Targets of Opportunity

by Jeffrey S. Stephens

  Would Allah really approve such atrocities?

  She knew that hate was a part of their culture. The despised Jews in Israel, the meddling infidels in America, the reviled barbarians in Iraq. But did such hate justify the murder of women and children and innocent men who were no part of these conflicts?

  Even in an era where the education of women was discouraged, she had read of Hitler and the Holocaust, the genocide of Stalin, the contemporary horrors of ethnic cleansing throughout the world. Was this really Ahmad’s goal, to rid the planet of every enemy, young and old, as if such a thing were possible? As if Allah would condone such carnage?

  How could Ahmad pursue such an unthinkable destiny? How could anyone? Rasa did not imagine herself a political thinker, but she believed herself to be a person of intelligence and compassion. She knew, deep in her aching heart, that this was no answer to the problems men and women of the world faced. Death to all enemies was no solution. She knew from history, if history teaches us anything at all, that the destruction of your enemy only gives rise to another enemy. What better proof than Ahmad’s defection to the United States?

  But when he fled from Iran he left her behind, not explaining that they might never meet again in this lifetime, not providing for her safety. They had buried their sons, and now he was not giving the slightest consideration to what might happen to her. Or her sister. Or her sister’s family.

  What sort of man was this? Could this be the man to whom she had given her love and devotion for these many years?

  Now, left to struggle with these harsh and painful questions, a bigger conflict loomed for her. Even in the face of his treachery, his abandonment, his faithlessness, was she capable of becoming his betrayer, and perhaps the instrument of his death?

  The sky over Washington had darkened, but she took no notice. She stood there, unmoving, staring ahead without seeing, not knowing what she felt anymore, not knowing what she would do when the time came.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THE TWO MEN who were assigned to follow Rasa Jaber arrived at the corner of Massachusetts and Constitution Avenues at the appointed time. A man stepped quickly from the shadows of a nearby doorway and climbed into the backseat of their car.

  They were surprised to see it was Ali Vahidi himself.

  “Drive,” he told them. As the car pulled out, Vahidi said, “Turn right, park in the first open space, then kill your lights.” When they came to a stop, the head of the IRGC’s Washington cell passed a folder to the two men in the front seat. It contained a map describing the general location of the safe house where Ahmad Jaber was being held.

  The Agency’s well-fortified retreat was an open secret in a netherworld where true secrets do not survive for long. Shortly after the first defector was taken there for interrogation several years ago the existence of this sanctuary was discovered. The inviolability of the facility was owed in part to an unspoken truce among foreign intelligence agencies—that such installations were both necessary and off-limits—but in an era of renegade adversaries its sanctity was even more reliant on security details, advanced weaponry, and sophisticated electronic systems. If its location could not be concealed, the Agency would leave no reasonable means for a hostile combatant to breach its defenses.

  Ali Vahidi was well aware of these obstacles, but he was convinced that this was where Jaber was being sequestered. He needed to find a way to get to him, to determine how Jaber’s defection was related to the recent terrorist actions in the Caribbean and how all of that might impact Iran.

  No one under the IRGC’s high command had participated in the preparation or execution of these attacks. Tehran made it plain to Vahidi that neither the aircraft explosion nor the destruction of Fort Oscar was an Iranian operation, but the timing of Jaber’s flight gave them pause. Why had this loyal soldier suddenly left the country and surrendered to the Americans? Who had destroyed his home? And what happened to Jaber’s subordinate, Seyed Asghari, who had seemingly vanished from sight shortly before these assaults?

  The interrogation of Rasa Jaber in Marand convinced the IRGC that she was as much in the dark as they were, which meant her use as bait may or may not pay dividends. As matters stood they might never find that out, since Vahidi’s men had lost her trail. Now, with no means of reaching Jaber directly, Vahidi decided his only play was to intercept the agent who was spearheading the investigation into these incidents.

  “This dossier is on Jordan Sandor,” Vahidi said as the two operatives looked through the papers. “Our other team was tracking the agents who met Rasa Jaber at the airport. They have been waiting near CIA Headquarters.” Here he paused for effect. “In the hope of finding her again.”

  The two men shared a quick look of concern but said nothing.

  “They have not seen the woman, but they spotted Sandor leaving Langley just before I called you. He is traveling in the back of a black Lincoln Town Car with his deputy director. His driver made several diversionary turns. I believe it is likely they are heading here.” Vahidi leaned forward and pointed to the map. “They lost him, but from our location you have a head start; you have time to get there first.” He paused. “I want this man alive.”

  Sandor was well-known to the IRGC, and so the driver asked, “What if that is not possible?”

  “You have already lost Jaber’s wife today, I expect you to be able to take one man into custody.”

  “We understand.”

  “The map tells you where you are going. You should stay as far from the perimeter of this estate as possible. Intercept him before he gets there.”

  Without another word, Ali Vahidi got out of the car and walked away. The driver turned back onto Massachusetts Avenue and sped off toward McLean, Virginia.

  ————

  Sandor and Byrnes were riding through the evening gloom, seated in the back of a Town Car being chauffeured by a junior agent, making the thirty-minute drive to the safe house.

