Targets of Opportunity (7 page)

“Don’t worry, Jordan. I won’t forget who we’re dealing with.”

Sandor picked up the Walther and its holster from the table and tucked it into his belt. “That’s good, because if everyone really does think he’s already dead, that means no one is looking for him. And that can cut both ways.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

ST. BARTHÉLEMY, F.W.I.

H
ICHAM AND
C
ARDONA
were enjoying a pleasant lunch in an outdoor café along the quay that fronts the southwesterly side of the main harbor of St. Barths. Gustavia is the capital of the small island, named by Swedish settlers who were but one of the various nationalities that have controlled this rocky outcropping in the Caribbean between its discovery by Columbus and its ownership by the French. As a modern haven for the rich and beautiful, St. Barths has asserted a measure of independence from its mother country, but remains decidedly Gallic, from its cuisine to its attitude.

Hicham was describing what he knew of the history of Fort Oscar, which sits on the highest promontory at the mouth of the U-shaped port. It remains a military installation, originally built centuries before as the first line of defense against intrusion by sea.

“Now it houses the local gendarmes and the few remaining French military staff still assigned here,” he explained. “But the true purpose of the site has become the electronic monitoring conducted from three stories below, buried deep inside the mountain.” He pointed, and Cardona reached out and knocked his hand down.

“Be careful,” he grumbled. “And keep your voice down.”

Hicham laughed. “We’re just two tourists admiring the sites. No one is looking at us anyway, brother; they’re checking out the babes.”

Beautiful women, young and old, clothed in diaphanous cotton covers or barely clad at all in their string bikinis, had been parading by them as if in a procession. “This is St. Barths. Let’s take in the view.” This was a far cry from the somber atmosphere of his briefings in Tehran, and Hicham intended to enjoy himself.

Cardona frowned. He was about to admonish his companion, to tell him that he was not serious enough about his responsibilities, to ask him how a Muslim could be so cavalier about women and alcohol and the sybaritic pleasures of this island. But he held his tongue.

At that moment, the cell phone in Cardona’s shirt pocket began to vibrate. He connected the call without speaking.

“Are you in place?” the voice on the other end inquired in Spanish.

“Yes.”

“Good. I am en route to my rendezvous in Tortola. From there we will travel directly to you. Did you have any difficulties?”

“None,” Cardona told him. “Not so much as a glance.”

“Excellent.” The voice uttered a brief laugh. “Are you enjoying the local pleasures?”

Cardona looked across the table at Hicham. “We are preparing for your arrival,” he said.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE CIA “FARM,” OUTSIDE LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

S
ANDOR WAS LESS
than delighted that his incursion into North Korea would require the involvement of a team. His last group mission had ended disastrously in Manama, and as Byrnes well knew, Jordan felt responsible for every one of those casualties. Byrnes also knew that Sandor preferred to work alone whenever possible.

However, this was the DPRK, a country dedicated to the most ruthless and oppressive qualities of tyranny. Successfully engaging in espionage within its borders, not to mention escaping the country with the information sought, was going to require both skill and luck.

It was simply not a one-man operation.

The briefing was arranged at the Farm, the CIA’s main training facility, located more than an hour from Langley. When Sandor arrived he was pleased to learn that the DD had chosen three men he knew well.

Craig Raabe was a former Navy SEAL, an expert in explosives with a subspecialty in arranging diversions that could provoke absolute mayhem when required. He was tall and fit with a shaved head, an easy laugh, and a gaze that could bore through lead. He also had a reputation of indestructibility.

Jim Bergenn was an expert marksman who had worked with Sandor in Afghanistan. Like Sandor and Raabe, he was in his late thirties, a handsome man with dark blue eyes, light brown hair, a charming manner, and a well-deserved reputation as a ladies’ man in his off hours—and sometimes while on duty as well. Attractive female recruits were cautioned about Bergenn shortly after arriving at Langley. Some of the women at headquarters thought the warning should be included in the CIA handbook.

