Targets of Revenge (22 page)

When he marched swiftly past the receptionist to the left she began to stand, uttering a protest.

“It’s all right,” Sandor told her as he pushed the elevator button. “Just a follow-up visit with your boss. Only take a minute.”

The doors to the lift slid open and he got in and pressed “1,” then rode up to where he was greeted by the same woman he met yesterday. She had obviously been alerted that he was on the way and was not quite as happy to see him today.

She began to say something along the lines of “May I help you,” but he brushed by her without comment, making a straight line for the president’s office. The door was open and the man was already standing. He remained behind his desk, as if that offered some measure of safety.

“Mr. Sandor, I, uh, have just heard . . .”

But Sandor cut him off. “Save it,” he barked, still striding toward the man. Before the Egyptian could react Sandor had a tight grip on his left wrist which Sandor twisted until the banker’s arm was behind his back and his face pressed down onto his desktop. “Now you listen to me, you dirtbag. When you call Sudakov, which I know you’ll do as soon as I walk out of here, you tell that Russian sonuvabitch that I’m coming for him. And tell him it’s not for me, it’s for the girl. You got
that?” For emphasis, Sandor lifted him slightly, then smashed his face onto the desk. “Tell him he better start sleeping with his eyes open, because I’m coming for him.”

As the man uttered a groan, Sandor heard something and looked toward the door. The secretary, who had been standing there in mute disbelief, was being shoved aside by a bank guard who had charged into the room with gun drawn. Sandor, in what appeared to be a single motion, yanked up on the banker’s arm, dislocating the man’s shoulder with a dull, sickening crack as he pulled him into position as a human shield, then drew the Sphinx from under his shirt with his free hand and leveled it at the guard’s head.

Ignoring the banker’s cries of pain, Sandor hollered, “Drop your gun!”

The guard hesitated.

“Do it!” Sandor shouted. “Unless you want to die, right here and right now, drop your weapon. I’m not going to tell you again.”

The guard had no clear shot and was not about to risk hitting the president of his bank. He had a look at the barrel of the automatic that was aimed at his head. Then he looked into Sandor’s eyes.

An instant later his gun clattered to the floor.

“Now the two of you,” Sandor ordered both the guard and secretary, “turn around and stand facing that wall.” When they did as instructed he dropped the banker, who fell to the floor like a sack of hammers. Sandor hurried forward and drove the butt of his automatic into the back of the guard’s head. The man’s legs buckled and then he collapsed onto the carpet. When the secretary began to scream he had no choice. He hit her hard across the back of her neck with the side of his left hand and watched as she also crumpled to the floor. Then he raced out, found the staircase, and hustled down to the lobby and out onto the street as Farrar waited with the motor running.

“What happened?” the Egyptian demanded as Sandor climbed into the Fiat and they took off.

Sandor told him.

“You really are insane.”

“Not so much as you may think.”

“You’re going to get us both killed.”

Sandor turned to his friend. “Maybe,” he said, “but not today.”

C
RAIG
R
AABE LOWERED
his tall, lean frame into the chair facing Deputy Director Byrnes across the small conference table.

“So,” the DD said, “you’re prepared to give me a report?”

“I am.”

“Something that will make sense of this debacle?”

“Yes sir.”

“I’m listening.”

Raabe peered down at his notes, then looked up at his superior before he began. “I intend to convey all of the intel I have from Sandor. I hope that it will be received in a, how can I say this . . .”

“An informal basis?”

“At least for now.”

Byrnes nodded. “Go ahead.”

“You’re aware of Sandor’s objective in Venezuela.”

“To assassinate Rafael Cabello. No need to go over that again.”

“And you know that he aborted that mission when he discovered that Adina—Cabello—was refining cocaine as well as developing biological weapons.”

“When you say ‘mission,’ you attempt to give Sandor’s actions the imprimatur of an authorized incursion into a foreign country.”

“That was not my intent.”

Byrnes frowned. “Proceed.”

