Targets of Opportunity (44 page)

He sat back and had a look across the calm sea at the
Morning Star
, hoping the hurricane would move in soon, wondering who might suspect that this rusty, nondescript tanker could be the instrument of the deadliest attack in the history of the United States.

Then he smiled, reminding himself how well he had done in leaving nothing to chance.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

SOUTHEASTERN TEXAS

T
HE NIGHT BEFORE
, the large tractor-trailer that had met Francisco and Luis in Bryan, Texas, pulled into a truck stop outside Beaumont, along Interstate 10. All four men stayed on board. They had food, water, a portable toilet facility, and strict orders that none of them was to leave the vehicle until they received further instructions. They spent the night there as many long-distance drivers do and, as other rigs came and went, they remained unnoticed in the rear of this large parking lot.

The two men up front slept in the living area behind the main cabin. When morning broke they passed through the opening to the trailer, joining Luis and Francisco in their compartment. The four of them had met back in Caracas, and they immediately began comparing their impressions of this mission. The one thing upon which they all agreed was that they wanted it over sooner rather than later.

These men were not religious zealots, they were mercenaries. They worked for pay, as they freely acknowledged. They had trained as soldiers, served in the military, and were now using their skills to escape the poverty of their homeland, risking their lives for the promised windfall that would set them up for life.

The driver said, “This hurricane cannot come fast enough, eh?”

The others could not agree more. They had been told they would not be given the command to move until the storm intensified. None of them knew exactly why, and they spent some time guessing at the reasons.

In the end, they all acknowledged that Adina was a master strategist, and whatever reasons he had must be good ones.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

WASHINGTON, D.C.

“B
E CAREFUL WHAT
you wish for,” Mark Byrnes told Ahmad Jaber when he informed him that his request was going to be granted, that he was going to be reunited with his wife.

Jaber responded with a solemn nod. “I understand the risks.”

The Deputy Director was not sure that he did. The issue had been debated at Langley until Byrnes could not bear any more discussion on the subject. There were still a host of unanswered questions about Jaber but, in the end, Director Walsh made the call and, as usual, determined that the most obvious explanation was usually the correct one.

“Occam’s razor,” Walsh said, invoking one of his favorite expressions. “Jaber defects, but has given us very little. His wife is captured by the IRGC, then released. She is either working for them to get to Jaber or she and her husband are working together on some elaborate disinformation scheme we have yet to decipher. Either way, we will never get any further than we already have until we put them together. The simplest solution is the best, am I right?” He did not await a reply, looking to his deputy. “And you have said yourself that time is running out if Jaber is going to have any more value to us as we try to intercept whatever Adina and his cohorts have in store.”

“If we put him on the street, I believe he will be killed.”

Walsh fixed his steely gaze on Byrnes. “As your man Sandor would say, ‘So what?’ Jaber is a murderer of innocent people. He has sought refuge here because his gang of IRGC cutthroats wants him dead. He offers us only snippets of information, in return for which he expects a lifetime of support and protection. What rubbish. The man has demanded to see his wife, so let him see her. It’s your job to monitor who does what here, am I right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You give him the best protection possible, that’s all we owe him.”

And so, as Byrnes delivered the news to Jaber, he felt a mix of guilt and relief. On some level, he knew he was exposing the Iranian, and likely his wife, to an attempt on their lives. On the other hand, he, like Walsh, needed to know. If there was something else to learn from or through Jaber, time was indeed short.

The Deputy Director stood there, staring at the Iranian. “I hope you understand the risks, Ahmad,” Byrnes said, using the man’s given name for the first time. “I truly hope you do. My government is not able to guarantee your safety. Or your wife’s.”

The Iranian nodded again. “You have done your duty,” he said. “Let’s go.”

As they left the grounds of the safe house and drove into D.C., Jaber wondered if he would ever see this place again.

Then, he decided, it didn’t matter.

During these long days, spent almost entirely alone, he had time to contemplate his life in ways he had never before done. He was always a man of action, not reflection, a man defined by his beliefs, unquestioning in his pursuit of justice for his people. He even saw the deaths of his only two children as justified in the context of those values. While he mourned the loss of his sons, he knew their sacrifice was worthy of a greater cause.

Over the years he had never wavered in his convictions, at least not until now.

It was too late for him to regret his decisions or to feel remorse for the countless lives he had stolen from the young and innocent. It would have been utter hypocrisy. Yet he wondered at the overriding futility of all he had done, and the faithless end that had become his destiny.

For these past two weeks he had entrusted himself to the protection of the very infidels he was sworn to destroy. Now he faced the possibility of execution by those he had devoted his life to serving. And this man, this Mark Byrnes, actually appeared sorry to subject him to that risk.

Where was the sense in all of that? The order? Where was the guiding hand of Allah?

He spoke the truth when he told Byrnes that he understood the risks. He actually welcomed them, because there was no other way for him to resolve these conflicts, no other way for him to reconcile his life.

————

When Rasa Jaber was told she would be allowed to see her husband she felt a sudden flash of joy that was quickly replaced by fear.

I am not prepared for this, she told herself. I am not prepared.

She longed to see him, of course, but her excitement was tempered by anger. Sitting alone in the hotel room she imagined how he would behave, how she would react, hoping there was some explanation he could offer for what he had done that would allow her to forgive him.

And then she thought of the phone number she had been given by the IRGC.

They told her the Americans could not be trusted. Her husband could not be trusted. Only her countrymen could protect her. As soon as contact was to be made with Ahmad she was to let them know. They would take care of everything, they would bring her and Ahmad home. They would sort it all out there, in Tehran. Just call the phone number they had her commit to memory. Call us and you will be safe.

