“Yes, it is,” Sandor agreed. “How’s the shoulder?”
“Like a large toothache in my side. I’ll live.”
“So what are your orders?”
“I have been ordered to give you my full cooperation.”
Sandor smiled. “Okay then, can you introduce me to a good-looking blonde in a bikini?”
“Perhaps later, yes? First we should drop your things at the hotel, then I’ll take you to Fort Oscar.”
“I’m going to need my own car at some point.”
“We have arranged that. For now you will ride with me.”
“Perfect,” Sandor replied. “Let’s go.”
————
When they reached Vauchon’s car the Frenchman removed his arm from the sling, assured Sandor that he was fine to drive, then set off for the pleasant ride up and down the hills of St. Jean, along the narrow roads of Lorient and the climb above the Grand Cul-de-Sac. They reminisced about the assignment that brought Sandor here the first time.
“I’m sorry about the circumstances of our reunion.”
“Yes,” Vauchon said somberly. Then, “I heard about Beth. How is she?”
“Recovering.” He paused. “She’s fine physically, but the attack left other scars.”
“I understand. My shoulder, for instance, is the least of my concerns.”
They pulled into the Guanahani resort and Vauchon waited in the car while his friend checked into a beachfront villa. Once inside, Sandor quickly changed into linen slacks and a Tommy Bahama shirt that draped over his drawstring waistband to secrete the Walther he had holstered at the small of his back. He had used the diplomatic papers Byrnes provided to pass his weapons through security in New York and St. Maarten, not wanting to embarrass Vauchon, whose superiors might balk at providing the American a gun on his arrival.
He returned to the car, and they headed back along the same road, past the airport and into Gustavia.
After some pleasantries about the sensational views from almost anywhere on the island and the changes St. Barths had experienced since becoming the “it” place for the rich and famous, Sandor got down to business. “Heard it was a rough fight.”
“It was.”
“They tell me you did well.”
“Not well enough,” Vauchon replied glumly. “Perhaps if we had been more alert there might have been less fighting and more survivors.”
“Way I heard it, you were responsible for saving all the lives that could have been saved. Without you…” he said, then stopped to let the thought hang there a moment.
“I did what I could,” Vauchon said simply. “I only wish I could have done more. Every time I think of those innocent people being held hostage on my watch I get sick to my stomach. I wonder if I did the right thing, the choices I made.”
Sandor nodded, no stranger to second-guessing those split-second decisions that have to be made in combat. “Tell me what happened, from the beginning, everything you saw and heard and did.”
The drive into town did not take long, so when they reached the main port Vauchon pulled the car to a stop along the quay. They sat there as the lieutenant took his time describing the assault on Fort Oscar, giving every detail he could recall about that night. He found Sandor’s questions far more incisive and relevant than his debriefing in Guadeloupe, and he answered all of them. He also decided to share his final exchange with the man he believed had led the assault.
“At the end, after the explosion, there was chaos all around, as I am sure you can imagine. I did the best to help the people below, but once the explosions were ignited there was fire and heat and smoke everywhere.” Sandor watched silently as the man grappled with the memory. “And then one man staggered to the opening by the stairway. He was bloodied and dazed, but I knew his voice from our exchanges. We had spoken over the radio, back and forth, when I tried to convince them to give up. He was on the floor and I dragged him to the stairs, but he knew he was dying. He told me his name was Renaldo. Then he said that he had been betrayed. He told me that his men had not set off the explosives, that it must have been done remotely.”
Sandor waited, still not speaking.
“He said Adina had done this. I believe the name was Adina.”
The recognition in Sandor’s eyes was apparent, so Vauchon went on.
“Then he said something about a bay, or a town by a bay. I tried to get him to speak some more, but that was it. Another explosion rocked us from below. I was thrown to the floor. By the time I got back to him he was dead.”
Sandor leaned back and gazed straight ahead. “Adina,” he said with a nod. “That confirms our intel. And this bay, he didn’t say where, or give a name of a bay, there was nothing else?”
Vauchon shook his head. “No, nothing else, that was all. I’m sorry this information was not made available sooner, but my commanding officer, to whom I gave this report, he is a bit, uh, shall I say, cautious.”
Sandor turned to Vauchon. “Henri, you have absolutely nothing to be sorry about, believe me. I know all about commanding officers. What happened next?”
The Frenchman went on about the evacuation of the survivors and all that followed. When he was done, the sun was low in the sky, and he asked if Sandor would like something to eat or drink before they reached the fort.
“Later,” Sandor said. “I want to see as much as I can in the daylight.”
Vauchon started the car and pulled back onto the road, saying, “I am not sure how much there will be for you to see, with or without light.”
As they drove around Gustavia harbor, the walls of Fort Oscar were visible. What could not be seen, until they pulled up to the parking area just below the fortress and approached the main gate, was the extent of the damage done by the explosions. The guards on duty immediately recognized Vauchon and passed him and his guest through. Once inside the perimeter walls the detritus of the attack was everywhere.
Sandor approached the jagged opening that was once a doorway to the lower levels. “This is it?”
Vauchon nodded. “It may not be safe to use those metal steps. The engineers are still examining the situation.”
“I’ll be all right, you stay here. You’ve drawn me a pretty good map, I’ll find my way.”
The lieutenant had one of his men hand Sandor a flashlight, then stepped aside as the American made his way below.
The lingering smell of burned wiring and plastic and rubber, along with the stench of the charred bodies that had been removed, filled Sandor’s nostrils as he maneuvered down the twisted staircase. One of the metal struts gave way as he neared the bottom, and he managed to grab the handrail and jump the distance of about six stairs to the floor below, just before the steps collapsed beneath him.
“You all right down there?” Vauchon called out when he heard the crash of metal and the thud of Sandor hitting the deck.
“Never better,” came the reply.
Sandor moved forward with the flashlight, entering the remains of what had once been a high-tech computer center and was now just a cave lined with mangled steel and shattered electronic equipment. He had never seen the Fort Oscar communications center when it was in operation, but even if he had, he realized that none of it would be recognizable now.
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 anot
her 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
AHMAD JABER 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.
SANDOR INVITED VAUCHON 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, th
e 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.
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