“Covington was a coward,” Jordan said.
“I suppose you’re right.”
“So what happens next?”
“After we take care of Traiman’s last team, here in Rome, I’m going home and do my best to wrap up this whole mess.”
“The VX?”
“Already have a team in possession of the shipments from Marseilles. It’s all under control.”
“Under control, sure.”
“One battle at a time, Jordan.” He turned to Christine. “Goodbye, Miss Frank. Sandor, I’ll see you in DC.”
Jordan sighed. “Yes sir,” he said, “you will.”
They watched as the deputy director walked through Doney’s front door and strolled up the Via Veneto, quickly lost among the tourists and locals, on his way back to the embassy. When Jordan picked up his espresso again, it was cold. He signaled the waiter to bring them two more.
“You’re thinking about your friends, about the people . . . all of that, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he said.
“What you did,” she said, “it needed to be done.”
Jordan stared at her. “Yes,” he said at last, “it did.”
The waiter brought fresh coffee, and Christine topped them off from the bottle of anisette. “Let’s make a toast,” she said.
“To what? The end of tyranny for today? Or peace for all time?”
“To Anthony,” she said solemnly.
Jordan nodded. “Sure, and to doing what needs to be done.”
They touched cups before drinking and then sat silent for a while.
“Well, let’s look on the bright side,” he said. “At least we didn’t catch pneumonia in the Med.”
“Or drown.”
“That’s true.”
“Next time we tour the world together, let’s make our plans a little more carefully.”
“Fair enough,” he said.
He paid the check and they set off for their hotel, Jordan hobbling along on his cane as they slowly walked the ancient streets of Rome.
###
Did you enjoy Targets of Deception? Please continue reading for a sample of the Jordan Sandor follow-up, Targets of Opportunity from Simon and Schuster.
PROLOGUE
PYONGYANG, NORTH KOREA
ON THE EIGHTH floor of a nondescript office building overlooking the harbor in Pyongyang, two men faced off across a small table. Hwang Hyun-Su, host of the meeting, was one of Kim Jong-Il’s most trusted advisors. His guest from South America was only identified to him as Adine.
The Great Leader maintained a strict need-to-know policy, even among his closest and most prominent associates. All that was required was for Kim’s deputy to attend this meeting, hear what the man had to say and report back.
The view from the austere conference room offered a revealing portrait of North Korea’s industrial dilemma: the warehousing and docks, with their antiquated equipment and vessels, appeared largely deserted—the port was far too quiet to comport with Kim’s claim of national prosperity. In sum, the harbor evinced all the activity of a New Hampshire lake in January.
Nevertheless, Hwang pointed to the port with pride, claiming it was proof of Kim’s true genius.
Responding without irony or sarcasm, the Latin man said, “We very much respect the spectacular growth of your economy,” then waited for his host’s interpreter to explain his statement. “If we are to make progress in these discussions, however, we must be candid about your dependence on foreign sources of oil.”
Hwang stared at his guest. “The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea is an independent nation. We are not reliant on any other government.”
The man called Adina could not resist a thin smile. “I am well versed in your Great Leader’s Juche ideology, his commitment to total autonomy, and the impressive strides he has made to ensure the success and the security of your beloved nation.”
Hwang nodded his approval as the statement was translated.
“But sir, the DPRK consumes more than thirty-five thousand barrels of oil every day, an extremely conservative estimate based on a damaged economy. Even at those numbers, your country produces less than two percent of its requirements. If that is not dependence, what is?” The Asian winced slightly. “If you are uncomfortable with the word dependence, then perhaps we should speak of cooperation.”
“Cooperation with whom? We already have friends who help us to meet our needs.”
“Ah, yes. But your so-called friends engage in wars with the imperialists of the West, then withhold production of oil and intentionally cause the price of crude to skyrocket. What sort of friends will they be when the cost has doubled again? Who will offer you protection?”
Hwang sat silent.
“The Korean People’s Army you have assembled cannot rely on the promises of those who are consumed with their own difficulties. You cannot run your tanks and ships on those questionable assurances. And what of your financial infrastructure? Your people have suffered
great deprivation in the name of industrial progress, but how will that end if you cannot afford the oil you need to grow?”
“The people are devoted to following our Dear Leader.”
For the first time, Adina did nothing to disguise his impatience. “It is difficult for people to remain in lockstep when they are starving to death. Let’s be frank, shall we? Your country has suffered food shortages for over a decade with no end in sight. You have chosen to cut off foreign aid, even from nongovernmental agencies such as the World Food Program. .is has only worsened the situation. Your stranglehold on the people is enforced not through devotion, but
through martial law. Your policies have resulted in famine, chronic poverty, and a decline in productivity. As the price of oil climbs, your troubles will only increase. Your military remains strong, but to what purpose? You have two million men in uniform doing nothing more than guarding a border that separates you from your own brothers in the south. How will that end for you?” Hwang stood up as the translation was completed, but before he could speak, Adina said, “Sit down, I’m not finished.”
