Targets of Revenge

by Jeffrey Stephens

  “But the cocaine might then be contaminated, or the anthrax opened by mistake. I can’t imagine that Adina’s plan is to murder a group of unsuspecting drug dealers.”

  “There are numerous variations on how the toxin could be packaged. As you know, the Colombian and Mexican cartels have opted for larger shipments lately. As much as a ton or more of product at a time. Packages of anthrax could easily be added to the cargo in sealed containers.”

  “All right, so the conclusion is that Sudakov is either in league with Adina or is an unwitting transporter of a large amount of anthrax to a place or places unknown. Where do you suggest that leaves us?”

  Raabe hesitated. “We need to determine where this shipment is going. That much is obvious. Then we can prevent the attack and hopefully neutralize Adina in the process.”

  “How do you propose we manage that?”

  “Sandor wants to continue tracking the situation on his end. He has an idea about getting help from the Russian government.”

  “The Russian government? Why am I suddenly getting a knot in my stomach, Raabe?”

  “We also feel that Bergenn and I need to be on site in Mexico.”

  “Working through the DEA, I hope?”

  “Yes sir. Knowing what we do about Adina, I think you would agree that there is only one logical conclusion about the ultimate intent for those toxins.”

  “An attack somewhere in the United States.”

  “The goods are almost certainly going to be moved through Mexico before an attempt to bring them here. As far as everything we have been able to check, Adina has gone to ground and we have no trace on him anywhere. Unless someone is prepared to authorize military action against Venezuela, I think you should let us run with this.”

  “Should I?” Byrnes let out a long audible sigh. “I’ve got to brief the director and the NDI.”

  “When you do, there’s a collateral matter that needs to be addressed.”

  The DD waited.

  “This woman, Lillian Mindlovitch, was murdered in Sandor’s hotel room. The locals have issued a warrant for his arrest and we’re concerned about Interpol becoming involved.”

  “You think it might put a crimp in Sandor’s travel plans.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I’ll speak to the director about that as well. We’ll also have to get State and the NSA involved.”

  “Thank you sir.”

  “I want Sandor back here, and fast. Where is he?”

  “That’s a little hard to say. Right now he should be somewhere just south of Cairo.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CARACAS, VENEZUELA

  ADINA RECEIVED THE bad news from Egypt—his Russian colleagues had taken Jordan Sandor, but somehow he had eluded them and was again at large.

  “That man is becoming more than a nuisance,” he said to no one in particular. He was seated in a conference room in SEBIN headquarters, attended by his two bodyguards and Minister Bargas.

  “So,” the minister said, “this man Sandor. We must assume your first analysis of the situation was correct. He is a member of the American intelligence service.”

  “Yes,” Adina agreed solemnly.

  “Which means he may have information that . . .” The minister paused, choosing his words carefully. “. . . would be detrimental to your plans.”

  Only Bargas knew what the others at SEBIN did not—Sandor had learned of the production of anthrax in the laboratory within Adina’s compound, which meant that the information was now in the possession of the CIA.

  “It would be enlightening to know exactly what he has learned. I will concede that. The sooner we have taken him out of play the better.”

  The minister sat up a little straighter now. “You may need to abort your plans,” he suggested, his tone respectful but firm.

  “No,” Adina disagreed as he eyed the minister with obvious irritation. “We merely need to make some adjustments.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  ON THE ROAD TOWARD TABA, EGYPT

  SHARM EL-SHEIKH IS located on the southernmost tip of the Egyptian portion of the Sinai Peninsula, which does not lend itself to a wide variety of departure options. There is the sea, of course, but given all that had just occurred outside the harbor it was not a viable choice. The small airport was also likely being watched by the authorities, not to mention Sudakov’s thugs.

  Which left the roads north as the only practical option.