“Faced with this situation, Sandor made a determination in the field that it would be more valuable to track the path of these toxins
than to liquidate Adina at the time. He felt that any attempt to take out Adina, successful or not, would cause them to relocate their operation and leave us without a trail to follow.”

“I understand that.”

“There was also the possibility that Sandor would not survive the attack on his target, which would mean that he would not have had the time or the means to pass on the information he gathered.”

“That was almost the case anyway as it turned out, is that not right?”

Raabe resisted the impulse to smile. “It became a close call, yes. The point is, he did what he could to make his invasion appear to be motivated by the cocaine, nothing else.”

“Unfortunately his escape was something less than discreet.”

“That is true. But he learned that these transactions involved money laundering in Egypt, through a group of Russians apparently connected to the transport of narcotics into the United States, and possibly the Mexican drug lord Jaime Rivera.”

“But he has yet to find anything that would reveal the intended use for the toxins.”

“Not yet.”

Byrnes pursed his lips in disapproval. “Need I remind you that we are not the DEA, at least not the last time I looked. And despite Jordan Sandor’s best intentions, satellite photos confirm that the day after his jungle escapade, the compound was burned to the ground anyway.”

“Understood. But he has now made contact with a man named Roman Sudakov, known as Ronny, in Sharm el-Sheikh. I have his dossier here.” He passed a manila file across the table. “His game seems to be moving narcotics, not terrorism, but he does appear to be another link in the chain.”

Byrnes put on his reading glasses and had a quick look at the life and times of Ronny Sudakov. When he looked up he said, “The problem, as you say, is that Sudakov is a drug smuggler, not a terrorist.”

“Agreed. But Sandor believes there are still two possibilities that could prove useful.”

“And I, of course, hang on his every word.”

This time Raabe could not fight off a momentary grin. “Sudakov is the type who would make a deal with the devil if the price was right,” he said, pointing to the folder. “There’s no way of telling how much he knows of Adina’s plans for the anthrax, but he might look the other way if it became profitable enough. He’s already tried to kill Sandor, and he murdered a young woman for no reason at all.”

“No reason at all?”

Raabe nodded. “She was a messenger sent by Sudakov to bring Jordan to his yacht. Nothing more. She didn’t know a thing about any of these activities. Her offense was spending the night with Sandor, which Sudakov set up, by the way.”

Byrnes shook his head. “All right. What’s Sandor’s second theory?”

“That Adina would hide packages of the toxins within the shipment of narcotics.”

“Without Sudakov and his cohorts knowing.”

“Exactly.”

“But the cocaine might then be contaminated, or the anthrax opened by mistake. I can’t imagine that Adina’s plan is to murder a group of unsuspecting drug dealers.”

“There are numerous variations on how the toxin could be packaged. As you know, the Colombian and Mexican cartels have opted for larger shipments lately. As much as a ton or more of product at a time. Packages of anthrax could easily be added to the cargo in sealed containers.”

“All right, so the conclusion is that Sudakov is either in league with Adina or is an unwitting transporter of a large amount of anthrax to a place or places unknown. Where do you suggest that leaves us?”

Raabe hesitated. “We need to determine where this shipment is going. That much is obvious. Then we can prevent the attack and hopefully neutralize Adina in the process.”

“How do you propose we manage that?”

“Sandor wants to continue tracking the situation on his end. He has an idea about getting help from the Russian government.”

“The Russian government? Why am I suddenly getting a knot in my stomach, Raabe?”

“We also feel that Bergenn and I need to be on site in Mexico.”

“Working through the DEA, I hope?”

“Yes sir. Knowing what we do about Adina, I think you would agree that there is only one logical conclusion about the ultimate intent for those toxins.”

“An attack somewhere in the United States.”

“The goods are almost certainly going to be moved through Mexico before an attempt to bring them here. As far as everything we have been able to check, Adina has gone to ground and we have no trace on him anywhere. Unless someone is prepared to authorize military action against Venezuela, I think you should let us run with this.”

“Should I?” Byrnes let out a long audible sigh. “I’ve got to brief the director and the NDI.”

