He stepped forward, took the offered drink, then had a sip.
“I am so glad you brought me to here,” she said in her broken English. “I did not want to stay there. So many police. And that man they took away, who was dead,” she added with a slight shudder. “Horrible,” she said in French.
Sandor grinned. “Is that the only reason you were happy to stay here?”
With a flick of her left wrist, she threw back the sheet on his side of the bed, then gave the mattress a pat.
Sandor had to meet Leo and Vauchon in less than an hour and then make his charter flight home. But what the hell, he told himself as he dropped the towel and climbed in beside her. There’s time for everything if you plan carefully.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
IF CIA DIRECTOR Michael Walsh ever drew up a list of My Favorite People, Sandor knew he was never going to make the roll, but he believed they at least shared a mutual respect. The problem with the Washington bureaucracy is that the chiefs are not elected, they are appointed, and the Indians they lead are neither elected nor appointed, but hired, with all of the attendant longevity and job security that makes the government so impossibly slow to move and so difficult to change.
When a man like Walsh is made head of Central Intelligence he has neither the right nor the ability to go out and replace his entire workforce. He inherits them, just as a new football coach is stuck with the team already in place. He can certainly appoint some assistants, make a few changes to the roster, and show favoritism to those most closely attuned to his own style and ethos. But in the end, he becomes the leader of a team he had no role in choosing.
This is true whether dealing with the Department of the Treasury or the Department of the Interior. It is particularly troublesome when tackling the leadership role in any of the branches handling intelligence, security, or law enforcement, since these organizations involve a unique array of problems, responsibilities, and, inevitably, personalities.
To Walsh’s credit, he had held his position through the administrations of two presidents, which may speak more about his facility at playing politics than running the Agency. He was a “by the book” manager who despised any knee-jerk decisions and devoted his professional life to ensuring no one in his charge ever did anything to embarrass him.
Hence his less than enthusiastic view of Jordan Sandor.
Walsh knew Sandor’s importance to the Company, having been informed of the important assignments Sandor had undertaken for his predecessor. He ultimately sanctioned Sandor’s role in defeating the terrorist plot hatched by former CIA Station Chief Vincent Traiman, despite various misgivings. He reluctantly approved Sandor’s mission in Bahrain. Even with plausible deniability for the recent North Korea invasion, Walsh acquiesced to the need for that operation as well.
On the other hand, he found Sandor to be insubordinate bordering on arrogant and a risk taker who at times was close to reckless. Also, like Deputy Director Byrnes, Walsh had no patience for Sandor’s flippant style. The difference was that Byrnes realized he had no sense of humor of his own, whereas Walsh was unaware of his shortcoming.
Therefore, when the Deputy Director ushered Sandor into Walsh’s office that night to discuss the pending complaint lodged by the Times in New York, neither of Sandor’s superiors saw anything funny in his request that the reporter’s slacks be made part of the official record.
“If the little rat is going to make a claim against me, I think we should at least have some evidence, don’t you? Exhibit A, the pants he pissed in. Where are they?”
“You find this amusing, Sandor?”
“Actually no,” he told Walsh. “I find it pathetic. We have a Korean mole and one of our very talented agents lying dead outside Pyongyang. We have two of our best men, God knows where, inside that hellhole of a country. And this parasite is writing articles that inflame the diplomatic tension, making it more and more probable that Bergenn and Raabe are going to get two in the head and be dumped in a hole where they’ll never be found. Freedom of the press is one thing, but didn’t the Supreme Court say it doesn’t give you the right to yell ‘Fire’ in a crowded theater?”
Neither man replied.
“You guys are in the game of politics, I’m in a business called stop-the-enemy. When we entered the DPRK the four of us knew the risks, we even understood that if we were captured it might be impossible for our government to get us back. We signed on as NOCs, and we took our chances. What we didn’t sign on for was some punk reporter stirring up a shit storm that could make it all but impossible to deal with Kim and his gang of thugs.”
Walsh was seated behind his desk, across from Sandor and Byrnes. He responded with a nod. “We are painfully aware of the delicate situation that exists. The North Koreans are claiming that we engaged in espionage, kidnapping, and murder, right under their noses, right there in their own country. At this point, they officially deny holding any of our citizens as prisoners—”
“That’s perfect,” Sandor interrupted. “I suppose they’re claiming that they’re holding two Canadians, am I right?” He looked at Byrnes, but the Deputy Director said nothing.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” Walsh said, “I’d like to continue.” He waited until Sandor sat back in his chair. “Fine. Right now they deny holding anyone, but claim to have proof that this Wild West shoot-out in and around the Arirang Festival was orchestrated and carried out by Americans. I take it, from your comments, that you comprehend the implications.”
Sandor nodded. “Which is why these newspaper articles have only made matters worse for—”
DCI Walsh held up his hand, removed his reading glasses, and stood, coming all the way around so he could position his tall, lanky frame on the edge of his large mahogany desk and stare down at Sandor. “I want to get this straight. You believe the way to handle this situation is to go up to the man’s office, point the barrel of your weapon at him, and threaten his life? I just want to be sure I understand you.”
Sandor hesitated, then asked, “Who says I did that?”
