Targets of Revenge

by Jeffrey Stephens

  For a moment it seemed to Sandor as if everything was happening in slow motion. It was quiet, with no shots being fired. The only action was the frantic attempt by the pilot of the attacking boat to avoid the path of the rocket.

  But it was too late.

  The projectile hit the port side of the boat with a loud crash, followed by an explosion of light and smoke and noise. The missile, which was heat-guided, found its optimum target toward the aft of the Fountain, detonating with full force as it struck the port engine, driving the stern of the boat into the air with propellers spinning helplessly as the fuel lines ignited, creating a pyre of burning gas, rendering the once sleek boat an unrecognizable tangle of destruction.

  As Sandor got to his feet he watched the Otter complete its landing a few hundred yards away. He moved back to the cockpit, put the engines into gear, and headed toward the waiting plane.

  “Get ready pal,” he said to the man who was still tied to the railing, “you and I are taking a little trip.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CARACAS, VENEZUELA

  AS SOON AS Adina got word of the debacle in the Lago de Maracaibo he commanded Alejandro to speed up the work dismantling the laboratory and making preparations to relocate the facility.

  His men crated and loaded the sacks of cocaine as well as the various apparatus. Then everyone was ordered out of the area as the final work was turned over to four specialists who had access to the segregated area where the anthrax was manufactured.

  They pulled on their hazmat suits and went about the dangerous business of placing the deadly toxin in airtight containers and readying the encapsulated parcels for transport in a separate vehicle. They also gathered the various chemical components that had not yet been combined into the lethal concoction and placed those in the back of the same truck.

  Then they doused the entire subterranean installation with gasoline and set it ablaze.

  At Adina’s direct instruction, Carlos, his trusted lab technician, was left locked inside the secure room, from which none of them could hear the man pleading for mercy, or later, begging for his life to end as he was engulfed in the chemical fire that melted his skin away before incinerating him beyond all recognition.

  From a safe distance, Adina watched as the flames shot up from the laboratory. Then, accompanied by his two most trusted men, Alejandro and Jorge, he left for Caracas.

  ————

  In recent years, Adina had spent as little time as possible in the Venezuelan capital. His role in various terrorist activities had made him a marked man, and surfacing in a heavily populated area was not an ideal situation. He actually preferred the controlled environment of his jungle retreat, where all of his needs could be met with minimal risk. There was an added benefit—for so long as he remained a phantom, he reduced the risk of embarrassing the administration he supported, obscuring the connection between his actions and the government at large.

  Now, however, his sanctuary had been violated. Someone had breached his compound and escaped with knowledge of its location and purpose. He was determined to find out who was behind the invasion and to contain the damage. This required a visit to the intelligence facilities that served the Chavez regime.

  His destination was a multilayered building known as El Helicoide, which houses the Servicio Bolivariano de Inteligencia Nacional, more familiarly known as the SEBIN. The architecture is an odd mix of spaceship and cliffside dwellings, the overall impression imposing, and the purposeful effect of intimidation not lost on anyone who has ever been there.

  The impending arrival of Rafael Cabello was communicated well in advance as he traveled a secure and circuitous route, and he was welcomed with appropriate deference and formality when he and his two men finally entered the underground garage beneath the southern face of the building. From there Adina was whisked upstairs in a private elevator to the sixth floor. He was shown to a secure conference room where men at the highest level of this agency had already convened.

  Greetings between the members of this group and their esteemed guest were respectful. Most of them had been acquainted with Adina for many years. Others, who knew him less well, were nevertheless familiar with his exploits and the closeness of his relationship with their president. Once the polite salutations were concluded they sat around the large table and Adina got down to business.

  “I assume you have all been fully briefed on what occurred.”

  They assured him that they had.

  “Then please tell me what, if anything, you have learned so far about this intruder.”

  Gilberto Bargas was a minister in the Chavez regime, the highest-ranking officer in attendance, and an old crony of Adina. “He was an American,” he said.

  Adina frowned. “That much I know from my own men. He spoke with two of them, a guard and a chemist. I thought you were all fully briefed.”

  The minister nodded and said, “Of course,” then looked down at some notes before him. “It appears he was acting alone, at least with respect to this raid.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “He was alone during the invasion. Others helped him escape.”

  This time Adina gave an impatient nod. “Is that it?”

  “We received word through some locals. That night a small aircraft was spotted, flying low over the jungle.”

  “And?”

  “We have already done aerial reconnaissance. These are photographs from a clearing a few miles from your compound.” He reached into a file and handed over several prints. “Our analysts say these are remnants of some sort of glider. That was his method of entry.”

  “I see. So this American crash-landed a glider in the jungle in the middle of the night. Impressive.”

  Bargas held out another group of photos. “We managed to retrieve these shots of a seaplane, taken by one of our spotters, just north of Cabimas. We have enlarged them and have a partial identification of the call numbers. We believe it’s privately owned and kept in Curaçao.”

  “Inquiries are being made?”

