Targets of Opportunity (30 page)

He walked around, searching for something, anything that might help him understand the why of this attack. All of the bodies had been removed, including the terrorists. All of the weapons were gone. Sandor shone the light on the metal floor and along the walls. It had obviously been an intensely hot chemical firebomb and, from what he had been told back in Langley and this afternoon by Vauchon, the worst of the carnage had been in the level below. He stepped to that opening and peered down. The remains of those stairs were worse than the ones above. He shoved the flashlight in his pocket, beam pointing up, splashing an eerie light across the ceiling as he climbed down, grasping whatever was left of the railings and supports and steel girders that now protruded from the damaged wall. At the end he made another short leap to the floor, then removed the light from his pocket and had a look around.

This room had certainly suffered the larger explosion. He took his time, sweeping the floors with the beam of the flashlight, checking the bent and twisted remnants of what had been desktops and workstations, not knowing what he was looking for or what he might find. And then, beneath what had apparently been a printer stand, wedged up against the corner where it could not be seen unless the light was shined directly on it, he spotted something. Bending down and reaching in, he found a cell phone. Apparently protected from the blast by the support panels of the metal rack, it was in fairly good shape. Whose phone was it? Sandor wondered. Why would a worker on duty here have a cell phone out, unless they reached for it when the attack began? No, he decided, the terrorists would have quickly ensured that no one had access to the outside. No, it was far more likely to have belonged to one of the attackers.

He shoved the phone in his back pocket and continued his search, finally giving in to the odor and the futility and the sense of death all around him. When he was done, he climbed back up through the stairway shaft, hopeful he had at least discovered one thing that could help.

CHAPTER FIFTY

AN ESTATE OUTSIDE LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

A
HMAD
J
ABER HAD
little to do to pass these endless days other than to contemplate his uncertain fate. What had he expected when he put himself in the hands of these faithless Americans? He should have known better, he told himself.

The information Seyed Asghari had provided was sufficient to convince Jaber he had no option but to flee. Still, he should have realized that the intelligence Seyed imparted would not be enough to bargain with the CIA for a comfortable future. He and Seyed had correctly guessed that the collaborators were North Koreans and Venezuelans. But Jaber had no details of the planned strike because Seyed had never received those particulars.

With one exception.

The only thing Jaber had yet withheld from Byrnes was the general area of the intended attack. It remained the final currency he had to trade.

He knew it did not amount to much for at least two reasons. First, it was less than specific. Second, it might not even be true—it might have been disinformation passed to Seyed until he proved he could be trusted. And yet it was all Jaber had left to offer.

With his own prospects at risk, he now had the added concern of his wife. He struggled with the images of what they might have already done to her, what they might be doing to her at this very moment. The torture, the indignities—he fought to dismiss those pictures from his mind even as he wrestled with the possibility that she might already be dead. Here he was, seated in a comfortable armchair in the guest room of the CIA safe house that had become his new home. He knew that Rasa would be shown no such courtesy. She was the wife of a traitor and she had been caught in an attempt to escape from Iran. How could he have been so foolish to think his plan would work? His wife deserved better than the fate to which he had condemned her.

His anguished reverie was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. He listened as the lock turned, remaining seated as Byrnes walked in.

“We have word from our agent in the Caribbean,” the Deputy Director said without preamble.

“Sandor?”

Byrnes ignored the question. “Let me be as clear as possible here. If you’re not able to assist us at this point then you’ve got nothing to sell.”

The former IRGC officer did not reply.

The Deputy Director fixed him with a stern look. “You came here with the vaguest bunch of crap I’ve ever had a defector try to peddle. Since you’ve become a guest in our little bed-and-breakfast we’ve lost a commercial airliner and a major communications center. You gave us no warning, nothing to help prevent these attacks. Now it appears this may only be the beginning of a new wave of terrorism, and all you can tell me is that someone from the East has made a deal with someone from the West?”

“My wife…,” he began, but Byrnes cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“I don’t give a damn about your wife. I want answers.”

