Targets of Opportunity (29 page)

And so she endured her captivity, grappling with the loss of her faith and the desperation of her circumstances, wondering what miserable fate awaited her.

They could yet subject her to unimaginable agony but she would not tell them anything because she had nothing to tell. They could execute her at any time they chose—her husband had been with the IRGC from its inception and she knew that words did not exist to describe the ruthlessness of their techniques. Who would know how she died, or even that she had been murdered? She would simply disappear, like so many others before her.

But they were keeping her alive so far, she told herself again and again as the moments dragged on with cruel monotony, and there must be a reason for that.

As she engaged in what had become an interminable debate over her existence, there was a noise outside that made her start. It was too soon for them to be delivering another small plate of barely edible food, she was sure of that. She heard another sound, metal scraping against metal, and she thought the large bolt to the door was being pulled back. Suddenly the room was filled with light, blinding her as she raised her arms to her face.

“Stand,” a voice ordered her.

She hesitated, huddling in the corner, her arms crossed in a vain attempt to cover her nudity as best she could. Then they tossed something at her, a single garment of coarse material, not worthy of being called a dressing gown, more like something one might be given in a hospital for indigents. She gathered it around her and rose, unsteadily, still trying to adjust her eyes in the glare, barely making out the three men who stood in the entrance.

“Come with us.”

When she did not move one of the men stepped forward and grabbed her roughly by the arm. They led her down the hallway, then up a flight of stairs, where she stumbled twice. They dragged her along, finally shoving her into the room where she had first been questioned.

They sat her at the same table in the same straight-backed metal chair she had occupied for a day and a night while alternating teams of inquisitors had worked her over. Without a word, the three guards then turned and left her there, shutting and locking the door behind them. She remained alone for a few minutes, using the time to gather herself for what might come. Was this the end? If so, why bring her back here?

Then the door opened and two men walked in and sat opposite her. She had never seen these two before, at least she did not recall them. One appeared to be in his thirties, the other a decade or so older. They were handsomely dressed in suits and ties, their appearance stern, their eyes unfriendly.

“You have nothing to tell us,” the older man said. “Is this true?”

Rasa blinked, then pushed some of her dirty, unkempt hair from her forehead. She did not speak.

“Come, come, woman. Answer the question.”

“I am not sure what you are asking me,” she replied nervously.

“Your husband,” the younger man said impatiently, “has betrayed his country, gone to the sworn enemy of our people, left you behind. What do you know of all this?”

“I only know what you have told me. You have shown me photographs of Ahmad with the Americans.”

“Yes, yes, and you knew nothing of his leaving the country to travel there, this is all you have to tell us?”

She nodded slowly, tears forming in her dark eyes. “I don’t know anything, I really don’t.”

The younger man, raising his voice for the first time, shouted, “What you
do
know is that your husband abandoned you. Left you behind to face the consequences of his treachery.”

Rasa remained silent as the older man placed a calming hand on his associate’s forearm. Then he said, “You have a choice to make. You can die for your husband’s betrayal of his country and his god, or you can atone for these sins.”

Looking back and forth between these two men, Rasa Jaber hesitated, then finally said, “Tell me what you want me to do.”

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

ST. BARTHÉLEMY, F.W.I.

J
ORDAN
S
ANDOR HAD
been to St. Barths once before. It was on Company business, with a team that included Beth Sharrow from Financial Ops. That was a few years ago, when they thought they might have a future together, and so, once their assignment was concluded, they ended up spending a long, romantic weekend on the island. They stayed in a beachfront bungalow at Guanahani, and Sandor remembered the place fondly enough to book himself in there again, this time at government expense.

He had come to survey the damage at Fort Oscar, to make some sense of what the hell was going on in the Caribbean and to visit a friend.

Arriving at the small airport, Sandor collected his bag, then proceeded to the booth that served as the customs and immigration checkpoint. Unlike that earlier visit, when a single attendant gave his passport a perfunctory stamp, today there were now three officers on duty, and an armed French soldier at the baggage claim area.

