Targets of Revenge

by Jeffrey Stephens

  “Hey,” Ferriello said as Sandor opened the car door, “maybe you’re not so bad after all.”

  “Sure I am,” Sandor said with a smile as he shook his hand, then climbed out of the car and ran toward the entry gate, where he flashed his credentials and disappeared into the chopper.

  ————

  It was just before seven as Sandor approached Stewart Airport. During the flight he remained in regular contact with Raabe, who gave him updates on the efforts to prevent the attacks in Manhattan.

  The NYPD, aided by the Fire Department and every federal agent the task force could muster, were doing their best to intercept vehicles that had been identified by the satellite photos. Attack helicopters had been dispatched from Fort Dix in New Jersey to assist in spotting and stopping them. There were emergency cars and trucks stationed at the entrances to every bridge, and, after the task force contacted the Port Authority, a command decision was made to completely shut off all four tunnels on both sides. The move was wreaking havoc with the early traffic, but at least the most serious threats of death and destruction would be averted—igniting gasoline in the open air would be far less damaging than the creation of a ventilation-swept blaze in the confines of a long tunnel.

  All of the major television and radio stations were already covering the story, and this time they didn’t have to gin up the fear factor. The military had stepped in, grounding every news helicopter in New York, but enough video footage had already been shot to fill the airwaves and Internet. The headline was that despite all the manpower devoted to the effort, some of the cars and vans had gotten through. It was too late to stop them all, and hell was breaking loose all over the city.

  Three of the drivers had arrived at the Henry Hudson Bridge before the roadblocks had time to set up. The drivers botched their attempt at a controlled collision in the southbound lanes, all of them traveling too fast. When sparks flew at the impact, the containers of fuel they were carrying exploded. The drivers attempted to flee on foot, but they were covered in burning gasoline and they died at the scene.

  “That’s the good news,” Sandor said, and Raabe agreed.

  Unfortunately, the resulting fireballs carried to the cars of innocent drivers immediately behind them, but all of those people were saved by the rescue vehicles that were just arriving on site.

  Similar explosions occurred on the 59th Street Bridge, the University Heights Bridge, and the Macombs Dam Bridge. The drivers of the booby-trapped cars managed to escape the fires, but they could not outrun the authorities. Meanwhile the blasts there caused fatalities and injuries to those unlucky enough to end up behind them.

  “How many innocent people dead?” Sandor asked Raabe.

  “So far six deaths have been reported. Also a lot of people require treatment for third-degree burns. Whatever they put in there with the gasoline, and however they rigged the stuff, the reports say it was like liquid fire flying through the air.”

  “Bastards,” Sandor said.

  “Why would Adina have tried something so complicated, involving so many people? What was the point?”

  “I have a theory,” Sandor told him.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “What if these attacks were timed to occur before the anthrax was going to be set off? Even if he only succeeded in hitting half the bridges and tunnels, what would people do once word got out?”

  “They’d run for trains and subways and try to get out of Manhattan.”

  “Which means the major terminals and stations would be jammed with people still coming into town during the morning rush hour and people trying to get out. Perfect spot to set off the anthrax blasts.”

  “Which means we’ve stopped him there.” Sandor paused. “But maybe it’s not over yet.”

  “This is one time I hope you’re wrong.”

  “Me too,” Sandor admitted. “Keep me posted,” he said, then signed off.

  CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE

  NEWBURGH, NEW YORK

  ADINA WAS SEATED on the edge of the bed in his motel room, transfixed by the images on the television screen as he listened to the on-site reporters.

  Explosions had occurred on the Henry Hudson Bridge. People, their clothes on fire, ran from their cars. Rescue teams were already on the scene. A few other bridges had been hit with similar casualties, but coordinated attacks on Manhattan’s major bridges, as well as her tunnels, had been prevented.

  Of more concern to him were the vague and seemingly unrelated reports of a series of violent incidents at a Times Square hotel.

