Targets of Opportunity

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Targets of Opportunity Page 26

by Jeffrey S. Stephens


  “Nice outfit,” Jordan observed pleasantly. Vauchon began to say something, but Sandor added, “I forget which philosopher said, ‘That which is offered for view should be admired,’ or something like that.”

  Stefanie responded with an appreciative smile. “A philosopher said that?”

  Sandor shook his head. “I actually just made it up. So, do we have any coffee around here?”

  By the time the sun had climbed above the blue expanse of the Caribbean, the compound at Pointe Milou was populated with men from Byrnes’s CIA team, an NSA advisor, two soldiers under Vauchon’s command, and a French port security officer.

  Stefanie was more than cooperative, making the coffee, squeezing fresh orange juice, and laying out croissants as well as baguettes with ham and brie. As she confessed to Vauchon, she was more than pleased to have “those people” gone.

  Vauchon gave her no explanation of what had become of her guests and Sandor was careful not to allow her near the first bedroom, where the corpse and prisoner yet remained. He also asked Vauchon not to call in the coroner or local authorities, not yet anyway. He didn’t want some officious French bureaucrat taking Jorge into custody and interfering with his singular style of interrogation—at least not before the eleven o’clock call to Adina. Vauchon had summoned two men he trusted, assigning one to stand guard over Jorge and the other to block the entrance to the villa.

  “You are going to get me in trouble, Mr. Sandor.”

  Sandor clapped him on the shoulder. “No way, Henri. You’re a local hero. For the time being I’m counting on the mileage that’ll get us.”

  Sandor turned his attention back to the girl. “Tell me about the people who were here, why you didn’t like them.”

  Stefanie told them that the men who arrived first did not allow her inside the main compound to fulfill her customary duties overseeing the cleaning and maintenance of the place. She explained that this villa, Villa du Vent, was one of the priciest on the island, and the owners were particular about its upkeep, not to mention the guests their broker allowed.

  Sandor laughed. “I would say your broker needs to upgrade its vetting process.”

  Stefanie was not sure what he was saying, but smiled anyway.

  “What else?”

  The girl began in English, but quickly reverted to French, Vauchon providing the translation as Sandor gazed into her eyes, trying for the moment to decide if they would be called sea green or aqua.

  “It seems there was something of a revolving door policy that made her uncomfortable,” the lieutenant explained. “Other men showed up last week but did not stay. These men only arrived two days ago.”

  “Just after the attack on Fort Oscar.”

  “Yes,” Vauchon said.

  Sandor excused himself with a smile at Stefanie, then led Vauchon to the edge of the large deck. “Which means our friend Adina really did send a cleanup squad. But why? Why take the risk?”

  Vauchon shook his head. “Perhaps this man Jorge is telling the truth.”

  “Yes, they want to know what we’re doing here. Which means the fact we’ve taken Jorge and disposed of his friend is information we definitely don’t want Adina to have.”

  Vauchon replied with a perplexed look. “I am not used to this sort of intrigue, my friend.”

  “Well I am, and I know about Adina,” Sandor said. “He has no conscience about sacrificing his own men.”

  Vauchon nodded solemnly. “Exactly what that man Renaldo was trying to tell me that night at the fort. He and his team had been betrayed.”

  “By the remote detonation of the explosives,” Sandor said, finishing the thought. “That’s typical of how Adina operates. So he sent these two on a recon mission. If they get him any valuable information that’s a bonus. If we catch them it tells him something about how far along we’ve gotten in our investigation. Maybe even how close we are to reaching him.” He looked over at the attractive young woman. “If we don’t let him know they’ve been taken, he’ll assume he’s just that much farther ahead of us, n’est-ce pas?”

  Vauchon winced at the butchered pronunciation. “Yes,” the lieutenant agreed, “but it would be easier on my ears if you stayed with the English.”

  “All right,” Sandor agreed with a shrug. “So when Jorge calls in today we’ll let Adina think his boys are still on the loose.”

  “What if he refuses? Or tries to warn this Adina when they speak?”

  Sandor shrugged, then began walking back to Stefanie. “Then I’ll kill him,” he said. Reaching the girl, he asked, “You busy for dinner tonight? Henri thinks I need to work on my French.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  BAYTOWN, TEXAS

  PETER AMENDOLA STAYED late at the refinery, waiting until it was dark before locking his office and heading off to the parking lot. Several of the men had gone for a quick beer at a local pub, but, as usual, Amendola was no part of that after-hours camaraderie. They had long ago given up on inviting him along.

  He climbed into his Ford Explorer and headed past the gatehouse to the turnoff for West Main. Then he doubled back on Lee Drive and made a left onto Market Street, doing his best to see if anyone was following him. That’s a laugh, he told himself, realizing there was little chance he would be able to spot a professional on his tail. Still, he followed a circular route until he reached North Civic Drive and approached N. C. Foote Park.

