Targets of Opportunity

by Jeffrey S. Stephens

  “You can’t touch me,” the reporter said.

  “No? Listen, Joe College, I can kill you and toss you in a hole so deep they’ll never find you.” Then Sandor took him by the throat, shoving him hard against the wall, driving him off his feet onto his toes. “If anything happens to my men because of this, there’s nothing they’ll suffer that I won’t triple for you, you understand me, you little weasel?”

  “Jordan!” Sternlich shouted as Donaldson began to gag.

  Sandor was still staring into the reporter’s terrified eyes. “If you print anything that screws up the exchange of my men for Kim’s minister, I promise you, you’ll answer to me.” Sandor let him down and the young man grabbed at his throat.

  “I’m going to file charges against you, you Neanderthal.”

  Sandor laughed in his face. “And say what? That you’re such a pussy you pissed all over yourself?”

  Donaldson looked down at the wet stain on the front of his pants, then threw the door open and ran from the room.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Sternlich demanded.

  “Maybe,” Sandor replied angrily. “But I’ve still got two MIA I need to get back and I don’t want this little piece of shit causing an international incident that’ll end up with my men evaporating into the North Korean ether. If we don’t have deniability, we’ll have no bargaining chip with Pyongyang. You understand what’s at stake here, Bill?”

  “I think I do, Jordan, but there are proper ways to handle things and this isn’t one of them.”

  “It is in my world. I need to know where he got his information. There’s a leak, and I’m going to have to plug it fast.”

  “I’m telling you, this isn’t the way. All you’re doing is making things worse.”

  “Really? Well trust me on this, if I see one line in your daily rag about me or my men or any connection we have to North Korea, your staff is going to be short one obnoxious little reporter.”

  “You’re out of control.”

  “No I’m not, I know exactly what I’m doing,” Sandor told him. Then, without another word, he stormed out of the office, found his way to the elevators, and rode down to the lobby, a smile on his face all the way.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  TORTOLA, BRITISH VIRGIN ISLANDS

  ADINA WAS SEATED comfortably on the upper deck of the yacht Misty II as it rocked gently at anchor in Fat Hogs Bay on the eastern side of the island of Tortola. He was entertaining two honored guests.

  Antonio Bastidas was a key player in the Chavez regime. He had traveled from Caracas to join the entourage gathered in this idyllic setting to plot the destruction of the American oil industry. He was a short man in his early fifties with coarse features, a pockmarked complexion, and a crude affect that was in stark contrast to Adina’s elegant style.

  Eric Silfen had been born and raised in Argentina, of German descent. Tall and thin and nearing sixty, he had thinning gray hair, a slightly stooped posture, and wire-rimmed spectacles that all worked together to promote the appearance of a world-weary college professor. In fact, he was a gifted scientist with an expertise in, and almost spiritual devotion to, nuclear and conventional explosive devices.

  As soon as the steward finished serving their beverages and disappeared belowdecks, Bastidas got right to the point. “Are you concerned at all about the incident in North Korea?”

  Adina responded with a slight tilt of his head, as if considering the idea. “It means nothing,” he said. “We should monitor that situation, of course, but our preparations are right on schedule. Timing is critical.”

  “No need to move faster, just in case?”

  “In case of what?”

  “In case the Americans learned anything,” he responded impatiently.

  Adina treated them to his thin-lipped smile. “What could they have learned? They’re still chasing their tails in St. Maarten and St. Barths. Who would possibly be looking at the Gulf Coast?”

  Bastidas, one of Chavez’s pit bulls, was not so easily assuaged. “After their disaster with the BP oil spill, they’re always looking at the Gulf Coast.”

  “Their environmental zealots are looking, not their military.”

  “But we have no way of knowing if this team of American assassins got to anyone in Pyongyang with information that might compromise our plans. Can you be so certain they did not?”

  “Certain? No. But what could our Asian friends have told them? We are the only ones with knowledge of the ultimate targets here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The indulgent smile reappeared. “It was I who traveled to meet with the North Koreans, and I imparted to them the limited outline of our intentions. Our ally is satisfied that we will act with appropriate ferocity, that is enough for them to know.” He paused to take a sip of his drink. “I have also been informed that two of these assassins, as you call them, have been captured. We will know very soon if any breach has occurred.”

  That news seemed to placate Bastidas, at least for the moment. He sat back and had a gulp of his mojito.

  Turning to Silfen, Adina said, “Shall we review the preliminary details?”

  The Argentine-cum-German reached for the leather satchel beside his chair and removed several charts, laying them out on the large table before them. “As you know, we have determined that a nuclear strike is not practical. Although we may yet have access to one or more RA-115s, the likelihood of detection is too great.”