  When it comes to travel by car, Egypt is notorious for having one of the world’s highest fatality rates per miles driven. Organized rules, signs, and policemen are few and hard to find. When an officer does appear, he will tend to direct traffic with the slightest, almost imperceptible motion. A mere tweak of his forefinger may be intended to have traffic either stop or go—and if a driver is confused by the gesture, a collision is almost inevitable.

  But those dangers were not the concern for Sandor, not even with the erratic and heavy-footed Farrar at the wheel. The potential hindrance to their journey was the government ban on the use of the main Sinai roads by foreigners. Given the volatile nature of the region, the authorities had imposed these restrictions years ago and, unlike traffic violations, they were strenuously enforced. If Farrar’s vehicle were to be stopped and searched they would both be arrested.

  Their journey north, just to the west of the Gulf of Aqaba, required them to make use of the secondary roads in the hope of putting some miles behind them before they would ultimately have to risk entering one of the restricted highways.

  “Perhaps if you had not felt the need to break the banker’s arm we might have drawn a bit less attention leaving town,” the Egyptian suggested, not taking his eyes off the road as they surged ahead.

  “I see. So murdering Lilli is not as offensive as assaulting a prominent banker?”

  Farrar grunted in response.

  “If it were up to me I would have stayed in town long enough to take care of a few other people.”

  “And you’d already be in an Egyptian prison.”

  “Point taken.”

  “I don’t think so,” Farrar said, turning toward him. “The point is that someone outside the bank may be able to identify this car, which means we are in far greater peril because of what you did. That is the point.”

  “I did what I had to do.”

  “No, my friend, that is nonsense. You did not have to do it, and it was unprofessional of you to allow your emotions to interfere with your responsibilities.”

  Sandor was about to reply when a loud horn blast caused Farrar to quickly turn his eyes forward, giving him just enough time to yank the steering wheel and avoid an oncoming truck. For a moment neither man spoke. Then Sandor laughed. “Looks like I may have more to worry about than the Egyptian police.”

  Farrar scowled as he always did when criticized about his aggressive driving. “Just remember, right now I’m the only chauffeur you have.”

  “I appreciate that, I truly do, even if you are one helluva scary wheelman. Let’s try to get somewhere near Taba in one piece and I’ll take it from there on my own.”

  “Even if we manage to get you close to Taba, you’ll have no way to deal with the border guards, not to mention the other authorities that might be looking for you in connection with the girl’s death.”

  “She had a name,” Sandor snapped. “It was Lilli.”

  “Fine. Her name was Lilli.” Farrar shook his head again and blew out a stale lungful of air. “Listen to me Jordan, because I speak to you now as if you were my own son. Please have the respect to hear what I say.” He paused. “You have chosen a life where you are not entitled to give free rein to your feelings. Such behavior is not just a liability, it is a death sentence. I realize you know this, but right now it appears you need to be reminded.”

  “They murdered an innocent young woman.”

  “But that’s not really why you’re so angry, is it? They murdered her because she spoke with you, and you feel the guilt that c
omes from that knowledge.”

  They rode on a little way in grim silence until Farrar spoke up again.

  “Innocent people die every day,” he said. “Children die of hunger and disease and even for want of clean water. Hurricanes and earthquakes take countless lives. Extremists conspire to kill people who have never done them any harm.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is that you have chosen a profession where you have sworn to do all you can to stop that last type of injustice.”

  “Is that not what I want to do with Sudakov?”

  “No,” Farrar responded, his voice as loud as a shout in the confines of the small car. “Avenging the death of one girl, of Lilli, is not your mission. If that’s all you accomplish then she will have died for no reason and you may well end up joining her, which would be even worse.”

  After another interlude of sullen quiet, Sandor said, “Well, I guess you told me.”

  Farrar, still facing straight ahead, allowed himself a sad smile. “I hope you listen better than my own son.”

  “You haven’t said much about Hasani,” Sandor pointed out, pleased with the change of subject. “How is he?”

  “Ask him yourself. We should reach him in less than twenty minutes.”