  “Yes. Discreetly, of course.”

  “Any results yet?”

  “Unfortunately there is no record of this plane having taken off or landing yesterday. At least not officially. If this was the plane, there was obviously no flight plan filed. It is owned by a company in Curaçao, used for shuttling tourists around. Likely took off and set down there. We are still pursuing the possibility that there were witnesses who saw it leaving or returning.”

  Adina sat back, hands folded in his lap, considering the information. “Gentlemen, would you all permit me some private time with the minister?”

  The others, if insulted, offered no resistance to being dismissed. When Adina was alone with the only man in the room he trusted, he leaned forward and spoke. “So Gilberto, we are dealing with a man who risks his life to land in the jungle and find his way to my home, with no clear means of escape. I think it’s obvious that the ruse of a narcotics robbery is nonsense, you agree?” The minister nodded his assent. “And, having found his way to our underground facility, he did nothing to destroy or even disrupt that operation. Which means that could not have been his purpose.” Again, the other man concurred. “Leaving only one logical explanation.” Bargas waited. “This man was an assassin who came there for me.” Adina now tented his long, elegant fingers, tapping them together as he considered the likelihood of his conclusion.

  After a few moments, the minster said, “But no attempt was made to reach you. Isn’t that correct?”

  “That is correct. At least as far as we know. Which can only mean that this man changed his mind once he discovered the laboratory.” Adina sat back in his chair. “If this was someone who was determined to murder me for reasons that we can only guess at right now, once he stumbled upon what we were manufacturing he decided there were larger issues at stake.”

  The minister was clearly impressed. “As always, your powers of deduction are ahead of mine, Rafael.”

  “
It’s obvious, is it not? The man is an American. He was sent to liquidate me as retribution for the attack on their refineries. When he found his way into the lab he knew he had stumbled upon important information and he could not risk murdering me without greatly reducing the chances of his own escape.”

  “Of course,” the minister agreed. “He wanted to do whatever he could to get out and relay that information.”

  “Just so.” Adina allowed himself one of his thin-lipped smiles. “It was not fear of his own death that had him change course; he proved that by the risky means he used to enter the jungle. No, he was hoping to have us believe he was a thief and that we would leave our plant intact as he reported back to Langley.”

  “Langley?” the minister asked.

  “Naturally,” Adina replied, the smile still in place. “This man is a professional. He disabled one of my sentries and murdered the other. He got in and out of our lab and managed to escape my compound despite pursuit by two of my best guards and an encounter with several armed men waiting for him at the shore. He not only managed to deal with them, but he also stole their boat, then overcame another attempt to apprehend him and got safely away. Our intruder is a professional,” he repeated. “It’s now up to us to find out who he is and what he is up to.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  MARK BYRNES WAS not a man easily amused, and this morning was certainly no exception. He was seated at his desk, staring up at Jordan Sandor who was standing there as if called to attention. Craig Raabe and Jim Bergenn were outside in the waiting room. The three men had arrived back in Washington late the preceding night and were promptly summoned to this early meeting.

  After what seemed a long silence, Byrnes said, “I want to do my best to fully understand everything before I react.”

  Sandor nodded without speaking.

  “I think it’s only fair that I find out what actually happened before I explode into a homicidal rage. Would you agree?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Byrnes drew a deep breath, puffed out his cheeks, and let out a long, unhappy sigh. “So, let’s see if I’ve got this right. Without permission, without so much as a how-do-you-do, you flew to our Air Force base in Curaçao, infiltrated the jungles of Venezuela, sought out Rafael Cabello for the purpose of assassinating him, wound up in the middle of a narcotics operation, took out several foreign nationals, blew up a boat in foreign waters and almost got yourself and two other agents killed. Is that a fair summary?”

  “You left out the anthrax lab.”

  “Ah, yes, the anthrax lab. Which you never actually saw, as I understand.”

  “I was inside the laboratory, but I never got into the area where they’re manufacturing the anthrax, that’s correct.”

  “Mm hmm. And when you organized this SMU with Raabe and Bergenn, you felt you had some special authority to do so, some mandate I’m not aware of?”

  Sandor knew, of course, that he did not. Special Mission Units had to be authorized by the top echelon of the Agency. He also realized that his intention to keep the mission covert had gone up in flames with the explosion of the Fountain speedboat in the Lago de Maracaibo. “Not exactly, no.”

  “Not exactly? Do you recall the discussion you and I had last week, the one in which I refused you permission to hunt down Adina? You do recall that, I presume.”

  “I do, but I came across new information when I was on R&R in St. Barths. I got a lead on his whereabouts and I felt I was justified to act, sir. I was in hot pursuit.”

  “Hot pursuit? What kind of nonsense is that, Sandor? You weren’t a state trooper chasing a bank robber down I-95. You planned and carried out an entire operation without sanction from or notice to this office. You even took a Mexican national into custody along the way.”

  “A drug runner, sir.”