Kurt Zimmermann was in his late forties, a career Company man recently relegated to duties as an instructor on the Farm, legendary for his facility as a linguist. He spoke several languages without detectable accent. He was not as tall or athletic looking as the others, but he was broader and more muscular, with a renowned scowl of disapproval that intimidated some and amused others. His regular features gave him an everyman look that allowed him to pass as Scandinavian, Slavic, or numerous other nationalities in between. As far as his new assignment was concerned, he was certainly not going to convince anyone he was Korean, but he spoke the language fluently and that could prove valuable.

The three of them were waiting in a conference room in the main administration building. When Sandor strode in they greeted him warmly, or at least Raabe and Bergenn did. Then Zimmermann came forward and shook his hand, not letting go.

“Not your style, is it?”

“Sorry?”

Zimmermann treated him to the famous glare. “You don’t much like moving in a pack.”

Jordan grinned. “Depends on the pack, Kurt.”

With that, Zimmermann gave Sandor his hand back and offered up his lousy impression of a smile.

“How much have they told you so far?” Sandor asked.

“Only that we’re going on safari with you,” Jim Bergenn said. “The DD was short on time, said you’d give us the skinny.”

Sandor motioned to the chairs and they all took seats around the conference table. “Here’s what I know,” he began, then shared what he had learned in the past couple of hours.

When he finished, Craig Raabe said, “Ahmad Jaber? Why would we believe a single thing that asshole has to say?”

“Good question,” Sandor admitted, “and I don’t have a good answer, except to tell you that he’s left his country and family and surrendered to us. His house has been blown to bits and the intel network has him as a probable casualty in the explosion. That means, as far as everyone else is concerned, it appears he’s dead. If he’s lying to us, that appearance could become reality very quickly.”

Zimmermann grunted.

“As I’ve explained, we had a report from a guy in the KCIA who since has gone missing, and we’ve had one brief communication from our man in Pyongyang. Both confirm the basis of Jaber’s story, that a deal is in the works between the DPRK and the IRGC.”

“Well,” Raabe said with a grin, “I guess that’s some kind of answer anyway.”

Zimmermann was obviously less satisfied. “Why send us into North Korea then? Why not just bring our man out?”

“I asked Byrnes that very question,” Sandor told them. “Seems our source is highly placed. Too valuable an asset to waste if this whole thing turns out to be bullshit.”

“We’re not as valuable, is that the bottom line?”

Sandor allowed himself a brief chuckle. He had known Zimmermann a long time. “No, that’s not it at all. Look, gentlemen, our Korean mole is an informant, not a field agent, and whatever this plan is, it is being handled on a high level within the Kim regime. Our man’s access to the information is limited.”

“Meaning what?” Bergenn asked.

“Meaning that we’re not going in to simply retrieve a package,” Craig Raabe said.

“That’s right,” Sandor admitted.

“We’re going in there to develop the intel ourselves,” Zimmermann said, finishing the thought.

Sandor nodded. “Our man inside doesn’t have the dope, he just knows where to point us so we can get it.”

“Perfect,” Zimmermann said.

“How the hell do we do that in Pyongyang?” Bergenn asked. “That place is sewed up tighter than a frog’s ass.”

“Charming image,” Raabe said.

“We’re going to visit the famous Arirang Festival,” Sandor told them, making it sound like some sort of afternoon at the county fair. When Zimmermann and Bergenn responded with blank looks, he said, “I never heard of it either, just got the lowdown in my briefing. It’s their version of a Super Bowl halftime show, without the football game. Our boy will be there with some key players from Kim’s inner circle. All we need to do is find them, get some answers, then come on home.”

The three of them stared at Sandor in silence. Then Raabe burst out laughing. “That easy, huh? Just breeze in, slap around a couple of Kim’s henchmen, then catch the next stagecoach out of Dodge.”

“Something like that,” Sandor replied, then described the plan to get them into the country posing as Canadian businessmen. “It gets a little worse,” he told them, then explained that their identities would be non-official covers. The risk in using a NOC is that in the event of capture the government will deny involvement.

“In plain English, we’ll be hung out to dry. Perfect,” Zimmermann said again.

“That’s not even my concern,” Sandor told them. “It’s the exfiltration that could get hairy.”