  Adina looked at his watch. He had been up all night, still dressed in his clothes from the day before. It was nearly seven and he had not heard from Alejandro or Jorge. Twice he had risked sending them the prearranged signal from his cell.

  There had been no response.

  He stood and paced the small room for a moment, already knowing what he must do. He pulled out his phone and called the pilot.

  The young man answered on the second ring, already awake and prepared for the early departure Adina had predicted.

  “It’s time for us to go,” Adina told him.

  “We’re here at the airport, we’ll be all set.”

  “I’m just a few minutes away.”

  “I need to file a flight plan.”

  “Of course. We’ll discuss that when I arrive,” Adina told him, then rang off.

  He turned off the television and walked to the nightstand, where he picked up the pistol Lasco had given him and secured it in the waistband of his trousers.

  Then he lifted the seventh case of anthrax and headed for the door.

  CHAPTER NINETY-SIX

  STEWART AIRPORT

  A SHORT TIME LATER Sandor’s chopper set down at the far end of the airport, where he was met by two FBI agents.

  After introductions he asked, “What’ve we got?”

  “The suspect just arrived and got on the jet,” one of the men said as he pointed toward the private air terminal several hundred yards away. “He boarded alone. We did not interfere. We were told to take no action until you arrived.”

  “The crew on board?”

  “Got on just before he did. Two men. Requested a takeoff back to Wilmington,” he said, checking his watch, “five minutes from now.”

  “What has the crew been told?”

  “The tower told them there was going to be a slight delay.”

  “Any indication of their level of involvement?”

  “No, we have no information on whether they’re hostiles or not. We’re treating the situation as if they are.”

  “All right. I need a mechanic’s uniform. Then have the tower tell them they spotted something and they need to send a man aboard.”

  The two agents looked at each other, then the second man asked, “Spotted what?”

  “What the hell do I know? An oil leak on the ground. A flat tire. Have them come up with something.”

  “Look, we were told this is your operation, but we’ve already got a dozen men all over this airport. Why don’t we just rush the plane in force? Or tell the crew they all need to disembark?”

  Sandor shook his head. “I’ve got my reasons. Trust me on this.”

  ————

  Ten minutes later, Jordan Sandor, dressed in a dark blue mechanic’s coverall, strode across the tarmac and up the stairs onto Adina’s jet. He was surprised to find the cabin empty.

  “Hello?” he called out.

  “In the cockpit,” a man replied.

  Sandor stepped forward toward the entrance of the small cockpit, where he was greeted by the barrel of a revolver pointed at the side of his head.

  “On your knees” Adina said, “your back to me, hands on your head.”

  “Look buddy . . .” Sandor began, but Adina cut him off.

  “Do not waste my time with whatever fairy tale you’ve invented for this occasion. Just do as I say or I will shoot you where you stand.”

  Sandor did as he was told.

&n
bsp; “You,” Adina said to the copilot, “go into the cabin and pull the hatch closed. And remember, I can see you from here.” Keeping the pistol trained on Sandor, Adina allowed the young man to pass, then positioned himself in the doorway so he had a view of all three men.

  The copilot pulled up the steps and secured the hatch.

  “Back here,” Adina snapped. When the copilot returned to his seat, Adina said, “We will now take off, gentlemen.”

  “I don’t think so,” Sandor disagreed, his back to the man.

  “Excuse me?”

  “This airport is surrounded by federal agents. Apache helicopters are hovering on the perimeter, out of sight, standing by with orders to shoot this plane down if it gets so much as three feet off the ground.”

  “Nonsense,” Adina snarled.

  “That so?” Sandor craned his neck around to have a look at him. “If you want to shoot me, go ahead, but I’m your only chance of walking out of here alive.”

  Adina’s eyes narrowed. “And who would you be?”

  “No one important, except that I can tell you what’s been going on while you’ve been waiting to fly back to a hero’s welcome in Caracas.”

