Targets of Revenge

by Jeffrey Stephens

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “You behind this mess?”

  “I am, Mr. President. The mess is all mine.”

  The President nodded. “Never got to shake your hand after your work in Baton Rouge. I’ve got to be sure to do that real soon.”

  “It would be an honor, sir.”

  The President sat back and crossed his arms across his chest. “Look, men, they didn’t capture Sandor, so they can’t prove who did what. They can’t even prove he was an American, am I right?” He did not wait for an answer. “Frankly, I’ve got bigger issues on my plate than worrying about that blowhard Chavez or some narcotics dealer in South America. So what say we skip all the State Department crap and let’s hear what the man saw when he was down there?”

  He was staring directly at Sandor.

  “The narcotics operation was coupled with the manufacture of anthrax.”

  “I saw that in the report, son. Unfortunately, people are trying to make anthrax all over the world. What do you figure is special about this situation?”

  “Rafael Cabello, sir. Adina has proved himself an avowed enemy of this country and an extremely dangerous man. I figure if we follow the narcotics we might find out what he intends to do with the anthrax. And hopefully we’ll find him as well, Mr. President.”

  Forest nodded. “Anybody got a better idea than that, let’s hear it.” The President only allowed the clock to tick twice before he said, “Okay then, Sandor makes sense to me. What do you think, Mike?”

  Director Walsh nodded at the large, flat screen. “Yes sir, I see the point.”

  “Good. Peter and I will talk it over, then he’ll follow up with the NDI and get back to you all tomorrow. Meanwhile, if Chavez has a problem with a drug runner’s boat getting blown up, let him take it to his leftist friends at the UN.” The President stood, causing all the other men to scramble to their feet. Then he leaned forward and stared into the camera. “You’re a good man, Sandor, and you do a helluva job for your country. But you know damn well that the business you’re in is not about yesterday, it’s all about today and tomorrow. So don’t count too much on your past exploits to cover your ass, know what I’m saying?”

  “Yes sir,” Sandor said. “I do.”

  “Good, because if you go off the reservation like this again, I’ll personally hand Mike the rope when he asks to string you up.” Then the President smiled and, without another word, turned and headed for the door and out of the room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  SHARM EL-SHEIKH, EGYPT

  SITUATED ON THE southern tip of the Sinai Peninsula, the beautiful resort town of Sharm el-Sheikh has a storied and unusual history. Often referred to as the City of Peace, it was once a part of the Ottoman Empire. More recently, it became an Israeli-occupied territory. Then, in 1982 it was restored to its rightful inclusion in the nation of Egypt.

  It has been the site of several Middle Eastern peace conferences, the location of a series of deadly shark attacks in 2010, the place where President Hosni Mubarak issued his resignation in 2011, and, tragically, the target of a vicious terrorist attack in 2005 by Islamic extremists who sought to destroy the Egyptian tourist trade, leaving eighty-eight people dead and more than two hundred wounded. Fortunately, this lovely seaport setting is graced by a surprisingly resilient population and, despite the turmoil in the region, it continues to flourish as a destination for foreign vacationers.

  Sandor was familiar with the town, having used it on a couple of occasions as his exit point when heading home after completing missions in the Middle East. Famous for its long stretches of beach and world-class scuba diving, it is also a perfect location for nationals from different countries around the world to rendezvous. This is a place where Europeans, Asians, Hispanics, and Arabs regularly convene, and where meetings among and between them go largely unnoticed.

  Unless one is looking for something or someone in particular.

  ————

  Before he left Washington, Sandor had to endure another lecture from DD Byrnes, who picked up where Director Walsh and President Forest left off. Sandor did his best to appear chastened as Byrnes finished his tirade, which was not easy since the President himself had sanctioned the mission.

  “Make sure you don’t leave any footprints this time,” was Byrnes’s final admonition.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “As for Bergenn and Raabe, try not to create any more problems for them, all right?”

