Targets of Opportunity (37 page)

“I’m listening.”

“We had a back-channel communication about Bergenn and Raabe,” he said, but before Sandor could ask a single question, he said he was not going to discuss it now, not even on a secure line. He ordered Sandor to saddle up and rang off.

Since his escape from North Korea, Sandor had kept his focus on the mission before him, but he also struggled with his responsibility to the men who were left behind in the DPRK. Sandor was their leader and when he was finished with this assignment he would return to Pyongyang if that’s what it took to bring back Craig Raabe and Jim Bergenn. For now he knew that any communication Byrnes received was better than no word at all, since it likely meant the two Americans were still alive. The best part was that his ploy with that little weasel at the
Times
might be working.

He took a deep breath, then called Leo.

“This is the second day in a row you woke me up, you know that?”

“Gee,” Sandor replied, “and I can’t begin to tell you how bad I feel about it,” then explained what was going on and arranged to meet him at Villa du Vent.

Next he called Vauchon, who, being in the military, was already up. He explained that the Frenchman was going to have to do without him for at least a couple of days. They also agreed to meet at the villa.

After next placing a call to Langley to organize his transportation home, he shaved, took a hot shower followed by a cold deluge, then dried and wrapped himself in a towel and let himself back into the bedroom.

By now, early rays of sunlight were filtering through the narrow openings of the cream-colored drapes, and he found Stefanie sitting up in bed. She was resting against a couple of pillows, long dark hair framing her lovely face, her eyes the color of the sea. She had replaced the sheets, which were now pulled demurely to her neck, and she was drinking a glass of the Champagne they had left unfinished in the silver bucket on her nightstand.

All in all one helluva picture, he thought.

“Well,” Sandor said with an approving nod. “Did you know that Winston Churchill began every day with a glass of Champagne?”

She smiled, then went about pouring him what remained in the bottle.

Sandor sighed. “I’m not sure that’s the best way for me to start my day,” he said.

“
C
’
est parfait
,” she protested with an amused pout as she held out the crystal flute.

He stepped forward, took the offered drink, then had a sip.

“I am so glad you brought me to here,” she said in her broken English. “I did not want to stay there. So many police. And that man they took away, who was dead,” she added with a slight shudder.
“Horrible,”
she said in French.

Sandor grinned. “Is that the only reason you were happy to stay here?”

With a flick of her left wrist, she threw back the sheet on his side of the bed, then gave the mattress a pat.

Sandor had to meet Leo and Vauchon in less than an hour and then make his charter flight home. But what the hell, he told himself as he dropped the towel and climbed in beside her. There’s time for everything if you plan carefully.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

I
F
CIA D
IRECTOR
Michael Walsh ever drew up a list of My Favorite People, Sandor knew he was never going to make the roll, but he believed they at least shared a mutual respect. The problem with the Washington bureaucracy is that the chiefs are not elected, they are appointed, and the Indians they lead are neither elected nor appointed, but hired, with all of the attendant longevity and job security that makes the government so impossibly slow to move and so difficult to change.

When a man like Walsh is made head of Central Intelligence he has neither the right nor the ability to go out and replace his entire workforce. He inherits them, just as a new football coach is stuck with the team already in place. He can certainly appoint some assistants, make a few changes to the roster, and show favoritism to those most closely attuned to his own style and ethos. But in the end, he becomes the leader of a team he had no role in choosing.

This is true whether dealing with the Department of the Treasury or the Department of the Interior. It is particularly troublesome when tackling the leadership role in any of the branches handling intelligence, security, or law enforcement, since these organizations involve a unique array of problems, responsibilities, and, inevitably, personalities.

To Walsh’s credit, he had held his position through the administrations of two presidents, which may speak more about his facility at playing politics than running the Agency. He was a “by the book” manager who despised any knee-jerk decisions and devoted his professional life to ensuring no one in his charge ever did anything to embarrass him.

Hence his less than enthusiastic view of Jordan Sandor.