  “RA-115?” Bastidas repeated.

  “Yes, the so-called suitcase nuclear bombs, some of which were developed in the Soviet Union. There are still more than a hundred on the black market, but the level of radiation leakage makes them easy to identify. It is too difficult to transport them without discovery. There is also the RA-115-01, which is the submersible version, but again we face the problem of transport. Not to mention that all of these are older weapons and many of them have leaked so badly as to become ineffective.”

  “Ineffective?”

  “Duds, as the expression goes.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Quite,” Silfen replied to the Venezuelan, his tone making it clear that he was always serious when discussing weapons. “In order for these devices to remain potent they need to remain attached to a power source or risk the loss of their potency. Wherever they were stored, keeping them hot-wired for all these years would have made them dangerous, not to mention, again, easily detected.”

  “I assume you are proposing a viable alternative?”

  “Of course. Back in 2004, the Ahmadinejad regime experimented with underground, implosion-type devices. The North Koreans provided some of the technology for those tests, which took place in the Iranian desert. The trials would have gone unnoticed, but Kim insisted that the last one include a nuclear component. The West became incensed, the International Atomic Energy Agency stepped in, all testing was halted.”

  “But the results were successful?”

  “Extremely,” Silfen assured him. “The most interesting result was the manner in which these explosions reacted underground.” He pointed to the first chart and all three men leaned forward to review a drawing composed of various waves accompanied by numbers indicating the force of the expanding blast. “There is a mechanism known as a high-voltage detonator which can be joined to an EBW. That’s exploding bridgewire,” he explained without looking up. “When properly positioned the result is a series of shock waves that can approximate an earthquake or cause a tidal wave, or both, depending on the size of the charge and where it is deployed.”

  “So,” Bastidas said, “if we can launch these underground, near the refineries in the Gulf of Mexico…”

  “We can utterly destroy both facilities,” Silfen finished the thought.

  “And,” Adina added, “it may even be possible to make it look as if it is a natural disaster. This is certainly not crucial to the result, but it may help to add to the initial chaos.”

  Bastidas was confused again, and said so
.

  “You see, my friend, as I said to you earlier, it is all about timing.” Adina was clearly pleased with this aspect of his plan. “We are within days of the first hurricane of the season in the Gulf of Mexico. As you have likely heard there is already a tropical gale forming off to our southeast. In the next week there are predictions of more intense storms and, hopefully, we will see the usual series of hurricanes veering into the Gulf. We don’t need anything reaching the power of Hugo or even the recent assault of Ike on those coastal towns. A normal Category One hurricane should be quite sufficient to cover our tracks and, if it does not, there will be little remaining of our efforts to give the Americans any way to credibly fix the blame. They will have suspicions and accusations, of course, but the damage will have been done. That is the main thing.”

  Bastidas continued to study the first chart, as if there were something else he should understand. He finally sat back, lifted his cocktail, and said, “Surely these refineries have defenses in place for this sort of attack.”

  “Surely,” Adina agreed pleasantly. “But we have three advantages in our little chess match. First, we are in the process of gathering inside information on those security mechanisms. Second, by taking out the communications center in Fort Oscar we have damaged the surveillance capabilities of the American military in the area. Not crippled them, I admit, but at least slowed them down. They still have naval reconnaissance and satellite capability, but we have helped our cause.” He paused to take a sip of his cocktail.

  “You said three,” Bastidas reminded him.

  “Ah yes. With Fort Oscar down, we can deliver these charges by submarine. It will be far more difficult for them to detect our movements until it is too late to prevent the attack.”

  “Submarine?”

  Adina offered up another version of his thin-lipped smile. “A nice touch, don’t you think?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  MARAND, IRAN

  AFTER THREE DAYS in custody Rasa Jaber was beyond hope. Her husband had fled to the United States without her. Her captors refused to believe she had no knowledge of his defection or the reasons behind it. Her life had become a jumble of fear, disappointment, isolation, and betrayal.

  She sat on the cement floor of a windowless cell, her arms clutched tightly around her knees as she hunched in the corner, struggling to make sense of all this. After the initial interrogation, which had lasted more than twenty-four uninterrupted hours, she was tossed into this hole and left here. Alone. Stripped naked, she felt the rough concrete against the tender skin of her bottom every time she moved, a reminder of the utter degradation she was suffering. They had not tortured her. They had not beaten her. They had simply deprived her of her dignity and of any human contact. Her food, such as it was, came through a slot in the large, thick metal door once a day, or what she guessed to be once a day. She had no idea how long she had been there. She existed in total darkness, without sanitation or running water. It was warm and dank and she was sickened by the foul odor of the tiny room.

  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.

  JORDAN SANDOR 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 inqu
ired 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.”