  ————

  Sandor had not seen Farrar’s son in more than three years, not since the tragedy in Bahrain. Sandor was running a mission that was compromised by the rogue agent Vincent Traiman together with a mole within the CIA. When the operation imploded, Hasani chose to flee rather than fight, leaving the other local agents behind. Sandor attempted a rescue of the remaining members of his team, but he arrived too late. They had already been captured and were later killed by a Libyan-led group of assassins sent by Traiman.

  Sandor understood the pressures of combat better than most. He empathized with the grip of fear that had overtaken Hasani, a young man on his first mission, acting in a nonofficial capacity, whose actions ultimately had no effect on the grizzly outcome. More important, Sandor felt he owed something to Farrar for all of the older man’s loyalty and help over the years. Eventually Sandor hunted down and liquidated both Traiman and his accomplice, but the sting of Hasani’s cowardice was still keenly felt by the proud Egyptian Farrar.

  Today he was giving his son the opportunity to redeem himself.

  Less than twenty minutes later Farrar pulled off the dusty road and, after negotiating his way around an assortment of potholes, animals and pedestrians, he came to a stop behind a small, one-story building where another car waited.

  Without a word, Farrar turned off the engine, pushed his door open and got out. As Sandor also climbed out of the small sedan he watched Hasani emerge from the other car.

  The two Egyptians strode toward one another, then stopped as they drew near. Before either of them could speak, Sandor moved past Farrar and extended his hand.

  “Hasani,” he said with a warm smile, “I see you’ve been called back into action.”

  The young man was not yet thirty, taller and better built than Farrar, with a handsome face and his father’s dark, wary eyes. Hasani took Sandor’s hand and said, “Please believe me when I say that when my father telephoned me this morning he did not have to ask twice for my help.”

  “I believe you. So, where do we go from here?”

  Father and son exchanged a look that spoke for generations of fathers and sons who never had to say a word in order to communicate. Then Farrar turned to Sandor.

  “Israel,” he said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  ON THE ROAD TOWARD TABA, EGYPT

  THERE ARE BUS tours that make a three-hour run between Sharm el-Sheikh and Taba. They carry tourists in air-conditioned comfort to a border exchange that takes them from Egypt into Israel and back. It is a journey that traverses an ancient region where two nations sit side by side, characterized by deep political, religious, and cultural divisions. The crossings from one country to the other require passage through armed encampments worthy of a Cold War hostage swap.

  Hasani’s scheme was to have Sandor pose as one of these travelers and depart the dangers of Egypt for the safety of Israel.

  “I’m listening,” Sandor said with obvious skepticism, “but I’m sure you’ve noticed we’re already halfway to Taba.”

  “More than halfway,” Hasani corrected him.

  “Don’t you think it’s going to be a bit suspicious if we flag down a bus in the middle of nowhere and I get on?”

  “That would certainly be a mistake,” the young man agreed. “There is no way we can get you onto one of the tour buses without creating unacceptable risk. And we certainly cannot drive all the way back to Sharm el-Sheikh and have you board there.”

  “Definitely not,” Sandor agreed.

  “Our intention is to get you to Taba. A friend of mine drives one of the buses. He will have your name added to his manifest. When he arrives there you will simply mingle with the other tourists and make your way into Eilat.”

  “And this friend of yours . . .”

  “Is trustworthy. All he needs is the name you will use. Something other than Jordan Sandor, of course.” Hasani looked to his father, then back to Sandor. “You have an, uh, alternative passport?”

  “I do.”

  Hasani lifted his shoulders and then dropped them, as if to say it would be as simple as that.

  Sandor turned to Farrar for a reaction. The older man tilted his head slightly to the right, then asked his son, “This driver, is it Awan?”

  “Yes.”

  Farrar nodded approvingly. “He is a loyal friend,” he told Sandor.

  “Loyal enough to trust with my life?”

  “Yes,” Hasani said.

