Targets of Opportunity (39 page)

“We have no choice here, Sandor. We can’t leave Raabe and Bergenn behind.”

“Of course not, but there must be other options. Can’t the State Department tell those bastards that if they don’t release our men we’ll treat it as an act of war?”

Byrnes shook his head again. “An act of war? Bergenn and Raabe were captured in North Korea engaging in espionage. Not to mention murder and kidnapping. Under any international law Kim could stand them in front of a firing squad today and there isn’t a government in the world that would cry foul. The act of war was on our side of the table.”

“In defense of our country, in case you forgot.”

Byrnes let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry, Jordan, we’ve got to make the trade.”

Sandor clenched his teeth. “Send me back. Talk to the DCI, give me a few days to try and get them out.”

“Come on, we don’t even know what city they’re in, let alone what dungeon. I know you’re frustrated, but you can’t expect me to make a ridiculous request like that.”

They were quiet for a few moments as the car turned onto Old Dominion Drive. “All right,” Sandor finally said, “give me up in the trade, instead of her.”

The agent at the wheel looked into the rearview mirror. Even in the darkness he could see the intensity in Sandor’s eyes. They exchanged a quick glance.

“Forget it,” Byrnes told him.

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are but it’s not happening. If you come up with something that makes sense I’ll take it to Walsh. Otherwise you need to be realistic. Time is short and word is that Raabe is not going to make it much longer if we don’t get him home.”

————

Vahidi’s men had arrived in time to position their car amid some trees north of the intersection of Old Dominion Drive and Bellview Road. They only had to wait a few minutes before the black sedan passed in front of them.

The two Iranians were ready. The map showed that the main entrance to the estate was about four miles from the Old Dominion and Bellview intersection, which meant they had to act quickly. The compound consisted of several hundred acres, with multiple perimeter checkpoints. Their job was to reach the sedan before it got to that first entry gate.

The driver started his engine and pulled out, headlights off, rapidly gaining on the Town Car.

The road was totally dark, no streetlamps of any kind, no homes in view. There were rolling hills on either side of them, but all they could see were the red taillights of the Lincoln in the distance. The driver accelerated, narrowing the gap to just a few hundred yards. His partner pulled on night-vision glasses and helped guide them when the lights of the Town Car were intermittently lost as it made turns along the winding road.

————

The agent driving Byrnes’s car was the first to spot the approaching vehicle. “Sir, I think we’ve got a tail, no headlights, coming up fast.”

Sandor spun around, peering into the darkness, straining to make out the onrushing shape behind them. He said, “Don’t speed up, just make the first left you can.” He drew out his Walther and snapped the slide back, chambering the round. “You should get low,” he told Byrnes. Realizing a .380 pistol was not going to be much help against a speeding car, he asked the agent, “What have you got up there, Fitz?”

“Shotgun and a .45.”

“Okay, as soon as you make the turn, flat-spin this thing off to the right and kill your headlights and the interior switch.”

Fitzpatrick did as he was told. Before the car had come to a full stop Sandor threw open his door while barking at the young agent, “Cover your side,” then he rolled out onto the asphalt and kept moving until he found the grassy shoulder of the road.

Within seconds the trailing car appeared, screeching to a halt as the driver realized they’d been made.

Fitz had opened his door and was crouching behind it, shotgun at the ready.

Sandor, who was on his stomach now, did not hesitate. He fired three shots, taking out both front tires of the attackers’ car, then fired twice into the windshield, shattering the glass. He rolled over again, coming up on one knee behind a large tree. “You move and you die,” he hollered.

The two IRGC operatives responded by opening fire, spraying the back of the Lincoln and the open driver’s door with a rapid fusillade and scattering some rounds on the ground where Sandor had been.

Fitzpatrick got off three blasts from the shotgun, then ducked for cover again.