The Korean stared at him in disbelief. “Do you understand that I am here on behalf of the Great Leader? Do you realize, that if I so choose, you will never leave this room alive?”
Adina remained utterly composed as he replied, “And to whom do you think you are speaking, some fool toady you can intimidate with your threats? Kim would not have sent you to meet with me unless he believed I had something important to say.”
“Insulting my glorious country, is that what I should find important?”
“No, my friend,” the Latin replied, speaking slowly, so that nothing would be missed by the translator. “What I have come to say is that I have a solution to these problems. A strategy, if you will, that will benefit your country and mine.”
Hwang hesitated for a moment, then sat back down. “Well?”
“What if we could arrange a means of using your military intelligence and capability to deal a mortal wound to our common enemy? What if we could do it in such a way that the blame was not laid at your doorstep or mine? What if we work together to ensure that you will have access to oil at a fair price for decades to come, while crippling the United States in the process?”
“You want us to go to war against the United States?”
“Quite the contrary. I want to help you avoid a war with the United States, a war that is inevitable if your economic issues worsen and your flaunting of their demands increase. Let’s be frank in our assessments for a moment. Try to put aside the patriotic claptrap you’re
forced to recite for the masses and look at the realities here.” The Korean translator visibly flinched as he delivered this sentence, but Adinawent on. “Where will all the hunger and oppression in your country inevitably lead? Eventually you will be left with a disenchanted people and a huge army with war as the only rationale for its use. Just as the United States needed the Second World War to lift itself from
the Great Depression, the DPRK will be left with no alternative but bloody conflict. Then who will you fight? The Chinese? The Japanese? The Americans? With their resources, it will spell disaster for you.” Hwang began to protest, but Adina held up his hand. “Right now our enemies in the West face an ongoing battle with the extremists in the Middle East. Instead of becoming entangled in those hostilities, let us embark on a mission that will use the fanaticism of the Islamic lunatics for our benefit. Let them escalate their conflicts with the United States, let them deflect all attention away from us while we actually deal the Americans a crushing blow. Let our two nations become the core of a great new alliance for this young century.”
“Who are you?” Hwang said, regretting the question as soon as it was uttered.
Adina waved the question away as if swatting at a noisome insect. “Who I am is of no consequence for now. What is important is that we are already moving ahead, swiftly and secretly and effectively. We already have men in place to begin the first part of this mission.”
“Already moving?”
“Yes, with the approval of your Great Leader.”
Hwang appeared stung. “Where?”
“In the Caribbean.”
Hwang would have laughed, if humor were any part of his limited emotional arsenal. “The Caribbean? What sense does that make?”
“All the sense in the world,” Adina said with a smile. “As you will come to see, once you are prepared to listen, it makes all the sense in the world.”
CHAPTER ONE
TEHRAN
SEYED ASGHARI WAS a true believer. He had dedicated much of his adolescence and all of his adult life to the glory of Allah, pursuing what he perceived to be God’s purpose—the destruction of all Western infidels. He was devoted to this calling and therefore honored to have been recruited for his latest assignment, serving Iran in a multinational assault upon the United States.
And yet, almost from the start, he was troubled.
He first became anxious when he learned his cell would be led by an Asian. Throughout his years of loyal service to the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, Seyed had always taken orders from fellow countrymen, or from Syrians or Palestinians with whom he shared a cultural and religious bond. .is stranger from the Far East was different in style and approach from any of the other men he had followed, and the unconditional authority he wielded disturbed Seyed more and more as the days wore on.
He was also bothered by the inclusion of three Spanish-speaking men in his unit. Not only was it unusual for Hispanics to be involved in an operation originating in this part of the world, but these three seemed to share a private bond with the Asian that alienated
Seyed.
And there was one further issue. Seyed presumed he had been selected for this mission because of his expertise in clandestine methods, skills that involved far greater subtlety and technical proficiency than those possessed by most of his compatriots. As the planning
proceeded he was not entrusted with details of the impending assignment, but what little he was told left him wondering how his particular talents would be useful in what appeared to be a paramilitary strike.
Something did not feel right about any of this.
For the past few years Seyed’s handler in the IRGC had been Ahmad Jaber, a man well respected within the organization for engineering terrorist assaults and who, as a consequence of his service to the cause, was being actively hunted by the governments of the United States, Argentina, and Israel, among others. Jaber had become a mentor to Seyed, the only person to whom the young man would dare confide his apprehension. And so it was to Jaber that he brought his concerns.
Seyed was seated on the edge of the sofa in the comfortable living area of Jaber’s home, a place he had visited only once before. He spoke slowly and deliberately, wanting to be certain he was giving a fair account of everything he had seen and heard.