Jaber stood slowly and faced him. “If I tell you…”

The Deputy Director cut him off again. “There is no ‘if’ here, Jaber. You have no bargaining leverage, no trading power. If you have anything else to say you better say it now or I’ll have you driven into D.C. and dropped off in front of the nearest mosque. You’ll be dead in an hour and I won’t blink.”

Jaber actually managed a smile. “And so, Mr. Byrnes, you see that in the end we are all the same.”

“Spare me the lecture.”

The Iranian nodded. “The Gulf of Mexico,” he said. “It’s all I have.”

Byrnes did not reveal that he had already received preliminary information from Sandor he would be trying to match up with anything Jaber told him. “That’s it?”

“That’s it. And I admit to you, before you ask, that I have no way of knowing whether Seyed was told the truth. But if he was, the attack is planned for somewhere along the American coast in the Gulf of Mexico. It’s all I have left.”

Byrnes stood there and thought about what Sandor had just related to him by secure satellite phone from Gustavia. “Well,” he finally said, “it may be something we can work with.”

Jaber hoped that the last piece of information he yet withheld would be enough to save him when the time came for his final plea.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

ST. BARTHÉLEMY, F.W.I.

S
ANDOR INVITED
V
AUCHON
to dinner at Maya’s and the lieutenant readily accepted. As a modestly paid officer in the French army, a visit to Maya’s was well beyond his pay grade. Not only is it regarded as the best restaurant on the island but it is also one of the priciest, even by the absurdly expensive standards of St. Barths. Still, it manages to be an unpretentious spot, set on a small jetty along the water in Gustavia, just across the main harbor from Fort Oscar. The tables are situated beneath a series of large cream-colored tents where the balmy night air is augmented by onshore breezes. The menu changes from night to night, depending on the available produce and seafood, not to mention the whims of the owner and her staff, who work in the kitchen that is set in a small building just off to the side of the entrance. The young waitresses are energetic, friendly and a delight to watch in their minimalist island attire, leaving no shortage of scenery in any direction you look.

Sandor arrived late. He was greeted at the entrance by Randy, a tall, affable American who plays host, proprietor, sommelier and translator for the daily bill of fare. He is also husband to the eponymous chef and his co-owner, Maya.

Randy led Sandor to a table on the deck just above the edge of the sandy shore, where Vauchon was already waiting.

“Glad to see you’ve opted for a relaxed look,” Sandor said with a grin as he admired the Frenchman’s flowered linen shirt and casual pants. “Uniforms tend to get on my nerves after a while.”

“Mine too,” Vauchon admitted with a smile.

Sandor had a quick look around the open space, then pointed to a table toward the rear. “Mind if we switch?”

Randy cordially obliged, showed them to their seats in the rear, then suggested cocktails. Vauchon politely declined.

“Come on, Henri,” Jordan goaded him.

“How about a bottle of Domaines Ott,” Randy suggested, and Vauchon agreed.

“But I need something to prime the pump,” Sandor said. “Grey Goose, straight up with a twist of lemon, and a few slivers of floating ice to keep it nice and cold.” He looked to Vauchon. “You aren’t really going to let me drink alone?”

“Ah well,” the Frenchman agreed with a nod.

Randy nodded approvingly, then went off to fetch their drinks.

“So,” Vauchon said, “you always have to sit with your back to the wall, eh? Even when it isn’t really a wall.”

Sandor smiled. “Tradecraft,” he said. “View of the room, no one behind me, a good look at the harbor.” He gazed across the water, the imposing stone walls of Fort Oscar awash in the glow of the spotlights that shone up from the ground, just the same as they did every night. “Hard to believe anything happened there at all,” he said.

Vauchon shared the view for a moment, then said wistfully, “For me more than for you, I can assure you.”

Sandor nodded.

“I presume, after I left you at Guanahani, that you reported what I said to your superiors.”

“Yes.”