Walsh knew Sandor’s importance to the Company, having been informed of the important assignments Sandor had undertaken for his predecessor. He ultimately sanctioned Sandor’s role in defeating the terrorist plot hatched by former CIA Station Chief Vincent Traiman, despite various misgivings. He reluctantly approved Sandor’s mission in Bahrain. Even with plausible deniability for the recent North Korea invasion, Walsh acquiesced to the need for that operation as well.

On the other hand, he found Sandor to be insubordinate bordering on arrogant and a risk taker who at times was close to reckless. Also, like Deputy Director Byrnes, Walsh had no patience for Sandor’s flippant style. The difference was that Byrnes realized he had no sense of humor of his own, whereas Walsh was unaware of his shortcoming.

Therefore, when the Deputy Director ushered Sandor into Walsh’s office that night to discuss the pending complaint lodged by the
Times
in New York, neither of Sandor’s superiors saw anything funny in his request that the reporter’s slacks be made part of the official record.

“If the little rat is going to make a claim against me, I think we should at least have some evidence, don’t you? Exhibit A, the pants he pissed in. Where are they?”

“You find this amusing, Sandor?”

“Actually no,” he told Walsh. “I find it pathetic. We have a Korean mole and one of our very talented agents lying dead outside Pyongyang. We have two of our best men, God knows where, inside that hellhole of a country. And this parasite is writing articles that inflame the diplomatic tension, making it more and more probable that Bergenn and Raabe are going to get two in the head and be dumped in a hole where they’ll never be found. Freedom of the press is one thing, but didn’t the Supreme Court say it doesn’t give you the right to yell ‘Fire’ in a crowded theater?”

Neither man replied.

“You guys are in the game of politics, I’m in a business called stop-the-enemy. When we entered the DPRK the four of us knew the risks, we even understood that if we were captured it might be impossible for our government to get us back. We signed on as NOCs, and we took our chances. What we didn’t sign on for was some punk reporter stirring up a shit storm that could make it all but impossible to deal with Kim and his gang of thugs.”

Walsh was seated behind his desk, across from Sandor and Byrnes. He responded with a nod. “We are painfully aware of the delicate situation that exists. The North Koreans are claiming that we engaged in espionage, kidnapping, and murder, right under their noses, right there in their own country. At this point, they officially deny holding any of our citizens as prisoners—”

“That’s perfect,” Sandor interrupted. “I suppose they’re claiming that they’re holding two Canadians, am I right?” He looked at Byrnes, but the Deputy Director said nothing.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Walsh said, “I’d like to continue.” He waited until Sandor sat back in his chair. “Fine. Right now they deny holding anyone, but claim to have proof that this Wild West shoot-out in and around the Arirang Festival was orchestrated and carried out by Americans. I take it, from your comments, that you comprehend the implications.”

Sandor nodded. “Which is why these newspaper articles have only made matters worse for—”

DCI Walsh held up his hand, removed his reading glasses, and stood, coming all the way around so he could position his tall, lanky frame on the edge of his large mahogany desk and stare down at Sandor. “I want to get this straight. You believe the way to handle this situation is to go up to the man’s office, point the barrel of your weapon at him, and threaten his life? I just want to be sure I understand you.”

Sandor hesitated, then asked, “Who says I did that?”

“This fellow Donaldson made the allegation. Do you deny it?”

Sandor did not answer. “Any witnesses?”

Walsh and Byrnes exchanged a quick glance.

“There was a third man in the room,” the Director said, “but he has not exactly confirmed Donaldson’s account of your actions.” Walsh reached back across the expanse of desk and grabbed his glasses and a sheet of paper, then read his notes. “He has suggested that his young colleague may have exaggerated some of the details of this encounter.” He put down the paper and peered at Sandor over the frame of his spectacles. “We know all about your relationship with Bill Sternlich. His loyalty to you is touching, but at this point it’s also creating quite a problem for him, as you might imagine. It may end up costing him his job, not to mention his career.”

For the first time in their exchange Sandor averted the Director’s gaze. He began rubbing his forehead with the fingers of his left hand.

“Do you want to say something, Sandor?”

Sandor looked up again. “Damnit,” he said angrily.