  “This really is a miserable business,” Sandor said.

  “Yes,” the DD agreed, “it is.”

  “Hea is the reason I made it out of North Korea.”

  “I understand.”

  “It’s only because of her I’m still alive,” Sandor said, as if by repeating that simple truth it might help him solve the dilemma.

  Byrnes remained silent, knowing there was nothing he could say to make any of this easier. There was no way to justify the exchange being contemplated. Once the girl was sent back she would be tortured and murdered. If the Agency refused to make the trade, Craig Raabe and Jim Bergenn would be left to suffer that same gruesome fate.

  “We know they want Hwang. Maybe if we stonewall it they’ll deal without involving her.”

  Byrnes shook his head. “We’ve obviously been making that offer. They want the girl.”

  “Tell them she was taken against her will.”

  “We tried that too, they’re not buying it. They saw her on the train when you entered Khasan and she didn’t look like any sort of hostage.” He paused. “They also took long-range photos of her holding a weapon.”

  “Damn. Which means they have her picture to work with, and that already puts her family at risk.”

  According to KCIA sources from inside North Korea, the DPRK had yet to confirm Hea’s identity. But that was only a matter of time, especially if they really had her photo. In Kim’s totalitarian state the entire population was accounted for, and it would not be long before they matched her disappearance with the events at the Rungrado May Day Stadium. Her family would then be taken into custody and held in anticipation of her return. Once Hwang was released, the end for Hea’s family would be inevitable.

  “We have no choice here, Sandor. We can’t leave Raabe and Bergenn behind.”

  “Of course not, but there must be other options. Can’t the State Department tell those bastards that if they don’t release our men we’ll treat it as an act of war?”

  Byrnes shook his hea
d again. “An act of war? Bergenn and Raabe were captured in North Korea engaging in espionage. Not to mention murder and kidnapping. Under any international law Kim could stand them in front of a firing squad today and there isn’t a government in the world that would cry foul. The act of war was on our side of the table.”

  “In defense of our country, in case you forgot.”

  Byrnes let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry, Jordan, we’ve got to make the trade.”

  Sandor clenched his teeth. “Send me back. Talk to the DCI, give me a few days to try and get them out.”

  “Come on, we don’t even know what city they’re in, let alone what dungeon. I know you’re frustrated, but you can’t expect me to make a ridiculous request like that.”

  They were quiet for a few moments as the car turned onto Old Dominion Drive. “All right,” Sandor finally said, “give me up in the trade, instead of her.”

  The agent at the wheel looked into the rearview mirror. Even in the darkness he could see the intensity in Sandor’s eyes. They exchanged a quick glance.

  “Forget it,” Byrnes told him.

  “I’m serious.”

  “I know you are but it’s not happening. If you come up with something that makes sense I’ll take it to Walsh. Otherwise you need to be realistic. Time is short and word is that Raabe is not going to make it much longer if we don’t get him home.”

  ————

  Vahidi’s men had arrived in time to position their car amid some trees north of the intersection of Old Dominion Drive and Bellview Road. They only had to wait a few minutes before the black sedan passed in front of them.

  The two Iranians were ready. The map showed that the main entrance to the estate was about four miles from the Old Dominion and Bellview intersection, which meant they had to act quickly. The compound consisted of several hundred acres, with multiple perimeter checkpoints. Their job was to reach the sedan before it got to that first entry gate.

  The driver started his engine and pulled out, headlights off, rapidly gaining on the Town Car.

  The road was totally dark, no streetlamps of any kind, no homes in view. There were rolling hills on either side of them, but all they could see were the red taillights of the Lincoln in the distance. The driver accelerated, narrowing the gap to just a few hundred yards. His partner pulled on night-vision glasses and helped guide them when the lights of the Town Car were intermittently lost as it made turns along the winding road.

  ————

  The agent driving Byrnes’s car was the first to spot the approaching vehicle. “Sir, I think we’ve got a tail, no headlights, coming up fast.”

  Sandor spun around, peering into the darkness, straining to make out the onrushing shape behind them. He said, “Don’t speed up, just make the first left you can.” He drew out his Walther and snapped the slide back, chambering the round. “You should get low,” he told Byrnes. Realizing a .380 pistol was not going to be much help against a speeding car, he asked the agent, “What have you got up there, Fitz?”

  “Shotgun and a .45.”

  “Okay, as soon as you make the turn, flat-spin this thing off to the right and kill your headlights and the interior switch.”

  Fitzpatrick did as he was told. Before the car had come to a full stop Sandor threw open his door while barking at the young agent, “Cover your side,” then he rolled out onto the asphalt and kept moving until he found the grassy shoulder of the road.

  Within seconds the trailing car appeared, screeching to a halt as the driver realized they’d been made.

  Fitz had opened his door and was crouching behind it, shotgun at the ready.

  Sandor, who was on his stomach now, did not hesitate. He fired three shots, taking out both front tires of the attackers’ car, then fired twice into the windshield, shattering the glass. He rolled over again, coming up on one knee behind a large tree. “You move and you die,” he hollered.