“When you do, there’s a collateral matter that needs to be addressed.”

The DD waited.

“This woman, Lillian Mindlovitch, was murdered in Sandor’s hotel room. The locals have issued a warrant for his arrest and we’re concerned about Interpol becoming involved.”

“You think it might put a crimp in Sandor’s travel plans.”

“Yes sir.”

“I’ll speak to the director about that as well. We’ll also have to get State and the NSA involved.”

“Thank you sir.”

“I want Sandor back here, and fast. Where is he?”

“That’s a little hard to say. Right now he should be somewhere just south of Cairo.”

A
DINA RECEIVED THE
bad news from Egypt—his Russian colleagues had taken Jordan Sandor, but somehow he had eluded them and was again at large.

“That man is becoming more than a nuisance,” he said to no one in particular. He was seated in a conference room in SEBIN headquarters, attended by his two bodyguards and Minister Bargas.

“So,” the minister said, “this man Sandor. We must assume your first analysis of the situation was correct. He is a member of the American intelligence service.”

“Yes,” Adina agreed solemnly.

“Which means he may have information that . . .” The minister paused, choosing his words carefully. “. . . would be detrimental to your plans.”

Only Bargas knew what the others at SEBIN did not—Sandor had learned of the production of anthrax in the laboratory within Adina’s compound, which meant that the information was now in the possession of the CIA.

“It would be enlightening to know exactly what he has learned. I will concede that. The sooner we have taken him out of play the better.”

The minister sat up a little straighter now. “You may need to abort your plans,” he suggested, his tone respectful but firm.

“No,” Adina disagreed as he eyed the minister with obvious irritation. “We merely need to make some adjustments.”

S
HARM EL
-S
HEIKH IS
located on the southernmost tip of the Egyptian portion of the Sinai Peninsula, which does not lend itself to a wide variety of departure options. There is the sea, of course, but given all that had just occurred outside the harbor it was not a viable choice. The small airport was also likely being watched by the authorities, not to mention Sudakov’s thugs.

Which left the roads north as the only practical option.

When it comes to travel by car, Egypt is notorious for having one of the world’s highest fatality rates per miles driven. Organized rules, signs, and policemen are few and hard to find. When an officer does appear, he will tend to direct traffic with the slightest, almost imperceptible motion. A mere tweak of his forefinger may be intended to have traffic either stop or go—and if a driver is confused by the gesture, a collision is almost inevitable.

But those dangers were not the concern for Sandor, not even with the erratic and heavy-footed Farrar at the wheel. The potential hindrance to their journey was the government ban on the use of the main Sinai roads by foreigners. Given the volatile nature of the region, the authorities had imposed these restrictions years ago and, unlike traffic violations, they were strenuously enforced. If Farrar’s vehicle were to be stopped and searched they would both be arrested.

Their journey north, just to the west of the Gulf of Aqaba, required them to make use of the secondary roads in the hope of putting
some miles behind them before they would ultimately have to risk entering one of the restricted highways.

“Perhaps if you had not felt the need to break the banker’s arm we might have drawn a bit less attention leaving town,” the Egyptian suggested, not taking his eyes off the road as they surged ahead.

“I see. So murdering Lilli is not as offensive as assaulting a prominent banker?”

Farrar grunted in response.

“If it were up to me I would have stayed in town long enough to take care of a few other people.”

“And you’d already be in an Egyptian prison.”

“Point taken.”

“I don’t think so,” Farrar said, turning toward him. “The point is that someone outside the bank may be able to identify this car, which means we are in far greater peril because of what you did.
That
is the point.”

“I did what I had to do.”

“No, my friend, that is nonsense. You did not have to do it, and it was unprofessional of you to allow your emotions to interfere with your responsibilities.”

Sandor was about to reply when a loud horn blast caused Farrar to quickly turn his eyes forward, giving him just enough time to yank the steering wheel and avoid an oncoming truck. For a moment neither man spoke. Then Sandor laughed. “Looks like I may have more to worry about than the Egyptian police.”