“You are here for business or pleasure?” one of the customs officers inquired in French.

Sandor grinned. “Does anyone come to St. Barths on business?”

The uniformed man looked up from the entry form and treated Sandor to a French scowl. He was obviously not amused. “
Monsieur
,” he said impatiently.

Sandor nodded. “
Plaisir
,” he replied.

“You have checked any luggage?”

“No, just this,” Sandor said, holding up his black leather bag.

Sandor thought he might need to reach for his diplomatic papers, something he had hoped to avoid, but a soldier stepped up behind him and said to the immigration officer, “
Bonjour,
Jean-Pierre.” Then he added something Sandor did not understand, his facility with the French language being rudimentary at best.

The customs officer responded by stamping the form and having another look at Sandor. “
Plaisir
,” he said derisively, then returned the passport and waved him on.

Sandor turned to face the uniformed soldier who had just saved him from any further bureaucratic entanglements. He had a handsome, intelligent face and dark, cautious eyes. His left arm was in a sling.

“Welcome to the new St. Barths, Mr. Sandor,” the man said in heavily accented English.

“
Merci beaucoup
.”

Lieutenant Henri Vauchon responded with a warm smile. “I had a feeling I would be seeing you.”

“Who else would they send, lieutenant? I have the advantage of knowing my way around here.”

“And, of course, knowing me.”

“
Mais oui
.”

Vauchon chuckled. “What say we do without your feeble attempts to speak my language, eh?”

Sandor also laughed. “Done,” he conceded as the two friends shook hands. “We’ll deal with your lousy English instead.”

Vauchon pointed ahead and they began walking toward the parking area.

“I had no idea you were going to meet me at the airport, Henri. I’m truly honored.”

“Time, as you Americans say, is of the essence.”

“Yes, it is,” Sandor agreed. “How’s the shoulder?”

“Like a large toothache in my side. I’ll live.”

“So what are your orders?”

“I have been ordered to give you my full cooperation.”

Sandor smiled. “Okay then, can you introduce me to a good-looking blonde in a bikini?”

“Perhaps later, yes? First we should drop your things at the hotel, then I’ll take you to Fort Oscar.”

“I’m going to need my own car at some point.”

“We have arranged that. For now you will ride with me.”

“Perfect,” Sandor replied. “Let’s go.”

————

When they reached Vauchon’s car the Frenchman removed his arm from the sling, assured Sandor that he was fine to drive, then set off for the pleasant ride up and down the hills of St. Jean, along the narrow roads of Lorient and the climb above the Grand Cul-de-Sac. They reminisced about the assignment that brought Sandor here the first time.

“I’m sorry about the circumstances of our reunion.”

“Yes,” Vauchon said somberly. Then, “I heard about Beth. How is she?”

“Recovering.” He paused. “She’s fine physically, but the attack left other scars.”

“I understand. My shoulder, for instance, is the least of my concerns.”

They pulled into the Guanahani resort and Vauchon waited in the car while his friend checked into a beachfront villa. Once inside, Sandor quickly changed into linen slacks and a Tommy Bahama shirt that draped over his drawstring waistband to secrete the Walther he had holstered at the small of his back. He had used the diplomatic papers Byrnes provided to pass his weapons through security in New York and St. Maarten, not wanting to embarrass Vauchon, whose superiors might balk at providing the American a gun on his arrival.

He returned to the car, and they headed back along the same road, past the airport and into Gustavia.

After some pleasantries about the sensational views from almost anywhere on the island and the changes St. Barths had experienced since becoming the “it” place for the rich and famous, Sandor got down to business. “Heard it was a rough fight.”

“It was.”

“They tell me you did well.”

“Not well enough,” Vauchon replied glumly. “Perhaps if we had been more alert there might have been less fighting and more survivors.”

“Way I heard it, you were responsible for saving all the lives that could have been saved. Without you…” he said, then stopped to let the thought hang there a moment.