  There was no indication that anyone at work suspected him, as he had smuggled paperwork out of the plant. Yet in the past twenty-four hours he noticed an increased level of security at the refinery. It could have been his imagination or simple coincidence, but there certainly appeared to be additional guards on duty and a heightened sense of urgency at the various checkpoints.

  The information he had previously passed on was fairly harmless, but this new data about defense systems was another matter entirely. It had been difficult for him to gain access to the schematics, and given the encryptions built into the computer systems and the vigilance of the security precautions, he had to believe they would detect the breach sooner or later. He only hoped they would not trace it back to him. Given the activity he observed today he was glad he had already removed the paperwork. The real question was, were they about to catch up with him? It had been over thirty-six hours since he managed to gain access to the information and that was enough time for them to trace his clearance numbers. His fingerprints were all over the use of the access codes, literally and in cyber-tracks. For a moment it occurred to him that it might actually be a relief if, instead of heading off to make the drop, he was greeted by the authorities and hauled away. But he made his way out and was now traveling the last stretch of North Civic without interruption.

  His anxiety tonight was intensified not only by the sensitivity of the information he was carrying, but because of the instructions he received for this meeting. All of his previous drop-offs had been in Bicentennial Park. This evening they called for the exchange in Foote Park. This worried him. To use his wife’s expression, it worried him mightily.

  They had never insisted on a nighttime drop before. Up to now Amendola would take a morning run and leave his packages in a designated trash can or behind a specified tree, never venturing far from the jogging paths that crisscrossed through Bicentennial. He was more comfortable in broad daylight. At night he would have no chance to see who might be lurking in the dark, whether it was one of them or someone from security at the plant.

  When Amendola told his handler that he was less than happy with this new arrangement, his contact made it clear these instructions were not negotiable. Amendola was left with no choice but to agree since, as he reminded himself, “They know where to find me.”

  He considered arriving early, while there was still light, searching for some position of advantage, but he knew better. He knew if he were spotted the consequences could be dire. He decided he had best start off by following their orders.

  As he pulled the car to a stop at the curb near
Civic Circle he repeated that last thought to himself.

  Just do as they say.

  He stared out the windshield, wondering how in hell he had dug himself in so deep. They had the names and photos of his entire family, proof of him making drops and picking up cash, and, most damning of all, they were holding the actual data he had already supplied them. He felt his chest tighten as he struggled to take a deep breath. Then he turned the engine off and sat there without moving.

  There was nowhere to run, he knew that. What could he do to them? Who could he tell? How could he harm them? He was the one who had his neck in the noose. He didn’t even know who the hell they were. There was only the possibility they would take these new plans and just let him go.

  He had done his best to prepare. He had the papers in a brown envelope on the passenger seat beside him. Before he picked it up, he opened the center console and pulled out his Smith & Wesson .38 revolver.

  He shook his head as he stared down at the gun. These bastards were professionals. He knew his life meant nothing to them. They had threatened the lives of his wife and children. They were prepared to murder innocents to get what they wanted. And here he was, with a .38 revolver, as if he were going to be able to stop them. His face tensed, a grim mask of realization. There was nothing heroic in Peter Amendola. He was not interested in stopping anyone. He was only interested in survival.

  He lifted the S&W and shoved it into his jacket pocket, picked up the envelope and opened the car door, then began his walk into the park.

  Amendola had no trouble finding the path they described. He plodded slowly along toward the train tracks that ran along the northern edge of the park. To his surprise there was plenty of illumination from the lampposts along the trail of packed dirt, at least in this area closest to the road. It was quiet, and he listened to the crunching sound of his boots on the ground, not breaking stride as he dropped the envelope in the second waste can he passed. Then he turned left as the path veered toward the interior of the park and he headed up a knoll, the darkness closing in on him now as he got farther from the lamplights and nearer the appointed rendezvous.

  When he reached the crest of the hill he could see there were three men waiting. Amendola was surprised that his contact was one of them. For some inexplicable reason he never expected his handler to be there. His contact had always seemed so corporate. Amendola had imagined a tougher type for this sort of encounter and the other two men were more of that ilk—broader, less refined looking and, even in the dark, more sinister.

  “Good evening, Peter,” his contact said.

  Amendola nodded.

  “The papers?”

  “We need to talk first.”

  The contact, who was leaning against a tree, took a step forward. “We’re not here to have a conversation, Peter. We’re here to exchange information for money.” He reached into his sport coat pocket and took out an envelope.

  Amendola managed a grim smile. “Three of you just to exchange cash for papers?”

  “Where is the package, Peter?”

  “I want you to leave my family alone. They have nothing to do with this.”

  The contact nodded. “Is that it?”

  “What are you going to do with me?”

  The contact sighed. “Isn’t it a bit late for you to be worried about that?”

  Amendola blinked. He was standing with his hands in the pockets of his zipper jacket, his right hand clutching the revolver. “I can’t hurt you. I don’t even know who the hell you are. If I ever breathed a word of this to anyone I’d spend the rest of my life in jail.”