  Adina pointed the gun at Sandor’s forehead but said nothing.

  “The attacks on the bridges and tunnels were prevented. Your two henchmen are deader than yesterday’s cigar. And all six cases of anthrax have been recovered.”

  “What is that charming expression you Americans have? Ah yes, ‘Perhaps you did not get the memo.’ ” Then Adina reached behind the pilot’s seat and held up the seventh case of anthrax.

  Sandor said nothing.

  “Yes, I see in your eyes you recognize this custom-made luggage.”

  “What do you intend to do with it?”

  “That, of course, is my concern. For now, what I do not intend is to stand here and waste time when we should already be in the air.”

  “Not happening, anthrax or no anthrax.”

  “Once we tell them I have this case on board, they may not be so anxious to shoot down this plane and release a deadly cloud over the entire area.”

  “And who’s going to tell them you have anthrax on board?”

  “You are, of course.”

  “Not me, pal.”

  For the first time, Adina’s arrogance faltered. “If you are so certain they will shoot this plane down, why did you come aboard? You’ll die too.”

  “No, because we’re not taking off. I came here to take you into custody.”

  “You really do have a death wish.”

  “Not at all. No one here is going to die, not this morning.”

  Adina displayed his venomous smile. “So, why the ludicrous costume? I knew you were not a mechanic when I saw you coming toward the plane.”

  “Not really my style, I admit, but I wasn’t sure how you’d react if I showed up in full military gear. I just didn’t want you shooting me before I got up the stairs. I needed to get inside so we could talk.”

  “You’ve achieved that limited success.”

  “The way I calculate things, you only have a few ways to go. You force these boys to take off and the Apaches will blow us all out of the sky. Whether or not the anthrax is released, or how effective it will be in killing innocent people will no longer be our problem, will it? On the other hand, if you fire a single shot at any one of us, that sound will bring a SWAT team rushing onto this plane and you’ll be cut to ribbons before you take your next breath. But, if you hand me that suitcase and let me walk you out of here then you become a political prisoner.”

  Adina nodded slowly, as if something had just become clear to him. “With diplomatic immunity.”

  “Your old pal President Chavez will see to that, won’t he?”

  Adina began to say something but stopped. Then his eyes widened slightly as he said, “You’re Sandor, aren’t you?” When he received no response he said, “Yes, of course you are.”

  Sandor shrugged. “So what’s it going to be?”

  “Why would you have come aboard and risked your life to do me this wonderful favor?”

  “Because you’re better off to me alive than dead.”

  “I could kill you right now and still walk away.”

  “Would I be here if that were true?” Sandor shook his head. “No, I already told you. They hear a gunshot and they’ll move right in with six-shooters blazing. You may have diplomatic immunity from Venezuela, but I have my friends right nearby.” He got to his feet, not even looking at the pistol that Adina was still holding on him. “We also have a five-minute deadline before they shoot their way in here, whether or not you fire that thing.”

  “How do I know I won’t be shot as soon as I step outside?”

  Sandor shook his head with a look of utter disgust. “If we wanted to shoot you, twenty men would have stormed the plane by now.”

  “I want to speak with my embassy. Right now.”

  “Of course you do, and as soon as you give yourself up you’ll be afforded all of your rights.”

  “The American way,” Adina said with obvious contempt.

  Sandor ignored him and turned to the two young men. “Time to go boys. While Hamlet here does his Act Three soliloquy, no sense you getting nailed in the crossfire.”

  They gave Adina a nervous look but did not move.

  “Go ahead,” Sandor told them, “he’s not going to shoot you.”

  After some tense moments of silence Adina said, “Go.”

  The two crewmen got quickly to their feet and hurried out to the cabin, where they opened the hatch and leapt down the stairs.

  “Well then,” Adina said as he and Sandor stood facing each other in the confines of the small cockpit, “how do you propose to ensure my safety?”