  Sandor insisted again that the idea and planning had been all his, explaining that the other men had merely come to his rescue when his exfiltration route was compromised.

  Byrnes responded with a cynical stare. “You’ve got a better chance convincing me the Easter Bunny is real.”

  “Shall I give that a shot?”

  “Zip it.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll deal with any of the diplomatic backlash here, you just keep a low profile.”

  “Will do,” he said as he stood and headed for the door.

  “Sandor!”

  He spun around to face the DD.

  “You let me know where you are. At all times.”

  “Of course.”

  “And what you’re up to.”

  “Right.”

  “And I mean before the shooting starts.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Byrnes fixed him with a stern look. “No vigilante nonsense. You got that?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  Sandor left the DD’s office and headed straight downstairs for an update on the interrogation of the Mexican drug runner he had escorted back from Venezuela. Bergenn reported that the man had been cooperative from the start, acknowledging he could never return home. His friends down south would assume he had given them up and would welcome him with an appropriate round of torture followed by an unceremonious burial somewhere deep in the jungle. He wanted asylum from the Americans and was willing to tell them everything he knew in exchange for that.

  What he knew, unfortunately, was limited. The large drug cartels were careful about limiting the information shared with their rank and file—what the Agency famously referred to as a “need-to-know” chain of communication. He had learned enough along the way, however, to confirm some of what Carlos had told Sandor about the movement of the goods from Cabimas to northern Mexico, near the Texas border. He reported overhearing discussions about financial transactions in Egypt, just as Carlos had said, and heard Sharm el-Sheikh mentioned more than once, along with some banks there. He also gave them the names of two men that might prove helpful. One was a notorious drug lord who would almost certainly be involved in a shipment of this size. The other was a Russian financier. The Mexican was long on factoids and short on detail.

  The three agents reviewed the balance of what they had gleaned from their debriefing. With help from the NCTC, Sandor confirmed there was evidence of financial activity in Sharm el-Sheikh consistent with the information he had gathered. They also helped him fill in some blanks.

  He explained to Bergenn and Raabe what he was up to, insisting they remain in place until he had more specific intel. After that, Sandor made his travel arrangements and took the long flight that ultimately led him to the Ritz-Carlton hotel along Sharm el-Sheikh’s Naama Bay.

  ————

  Sandor checked in under his own name. Although he carried alternate identity papers in the liner of his carry-on, he did not want to raise any suspicions back at Langley by suddenly disappearing under a non-official cover. Using a NOC would be a red flag to the DD. He told Byrnes where he would be, and so here he was.

  The room was a typically luxurious Ritz-Carlton room, and he immediately called the front desk and asked to have it changed. Old habits die hard, and tradecraft dictates certain precautions even in the most innocuous situations. The bellman waited with him as the woman at the front desk sent up a new electronic keycard for a room on a higher floor with a better view of the water. Once there, he quic
kly unpacked, took a cool shower, and prepared for action.

  It had been a long flight, but Sandor had long ago developed the ability to sleep restfully on planes, a valuable skill when arriving at a destination refreshed was an absolute necessity. Which was all the time. After cleaning up he dressed in tan linen pants, brown loafers, and a black linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had no weapons, but he knew where they could be gotten—along with some of the information he needed—and that would be his first stop. He snapped on his stainless steel Rolex, pulled on his sunglasses, slung his black leather bag over his shoulder, and got started.

  ————

  A short cab ride took Sandor to SOHO Square. He took his time in the area, walking in and out of a couple of shops, then circling around toward the back of the square, which was away from the water and the main thoroughfare.

  Whether it was a heightened sense of danger after the clash in Venezuela, his years of training and experience, or a real threat, Sandor had the unshakable feeling someone was following him.