  The contact appeared to be thinking this over. Then, with growing impatience, he said, “We know all of that, Peter.”

  “Why not just leave me alone. Keep your money. Just take what you want and let me be.”

  “Let me have the papers, Peter.”

  Amendola drew a deep breath. “I don’t have them. Not with me.”

  The contact shook his head. “There are two things I must be wary of in my line of work. The first is conscience, the unfortunate possibility that someone’s innate greed might be overtaken by a fit of remorse or an attack of latent morality. I was never worried about that with you. From the moment we chose you, we felt confident you were the sort of man who would, shall we say, stick to his principles.” He paused, but no one else spoke. “The second problem is more complicated in its way. It can arise from a combination of fear or greed or stupidity which leads to a lack of truthfulness. It appears we have reached that crossroad in our relationship.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Amendola saw a fourth man coming up the hill from the left. He was holding the envelope. “Here it is,” the man said.

  “Under the circumstances, Peter, did you really think we were going to allow you to enter this park unwatched? You might have brought the authorities. Or a meddling friend. You might even have armed yourself, as indeed you have. Please remove your hands from your jacket. Without the gun, of course.”

  Amendola did not move.

  “Foolish of you, stashing the envelope that way. I thought we had a fair arrangement, you and I.”

  “You have what you came for,” Amendola said, surprised to hear the timbre of his voice weaken.

  His contact took the envelope from the other man. He opened it and, with a small penlight, had a quick glance at the papers. “Yes,” he agreed, “it appears we have what we came for.”

  Without another word, the two men who were standing on either side of the contact raised their silenced automatics and opened fire. Amendola barely managed to get the gun out of his pocket, squeezing off two random shots as he fell to the ground.

  “Damn,” the contact said as he stepped forward and kicked Amendola’s revolver out of his hand. “We didn’t need the fireworks, gentlemen. Now let’s get moving before we have company.”

  Amendola stared up at him. “You were going to kill me anyway,” he gasped.

  The contact nodded slowly. “If it’s any consolation, yes, that is so.”

  Those were the last words Amendola heard. The last thing he saw were the two assassins silently approaching. One was leveling a pistol at his head. The other was carrying a large black plastic bag he would use to remove Amendola’s body from the scene.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  TORTOLA, B.V.I.

  THE CREW OF the Misty II prepared to depart from the placid lagoon along the shore of Tortola. As Adina had predicted, tropical storms were gaining intensity in the southeastern Caribbean and he needed to advance his preparations.

  His team had reported in from Texas, confirming they were now in possession of the information describing the perimeter defenses of the Baytown refinery. As expected, the design was similar in configuration to the fortifications used at other major facilities. Although the data obtained from Amendola provided less than the total specifications, they contained enough to enable their plan.

  Adina also heard from the group that had begun their journey in Tehran, the men with whom Seyed Asghari had worked until he betrayed them to Ahmad Jaber. This cell was charged with obtaining low-yield nuclear materials similar in type to those employed in the tests jointly performed by North Korea and Iran a few years back. The materials had ultimately been obtained, not in Iran, but in Kazakhstan. They were secured with the aid of men from Kim’s allegedly defunct nuclear program.

  Over the years, officials from the Soviet Union—and then Russia—issued repeated denials that these “suitcase nukes” ever existed. When the highly placed GRU operative Stanislav Lunev defected to the West, he put an end to all efforts by Vladimir Putin and his subordinates to persuade the world that these bombs had never been built. Lunev gave irrefutable details about their composition, including the legendary RA-115s and, more importantly for Adina’s purposes, the submersible RA-115-01s. Not only did these devices exist, Lunev explained, but the location of many could no longer be accounted for by the Russian government. The nightmare scenarios became almost e
ndless, with the ultimate fear being the likelihood that they would fall into the hands of terrorists.

  Some of the raw materials in these devices were used in the tests conducted in the Syrian desert by the DPRK, as it experimented with techniques it had developed at its Yongbyon nuclear reactor. The CIA confirmed both the tests and the sources of the enriched nuclear material and, in 2008, the United States negotiated and paid for the destruction of that facility with the nominal cooperation of Kim’s regime. What could not be confirmed was a real end to Kim’s efforts to utilize nuclear weapons if and when he chose to do so.

  The men Adina had assigned to this part of his operation, Francisco and Luis, reported that they had now acquired sufficient firepower to implement the plan. They would deliver the first shipment to Cuba, then another directly into southeast Texas.

  ————

  As the captain of the Misty II ordered his men to weigh anchor and set a course to the south, Adina was joined on deck by his chief technical consultant, Eric Silfen, and the liaison from Caracas, Antonio Bastidas. After bringing them up to date on the latest developments, he returned to the business at hand. Laying out a large map before them, the three men had a look at the geography of the greater Houston area.

 

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