  Sandor shook his head. “All right, let’s go over everything from the beginning, then we’ll make a decision.”

  ————

  The tour bus in question was a classic-style coach, about halfway full today as they learned from Hasani’s cell phone discussion with Awan. As usual, all of the window seats were occupied, the riders hoping to have a view of something worth seeing as they traveled north, with the Sinai Desert stretching out to the left and the sea to the right.

  The important thing, Hasani explained, was that the passengers tended to take little notice of each other, and certainly none of them would have any reason to make a head count of those aboard. That should make it easy for Sandor to work his way into line as they disembarked at the bus terminal.

  So much for the good news, Sandor thought.

  The problem lay in the inescapability of the situation he would face once he placed himself in the hands of the Egyptian officers that monitor the crossing from this side. His photograph might already have been obtained and circulated; his British passport in the name of Scott Kerr might be spotted as a forgery; Interpol may have already been alerted; or, despite Hasani’s confidence in the scheme, someone on the bus might point out that Sandor had not been on the ride north. Any of these, or a handful of other hazards, could cause the guards to draw their weapons and take him into custody.

  With the responsibilities before him, it was not a result he could afford. “I need to get through,” Sandor told them.

  “They’re searching for an American,” Farrar observed as he studied the grim look on his friend’s face. Then he gestured toward his son, who reached into his car and removed a small bag from the backseat. “And we have a few items to alter your appearance.”

  Sandor managed a smile. “Glad to see you’re on the case, but I still need to look enough like myself to match my passport photo.”

  “Of course,” Farrar said with a patient nod. “We don’t intend to make you look like a Bedouin. We’ll just make you a little older.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  TABA, EGYPT

  THEY FINISHED THEIR journey in Hasani’s car, since no one had any reason to be looking for his small sedan. Sandor was slumped low in the backseat, not quite hiding but doing his best to stay out of v
iew. Farrar rode shotgun. If there was a serious manhunt under way to find him, Sandor spotted no evidence of it as they sped north along the main highway. Given that Sharm el-Sheikh exists almost exclusively for the tourist trade, he figured the local authorities would want to place a lid on the entire affair as soon as possible.

  Murder in a high-end hotel room tends to be bad for business.

  Nevertheless, Sandor and the Farrars remained alert and were taking nothing for granted. After a couple of phone calls back and forth, Hasani caught up with the bus being driven by his friend Awan. Then, instead of following the large coach off the highway into the heart of town, they veered off one exit earlier and made their way through the backstreets of Taba that circled around toward the parking plaza where the passengers would disembark.

  “Better this way,” the young man explained without being asked. “It would be too obvious for us to pull up right behind.”

  As arranged with Awan, they arrived before the bus, giving them a chance to park around the corner.

  “After you get rid of me, I want you to be careful yourself,” Sandor said to Farrar. “As you said, they’re going to make a connection between us, which means you need to keep out of Sudakov’s way for now.”

  “He can stay with me,” Hasani said. “He’ll be safe.”

  “All right,” Sandor said. “As soon as I can I’ll provide a permanent solution to that problem. I already promised you that.”

  Farrar placed a hand on Sandor’s shoulder. “What was it you once told me? Wait to worry?”

  Sandor nodded and was about to say something else when Hasani told them it was time to go.

  They got out of the car and, with the Egyptians on either side of him, Sandor slung his black leather bag over his shoulder and wandered into the midst of what was thankfully a busy midday scene. They had considered various means of Sandor feeding into the line of people as they filed off the bus. It was agreed that Hasani should head directly toward the driver.

  Awan was the first man down the steps. After half a dozen passengers followed him onto the street, Hasani approached and made a loud show of greeting his old friend. Their pretense at surprise was followed by a hearty greeting and an affectionate hug, which drew the attention of the surrounding passengers. Farrar advanced into the growing crowd of tourists climbing down to the street. He said something pleasant in his native tongue to one of the older men there, then prodded Sandor to step behind the gentleman.