“This fellow Donaldson made the allegation. Do you deny it?”
Sandor did not answer. “Any witnesses?”
Walsh and Byrnes exchanged a quick glance.
“There was a third man in the room,” the Director said, “but he has not exactly confirmed Donaldson’s account of your actions.” Walsh reached back across the expanse of desk and grabbed his glasses and a sheet of paper, then read his notes. “He has suggested that his young colleague may have exaggerated some of the details of this encounter.” He put down the paper and peered at Sandor over the frame of his spectacles. “We know all about your relationship with Bill Sternlich. His loyalty to you is touching, but at this point it’s also creating quite a problem for him, as you might imagine. It may end up costing him his job, not to mention his career.”
For the first time in their exchange Sandor averted the Director’s gaze. He began rubbing his forehead with the fingers of his left hand.
“Do you want to say something, Sandor?”
Sandor looked up again. “Damnit,” he said angrily.
“I must say, it’s not up to your usual standard for witty repartee but it may be the most intelligent thing you’ve uttered this evening.”
“What do you expect me to say?”
“Say to me? Nothing.” Walsh took a stroll back around the desk and retook his seat, then leveled his steely gaze at Sandor. “What I expect is for you to apologize to this reporter, that’s what I expect.”
“Apologize? You must be joking.”
“I never joke,” he replied.
Sandor nodded, knowing how true that was. “And if I refuse?”
“If you refuse I will have to consider an immediate suspension and proceed with an investigation to determine if you should be brought up on disciplinary charges.”
No one spoke for a few moments. Then Sandor grinned. He simply could not help him
self. “I’m a field agent, sir, and, I believe I don’t have to remind you, a reasonably good one. I’m never going to run for office or be appointed to a government post or win any popularity contests. What I am going to do, however, is protect my country, my men, and my integrity.” He stood up. “The media gets to run roughshod over the safety, privacy, and reputations of our people. They get to tell lies and make slanderous statements, then shield themselves with a claim of good-faith reporting. If that’s free speech, fine. But when it puts my men in harm’s way, then I’m entitled to express my views, and that is exactly what I did, and I am not apologizing to anyone for it, suspension or no suspension.”
There was silence again. Then Walsh looked at Byrnes. “Get him out of here,” he said.
————
Sandor and Byrnes hurried down the corridor without exchanging a word until Sandor said, “I thought that went well.”
Byrnes frowned, appearing as if he had suddenly gotten a whiff of something putrid. “You’re just asking him to fry your butt in oil.”
“Come on, you can see he really likes me. He’s just playing hard to get.”
Byrnes shook his head.
“Trust me on this one, okay?” Sandor grinned. “I know what I’m doing.”
As they rounded the corner and headed into the Deputy Director’s office, Byrnes gave him a quizzical look.
“Trust me,” Sandor repeated.
Since Sandor arrived back in D.C. earlier that afternoon Byrnes had been concerned about getting through the meeting with Walsh so they could return to more urgent matters. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll trust you on this, at least for now. Can we talk about something important?”
“Such as Jim and Craig?”
“Yes.” They took seats in the room’s small conference area. The DD had a file on the cocktail table between them. “Our source tells us that they’re both alive, although Raabe is in bad shape and they haven’t exactly been staying at the Ritz-Carlton.”
“Or Walter Reed Medical Center.”
“Precisely.”
“But they’re alive,” Sandor said, “that’s the point.”
“The point is, Sandor, I’m told they want to make a trade.”
“Hwang?”
Byrnes nodded. “They believe you took him alive and they want him back in one piece.”
“A bit unusual for Kim, isn’t it?”
“We thought so. He’s certainly capable of letting his man rot over here.”
“Unless the man knows too much to risk his interrogation.”
“Perhaps.”
“And unless, of course, the capture is made public and he’s compelled to act to protect his own people and spare the embarrassment of abandoning a key official. I mean, how would that look?”
Byrnes stared at him. “So the follow-up article your actions provoked from this reporter Donaldson, the claim of an exchange of Americans for Kim’s minister…”
“Hey, the press has to get information someplace.”
The DD allowed himself a slight smile. “The day you grabbed this kid, you blurted out something he could print. About a possible exchange.”
Sandor did not reply.
“Was your friend Sternlich in on this?”
“Not a clue.” Sandor then nodded to himself. “I’m going to need to straighten that out for him somehow.”
“Yes, you are.”
“All right, what about Hwang? You still haven’t gotten anything from him?”
“Not any more than he told you.”
Sandor nodded without speaking.
“What is it? I know that look.”
“It’s the girl and her family.”
“Hea?”
“Yes,” Sandor said with a sigh, then puffed his cheeks and let out an angry lungful of air. “When we made our escape we visited her family home. Her brother Kwan used his truck to get us near the border. Hwang was unconscious for most of that, but he might be able to figure it out. They certainly know that she’s missing by now, and I promised her that her family wouldn’t be compromised.”
“She knew the risks. We all know the risks in this lousy business.”
“But that doesn’t include our selling them out, does it?”
Byrnes looked down at the floor.
“What is it? There’s more?”