“Stay down!” Sandor yelled at the young agent, then fired off the rest of his magazine. Replacing it in one smooth motion, he took off at a run inside the tree line, coming even with the right side of the sedan. Sandor made out two men, each kneeling behind their open doors. He took aim from behind a large elm and hit the man on the passenger side, dropping him to the ground. When the driver spun in his direction Sandor shouted, “Put your hands up where I can see them.” The man had no sight line on Sandor, so he dove back inside the car, threw the gearshift into reverse, and nailed the gas.

Sandor managed to take out the rear right tire as Fitzpatrick fired two more blasts from the shotgun, the second spray of buckshot finding its mark. The driver jerked backward and then slumped forward. The car slowed, rolling backward fifty or so yards until it ran off the blacktop where the rear fender hit a tree, bringing it to a stop with the engine still running and the wheels spinning in the dirt.

“Damnit,” Sandor called as he and Fitzpatrick moved cautiously toward the vehicle. “We needed one of them alive.”

“Sorry,” the young agent said. “I thought he had a bead on you.”

“Well then, I guess I’m glad you shot him.” Sandor remained low as he approached. “Just be careful now. You never know what surprises they have in store.”

Sandor had his pistol extended as he moved closer to the passenger side, Fitzpatrick coming from the front. Sandor kept low, first checking the man on the ground. “This one is dead,” he called out.

“I think the guy in the car is a goner too,” Fitz said.

Just as Sandor called out, “Don’t be too sure,” the driver yanked his head up and opened fire at Fitzpatrick. The agent managed to lunge for safety as Sandor fired two shots, the first knocking the man’s weapon away, the second catching him in the shoulder. “Any more bullshit,” Sandor barked, “and the next two are in your head. Now get out of the car.”

“I can’t move,” the man groaned, his accent thick and his words slurred with pain.

“Tough shit, pal. You picked the fight, now get out. Ah, ah, ah, keep your hands where I can see them. You touch that gearshift again and you’re dead.”

The man paused for a moment, then turned slowly to his left and fell out onto the ground.

Fitzpatrick got to his feet and began moving forward again.

“Hold it,” Sandor ordered. “He might still have a gun. Or a grenade.” Sandor circled around the back of the car, making sure there was no one else inside. Then he came up from behind, still keeping several yards between them. “Who are you?”

“Drop dead,” the man hissed.

“No need to be unpleasant.”

The Iranian turned on his side and stared up. “You are Sandor?”

“I told you, keep your hands in sight. That’s better. Now, I’ll tell you who I am after you tell me who you are.”

“Go to hell.”

“Let me explain something,” he said. “This can only go one of three ways. I can shoot you in the head. I can leave you here to die slowly. Or we can get you some medical attention if you’re willing to cooperate. All I want to know is who you are and what you’re after.”

The man was obviously in pain, but he managed a grim smile. “You are wrong,” he said.

“About what?”

“About everything,” the man responded, his voice barely a whisper. Then he murmured, “Allahu Akbar,” and stopped moving.

Byrnes had gotten out of the Lincoln and was standing beside Fitzpatrick now. They watched as Sandor stepped forward and kicked the man, hard in the side. “Damn,” Sandor said.

“Dead?” the Deputy Director asked.

“Completely.” Sandor bent down and checked the man’s pockets. There were no grenades, no self-immolation devices, only a wallet with some identification. Sandor held it up to the light from the dashboard in the car. “Probably phony,” he said. “We’ll check it out.”

“What was this about?” Byrnes asked. “He knew your name.”

“He certainly did.” Sandor leaned into the car and found the brief dossier with his photo on the floor. He held it up for Byrnes to see. “Welcome to my world. How do you like field action, sir?”

“Not much,” Byrnes said. He was not smiling. “Iranians?”

“Appears so.”

“I thought the Iranians weren’t involved.”

Sandor shook his head. “Maybe they’re not. Maybe they were just looking for a way to get to Jaber. Or to me.”

“Let’s go talk to Jaber.”

“Splendid idea, sir.” Sandor looked at Fitzpatrick. “You okay Fitz?”

He nodded.

