Targets of Opportunity

by Jeffrey S. Stephens

  There was no hard evidence of North Korean involvement in the failed attacks on the American refineries in Texas. However, as President Forest put it so succinctly in response to the North Korean denials, “I may not be able to tell the difference between foie gras and chicken liver, but I sure as hell know chickenshit when I smell it.” He made this observation in a debriefing just thirty-six hours after a nuclear cataclysm was averted through the efforts of Jordan Sandor and Captain Krause’s team. That meeting included the President’s National Security Advisor, DCI Walsh, and DD Byrnes. Sandor was also in attendance. He had just been flown back to Washington together with the two Venezuelan terrorists and Hea, who had spent the past two days under the safekeeping of Ronny Young.

  Unfortunately, as the President conceded to the assembled group, without proof of Kim’s collusion in the assaults, the best he could do was trade for the safety of their men. Hwang was of no use to them now and, as Sandor observed, they were not doing him much of a favor by sending him back home, where he would be made to explain how the Americans had managed to frustrate their scheme to blow up two oil refineries.

  Up to now the media had been kept away from the story, the explosion on the Mississippi being described as a Coast Guard accident amid the violent storm. There was no telling how long they could keep the terrorist assault under wraps, but for now the matter was referred to the State Department.

  Later that afternoon Byrnes and Walsh met with a representative of the State Department to discuss the extraction of Raabe and Bergenn. When the Brooks Brothers–clad, thin-nosed, briefcase carrying bureaucrat arrived, Sandor requested that he be allowed to attend the meeting. Walsh agreed, his generosity due in no small part to the gratitude the White House continued to express for the remarkable services Sandor had provided his country.

  Sandor remained uncharacteristically civil throughout the meeting as the functionary from State gave a presentation of the “back-channel” list of Kim’s complaints about the actions of Sandor and his colleagues.

  “You have got to be kidding,” Sandor finally said.

  The man from State suggested that a more measured response was required.

  “Does ‘Kiss my ass’ get it done?”

  Deputy Director Byrnes quickly interceded, sharing some of the information they were permitted to divulge—that they had reason to believe agents of the Kim and Chavez regimes had engineered an attack on the United States that had only recently been frustrated by the efforts of Jordan Sandor and others, including the men being held by the DPRK.

  This was obviously news to the diplomat.

  When Byrnes was done, he added, “There will be no apology or any Asian face-saving nonsense here. You can tell them it will be an even swap, Hwang for Bergenn and Raabe.”

  And then, to Sandor’s amazement, Director Walsh added, “And you can tell them from me, if they don’t like the deal, we’ll keep Hwang and I’ll send Sandor over there to pick up his friends personally.”

  ————

  The transfer occurred two days later, with the State Department voicing its strenuous objection to Sandor attending the exchange. Sandor made it clear to anyone within earshot that he didn’t give a damn what the State Department had to say, he was going to be there.

  And since President Forest liked the idea, no one was in a position to refuse.

  So it was that, along with a relatively unhappy representative from State, Jordan Sandor and Deputy Director Mark Byrnes accompanied Hwang on his trip to Panmunjom.

  ————

  The so-called Demilitarized Zone between North and South Korea is anything but. The joint security area looks like a temporary barracks designed by a group of Bauhaus architects on a bad day. Both sides of the border are seen by the North and South as an opportunity to prove their military preparedness for each other, and anyone else in the world who happens by. Soldiers march back and forth, weaponry is constantly on display in the distance, and at times it is rumored that the collective troops from both nations populating the few miles on either side of the supposed DMZ exceeds a million in all.

  Sandor was not impressed.

  The American delegation sat in the neutral building where meetings and exchanges between the two countries usually take place. It is a long, single-story structure, as cozy as a tomb, and they were left there to cool their heels for more than three hours before someone from the North arrived.

  When the DPRK diplomat finally pranced in, Sandor judged him a smug little embassy type, just the sort to get along with their own boy from Foggy Bottom. The North Korean immediately began speaking and the interpreter went to work, creating a version of discordant stereophonic sound that went bouncing off the blank walls until Sandor held up his hand.

  “Let’s knock off the pretense. You undoubtedly speak English as well as Laurence Olivier, so why don’t we cut the interpreter crap. Where are Bergenn and Raabe?”

  When the two diplomats started stammering about protocol and propriety, Sandor broke in again.

  “We’re not here to make friends or influence people. We’ve got Mr. Hwang sitting in a car out there, under guard, and he’s waited a long time to get home to all of his other little Kim groupies. I’ve got two friends I want to see right now so I can be sure their brains haven’t been fried or their balls cut off. Now either we move this along or I’m going to stop sugarcoating this and tell you what I really think.”