  The two IRGC operatives responded by opening fire, spraying the back of the Lincoln and the open driver’s door with a rapid fusillade and scattering some rounds on the ground where Sandor had been.

  Fitzpatrick got off three blasts from the shotgun, then ducked for cover again.

  “Stay down!” Sandor yelled at the young agent, then fired off the rest of his magazine. Replacing it in one smooth motion, he took off at a run inside the tree line, coming even with the right side of the sedan. Sandor made out two men, each kneeling behind their open doors. He took aim from behind a large elm and hit the man on the passenger side, dropping him to the ground. When the driver spun in his direction Sandor shouted, “Put your hands up where I can see them.” The man had no sight line on Sandor, so he dove back inside the car, threw the gearshift into reverse, and nailed the gas.

  Sandor managed to take out the rear right tire as Fitzpatrick fired two more blasts from the shotgun, the second spray of buckshot finding its mark. The driver jerked backward and then slumped forward. The car slowed, rolling backward fifty or so yards until it ran off the blacktop where the rear fender hit a tree, bringing it to a stop with the engine still running and the wheels spinning in the dirt.

  “Damnit,” Sandor called as he and Fitzpatrick moved cautiously toward the vehicle. “We needed one of them alive.”

  “Sorry,” the young agent said. “I thought he had a bead on you.”

  “Well then, I guess I’m glad you shot him.” Sandor remained low as he approached. “Just be careful now. You never know what surprises they have in store.”

  Sandor had his pistol extended as he moved closer to the passenger side, Fitzpatrick coming from the front. Sandor kept low, first checking the man on the ground. “This one is dead,” he called out.

  “I think the guy in the car is a goner too,” Fitz said.

  Just as Sandor called out, “Don’t be too sure,” the driver yanked his head up and opened fire at Fitzpatrick. The agent managed to lunge for safety as Sandor fired two shots, the first knocking the man’s weapon away, the second catching him in the shoulder. “Any more bullshit,” Sandor barked, “and the next two are in your head. Now get out of the car.”

  “I can’t move,” the man groaned, his accent thick and his words slurred with pain.

  “Tough shit, pal. You picked the fight, now get out. Ah, ah, ah, keep your hands where I can see them. You touch that gearshift again and you’re dead.”

  The man paused for a moment, then turned slowly to his left and fell out onto the ground.

  Fitzpatrick got to his feet and began moving forward again.

  “Hold it,” Sandor ordered. “He might still have a gun. Or a grenade.” Sandor circled around the back of the car, making sure there was no one else inside. Then he came up from behind, still keeping several yards between them. “Who are you?”

  “Drop dead,” the man hissed.

  “No need to be unpleasant.”

  The Iranian turned on his side and stared up. “You are Sandor?”

  “I told you, keep your hands in sight. That’s better. Now, I’ll tell you who I am after you tell me who you are.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Let me explain something,” he said. “This can only go one of three ways. I can shoot you in the head. I can leave you here to die slowly. Or we can get you some medical attention if you’re willing to cooperate. All I want to know is who you are and what you’re after.”

  The man was obviously in pain, but he managed a grim smile. “You are wrong,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “About everything,” the man responded, his voice barely a whisper. Then he murmured, “Allahu Akbar,” and stopped moving.

  Byrnes had gotten out of the Lincoln and was standing beside Fitzpatrick now. They watched as Sandor stepped forward and kicked the man, hard in the side. “Damn,” Sandor said.

  “Dead?” the Deputy Director asked.

  “Completely.” Sandor bent down and checked the man’s pockets. There were no grenades, no self-immolation devices, only a wallet
with some identification. Sandor held it up to the light from the dashboard in the car. “Probably phony,” he said. “We’ll check it out.”

  “What was this about?” Byrnes asked. “He knew your name.”

  “He certainly did.” Sandor leaned into the car and found the brief dossier with his photo on the floor. He held it up for Byrnes to see. “Welcome to my world. How do you like field action, sir?”

  “Not much,” Byrnes said. He was not smiling. “Iranians?”

  “Appears so.”

  “I thought the Iranians weren’t involved.”

  Sandor shook his head. “Maybe they’re not. Maybe they were just looking for a way to get to Jaber. Or to me.”

  “Let’s go talk to Jaber.”

  “Splendid idea, sir.” Sandor looked at Fitzpatrick. “You okay Fitz?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, I think we’re done here. Call this in and let’s drive on.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  BAYTOWN REFINERY, BAYTOWN, TEXAS

  THE HEAD OF security at the Baytown refinery, a former Army colonel name of Patrick Janssen, had his hands full. The feds were all over him with warnings of possible sabotage at the plant. The head of tech support was reporting a possible breach of the classified computer program that contained defense information. And now it seemed that one of their line supervisors, Peter Amendola, had gone missing without a trace.

  Threats against the Baytown installation were nothing new, but 99 percent of them evaporated without involving a single tangible act. Disgruntled former employees, tree huggers from the left, eco-maniacs from any number of organizations with the word green in their titles, and the usual garden variety of crackpots—from time to time they all trumpeted the need to put an end to the refinement and transport of oil along the shore of the Gulf of Mexico. The BP oil disaster had only served to intensify the pressure.