Targets of Opportunity (10 page)

Sandor powered up his international cell. There were various voice mails and e-mails, but only one he was looking for. Just an hour before, Bill Sternlich had sent him a text that said, “No.”

Sandor took a quick stop in the men’s room and subjected this cell to the same fate as his other phone in Toronto, then moved on.

————

At Air Koryo each of them was questioned, their visas and passports scrutinized, their bags subjected to a double round of scanning. The four men engaged in ongoing banter, four chums on holiday without a care in the world, none of them so much as glancing at Raabe’s suitcase. Even if the weapons experts at Langley were right, and the C-4 was essentially invisible to a normal scan, the four agents also realized it would likely be discovered if the suitcase were opened and the lining torn away. Sandor could not help but think of his conversation with Sternlich, could not help but worry over the possibility that word of Jaber’s defection had already leaked and that he and his team were at a much greater level of risk than anyone had foreseen. So far, at least, Stenlich had said, “No.”

As they continued their banal chatter, Raabe’s valise was passed through with the rest of their luggage and they were permitted to head to the boarding gate. Once aboard the plane, Sandor realized the dangers they faced may have more to do with aeronautics than espionage. The aircraft was an ancient Russian model, something Moscow had probably given away twenty years ago in lieu of turning it into scrap metal.

The Air Koryo staff was efficient, but when the steward offered them beverages and Raabe made a joke about Coca-Cola being the world’s dominant power, his attempt at humor was met with an icy silence.

Sandor knew there would also be nothing friendly once they entered the ironically named Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. Known in diplomatic circles as the DPRK, and to the world at large as North Korea, it makes other dictatorships look positively tame by comparison. The lack of basic rights and freedom, not to mention communications, is nearly absolute, and these restrictions apply to nationals and foreigners alike. Unlike other countries, which welcome tourists, there is no unfettered movement within the DPRK. Sightseeing tours are precisely choreographed. The few restaurants which visitors may patronize are strictly identified and regulated by the state. The hotels are likewise designated, thereby simplifying the task of military surveillance, which is maintained even with regard to the most innocent guest. The only Internet use must be accessed via satellites controlled at state facilities, meaning that all messages are subject to monitoring and censorship. No cell phones are allowed. Television and radio programming are limited to news and entertainment approved by the Great Leader and his administration.

Sandor watched as Raabe made another failed attempt to charm the stewardess, then sat back and stared out the window.

After a couple of hours, and a surprisingly smooth ride, they landed at Pyongyang International Airport. They were led down a metal staircase onto the tarmac and into the main terminal. The building was small and squat and utilitarian, the roof adorned with an enormous billboard containing the watchful visage of Kim Jong-Il. They were herded along with the other passengers and required to fill out yet another series of forms, including the usual acknowledgments that they were not carrying any prohibited goods. Then they were subjected to a new round of interrogation and inspection.

None of the four Americans cast so much as a glance at Raabe’s suitcase as it passed through a final scanner without incident.

At the conclusion of the formalities, a Korean gentleman of about fifty, with closely cropped hair and unexpressive mien, stepped forward and introduced himself as Choi Ki.

In heavily accented English, he said, “I will be your guide during your visit to the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. You may call me Mr. Choi.”

Sandor and the other three men introduced themselves, then grabbed their luggage and followed Mr. Choi outside to the small bus that he explained would be their transportation for the next three days. The driver gave his name, which was Sang Chung Ho. Mr. Choi then apologetically explained that Mr. Sang spoke almost no English.

“Gentlemen, I must ask for your passports. I will hold them for safekeeping during your stay with us.”

Sandor and his team were prepared for the request, but feigned some appropriate reluctance before handing over the forged documents.

“Now please sit back and enjoy the ride into Pyongyang.”

Sandor nodded to himself. He had no weapons, no means of outside communications, no one to count on when the action started except for these three men. The small bus might as well have bars on the windows, he thought. For all practical purposes, they had just been taken prisoner.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ST. BARTHÉLEMY, F.W.I.