  Byrnes stared at him as if they were speaking two different languages. “Do you have any idea what sort of trouble you’re in? Do you know what kind of damage you’ve done to your career? In a best-case scenario you could be riding a desk in a cubicle on the third floor of this building until your infamous sense of humor is an ancient memory. Am I clear?”

  “Completely, sir.”

  Byrnes shook his head. “God almighty, Jordan. What the hell were you thinking?”

  “May I speak freely, sir?”

  “A little late to play the ingénue, don’t you think? Say whatever you want.”

  “I was thinking about the team that died when that bomb was ignited north of Baton Rouge. I was thinking of the people who were incinerated at Fort Oscar. I was thinking about the airliner they sabotaged as nothing more than a diversionary tactic. And then I was thinking about that bastard living under the protection of a scumbag like Chavez. When I got a lead on Adina’s compound, my career was not even a consideration.”

  “You should have applied for authorization to proceed.”

  “Come on, sir, you know the Potomac shuffle. Getting permission for an incursion into Venezuela? Who was going to approve that? Even if I did, by the time we went up and down the chain of command where would Adina and his anthrax have been by then?”

  “I understand your feelings about this man, I truly do. But there are protocols, damnit. And what about Bergenn and Raabe? How do you think it’s going to go for them? And your pal down at the base in Hato Airport? Come now, don’t look so surprised. You think we don’t know Doug Carlton arranged your transportation in and out of Venezuela?”

  “He had nothing to do with this. He thought we were acting on orders. And so did Bergenn and Raabe.”

  Byrnes almost managed a smile. “Sell that song and dance somewhere else.” He stood up. “The Director wants to see us. All of us.”

  ————

  The reception they received in Director Walsh’s office made the discussion with Byrnes seem positively congratulatory. Sandor, Bergenn, and Raabe had already been formally debriefed on the details of their rogue mission, and the Director had the report in front of him as they sat around his conference table. Walsh began by assuring each of them that they were in a world of trouble.

  “You risked a serious international incident, which may yet bite us in the ass, and the totality of what you accomplished was to delay a shipment of narcotics that by now has likely been delivered anyway, despite your harebrained scheme.”

  “I don’t think that’s accurate,” Sandor disagreed. “We gathered intelligence about Adina’s operation, including a facility manufacturing anthrax and a multinational cocaine operation.”

  “Which leads you to what conclusion?”

  “That this team should be permitted to travel to Sharm el-Sheikh to follow up on the information I gathered.”

  “Egypt? It’s not enough that your escapade into Venezuela may ignite a melee with our most potent enemy in the Western Hemisphere. Now you want me to send you to one of the most volatile regions in the entire world to stir up trouble there?”

  “That’s where the trail leads, sir.”

  The Director shook his head in disgust. “That would be a definitive no, Agent Sandor. Meanwhile, what am I supposed to do with the Mexican you shanghaied?”

  “Protective custody?”

  “May I remind you, Sandor, this is the Central Intelligence Agency. Our primary objective is to gather intelligence in the defense of our country. We try to do our best, in that pursuit, to act covertly and not provoke wars all over the map.”

  The Director was interrupted when his assistant walked in and passed him a slip of paper.

  “Well, gentlemen, in case you did not believe that these problems have already reached the highest levels of our government, the report of your exploits has been shared with the office of the National Director of Intelligence, and the NSC has arranged to join us for this discussion.”

  Walsh picked up a remote control and activated the videoconference screen on the wall. They all turned and waited until the image of the President’s Nati
onal Security Advisor, Peter Forelli, glowed to life.

  Introductions were followed by the customary diplo-speak and expressions of concern over what Chavez might do in response to the shooting incident in the Lago de Maracaibo. Given Sandor’s less than flattering opinion of the Venezuelan tyrant, he found himself wishing the hatchet-faced dictator would actually make some sort of retaliatory move. He remained silent on that as the others tossed around the usual back-channel options, with Walsh never missing the opportunity to make clear how the entire problem had been caused by blatant insubordination.

  Sandor did not actually see a problem, which was why he was viewed as insubordinate. Fortunately, there was someone in the administration who agreed with him. As the NSA droned on about what needed to be done, the door behind him on the large screen opened and in strode the President of the United States.

  Even though this was a videoconference, all five men around Walsh’s table instinctively stood.

  President Henry Forest responded with his familiar grin. He said, “At ease gentlemen,” then sat beside Forelli as everyone else took their seats. “I got the headlines on this from Peter, fellas, so you’ve got two minutes of my time. What’s the situation?”

  Peter Forelli quickly reiterated the issues and Director Walsh chimed in with his concerns. It did not take long for the President to show them all the palm of his hand. Despite the carping of his worst critics, Forest was a deceptively quick study.

  “So you’re all bent out of shape because one of our boys blew up a drug smuggler’s boat in the middle of Venezuelan waters, that the bottom line?” When no one replied, the President leaned forward to have a better look at his screen. “That you, Sandor?”