  He hailed another taxi, took a ride down to the shore, then had the driver circle back to the square. Convinced he had shaken whoever might have been trailing him, he got out and found his way to Naama Heights Street. There he strolled at an unhurried pace, stopping twice to look in store windows as he confirmed no one was on his tail. Halfway down the block he walked into a shop called Red Sea Excursions. The only person in the place was an attractive, dusky-skinned young woman standing behind the counter. Sandor asked for Farrar.

  “Farrar?” she repeated, as if she had never heard the name before.

  “Just tell him it’s Sandor,” he replied with a knowing smile. The girl nodded, then disappeared through a door off to her right.

  A few moments later she returned, followed by a man who appeared to be in his early sixties. He had a dark complexion, beaked nose, and a scar just below his right eye, all of which contributed to a surly demeanor that became incongruously brightened by the wide grin with which he greeted his old friend. “Jordan Sandor,” he said, holding out his arms.

  Sandor embraced the man, then took a step back. “Damn, you look as nasty as ever. Still scaring the customers away with that scowl of yours?”

  Farrar gave his head a slight tilt to the side. “That’s why I have Dendera here. She brings them in, I close the sale.” He slapped Sandor on the arm. “What a surprise. It’s so good to see you.”

  “And you.”

  When Sandor said nothing more, the older man nodded his understanding. “Come, we will go in the back, have some coffee, and catch up”

  The rear of the shop was a cramped space filled with merchandise stacked against the walls, all of it surrounding a small desk and two chairs that served as a makeshift office. Atop a dented file cabinet was a Nespresso machine. Sandor laughed when he spotted it.

  “Not exactly traditional.”

  “Ah well, you know my love of dark coffee. In the modern age, things become easier.”

  “Not all things.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Farrar agreed. “So, I’m glad to see your skills have not diminished since we last met.”

  Sandor responded with an appreciative nod. “That was your man?”

  Farrar smiled. “It was, and you managed to lose him even though he knew you were most likely coming here.”

  Sandor laughed.

  Farrar opened a desk drawer and pulled out some capsules filled with ground espresso beans. “So, you will join me?”

  “Sure.”

  The Egyptian quickly brewed two small cups, then the two men sat at his desk. “You are here on business.”

  Sandor nodded, then took a sip of the hot coffee.

  “Just once I wish you would visit me and enjoy the pleasures of our beautiful port city.”

  “Someday, but not today.”

  Farrar drank his espresso down in one noisy gulp. “It has been too long.”

  “Since Bahrain.”

  Farrar paused, his expression turning to sadness. “I will never forget those we could not save.”

  Sandor nodded. “Hasani is well?”

  At the mention of his son, Farrar looked down. It was the unbreakable bond between them, regardless of what either man felt about it. “I do not hear from him much. His mother still worries for him. I’m not sure what to feel.” He looked up again, his eyes warmer than they had been before. “But he is my son. And you understand that.”

  “I do.”

  “His cowardice is a disgrace.”

  “No, my friend. He is young. And, as you say, he is your son.”

  Farrar could only sigh in response, then he changed the subject. “I heard about Traiman.”

  “Yes. And Covington.”

  “You did what you had to do, Jordan. They were evil men.”

  “The world is full of evil men.”

  “Too true. So, which of them brings you to Sharm el-Sheikh?”

  “Adina.”

  “Ah, Rafael Cabello. This region is a bit far afield for the man from Venezuela.”

  “Not lately. Seems he did some business in Iran not too long ago. I have word that he now has contacts here.”

  “Financing?”

  Sandor smiled. “As usual you’re a step ahead of me.”

  “I prefer to think of myself as moving alongside you.”

  “What have you heard?”

  Farrar sat back and rubbed his unshaved chin. “Narcotics from South America. Not a surprising commodity to be funded through our banks. The product itself does not pass through here, of course. Those who indulge locally have more convenient sources.”

  “That’s my understanding. The movement of their goods is from South America into Mexico, then into the States.”

  “Yes. Which means one of the questions you have come here to answer is, why travel all the way to Egypt to make these arrangements?”