“I did what I could,” Vauchon said simply. “I only wish I could have done more. Every time I think of those innocent people being held hostage on my watch I get sick to my stomach. I wonder if I did the right thing, the choices I made.”

Sandor nodded, no stranger to second-guessing those split-second decisions that have to be made in combat. “Tell me what happened, from the beginning, everything you saw and heard and did.”

The drive into town did not take long, so when they reached the main port Vauchon pulled the car to a stop along the quay. They sat there as the lieutenant took his time describing the assault on Fort Oscar, giving every detail he could recall about that night. He found Sandor’s questions far more incisive and relevant than his debriefing in Guadeloupe, and he answered all of them. He also decided to share his final exchange with the man he believed had led the assault.

“At the end, after the explosion, there was chaos all around, as I am sure you can imagine. I did the best to help the people below, but once the explosions were ignited there was fire and heat and smoke everywhere.” Sandor watched silently as the man grappled with the memory. “And then one man staggered to the opening by the stairway. He was bloodied and dazed, but I knew his voice from our exchanges. We had spoken over the radio, back and forth, when I tried to convince them to give up. He was on the floor and I dragged him to the stairs, but he knew he was dying. He told me his name was Renaldo. Then he said that he had been betrayed. He told me that his men had not set off the explosives, that it must have been done remotely.”

Sandor waited, still not speaking.

“He said Adina had done this. I believe the name was Adina.”

The recognition in Sandor’s eyes was apparent, so Vauchon went on.

“Then he said something about a bay, or a town by a bay. I tried to get him to speak some more, but that was it. Another explosion rocked us from below. I was thrown to the floor. By the time I got back to him he was dead.”

Sandor leaned back and gazed straight ahead. “Adina,” he said with a nod. “That confirms our intel. And this bay, he didn’t say where, or give a name of a bay, there was nothing else?”

Vauchon shook his head. “No, nothing else, that was all. I’m sorry this information was not made available sooner, but my commanding officer, to whom I gave this report, he is a bit, uh, shall I say, cautious.”

Sandor turned to Vauchon. “Henri, you have absolutely nothing to be sorry about, believe me. I know all about commanding officers. What happened next?”

The Frenchman went on about the evacuation of the survivors and all that followed. When he was done, the sun was low in the sky, and he asked if Sandor would like something to eat or drink before they reached the fort.

“Later,” Sandor said. “I want to see as much as I can in the daylight.”

Vauchon started the car and pulled back onto the road, saying, “I am not sure how much there will be for you to see, with or without light.”

As they drove around Gustavia harbor, the walls of Fort Oscar were visible. What could not be seen, until they pulled up to the parking area just below the fortress and approached the main gate, was the extent of the damage done by the explosions. The guards on duty immediately recognized Vauchon and passed him and his guest through. Once inside the perimeter walls the detritus of the attack was everywhere.

Sandor approached the jagged opening that was once a doorway to the lower levels. “This is it?”

Vauchon nodded. “It may not be safe to use those metal steps. The engineers are still examining the situation.”

“I’ll be all right, you stay here. You’ve drawn me a pretty good map, I’ll find my way.”

The lieutenant had one of his men hand Sandor a flashlight, then stepped aside as the American made his way below.

The lingering smell of burned wiring and plastic and rubber, along with the stench of the charred bodies that had been removed, filled Sandor’s nostrils as he maneuvered down the twisted staircase. One of the metal struts gave way as he neared the bottom, and he managed to grab the handrail and jump the distance of about six stairs to the floor below, just before the steps collapsed beneath him.

“You all right down there?” Vauchon called out when he heard the crash of metal and the thud of Sandor hitting the deck.

“Never better,” came the reply.

Sandor moved forward with the flashlight, entering the remains of what had once been a high-tech computer center and was now just a cave lined with mangled steel and shattered electronic equipment. He had never seen the Fort Oscar communications center when it was in operation, but even if he had, he realized that none of it would be recognizable now.