Sandor had phoned Byrnes and related everything he learned from Vauchon and his inspection of the fort. Sandor then contacted the technical support team that had traveled from Washington to St. Barths the previous day. He gave them the damaged cell phone, explaining the possibility that it may have belonged to one of the terrorists. Despite the heat damage they believed they might be able to trace the numbers recently called and received.

Just before Sandor headed to Gustavia for his dinner with Vauchon he heard back from the DD. Thus far, Hwang had been a tough nut to crack. They had gotten nothing more than the information Sandor elicited from him and Kyung back in North Korea—the confirmation of some covert alliance between Pyongyang and Venezuela. Piecing that together with the information they had from Vauchon and Jaber, they were focusing their attention on Baytown, Texas, home to one of the two largest oil refineries in the United States.

“Now,” the Deputy Director said, “all we need to do is determine if this information is accurate or part of another elaborate ruse. If there’s any truth to it at all you need to uncover what, precisely, is being planned.”

“Is that all?” Sandor replied.

The DD said nothing; he just hung up.

————

The martinis were served and Vauchon made a traditional French toast to Jordan’s health. Sandor returned the favor. The drink was cold enough, the air balmy and the scenery spectacular. Then, taking a second swallow as he had a look around at the privileged group that crowded the other tables, Sandor spotted them walking in.

St. Barths is a truly international playground, where you are as likely to meet a tycoon from Abu Dhabi or Moscow as a celebrity from Los Angeles or New York. Sandor was not sure what drew his attention to the two Hispanic-looking men being seated at a table toward the front of the restaurant, but his instincts told him that something about them did not fit.

He continued to scan the place, as if looking for someone he knew, not allowing his gaze to settle on them. Then he turned to Vauchon and said with a broad smile, “I love this place, had a great time last visit here.”

The Frenchman nodded as he finished a sip of vodka.

“Don’t take your eyes from me, just keep smiling,” Sandor told him in a casual tone, “then I want you to glance at the two men to your right, at that table up front. They’re just sitting down. Give them a quick glimpse.”

Vauchon did as he was told, then looked at a couple of other tables and returned his attention to Sandor.

“Well done, Henri. You see, it pays to have the proper seat.”

“I suppose it does.”

“So, you ever see either of them before?”

Vauchon shook his head.

“But they don’t belong here at Maya’s, you agree?”

“I think you are right,” he said. Then he waited.

“Adina is the name used by Rafael Cabello,” Sandor told him. “He’s one of the most trusted men in Chavez’s inner circle. We believe your information is correct, that Adina was behind the attack on Fort Oscar. And possibly the downed flight from St. Maarten. Assuming those things are true, consider why he might leave people behind. What would they be looking for?”

Vauchon nodded to himself, mulling it over. “Maybe to see what we do next?”

“Maybe,” Sandor allowed, taking another swig of the frosty drink. “Or perhaps to see who might be doing it.”

“Perhaps.”

“Which means we need to find out who they are and what they expect to gain from that information.”

“You mean bring them in for questioning?”

“Uh, I don’t think so.”

Vauchon gave him a curious look.

“You have no probable cause to interfere with their vacation here.”

Vauchon smiled. “I am a French soldier investigating a terrorist attack, not a policeman.”

“Understood. Then let’s just say that bringing them in is not likely to net you any useful information. At least not anytime soon. Best you leave this to me.”

Vauchon responded with a concerned look. He had seen Sandor in action before.

————

Sandor and Vauchon enjoyed a sumptuous dinner. The lieutenant ordered the
sashimi de thon
for his appetizer, then the
côte de veau
Poêlée
. Jordan began with the
salade de concombre Créole
and, for his
plat principal
, the
crevettes au curry jaune
.

After finishing his martini Sandor was careful not to share too much of the wine, knowing how easily Domaines Ott can flow in this tropical climate. He was on full alert now and, while he and Vauchon continued to discuss the events at Fort Oscar, Sandor remained aware of the two men at the front table.