  The little Korean turned on his heels and stormed out of the room. Then, just as Mr. State Department was going to read Sandor yet another chapter from the Diplomat’s Riot Act Handbook, several men began filing into the room from the North Korean side. The first two were bulky and nasty looking and, although weapons were clearly forbidden here, Sandor figured they were trained to rip him apart with their bare hands in any one of several different martial arts. After what he had been through in the past week, Sandor was actually inclined to have them take their best shot.

  Then Bergenn and Raabe were ushered in.

  Jim Bergenn looked all right, a little worse for wear, of course, given the torture and beatings he had certainly endured, but he managed a wry grin at the sight of Sandor sitting between Byrnes and the guy from State.

  Craig Raabe was another matter. He barely made it into the room under his own steam and, at first look, it didn’t appear he would survive the plane ride home.

  Sandor began to rise from his seat, but the little Korean diplomat stepped into the room. “I suggest you sit down, Mr. Sandor. Yes, we know exactly who you are and, if it were up to me, neither you nor your two friends would ever leave this room alive.” He paused, as if to allow that idea to sink in. “But the Great Leader has a fondness for Mr. Hwang, and he also has many questions he would like to ask him. So you and your friends will survive this day, but only if you henceforth conduct yourself in an appropriate manner.”

  Sandor looked to Bergenn, who gave him a safe sign, letting him know that both he and Raabe were all right. Sandor turned back to the Korean. “Henceforth? Appropriate? I guess I sold you short when I compared you to Olivier.”

  “I am one of those many people who do not find your American sarcasm funny, Mr. Sandor. Likewise, I am not amused by the games you have played in the media. Oh yes, do not appear surprised, we are fully aware of how you have engineered the release of information regarding Mr. Hwang and these men.”

  “You guys read the papers?”

  “Again, if it was my choice, you would have been forced to produce the traitorous young woman who paved the path of your escape, or you would never see these two again.”

  The man from the State Department finally began a protest, actually rising from his chair. “Threatening American citizens…,” he began, but the Korean cut him off with a look.

  The man from State resumed his seat. After all, this was really not his problem.

  “You know,” Sandor said, “I’m really sorry you and I have gotten off to such a lousy start. Maybe someday we’ll have a chance to
chat again. Privately. Like in a dark alley somewhere in Harlem.”

  The diplomat ignored him and turned back to the man from State. “Have your people bring in Mr. Hwang.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

  NEW YORK CITY

  “YOU’RE A REAL pain in my ass,” Bill Sternlich said, “you know that? You have any idea of the trouble you caused me?”

  Sandor picked up his Jack Daniel’s and took a sip. He did not answer and he did not smile.

  “You used me, Jordan.”

  “That’s such a cold way to put it, Billy. Let’s just say you helped me without realizing it.”

  Sternlich frowned. “Are you going to tell me what it was all about?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “That scene in my office, that was staged, wasn’t it? You wanted to provoke Donaldson.”

  “Who’s Donaldson?” Sandor replaced his glass on the small table between them. They were seated in the comfortable old armchairs in the lobby bar of the Algonquin Hotel, their favorite spot for cocktails together. Sandor had returned from Panmunjom a few days earlier, spent the rest of the week in Washington, where he went through debriefings, visited Craig Raabe and Jim Bergenn in the hospital, then returned home.

  “Come on, Jordan. Donaldson. The reporter you roughed up in my office.”

  “You mean that punk who pissed all over himself, you mean that guy?”

  Sternlich had been leaning forward. Now he collapsed back into the soft cushions. “I give up, I really do.”

  “Yes,” Sandor finally admitted. “I got what I wanted from the little prick.”

  “The exchange for your two men.”

  “Correct.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “There was a girl,” Sandor said.

  Sternlich laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Preston Sturges said, ‘There’s always a girl,’ remember that line?”

  “Sullivan’s Travels.”

  “Top grades. Go on.”

  “She was the reason I got out of North Korea. They wanted her back with Hwang in the trade. We couldn’t let Jimmy and Craig rot over there, and I knew State would give her up if they had to. So I needed to make it impossible for Kim and company to demand her as part of the deal. Once I told your little Jimmy Olsen I was angry about his articles and I let it slip about our two men there and Hwang here, I knew he would print it. He’s just that sort of scumbag. What he didn’t understand was how much he helped me. At that point Kim was screwed. What was the Great Leader going to say once the story was in the media? Was he going to admit that he wanted to get some young woman back so she could be raped, tortured, and murdered?”

  “Very smooth.”

  “And he wasn’t going to risk being exposed as part of the plot down south, not after the exchange was made public.”