“You think so?” Raabe said. “Not to mention the part about getting the information. Unlike you philistines I’ve heard of the Arirang Festival and, as I understand it, the stadium holds over a hundred thousand people. And nearly as many performers.”

“Top marks for cultural knowledge.”

“Thanks.”

“And you’re worried about being caught in the middle of that many people.”

“We’re not exactly being asked to grab some guy in a deserted alley, right?”

“Look on the bright side,” Sandor replied. “With so many people around, it shouldn’t be tough to get lost in the crowd.”

“Yeah,” Zimmermann said, “four Americans and two hundred thousand Koreans.”

“Four Canadians,” Sandor corrected him. “Look, anybody who doesn’t want in, speak now or forever hold your peace. There’ll be no hard feelings, because this is going to be a dangerous mission, make no mistake about it. It’s strictly a voluntary deal.”

They were quiet for a moment, then Raabe said, “I’m not about to miss this barbecue.”

Bergenn said, “All for one and one for all, right?”

Sandor said, “I sure hope so,” as he turned to Zimmermann.

Kurt finally responded with a quick nod. “Why not? I’ve got to get the hell off the Farm, that’s for sure. I’m starting to feel like a schoolteacher.”

“Good,” Sandor said. Then he laid out the contingency plans the Agency had devised for their escape.

CHAPTER NINE

ABOARD THE YACHT
MISTY II,
IN THE CARIBBEAN

R
AFAEL
C
ABELLO, THE
man known as Adina, had departed from Pyongyang immediately after concluding his business there, then flew through Beijing to Sydney and on to Mexico City. He traveled by car to a private airfield, where a charter flight took him south to meet the large and luxurious yacht
Misty II
in Tortola. He had remained aboard as other preparations were being made, and now the crew prepared for the journey to St. Barths.

Adina was in his sixties, trimly built with fine features, straight gray hair, and dark, unsmiling eyes. He was expensively tailored and carefully groomed, a man who had come to appreciate personal comfort and elegant living, even as he continued to extol the virtues of socialism for the masses.

He began his professional life as an instructor at Simon Bolivar University, an institution named for the Venezuelan revolutionary who preached pan-Americanism in the nineteenth century. At the college, Professor Cabello taught Marxism and espoused his worship of Lenin and Castro. Ultimately, however, he decided their approach to the worldwide spread of the new order was too passive for his taste. Eschewing his scholarly pursuits in the name of action he took to ground, adopted the code name Adina, and organized a paramilitary political group focused on support for his country’s great new hope, a former pupil by the name of Hugo Chavez.

Chavez admired his former teacher, but Adina’s philosophic lessons paled in importance when compared with the strategic advice he provided the future leader of Venezuela after the failed coup attempt of 1992. A brilliant tactician, Adina was known by insiders to have been invaluable in the subsequent resurrection of the Chavez machine and the ascendancy of his protégé to the presidency. After that success, Adina helped Chavez consolidate his power. Adina was instrumental in the growth of Venezuela’s position on the world stage, using his country’s natural reserves of crude oil and enormous refining capabilities as leverage for international influence. He engineered plans that won the allegiance of neighboring South American leaders in oil-for-support programs. He advocated an aggressive posture toward the United States, which Chavez zealously adopted, repeatedly vowing to wipe America off the map. Adina was even behind the renaming of many Venezuelan-owned gas stations in the United States, after Citgo became the target of conservative activists who were less than pleased to support a leftist regime. He essentially conceived the overall restructuring of Venezuela’s modern petro-economy and—a personal favorite of Adina’s—he scored a public relations coup when he persuaded the naïve scion of a famous American political family to become a shill for the Venezuelan government in exchange for a few paltry barrels of heating oil donated to the poor within the United States.

As the years passed, however, Rafael Cabello was present less and less among Chavez’s inner circle, until he had become what he was today—a legend who was rarely seen but for those closest to the Venezuelan dictator. He had long ago cast off any idealization of the socialist state. Remaining an avowed enemy of democracy, he became a staunch supporter of rule by force. In the end, he had evolved into the most dangerous of adversaries, a socialist zealot who was neither ideologue nor true believer, but a brilliant and ruthless pragmatist.