Byrnes nodded slowly, then let the other shoe drop with a loud thud. “This is a two-for-two deal, Sandor. They’re demanding Hea back as part of the trade.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
NIGHT HAD FALLEN and, after several hours of fruitless surveillance, the two Iranians assigned to tail Rasa Jaber suspected they had been duped. They followed the signals sent from the transmitters that had been planted in Rasa Jaber’s luggage. They moved twice, but had yet to catch a glimpse of the woman. They were now positioned outside a Holiday Inn, but there was no sign of government protection on the street or in the lobby.
“If they brought her here,” one of them finally decided, “we would have seen her.”
Just then the driver’s cell phone rang.
Vahidi was the senior IRGC operative in Washington, a friend to Al Qaeda, but officially part of the Saudi Arabian diplomatic corps and thus protected by immunity—at least until there was proof he had engaged in some terrorist act.
He demanded an update and, when the driver admitted they had lost Jaber’s wife, Vahidi told the man to put the call on speakerphone. Then he said, “You are both imbeciles. Why would they take her to the FBI Headquarters and keep her there all day? They have the same use for her that we do, to pressure her husband. What could she tell the FBI that could not be said in five minutes? The woman knows nothing and neither do the two of you. You are fools,” Vahidi screamed. “Not a working brain between you.”
When the tirade ended, the driver asked, “Where do you want us to go?”
“Go? Where do I want you to go?” He became quiet for a minute. “All right, all right. We received word the lead American agent they sent to St. Barths has returned to Washington. Perhaps it has something to do with Jaber. Find this agent and you should find the Jabers.”
The two men in the car shared a look of utter incredulity. “How do you expect us to find this man?” the driver asked.
“It may be easier than you think,” Vahidi told them. “The CIA maintains a safe house not far from Langley.”
“And as well guarded as their Fort Knox.”
“Of course,” Vahidi said impatiently. “But if the Jabers are being held there, the agent may come and go to meet with them, am I right?”
His men did not reply.
“If we cannot get inside their fortress, perhaps we can reach their man outside, you understand?”
“Ah, yes.”
“Good. Come to the southwestern corner of Massachusetts and Constitution in exactly ten minutes. I’ll have someone meet you with a dossier and instructions.”
————
President Forest’s National Security Advisor said, “More bad news, sir,” as he approached the desk in the Oval Office. Peter Forelli held an updated weather report. “That tropical storm is heading directly for St. Maarten, going to make a mess of the NTSB investigation.”
President Forest responded with an irritated look. “As if a downed airplane and two hundred casualties isn’t a mess already.”
“They’re going to call in all the boats conducting the search, probably no way to continue for the next couple of days.” The NSA hesitated. “Worse than that, the remaining debris is going to be scattered all over the Caribbean.”
“Not to mention the remaining bodies, is that what you’re trying not to say?” The President leaned back and gazed up at the ceiling. “Sit down,” he said. After a moment he looked across the desk again. “You didn’t come in to give me another weather report, Peter. What’s on your mind?”
“Well, sir, CIA set up their own team to investigate the attack on Fort Oscar. Sandor was there
, now he’s back in Washington, made his report, left men down there to continue working with the French.” The NSA paused again. “Mr. President, you’ve said you’re on a need-to-know basis only for all of this.”
Forest peered at him from beneath his famously furrowed brow. “When I say need to know, Sam, I mean don’t feed me a bunch of rumor with whipped bullshit on top, okay? You got something real, I want to hear it.”
“Well, sir, Walsh thinks they may have a lead on some sort of alliance between Chavez and Kim.”
The President began vigorously rubbing his eyes with the palms of both hands. “Well now, isn’t that just dandy. And what about Ahmadinejad, wasn’t he invited to the party?”
“Perhaps not. They have reason to believe the Iranians are being set up here.”
President Forest shook his head. “If things weren’t so awful I might have to laugh at that one. Ahmadinejad is being set up?”
“We’re not sure, sir, but it’s possible.”
“Is this based on information from the Jaber defection?”
“Yes, sir, that as well as what Sandor developed in St. Barths.”
“Do we know whether they’re planning anything else?”
“Yes, Mr. President. That’s what I came to tell you.”
“Well spit it out.”
The National Security Advisor removed his glasses. “Mr. President, Sandor thinks they’re planning an attack on the oil refinery in Baytown, Texas.”
————
Rasa Jaber was staring out the window of her hotel room as dusk began to blur the Washington skyline. She realized, as if for the first time, that she had never been to the United States before. Odd, she thought, how that had not even occurred to her during this journey west. Her entire focus had been on reaching Ahmad.
There were so many things she wanted to say, so many things that she needed to tell him. But there was only one important question she had to ask.
How could you have done this to me?
In all of their years together she had been a faithful, even unquestioning, wife. She had never once revealed to him how difficult it was for her to reconcile the intimacy and tenderness of the man she knew and loved so completely with the evil deeds he had perpetrated on others. Oh yes, even as she tried to look away, and despite his efforts to shield her from the truth, she was forced to confront who he was and what he did. She came to know that he was the engineer of unspeakable horrors, all in the name of his country and his God.
Targets of Opportunity Page 29