  “Risky play.”

  Sandor took another gulp of whiskey. “It was just a shot, there was no guarantee it would work.”

  “And if it hadn’t?”

  Sandor stared ahead for a moment. “I’ve never left a man behind, and I wasn’t going to start now.” He shrugged. “I would have thought of something.”

  “And the girl?”

  Sandor grinned. “We’re having dinner tonight.” The smile quickly faded. “Sort of a farewell. We’re going to give her a new identity, a new place to live. You know the routine.” He picked up his glass and took another swallow of the Jack Daniel’s. “Someday I hope we can put her back together with her family.” He put the glass down. “Quite an extraordinary young woman.”

  “I guess I should be sorry I never got to meet her.”

  Sandor nodded but said nothing.

  “How did the exchange go?”

  “It went all right.” Sandor laughed. “I had Hwang dressed up in one of those ridiculous suits Kim Jong-Il wears. Looked just like him, actually. When we had him brought in I thought the jerk from North Korea was going to faint.”

  Sternlich shook his head. “So how are your guys?”

  “Jim’s okay, he’ll be back chasing the skirts in no time. Craig’s on the DL for a while. But Kurt is dead, I haven’t forgotten that.”

  They sat quietly for a minute, then Sternlich asked, “What really happened down there, in Louisiana?”

  Sandor turned to his friend and fixed him with that serious look that had frightened many adversaries who had crossed his path. “Is this between you and me or is this for publication?”

  “Come on, you know our ground rules. Strictly you and me.”

  Sandor didn’t say anything.

  “Was it a nuclear threat?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I know how you operate. You weren’t chasing down a couple of sticks of dynamite. And everyone in the government seemed too relieved, even though you lost those men outside Baton Rouge.”

  Sandor nodded. “Yeah, we were chasing down a hot one.”

  “Who was behind it? Was Al Qaeda in league with Kim?”

  “Not this time. It was Chavez. You remember his Richelieu, name of Rafael Cabello?”

  “Calls himself Adina?”

  “And high marks to you, sir.”

  “He was behind it?”

  “Appears so. Which means he and I have some unfinished business.”

  Sternlich let that sit for a moment, then asked, “What about the Jaber defection? Wasn’t the IRGC involved?”

  “Apparently not. We’re still trying to piece that together, but it looks like it was Adina’s show and Jaber just got in the way. A lot of good people went down, and that Venezuelan sonuvabitch never even showed his face. Someday he will, though, and when he does, I’ll be there to—”

  Sternlich held up his hand. “I get the idea,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “So now it’s Chavez. And the North Koreans. When does all this end?”

  Sandor put down his glass and looked at his friend. “You know, Billy, I was asking myself the same question just the other day as I stood there and watched those people die on the Mississippi.”

  “You come up with an answer?”

  Sandor stared ahead without speaking. “No,” he finally said, “but I wish I could, I truly wish I could.” Then he lifted his glass and took a sip. “Until I do, though, I promise you—I’ll be on duty.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As I created this novel, I did my best to ensure authenticity with regard to locales, weaponry, and technology, as well as the inner workings of the military and the government departments described. With that goal in mind, I imposed upon many friends and associates for their advice and expertise, a list of generous people far too numerous to name. I trust that each of them knows the importance of their help.

  I must nevertheless single out a few individuals for their contributions:

  Rick Kutka is an armaments expert, as tough as his subject matter, who does not allow a shot to be fired, a helicopter to be boarded, or an explosive device to be detonated in any of my stories without first verifying the accuracy of the event and the equipment.

  Michael S. Krause, USNA Class of 1963, CDR USNR, is not only a great friend but he is also the real deal when it comes to American service and heroism. His assistance was invaluable in describing naval operations, vessels and procedures. He also allowed me to use his name in the story, and it will not be the last time Jordan Sandor and I are going to call on him for help.

  Captain Nicholas J. Lewis has been as close to me as any brother could have been for my entire life. He furnished information on ships, boats and marine practices that have been essential in taking the reader on this journey.

  Thanks to my son Trevor for the creative ideas he contributed to the path of this novel.

  And finally, my gratitude to a patriot who lives in the shadows, protecting this great country and our way of life without public appreciation or fanfare, without the world at large knowing, who asks for nothing more than the certainty that his work makes the sort of difference
that it does.

  Special thanks to my editor Kevin Smith for his fine work and support; my agent Robert Diforio for his never-say-die determination; the group at Simon & Schuster led by Louise Burke and Anthony Ziccardi for their faith; my son Graham for his encouragement; and my wife, Nancy, for her insight, honesty, and almost mystical patience in reading draft after draft of my work.

  God bless you all, and God bless America.