“Well, I think we’re done here. Call this in and let’s drive on.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

BAYTOWN REFINERY, BAYTOWN, TEXAS

T
HE HEAD OF
security at the Baytown refinery, a former Army colonel name of Patrick Janssen, had his hands full. The feds were all over him with warnings of possible sabotage at the plant. The head of tech support was reporting a possible breach of the classified computer program that contained defense information. And now it seemed that one of their line supervisors, Peter Amendola, had gone missing without a trace.

Threats against the Baytown installation were nothing new, but 99 percent of them evaporated without involving a single tangible act. Disgruntled former employees, tree huggers from the left, eco-maniacs from any number of organizations with the word
green
in their titles, and the usual garden variety of crackpots—from time to time they all trumpeted the need to put an end to the refinement and transport of oil along the shore of the Gulf of Mexico. The BP oil disaster had only served to intensify the pressure.

The possibility of sabotage by foreign nationals was less common and more serious. In almost ten years as head of his department he had only dealt with three credible terrorist threats. One fizzled, the other amounted to a series of overseas communications that were intercepted at the source, and the third, the most frightening of the three, resulted in four arrests in Mexico. That last one was just a couple of years back. Janssen still shuddered at the memory of how close those men came to actually launching an attack.

Janssen was proud of his work. He was confident in the complex internal and perimeter defense schemes at the refinery, but he would never agree with the executives in the hierarchy of the company who regarded them as fail-safe. Janssen had spent too much time in the military to believe anything in life was foolproof. As long as people were involved, mistakes were possible.

There were automated systems such as the antimissile shield, high-powered sprinklers, and irrigation pipes that ran throughout the 2,400-acre plant in the event of fire; screens and sloughs in the event of a hurricane; mechanisms that segregated the numerous holding tanks to prevent the inflammation or explosion of one large reservoir from leading to a chain reaction igniting the others; and any number of structures and protocols to stop breaches of the property.

Nevertheless, this was the largest refinery in the United States, and as such it was a time bomb filled with crude oil and processed petroleum products. Safety was always the principal concern, every minute of every day.

“You’re sure someone hacked into the program?” Janssen asked the head of the IT department.

“Not hacked, Pat. I think someone with a lower level of clearance hit it internally.”

They were seated in Janssen’s office, an austere room on the second floor of the administration building, with large windows overlooking what appeared to be an endless sea of circular tanks and enormous cylindrical conduits. “And you think that’s possible.”

“Anything is possible. Since you gave us the alert we’ve been checking every conceivable permutation.”

“I don’t get it,” Janssen said. “If someone got into this data, wouldn’t that come up in the normal course of your security checks?”

“Not necessarily. Whoever this was had the authority to enter the network without leaving a virtual fingerprint. I’m not sure how far they got beyond that. We’re working on it.”

“Well work on it quickly,” Janssen told him, then sent the man on his way.

His next interview concerned Peter Amendola. The director of refinery operations had been present for the previous discussion. Now it was his own turn.

“I thought you said this Amendola is a solid citizen.”

“He is. If he was going to take some time he would let us know. Amendola is not a spur-of-the-moment kind of guy.”

“Uh huh.”

“And then we got a call from his wife.”

Janssen gave him an impatient look that said, “Get on with it.”

“She called yesterday and asked if Amendola had to work the night shift or something. Seems he never got home.”

“Maybe he has a girlfriend.”

“Could be,” the operations director admitted, “kind of guy who keeps to himself, no telling what he might be up to. But she hasn’t heard from him since and he doesn’t answer his cell phone.”

Janssen thought it over. “She been to the police?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Have we?”

“Not yet. Thought it best to start with you, Pat.”

Janssen nodded. “All right. I want you to catch up with them at IT, see if it’s possible this Amendola was our man on the computer.”

“I can tell you for certain he had Level Four clearance.”

“Which means it could have been him.”

“Yes.”

Janssen was sitting straight up in his chair, a posture learned during years in the military service that he was not apt to forget. He laced his fingers together and placed his hands on the desk. “We need to meet with his wife. Anyone see her yet or has this all been on the phone?”

“On the phone. Just me. Again, I figured this was your area.”

“Uh huh. Well, leave me the info, I’ll call her.”