“I’ve spoken with the Director as well as the President’s National Security Advisor. With our findings on movements between North Korea and Tehran, the consensus is that the operation is worth the risk.”
“The risk for whom?” Sandor asked with a wry smile.
“You in particular,” Byrnes replied with no humor in his tone or manner. “You were the number one choice for the mission.”
“And that comes from…”
“The top.”
For the moment, Sandor was silent.
“Timing here is crucial,” the DD said. “We have no idea how quickly this terrorist assault is moving, and we have limiting parameters on the movements of Kim’s man.”
“In plain English, please.”
“We have to get to Kim’s delegation as soon as possible, and in the most vulnerable setting.”
“So we aren’t going to march into the palace and ask for an appointment.”
Byrnes replied with another of his classic frowns. “No, you are not.”
“So how quickly are we going to move?”
“Immediately,” Byrnes said as he rose to his feet. “There’s a car waiting for you. You’ll meet with your men this afternoon.”
“And what about Jaber? Why do you think he asked to see me?”
Byrnes had already given that some thought. “He wanted to goad you, I think.”
“For sport?”
“No, probably because he believes you’re the best man for the job, and he actually wants you to succeed here.”
“Well that certainly is a bit of sad irony.” Sandor stood. “Jaber has been involved in killing a lot of our people. Marines, diplomats, civilians, my team in Bahrain. When he talks about retiring into the sunset on our dime, I want to gag.”
“Don’t worry, Jordan. I won’t forget who we’re dealing with.”
Sandor picked up the Walther and its holster from the table and tucked it into his belt. “That’s good, because if everyone really does think he’s already dead, that means no one is looking for him. And that can cut both ways.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hicham and Cardona were enjoying a pleasant lunch in an outdoor café along the quay that fronts the southwesterly side of the main harbor of St. Barths. Gustavia is the capital of the small island, named by Swedish settlers who were but one of the various nationalities that have controlled this rocky outcropping in the Caribbean between its discovery by Columbus and its ownership by the French. As a modern haven for the rich and beautiful, St. Barths has asserted a measure of independence from its mother country, but remains decidedly Gallic, from its cuisine to its attitude.
Hicham was describing what he knew of the history of Fort Oscar, which sits on the highest promontory at the mouth of the U-shaped port. It remains a military installation, originally built centuries before as the first line of defense against intrusion by sea.
“Now it houses the local gendarmes and the few remaining French military staff still assigned here,” he explained. “But the true purpose of the site has become the electronic monitoring conducted from three stories below, buried deep inside the mountain.” He pointed, and Cardona reached out and knocked his hand down.
“Be careful,” he grumbled. “And keep your voice down.”
Hicham laughed. “We’re just two tourists admiring the sites. No one is looking at us anyway, brother; they’re checking out the babes.”
Beautiful women, young and old, clothed in diaphanous cotton covers or barely clad at all in their string bikinis, had been parading by them as if in a procession. “This is St. Barths. Let’s take in the view.” This was a far cry from the somber atmosphere of his briefings in Tehran, and Hicham intended to enjoy himself.
Cardona frowned. He was about to admonish his companion, to tell him that he was not serious enough about his responsibilities, to ask him how a Muslim could be so cavalier about women and alcohol and the sybaritic pleasures of this island. But he held his tongue.
At that moment, the cell phone in Cardona’s shirt pocket began to vibrate. He connected the call without speaking.
“Are you in place?” the voice on the other end inquired in Spanish.
“Yes.”
“Good. I am en route to my rendezvous in Tortola. From there we will travel directly to you. Did you have any difficulties?”
“None,” Cardona told him. “Not so much as a glance.”
“Excellent.” The voice uttered a brief laugh. “Are you enjoying the local pleasures?”
Cardona looked across the table at Hicham. “We are preparing for your arrival,” he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sandor was less than delighted that his incursion into North Korea would require the involvement of a team. His last group mission had ended disastrously in Manama, and as Byrnes well knew, Jordan felt responsible for every one of those casualties. Byrnes also knew that Sandor preferred to work alone whenever possible.
However, this was the DPRK, a country dedicated to the most ruthless and oppressive qualities of tyranny. Successfully engaging in espionage within its borders, not to mention escaping the country with the information sought, was going to require both skill and luck.
It was simply not a one-man operation.
The briefing was arranged at the Farm, the CIA’s main training facility, located more than an hour from Langley. When Sandor arrived he was pleased to learn that the DD had chosen three men he knew well.
Craig Raabe was a former Navy SEAL, an expert in explosives with a subspecialty in arranging diversions that could provoke absolute mayhem when required. He was tall and fit with a shaved head, an easy laugh, and a gaze that could bore through lead. He also had a reputation of indestructibility.
Jim Bergenn was an expert marksman who had worked with Sandor in Afghanistan. Like Sandor and Raabe, he was in his late thirties, a handsome man with dark blue eyes, light brown hair, a charming manner, and a well-deserved reputation as a ladies’ man in his off hours — and sometimes while on duty as well. Attractive female recruits were cautioned about Bergenn shortly after arriving at Langley. Some of the women at headquarters thought the warning should be included in the CIA handbook.
Kurt Zimmermann was in his late forties, a career Company man recently relegated to duties as an instructor on the Farm, legendary for his facility as a linguist. He spoke several languages without detectable accent. He was not as tall or athletic looking as the others, but he was broader and more muscular, with a renowned scowl of disapproval that intimidated some and amused others. His regular features gave him an everyman look that allowed him to pass as Scandinavian, Slavic, or numerous other nationalities in between. As far as his new assignment was concerned, he was certainly not going to convince anyone he was Korean, but he spoke the language fluently and that could prove valuable.
The three of them were waiting in a conference room in the main administration building. When Sandor strode in they greeted him warmly, or at least Raabe and Bergenn did. Then Zimmermann came forward and shook his hand, not letting go.
“Not your style, is it?”
“Sorry?”
Zimmermann treated him to the famous glare. “You don’t much like moving in a pack.”
Jordan grinned. “Depends on the pack, Kurt.”
With that, Zimmermann gave Sandor his hand back and offered up his lousy impression of a smile.
“How much have they told you so far?” Sandor asked.
“Only that we’re going on safari with you,” Jim Bergenn said. “The DD was short on time, said you’d give us the skinny.”
Sandor motioned to the chairs and they all took seats around the conference table. “Here’s what I know,” he began, then shared what he had learned in the past couple of hours.