“I must say, it’s not up to your usual standard for witty repartee but it may be the most intelligent thing you’ve uttered this evening.”

“What do you expect me to say?”

“Say to me? Nothing.” Walsh took a stroll back around the desk and retook his seat, then leveled his steely gaze at Sandor. “What I expect is for you to apologize to this reporter, that’s what I expect.”

“Apologize? You must be joking.”

“I never joke,” he replied.

Sandor nodded, knowing how true that was. “And if I refuse?”

“If you refuse I will have to consider an immediate suspension and proceed with an investigation to determine if you should be brought up on disciplinary charges.”

No one spoke for a few moments. Then Sandor grinned. He simply could not help himself. “I’m a field agent, sir, and, I believe I don’t have to remind you, a reasonably good one. I’m never going to run for office or be appointed to a government post or win any popularity contests. What I am going to do, however, is protect my country, my men, and my integrity.” He stood up. “The media gets to run roughshod over the safety, privacy, and reputations of our people. They get to tell lies and make slanderous statements, then shield themselves with a claim of good-faith reporting. If that’s free speech, fine. But when it puts my men in harm’s way, then I’m entitled to express
my
views, and that is exactly what I did, and I am not apologizing to anyone for it, suspension or no suspension.”

There was silence again. Then Walsh looked at Byrnes. “Get him out of here,” he said.

————

Sandor and Byrnes hurried down the corridor without exchanging a word until Sandor said, “I thought that went well.”

Byrnes frowned, appearing as if he had suddenly gotten a whiff of something putrid. “You’re just asking him to fry your butt in oil.”

“Come on, you can see he really likes me. He’s just playing hard to get.”

Byrnes shook his head.

“Trust me on this one, okay?” Sandor grinned. “I know what I’m doing.”

As they rounded the corner and headed into the Deputy Director’s office, Byrnes gave him a quizzical look.

“Trust me,” Sandor repeated.

Since Sandor arrived back in D.C. earlier that afternoon Byrnes had been concerned about getting through the meeting with Walsh so they could return to more urgent matters. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll trust you on this, at least for now. Can we talk about something important?”

“Such as Jim and Craig?”

“Yes.” They took seats in the room’s small conference area. The DD had a file on the cocktail table between them. “Our source tells us that they’re both alive, although Raabe is in bad shape and they haven’t exactly been staying at the Ritz-Carlton.”

“Or Walter Reed Medical Center.”

“Precisely.”

“But they’re alive,” Sandor said, “that’s the point.”

“The point is, Sandor, I’m told they want to make a trade.”

“Hwang?”

Byrnes nodded. “They believe you took him alive and they want him back in one piece.”

“A bit unusual for Kim, isn’t it?”

“We thought so. He’s certainly capable of letting his man rot over here.”

“Unless the man knows too much to risk his interrogation.”

“Perhaps.”

“And unless, of course, the capture is made public and he’s compelled to act to protect his own people and spare the embarrassment of abandoning a key official. I mean, how would that look?”

Byrnes stared at him. “So the follow-up article your actions provoked from this reporter Donaldson, the claim of an exchange of Americans for Kim’s minister…”

“Hey, the press has to get information someplace.”

The DD allowed himself a slight smile. “The day you grabbed this kid, you blurted out something he could print. About a possible exchange.”

Sandor did not reply.

“Was your friend Sternlich in on this?”

“Not a clue.” Sandor then nodded to himself. “I’m going to need to straighten that out for him somehow.”

“Yes, you are.”

“All right, what about Hwang? You still haven’t gotten anything from him?”

“Not any more than he told you.”

Sandor nodded without speaking.

“What is it? I know that look.”

“It’s the girl and her family.”

“Hea?”

“Yes,” Sandor said with a sigh, then puffed his cheeks and let out an angry lungful of air. “When we made our escape we visited her family home. Her brother Kwan used his truck to get us near the border. Hwang was unconscious for most of that, but he might be able to figure it out. They certainly know that she’s missing by now, and I promised her that her family wouldn’t be compromised.”