He quickly showered and dressed, choosing gray slacks, black loafers with rubber soles, and a crisply pressed white shirt. He had a look in the mirror, his uneven nose a reminder of too many close-action battles, his complexion tanned and a bit weathered. His dark hair was cut just long enough to allow him to run his fingers through the thick waves, front to back — which he habitually did when he took time to reflect on something important. He was doing that now as he continued to stare ahead, his intense eyes no longer seeing his reflection, instead visualizing Ahmad Jaber. It was a confrontation he had looked forward to for a very long time.
Back in the bedroom he pulled out his black leather “go” bag, already packed with two changes of clothes, toiletries, and other sundries. Then he returned to the metal container. He removed his bulky Smith & Wesson .45 semiautomatic with two magazines, his passport — and a spare passport with a NOC, or non-official cover, in the name of Scott Kerr, one of his favored aliases — and tossed all of them in the bag with the secure cell phone. After he replaced the box in the overhead safe, he checked the magazine of the smaller, Walther PPK .380 he always carried with him, placed it in its leather holster, and shoved that inside his belt at the small of his back. Then he pulled on a navy blazer, headed downstairs, and climbed into the Town Car that was waiting to take him crosstown to the East River heliport.
Sandor figured Byrnes would eventually call him in for these debriefings. Ahmad Jaber was a major force in an area where Sandor had been involved in several operations. More than that, Sandor guessed that the DD would share his doubts about the authenticity of the defection. Byrnes might also want him to participate in the interrogation since there was some personal history there.
Sandor suspected that Michael Walsh, Director of Central Intelligence, might be the reason he had not been contacted earlier. Walsh was not Sandor’s biggest fan, and he particularly disliked anything that reeked of vendetta. Sandor took no offense. He had long ago concluded that Walsh was just a typical executive at the top of a large corporate structure. The higher up the food chain, the more conservative the approach. The Director’s job was not only to run the Central Intelligence Agency, it was also to cover the President’s ass. It was the President, after all, who had given Walsh the job and who was, in the final analysis, Walsh’s boss.
It was therefore inevitable that Walsh would worry about field agents who were constantly on the brink of skirmishes that could create international tensions, embarrassing incidents, or outright disasters. The DCI did not want those risks multiplied by anything personal that might pollute the decisions or actions of his men. On top of those concerns, Walsh felt that the more proactive and insubordinate the agent, the worse the risk.
Sandor smiled to himself. He knew that, on some days, he was the Director’s worst nightmare.
Fortunately, Deputy Director Byrnes had the ability and integrity to balance the risks and rewards of having men like Sandor out in the world, handling the necessary dangers inherent in covert operations. Byrnes was a career intelligence officer, not a political appointee or someone running for office, and even if he shared an Ivy League background and club membership with Walsh, he was willing to stand up to the Director for what he knew was right. He and Sandor sometimes disagreed about missions, and frequently about tactics, but they always had the same goal — to keep America safe by fighting her unseen enemies.
As Sandor boarded the Sikorsky chopper that would take him across the Hudson to the private airport in Teterboro, he reviewed what he knew about Ahmad Jaber, an enemy who had dwelled in darkness for the past decade. They knew that Jaber had been involved in the planning of several devastating attacks throughout the Mideast, South America, and Europe. He had engineered these murders in the name of an extreme Islamic vision that the governments of Iran, Syria, and even Saudi Arabia refused to publicly acknowledge, even as each of them provided undisclosed support.
These clandestine battles were still being waged along with the fierce struggles on the ground in Afghanistan and Iraq, but somehow they did not touch the rhythm of life at home, not in the way past battles had gripped the nation.
Americans did not actually feel they were at war, not really. There were no rallies to sell savings bonds as there were during the Second World War, or marches in protest such as the ones we saw against the debacle in Vietnam. As the horrors of 9/11 faded in the rearview mirror of the national consciousness, America simply parked its worries in an opinion poll and went back to the mall.
Unfortunately, as Sandor knew with painful intimacy, these dangers remained real and present, and he was one of those sworn to repel the ongoing assaults on our security and our freedom. A secret war against the United States was being waged every day, and Sandor knew that someone had to stand and fight.
Sandor also knew that Jaber had worked with Vincent Traiman, who was directly responsible for the murder of Sandor’s local operatives during a mission in Bahrain. When his team was exposed in Manama, Sandor was the only one to make it out alive, and he looked forward to the opportunity to confront the IRGC terrorist who may have been behind that massacre.
So, even if Jaber’s defection made no sense, Sandor was willing to hear what he had to say.
Then, if it was up to him, he would be pleased to rip the man’s throat out with his bare hands.
CHAPTER FOUR
The flight from St. Maarten to St. Barths lasts just ten minutes, but the final moments seem like an eternity. The airport is small and the only runway is so short it cannot accommodate a plane larger than a sixteen-seat twin prop. The final sixty seconds of the approach require the pilot to navigate through an ever-present wind shear as the small aircraft passes from the calm air above the open Caribbean across the rocky hills that form the port of Gustavia below. At the entrance to the airstrip the plane must squeeze the tips of its wingspan through a narrow V formed by mountains on either side, forcing the captain to execute a drop of a hundred feet until the wheels bounce onto the runway, then struggle to bring the aircraft to a stop before it slides onto the beach of St. Jean and into the sea.
This morning, two men sat in the last of the three passenger rows, watching as they passed through that mountain cut, the wheels of the small plane nearly touching the tops of the cars traveling on the road below before the precipitous drop to the sun-bleached tarmac and then the rush toward the runway’s end. When they were finally brought to a halt at the edge of the tarmac, the plane made an about-face, then taxied safely back to the small terminal. Almost immediately the rear hatch was pulled down, and a welcoming breath of tropical air greeted them as they disembarked down the short stairway.
Hicham was a French-speaking Moroccan, a tall man in his thirties, with an olive complexion and handsome features, his head shaved clean, his amber eyes sleepy, his manner deferential. He led the way to the immigration booth, where he presented his passport, then exchanged pleasantries in the local language with the officer behind the glass-fronted counter.
The man beside him, known as Cardona, said nothing as he handed over his Venezuelan passport, waiting for it to be stamped and returned. Unlike his more elegant companion, Cardona was short, dark, and brutish looking, his deep-set eyes distrustful, his gaze constantly in motion as if endlessly surveying the landscape from side to side.
They picked up their luggage from the small carousel, one large suitcase each, and Hicham led them to a small row of courtesy booths where a local car rental service had a chalkboard with his name on it. He had reserved a small Japanese SUV for three weeks and, after presenting a credit card, he signed some papers and was handed the keys. They found the car in the parking lot and were on their way.