  “That’s entirely up to you. If you like, you can use me as a shield when we walk off the plane.”

  Adina sighed. “I have no doubt I’ll be taken alive, Mr. Sandor. As you suggested, I have knowledge of too many things your people want to hear about. They’ll shove me into a rat-infested hole in Guantánamo, or perhaps transport me somewhere overseas where your associates can ignore your laws and my rights.”

  “You really think the State Department is going to risk that sort of diplomatic brawl with your pal Chavez?”

  Before Adina could reply, Sandor lashed out with his left forearm, sweeping up at Adina’s gun hand. At the same instant, he drove the heel of his right hand hard under the Venezuelan’s chin, knocking him backward against the bulkhead. Adina lost his grasp on the case of anthrax as he fell, but he was still clutching the revolver. Leaving no time for the stunned terrorist to react, Sandor was on him, twisting the gun from his hand and pressing his left arm against Adina’s neck as he gained control of the pistol and held it to Adina’s temple.

  Kneeling atop him, his teeth gritted tight, Sandor said, “I could have killed you as soon as I walked in here, but there were witnesses. And I just had to hear you whine about diplomatic immunity, at least once.”

  Adina, gasping under the pressure on his throat, was barely able to answer. “You aren’t going to kill me,” he rasped, once again summoning that reptilian smirk. “You can threaten me, but without the fear of death you have nothing.”

  “Well then,” Sandor replied with a flash of his own cruel smile, “you have sorely misjudged me.” He stood and stared down at Rafael Cabello. “But just so you know that I play fair, I’m going to give you the same chance you gave every one of those innocent souls you’ve taken.” Then Sandor reached under his overalls for his own gun, leveled the Walther, and fired three shots into Adina’s face.

  CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN

  TWO WEEKS LATER, CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  SANDOR, RAABE, AND Byrnes were back inside the situation room from which the task force organized by Byrnes had coordinated their efforts during that deadly night and morning, two weeks before.

  Everyone involved agreed that the damage control had been extraordinary, given what
had been put in place. Once again, however, Sandor could not shake the sickening feeling that he should have somehow done more.

  The deaths of Adina, his two men, the five couriers from the Bronx, and the various drivers who had died that night were of no consequence to Sandor—they were the rightful casualties in a cowardly and pointless war of their own making. Yet innocent people had also perished on the bridges that could not be protected in time. Two police officers were murdered in the hotel. Countless others were injured.

  And for what?

  Sandor had been roundly congratulated for his role in preventing an anthrax attack the experts were now estimating could have taken more than twenty thousand lives.

  Numbers, Sandor told himself. When will we learn that no one has the right to measure human life in gross numbers? Human lives must always be counted one at a time.

  Jim Bergenn. Felipe Romero. Lillian Mindlovitch.

  Two days after the task force stopped the worst consequences of the catastrophe Adina had planned for Manhattan, the DEA seized the large shipment of Adina’s cocaine as part of a joint operation with the Coast Guard in the Port of Baltimore. They had also shattered the myth of the elusive Jaime Rivera; uncovered the mole within their agency, Joseph Cleary; had Alphonso Mateo still singing like a canary; and not only vindicated Dan LaBelle, but were arranging his promotion.

  Sandor knew the part he had played in all this, but he was also mindful of the large pile of IOUs he had racked up along the way. Farrar and Hasani in Sharm el-Sheikh. Ferriello in Brooklyn. Greshnev in Moscow. Carlton in Curaçao. Vauchon in St. Barths.

  There was also the expected dustup over the death of Adina. Sandor reported to Byrnes that he had acted in self-defense. He explained that once the crew left the plane he and the Venezuelan got into an argument, Adina threatened to release the anthrax and then waved the gun at him once too often. He had no choice but to protect himself.

  To which the DD replied, “And I assume you’re going to stick with that story?”

  “I am sir.”

  “Three shots in the head was protecting yourself?”