After listening intently until his protégé was finished, Ahmad Jaber slowly shook his head and admitted, “I have been told nothing of this operation.”
Seyed was dark-skinned and bearded, short and powerfully built, clothed in a traditional, free-flowing Arabic aba and sandals. His eyes, ebony dark and normally filled with defiance, now betrayed his growing fear. “How can that be, emir? How can such a thing be arranged without your knowledge?”
Jaber calmly held an upraised hand in response to the question, then stood and paced thoughtfully back and forth across the room as his young charge waited. Jaber was tall, clean-shaven, and well groomed, his thinning hair combed straight back, his nails buffed and trimmed. He was finely dressed in an Italian suit and French shirt, worn open at the neck. His Western bearing was what one might expect from a corporate executive in Europe, not a murderer in the service of a distorted faith. Jaber finally stopped and looked down. “I honestly do not know how this can be,” he conceded. “What else have they revealed to you of their plans?”
“I told you all I know. They have not yet discussed plans for the attack with me. They act as if I cannot be trusted, as if I should not really know everything until the last moment.”
“And how many of our own countrymen are involved?”
“Only two others,” Seyed told him, then recited the names of the other Iranians in the cell. “I had never heard of them before.”
Jaber shook his head again. “Nor have I.”
“How can that be?” the young man asked again.
While Seyed was anxious about his individual role in this mission, Jaber had a broader concern. In the past year he had repeatedly clashed with other IRGC leaders over their use of foreign agents, fearing that the purity of their jihad was being compromised. Jaber warned them that they were beginning to look more like some international conglomerate run by the Americans than an Islamic crusade.
Now he was being informed of a major assault being prepared without his participation, an operation led by an Asian and run with South Americans. .e implications for his own future were obvious. Jaber returned to his seat opposite Seyed, still trying to make sense of this.
“Emir?” Seyed interrupted his reverie.
Jaber stared at the young man without speaking. Then he said, “It is clear that you must continue your role, learn everything you can and then report back to me. First, recite for me again everything you have been told. Everything.”
Seyed restated the major points he had already shared, then Jaber pressed him for details, seeking to piece together as much information as he could about the others who were involved, particularly the Asian. Seyed believed he was either Chinese or Korean, his nationality having not been disclosed. He had not been told which country the South Americans were from, but believed they were from Venezuela. He vowed to find out. “I am sorry I do not know more,” he said.
Jaber smiled warmly and assured him it was only a beginning. “But you must not come here again. There may be danger in that for both of us.”
“I understand. But please know that I was most careful in my journey to your home.”
Jaber smiled again. “Good, good. I am certain you were. And you must be just as careful when you leave.” Then he gave instructions for contacting him.
Seyed pledged his loyalty, then went on his way.
* * *
As Jaber suspected, Seyed had been less cautious than he believed in traveling to this prosperous suburb of Tehran. .The men who organized Seyed’s mission had assigned watchdogs for everyone involved and, even as the young man followed a circuitous route back to his own home, his meeting with Ahmad Jaber had been tracked and reported.
“A shame,” the Asian man told his three Spanish-speaking lieutenants, speaking in their native tongue. “Seyed might have been valuable to us at some point.” He thought for a moment. “That leaves only two Iranians in our unit. We may need to recruit another. What a waste of time.”
The others said nothing.
“He must be removed at once.”
One of the men asked, “Can we
be sure that he revealed anything to Jaber? After all, they have had a long relationship. Is the visit so unusual?”
“It is when you consider the pains he took to conceal his destination.”
The others could not disagree.
“And it is the nature of their relationship that persuades me he would certainly have discussed our plans. There is no question, Seyed must be interrogated and then eliminated. And quickly. There is no telling who else he might speak with.”
One of the other men hesitated, then asked, “What of Jaber?”
“Yes, I know, a troubling complication.”
“He is a high-ranking operative in the IRGC.”
“I am aware of that.” .e Asian paused, then said, “It must be made to look as if someone else removed him. The Americans, the Israelis. Do what needs to be done, but clean this up now.”
* * *
Later that evening Seyed received a text message summoning him to a meeting. There was nothing remarkable in either the short notice or the late hour. His cell had been gathering frequently, often at odd times. In each their Asian leader assured them that the time for action was drawing ever closer, even if specifics were scarce.
Seyed deleted the message, completed his prayers, then headed out.
Unlike the IRGC briefings he attended in the past, which were conducted by Jaber in an impressive high-rise at the center of the modern Elahiyeh district, tonight Seyed traveled on the Kordestan Highway, taking an exit that led to an old neighborhood of broken down buildings and industrial yards.
During the ride he thought a great deal about Jaber. Until today Seyed had always known the man to be beyond fear. His mentor thrived on power and control. Now he was obviously distressed at the prospect of a major offensive being planned, right here in Tehran, without his knowledge. Seyed had repeatedly asked him, “How can it be so?” It worried them both that neither had an answer.
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