Rasa sat in the chair at the small writing table, staring straight ahead and wondering,
What should I do?

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

BAYTOWN REFINERY

S
ANDOR HAD THE
pilot fly the helicopter back to the plant, then told him to stand ready to leave again shortly.

“Skies are getting pretty bad.”

Sandor nodded. “I won’t be long.”

Inside, Sandor found that Banahan had been joined by several local agents from Homeland Security, the FBI, and a technical support team. Janssen was continuing to give his full cooperation. Sandor asked for some privacy, and everyone except Banahan and Janssen cleared out of the office.

“What have we got?” Banahan asked.

“I’m not sure,” Sandor admitted, “but let’s try to piece a few things together.” He described his interviews with the three young people at Coulter Airfield.

“So,” Janssen summarized, “someone flew into town under the radar, dropped off God knows what, then flew out leaving behind two men and the goods to be loaded on a specially fitted tractor-trailer that had separate doors on the side.”

“Right. And the crates were not large but very heavy, as in possibly lead lined.”

“Which means nuclear, is where you’re going,” the former colonel observed with a grim look.

“That’s where I’m going.”

“Damnit,” Janssen roared, slamming a flat palm hard onto his desktop. “It just can’t be that friggin’ easy to bring a nuke into this country.”

“I’m afraid it can, sir. That’s why I wanted to speak to you two alone before we create a panic here.” They were standing around Janssen’s desk, and now Sandor began pacing back and forth across the small room. “There’s something else nagging at me here. As I told them in Washington, everything has pointed to Baytown, right from the beginning. It was almost too easy to follow the trail here.”

“What are you saying, son?”

“I’m saying maybe that truck is not heading here. I’m saying maybe that truck is heading somewhere else.”

There was a knock on the door and all three men turned. Banahan let one of his agents in, who promptly announced that the team had arrived at Coulter Airfield. “The preliminary reports are positive,” he told them.

“For radiation?” Banahan asked.

“That’s affirmative. Traces were found, particularly in the area they identified as the loading point.”

“What about the kids?” Sandor asked.

“Clean so far, but they’re taking all three to the hospital.”

“Good. You keep this to yourself for now, and that’s an order.”

The agent nodded, then shut the door behind him.

Sandor turned to the others. “Any questions?”

————

All branches of the military had been warned. The Coast Guard had patrol boats running back and forth along the Gulf Coast. The Navy had several destroyers in the area from the Ingleside Naval Station. The Air Force and Air National Guard were on standby.

But the Gulf of Mexico is an enormous area to cover, the ninth-largest body of water in the world. The United States coastline alone runs more than 1,600 miles. And the weather was getting worse.

As Hurricane Charlene continued its destructive path northwest through the Bahamas and into the Gulf, the more difficult it would become to stay in the air and monitor movements at sea.

The Coast Guard was the main watchdog for the Gulf, or GOMEX as it is referred to by the military. Using their computerized Automatic Identification System they were able to monitor all ships in the navigable area. As a requirement of the International Maritime Organization, every ship entering the Gulf had to radio in its identification numbers, indicating country of registry, and would have to report its course, speed, type of vessel, as well as ports of departure and destination. Foreign ships were also required to give advance notification before being allowed to enter a port of call.

Hurricane conditions would complicate matters, especially if they were going to be dealing with a rogue craft. The Coast Guard had various classes of vessels, many of which were agile and fast and all of which were armed with Automatic Identification Systems and radar. At the moment, as the skies darkened and the first rains arrived on the front edge of the fast-moving storm, Sandor’s concerns about the weather were complicated by another fear that simply would not go away.

At his request, Janssen had tied together a conference call with the Police Commissioner in Houston, the Chief of Police in Baytown, and the Captain of the State Highway Patrol.

They all knew Janssen and, given the nature of his responsibilities, he was treated with appropriate respect. They also knew he was not someone who was going to flash this sort of SOS unless there was a damn good reason.

Janssen offered a preamble, describing what they might be up against, then introduced Sandor.

“Let me get right to it,” Sandor said into the speakerphone on Janssen’s desk. “In my business we’re often asked to look for the proverbial needle in a haystack, and that’s what I’m asking each of you to help me do today. The Navy and Coast Guard are doing their best to cover the coastline, but my concern is the truck Colonel Janssen has described to you. It picked up its cargo more than thirty hours ago at Coulter Airfield and could be almost anywhere by now. It could be hidden in a warehouse right down the street, it could be on the road, it could even have its markings changed. It could have offloaded the goods or it could be in Tennessee, we just have no way of knowing. But I can tell you this, gentlemen, I have reason to believe it’s carrying a deadly cargo, and if we don’t intercept it there’s going to be hell to pay.”

The Houston Police Commissioner identified himself, then asked, “You have any idea at all where they might be truckin’ this stuff?”

Sandor looked at Banahan and Janssen. “I wish I did, but I don’t. All I have is a guess.”

“Better than nothing,” one of the other voices suggested.

Sandor nodded his agreement, then said, “From the beginning of this intelligence operation, we’ve been led to believe a terrorist attack is being aimed at the Baytown refinery. That, of course, is the first possibility for the destination of these explosives. But if you want my guess, I think there might be another target in play.” Sandor paused, but none of them spoke. “You’re all in law enforcement, and you all know that sometimes the best clues are the least reliable. You also understand that bad information is more damaging than no information at all. My concern is that we may have been led to Baytown for a reason. These terrorists are evil, but they’re not stupid and they’re not careless. Landing that cargo in Bryan may even be part of the scheme. Drop the goods off at an airstrip near enough to Baytown to have us believe they’re part of this assault. But what if they’re headed someplace else entirely? What if we’re concentrating our attention and resources here while they’re targeting a different location?”