H
ICHAM DISLIKED
C
ARDONA
. He disliked him the first time they met.

They were certainly different, he and this brutish Venezuelan, but the differences were not merely stylistic. Hicham would be the first to acknowledge that his relaxed approach to religion was troublesome to his stricter Muslim brothers, but Cardona was not a son of Allah. He was nothing more than an ignorant mercenary who viewed everything in life with a cynicism that precluded any commitment to a greater cause. Hicham was not a secular opportunist, he was loyal to his faith and committed to doing Allah’s work. So, although they were both engaged in this treacherous business, their reasons were worlds apart.

Why should he have to suffer the disapproval of this infidel?

Adina was another matter entirely. The man was refined. He was a gracious host at the sumptuous lunch they were served on the yacht. Their discussions revealed that he was a Christian who nevertheless understood the teachings of the Koran.

Hicham realized, however, that this was a serious man, a man to be feared.

When Hicham was recruited for this mission he was contacted outside normal channels, to the extent normal channels exist for such things. He was assured his services were required in the name of Allah, and that he was going to be an important part of a massive strike against the Americans, a plan being organized by a consortium of various nations. Since then, however, his involvement had been marginalized and, although he could not complain about a few days of relaxation on this island paradise, he was becoming increasingly unsure of his true role.

So, when Adina told him that his responsibilities had changed and he was ordered to board a flight that day to New York, Hicham was disappointed. His assignment in the Caribbean had never been detailed. All he knew was that his mission had something to do with the electronic installation at Fort Oscar. Hicham assumed he would be asked to either take control of the communications systems there or, at worst, help to destroy it.

And now he was to fly to New York to meet a man he had never heard of, for reasons he would only be provided once he arrived.

He was committed to playing a useful role in the upcoming attack, but he had been given these instructions by Adina and there was nothing to be done about it.

After their lunch on the
Misty II
, Cardona was ready to drive Hicham to the airport.

“What about my things?” Hicham asked.

“Renaldo picked them up for you,” Adina told him, then called to Renaldo, who had just returned. He produced Hicham’s carry-on bag and his boarding pass. “Everything has been arranged.”

“My suitcase…”

“You’ll be returning day after tomorrow, my boy, no need for a suitcase.” Adina tilted his head slightly and offered him a wry grin. “Unless you don’t trust us with your things while you’re away,” he added, evoking laughter from the others, and a forced smile from Hicham.

“I thought I would be here when the action started.”

“You’ll be back in time. You are a key part of this team,” Adina assured him.

————

When Hicham and Cardona arrived at the airport, the Moroccan said, “No need to wait. It’s a beautiful day. Bad enough I have to leave the island, go enjoy yourself.”

“You’re the one who enjoys these things,” the burly Venezuelan responded. As punctuation, he offered a disdainful look at the tropical scene that surrounded them as they stood in the parking lot outside the small terminal. “I’ll wait.”

Hicham shrugged. “Then let’s go upstairs and have a beer.”

There was a bar on the second level that served Stella Artois on draft. Hicham ordered one for each of them. They sat at a table by the window where they had a view of the airstrip and the St. Jean beach just beyond. The barman served them, and Hicham said, “Good beer, eh? I love Stella.”

“I thought Muslims don’t drink.”

Hicham smiled. “How long have you been waiting to mention that?”

“Since we arrived.”

Hicham nodded. “Some men are more religious than others,” he said. “And some of us celebrate our faith in different ways.”

They spent the next ten minutes in silence. Then the announcement came for Hicham’s flight. Downstairs they parted without any gratuitous show of affability, merely nodding good-bye. Hicham passed through security and strode out the glass door to the tarmac, where he climbed the few steps into the single-engine plane.

When the flight took off, Cardona pulled out his cell phone and reported to Adina, then returned to the villa at Pointe Milou.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

PYONGYANG

T
HE GRANTING OF
a tourist visa into the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea carries with it obligations that transcend the temporary abandonment of privacy and freedom. For one thing, guests are required to suffer through a mind-numbing sightseeing tour, every feature of which pays homage to the Great Leader.