  “It certainly is one of the questions.”

  “And the other might be, who is at the receiving end of these trades?”

  Sandor grinned, then finished off his coffee and placed the small cup on the desk. “And you, as usual, are right again.”

  “The first matter is fairly simple. We have banks that welcome large deposits and ask very little. I can make inquiries.”

  “I have a head start,” Sandor told him. “I have two names from my people. One is called the Bank of the Nile Valley. The other is the Sharm el-Sheikh International Reserve. We hear they welcome these accounts.”

  Farrar smiled. “Such grand names for the type of business they conduct. I know them both. How do you intend to approach them?”

  “As a representative of a potential new customer.”

  “A large customer, I assume.”

  “Very.”

  “Then you will need to meet with the head of each of these banks.”

  “That’s how I see it.”

  “I will make the contacts.”

  “Good. I also have two names, major players in this field.”

  “Are you prepared to share the names?”

  “Jaime Rivera, from Mexico. One of the so-called drug lords. Ruthless. Feared even in his own violent world. Apparently he has a presence here.”

  “But not personally.”

  “No. From what I’ve learned he never leaves Mexico.”

  Farrar uttered a short laugh. “All that money and all that power, to end up a prisoner in Mexico of all places.”

  “Home sweet home.”

  “Yes, I know that name and I know that he has people who come and go on his behalf.”

  “I’d like to meet them if they’re in town.”

  “I’ll see what can be arranged. And the other name?”

  “Sudakov.”

  “Yes, Ronny Sudakov.”

  “Ronny?”

  Farrar shrugged. “He deals on behalf of the Russian syndicate, Moscow and New York. He’s here now.”

  Sandor leaned back in the chair and folded his arms a
cross his chest. “Then that’s the man I need to find.”

  “Don’t worry,” Farrar said. “After you meet with these two bankers Sudakov will find you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  SHARM EL-SHEIKH, EGYPT

  FARRAR STOOD, LOCKED the door to the small room, then went to work moving some of the cartons stacked against the wall behind his desk. Hidden there was the entrance to a walk-in safe.

  “Can’t be too careful nowadays,” he explained as he punched a combination into the electronic keypad and swung open the heavy door.

  Inside was an imposing array of weapons.

  Sandor got up and stood beside him. “Impressive. You expecting a major assault sometime soon?”

  Farrar shrugged. “As I say, one cannot be . . .”

  “Too careful, I got it. From the look of this arsenal I would say that business is good.”

  “I’m not complaining.”

  Sandor reached in and took hold of a hefty Glock 17. “Last time you helped me, everything you had could have fit in one of these cardboard boxes.”

  Farrar’s smile revealed his tobacco-stained teeth. “At the time, it was all I needed to show you.”

  Sandor replaced the seventeen-shot pistol and picked up a Sphinx AT 380. It was smaller than most of the 9mm’s and .45’s and therefore easier to conceal. Swiss made, some Sphinx models are standard issue at Interpol. It was a safe, double-action weapon, with features similar to the Walther that Sandor favored, even a bit smaller than the PPK. He checked the magazine and action, then placed the Sphinx and some additional ammunition on the desk. “All right if I leave this with you for safekeeping?” he asked, gesturing to the black satchel he had brought with him.

  “Of course. It will be safer here than at the hotel,” Farrar assured him.

  “My feelings exactly,” Sandor replied, giving the soft leather an affectionate pat. “This bag and I have been through a lot together, wouldn’t want to lose it now.”

  Sandor’s “go bag” could sometimes be the difference between escape and capture, even life and death. He had refined the inventory of its contents over the years, anticipation being the byword that determined inclusion or exclusion. Some items were as mundane as a change of clothes, others as sensitive as counterfeit passports and cash that were secreted within the lining at the base of the bag. Sandor was not going to entrust the case to a front-desk hotel clerk or the easily breached combination safe in his room.