor and others, including the men being held by the DPRK.

This was obviously news to the diplomat.

When Byrnes was done, he added, “There will be no apology or any Asian face-saving nonsense here. You can tell them it will be an even swap, Hwang for Bergenn and Raabe.”

And then, to Sandor’s amazement, Director Walsh added, “And you can tell them from me, if they don’t like the deal, we’ll keep Hwang and I’ll send Sandor over there to pick up his friends personally.”

————

The transfer occurred two days later, with the State Department voicing its strenuous objection to Sandor attending the exchange. Sandor made it clear to anyone within earshot that he didn’t give a damn what the State Department had to say, he was going to be there.

And since President Forest liked the idea, no one was in a position to refuse.

So it was that, along with a relatively unhappy representative from State, Jordan Sandor and Deputy Director Mark Byrnes accompanied Hwang on his trip to Panmunjom.

————

The so-called Demilitarized Zone between North and South Korea is anything but. The joint security area looks like a temporary barracks designed by a group of Bauhaus architects on a bad day. Both sides of the border are seen by the North and South as an opportunity to prove their military preparedness for each other, and anyone else in the world who happens by. Soldiers march back and forth, weaponry is constantly on display in the distance, and at times it is rumored that the collective troops from both nations populating the few miles on either side of the supposed DMZ exceeds a million in all.

Sandor was not impressed.

The American delegation sat in the neutral building where meetings and exchanges between the two countries usually take place. It is a long, single-story structure, as cozy as a tomb, and they were left there to cool their heels for more than three hours before someone from the North arrived.

When the DPRK diplomat finally pranced in, Sandor judged him a smug little embassy type, just the sort to get along with their own boy from Foggy Bottom. The North Korean immediately began speaking and the interpreter went to work, creating a version of discordant stereophonic sound that went bouncing off the blank walls until Sandor held up his hand.

“Let’s knock off the pretense. You undoubtedly speak English as well as Laurence Olivier, so why don’t we cut the interpreter crap. Where are Bergenn and Raabe?”

When the two diplomats started stammering about protocol and propriety, Sandor broke in again.

“We’re not here to make friends or influence people. We’ve got Mr. Hwang sitting in a car out there, under guard, and he’s waited a long time to get home to all of his other little Kim groupies. I’ve got two friends I want to see right now so I can be sure their brains haven’t been fried or their balls cut off. Now either we move this along or I’m going to stop sugarcoating this and tell you what I really think.”

The little Korean turned on his heels and stormed out of the room. Then, just as Mr. State Department was going to read Sandor yet another chapter from the Diplomat’s Riot Act Handbook, several men began filing into the room from the North Korean side. The first two were bulky and nasty looking and, although weapons were clearly forbidden here, Sandor figured they were trained to rip him apart with their bare hands in any one of several different martial arts. After what he had been through in the past week, Sandor was actually inclined to have them take their best shot.

Then Bergenn and Raabe were ushered in.

Jim Bergenn looked all right, a little worse for wear, of course, given the torture and beatings he had certainly endured, but he managed a wry grin at the sight of Sandor sitting between Byrnes and the guy from State.

Craig Raabe was another matter. He barely made it into the room under his own steam and, at first look, it didn’t appear he would survive the plane ride home.

Sandor began to rise from his seat, but the little Korean diplomat stepped into the room. “I suggest you sit down, Mr. Sandor. Yes, we know exactly who you are and, if it were up to me, neither you nor your two friends would ever leave this room alive.” He paused, as if to allow that idea to sink in. “But the Great Leader has a fondness for Mr. Hwang, and he also has many questions he would like to ask him. So you and your friends will survive this day, but only if you henceforth conduct yourself in an appropriate manner.”

Sandor looked to Bergenn, who gave him a safe sign, letting him know that both he and Raabe were all right. Sandor turned back to the Korean. “Henceforth? Appropriate? I guess I sold you short when I compared you to Olivier.”

“I am one of those many people who do not find your American sarcasm funny, Mr. Sandor. Likewise, I am not amused by the games you have played in the media. Oh yes, do not appear surprised, we are fully aware of how you have engineered the release of information regarding Mr. Hwang and these men.”

“You guys read the papers?”

“Again, if it was my choice, you would have been forced to produce the traitorous young woman who paved the path of your escape, or you would never see these two again.”

The man from the State Department finally began a protest, actually rising from his chair. “Threatening American citizens…,” he began, but the Korean cut him off with a look.

The man from State resumed his seat. After all, this was really not his problem.

“You know,” Sandor said, “I’m really sorry you and I have gotten off to such a lousy start. Maybe someday we’ll have a chance to chat again. Privately. Like in a dark alley somewhere in Harlem.”

The diplomat ignored him and turned back to the man from State. “Have your people bring in Mr. Hwang.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

NEW YORK CITY

“Y
OU’RE A REAL
pain in my ass,” Bill Sternlich said, “you know that? You have any idea of the trouble you caused me?”

Sandor picked up his Jack Daniel’s and took a sip. He did not answer and he did not smile.