Sandor and his men had no sooner boarded the van being piloted by the taciturn Mr. Sang when their bilingual guide Mr. Choi stood up and described the mandatory itinerary they would enjoy on the way to the hotel. Sandor responded with a bemused smile. He had been fully informed of this ritual and the fact that it was compulsory. There was no artifice here, no inquiry by Mr. Choi if these visitors would like to drop off their luggage first, take a shower, or perhaps relax for an hour before they began their predetermined journey through Kim-land. They were simply informed of what was to come next, then instructed to remain in their seats as the van whisked them along their way.

The vehicle was large enough for a contingent more than twice their size, so each of the four men occupied a two-seat bench, with Raabe across the aisle from Sandor, Zimmermann and Bergenn behind them. As they entered the highway to Pyongyang, the most striking feature of the multi-lane road was the absence of traffic. In a country where the leadership extols the illusions of its extraordinary economic success and the triumph of the “Juche Idea”—Kim’s ideology of national independence—the general population had somehow been left out of the equation. Not only are they lacking cars, televisions, and other amenities the Western world takes for granted, they are also lacking food. The people of North Korea had been facing a deadly famine for more than a decade, with no end in sight.

As if no such problems existed, Mr. Choi stood facing his guests, droning on about the magnificence of his great country until they reached Mansu Hill, where the bus came to a stop at a large plaza, in the center of which stood an enormous statue of Kim Il-Sung, father of Kim Jong-Il.

Towering over Pyongyang below, the image of the country’s former leader stands with arm upraised, apparently exhorting his minions to worship him as they would a deity. When Mr. Choi informed them it was time to leave the vehicle and admire the monument, Craig Raabe turned to Sandor and muttered, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Easy, big guy,” Sandor said as he stood. They had all been briefed on what was to come, but Sandor knew more about it than any of the others.

Mr. Choi led them outside with Sang remaining in the driver’s seat as they filed past him. He looked as if he were bolted in place. Choi carried a small bouquet that had been sitting beside him on the front seat.

Out on the street he said, “It is our custom that visitors honor the Great Leader by placing flowers at the base of our Glorious General’s statue.” Then he held them out straight-armed, as if part of some formal ceremony.

Knowing this moment would come, the four agents had drawn straws on the flight to Beijing. Zimmermann had lost. Now he stared at the bouquet as if it might be contaminated.

“Kurt, why not do the honors,” Sandor urged him with a grin.

Zimmermann glared at Sandor, then reached for the flowers, resisting the urge to snatch them from Choi’s tiny hands and throw them on the pavement. He walked toward the monument and set the bouquet on the ground at the base of the gigantic shrine, then backed away.

Mr. Choi hurried forward and stopped him. “Please, you must bow,” he said in a tense voice that told Sandor and the others that they were being watched and, by definition, that Mr. Choi was being judged. Sandor had a look around, but the plaza was almost completely empty. Then he glanced at Mr. Sang, still in the bus, who was silently observing the proceedings. Sandor nodded, but Sang did nothing to acknowledge him.

Kurt Zimmermann shot the other three a dirty look, then turned back to the gigantic image of the Supreme Commander, gave a brief nod of his head, then stepped back.

“Very nice,” Raabe said with a grin.

“Screw you very much,” Zimmermann replied.

Choi told them they must now observe a moment of silence, after which he herded them back onto the bus.

The other stops on their route involved similar protocols, minus the floral offering. As they approached each one of these highlights, Choi would tell them how fortunate they were to have the opportunity to visit whatever they were about to visit. Then they would leave the bus, admire something that Mr. Choi ordered them to admire, reboard the bus, and move on to the next attraction. These included the Tower of the Juche Idea; communist carvings honoring Marx, Lenin, the proletariat and, of course, Kim Il-Sung; and their final stop, the Arch of Triumph.