Targets of Revenge (3 page)

It was nearly five o’clock in the evening when Vauchon pulled up to the whitewashed stone building that housed the new telecommunications center. He left his car in a small parking lot below the building, then trekked up a steep path to the first checkpoint. Sandor was right beside him.

Vauchon knew the two sentries waiting at the entrance by name and, after polite greetings, their exchange became more formal.

“What brings you here, lieutenant?”

“Ah, this damned thing never ends. They want me to review some of the telephone records from before and after the attack.”

The guards exchanged a quick glance. Then one of them asked if Vauchon had written orders.

The lieutenant rolled his eyes, as if to say that such things were beyond caring about. “No, just a call from Guadeloupe. The Americans again.” He gave a tilt of his head and, although they were speaking in French, Sandor got the gist of the conversation.

Both sentries responded with knowing looks.
The Americans
.

“You really should have written orders.”

“I’d just as soon go home, believe me. I’ll tell them I couldn’t get in, let them worry about it.” Then he turned to Sandor and began to explain the problem in English.

“That’s all right,” the soldier said, not wanting to be criticized by a superior tomorrow because he had not cooperated with higher authorities today. And this was, after all, Lieutenant Vauchon. “Jean-Pierre is at the desk; he’ll pass you through.”

Inside the building Vauchon told the same story to Jean-Pierre, who, after a similar colloquy, granted them entrance. The real problem now became wrestling with the computers themselves. Vauchon had to be careful in requesting assistance because Sandor did not want anyone to know what they were looking for. On the drive over, Sandor made it clear that his demand for the utmost secrecy was not limited to his apprehensions about what would happen if anyone back in the States learned of what he was up to. Given all that had happened here, it was not impossible that Adina still had an informant somewhere on the island.

Vauchon issued an appropriate defense of his countrymen, insisting that they could be relied on for their discretion, but he realized that once Sandor embarked on this mission his life would hang in the balance between silence and betrayal. It was also not lost on the Frenchman that his friend had placed this sort of trust in him, and him alone.

Jean-Pierre directed the two men to a large room in the rear of the building. It was crowded with computers, monitors, and wall-mounted
screens. As the steel door closed behind them the head technician walked up and extended his hand. “What are you up to, Henri?” Vauchon knew him well. His name was Philippe, one of the survivors of the attack on Fort Oscar.

“Just need to check some information for the Americans.” He introduced Sandor. “He’s been sent by the NTSB. Looking for telephone records before and after the attack.”

“Anything specific?”

Vauchon turned to Sandor, who said, “We need to button down how the attack was coordinated. We want to see how it might have related to the downed airplane.”

Philippe’s English was excellent. He required no translation. “Through phone records?” he asked with obvious skepticism.

“We want to see if the man who took the plane down might have had communications with anyone here on the island.”

“Haven’t we shared all of those records already?”

“Maybe so,” Sandor replied with a casual shrug. “I was sent to have another look.”

Vauchon said, “We don’t need to waste your time on this, Philippe. Just point us in the right direction.”

“No, no, that’s quite all right. Come with me.”

Whatever suspicions the technician may have had, he was fully cooperative in sitting with Sandor and Vauchon at one of the computer stations and bringing up what seemed an almost endless list of incoming and outgoing phone calls for the week in question. Sandor asked whether the content of any of the calls might have survived, already knowing the answer was no. He knew the country code for Venezuela, but these records covered all of the calls into and out of St. Barths and, as they scrolled through thousands of contact numbers, he realized he would be here for days if he was going to allow this man to persist in displaying a random search. He could not hide his frustration.

“Is there any way to refine this search?”

“Of course. We can pull out different area codes, exchanges, any of that. But it’s impossible to know what calls were made from whose phone unless we have the number,” Philippe explained. “We’ve already been through this. We don’t know if they were disposable cell
phones, which they probably were, and we have no other parameter for filtering.”

“I see.”

“I am certain that your government already has several copies of this entire printout,” he restated with some impatience.

Sandor reached into his pocket and pulled out a small paper containing a number. “This was the phone number of the cell used by the terrorist that was captured in Pointe Milou.” He handed it to Philippe. “Can you try this?”

Sandor watched carefully to see how the technician targeted his search. The screen quickly changed, now displaying only a dozen outgoing calls. Two of the receiving numbers contained the country code for Venezuela.

“Can we get a printout of that activity?”

Philippe hesitated, then agreed. He hit the Print Screen command and a laser printer at the end of the table came to life. “Anything else?”

Sandor glanced at Vauchon, who said, “Philippe, can I speak with you privately for a moment?”

Before the technician could respond, Sandor offered them both a polite smile. “I’ll be fine,” he assured them.

As Vauchon led a reluctant Philippe to the far end of the room, Sandor went to work at the keyboard. Tracing the steps he had just seen, he revised the filter to ask the computer only for phone calls made to and from numbers bearing the country code for Venezuela during the week already entered in the field requiring a time frame. Almost instantly the screen provided a record of more than thirty calls. Sandor punched in the command to print the list, then returned the filter to its previous field.

Vauchon, meanwhile, was complaining to Philippe about how weary he had become entertaining these interminable requests for information and cooperation, all the while doing his best to position himself so that the technician had to stand with his back to Sandor. When Vauchon saw his friend reach out and pull the newly printed sheet from the machine, he brought his griping to an abrupt end. “Ah well, let’s see if we can finish this, eh?”

Sandor stood as the two men approached. He had already shoved
the second sheet in his pocket and held up the first printout for them to see. “Well, gentlemen, perhaps this will prove helpful. As you say, we already have the entire list of all calls made during that period, so my work here is done.” He offered his thanks to both of them, then allowed Vauchon to lead him out.

————

Back in the car, Sandor showed Vauchon the information he had taken.

“Is that what you need?”

“I hope so. Nice work in there, by the way. DGSE might have the right idea, getting you into the espionage racket.”

“I didn’t say they had.”

“Come on, Henri.”

Vauchon shook his head. “I don’t think I’m cut out for your business. My nerves couldn’t take it.”

“You get used to it.” Sandor paused. “By the way, I didn’t like your friend Philippe.”

“He’s a bit of a tightass.”

“Maybe. Could have been a little more helpful, since he was one of the crew you saved back there at the fort, am I right?”

“You are.”

“Therefore I don’t like him
and
I don’t trust him.”

Vauchon nodded. “All right. I will follow up for you.”

“Thanks. So tell me, what happened to that cute girl who worked at the villa up on Pointe Milou?”

“Stefanie?”

“That’s the one.”

“The one you spent the night with at Guanahani?”

“How indiscreet of you to mention that. What kind of a Frenchman are you?”

Vauchon laughed. “She’s been seeing one of my soldiers. Met him when we were finishing up our investigation.”

“Pity,” Sandor said.

Vauchon laughed. “Did you think you ruined her for all other men?”

Sandor stared out the passenger window. “It was a thought,” he said. “Come on, let’s have a drink, then I’ll buy you that dinner.”

T
HE
U
NITED
S
TATES
military has maintained a small air base west of the Curaçao airport since World War II. It began as a staging area for antisubmarine patrols and has gone through various incarnations over the years. Today it is used by the Joint Special Operations Command to support AWAC flights, as well as Colombia’s anti-narcotics initiative and counter-FARC operations. There were three reasons why Sandor chose this airstrip as the base for his unauthorized mission.

First was the proximity to the coast of Venezuela. Second, an old friend was stationed there as commanding officer. Third, when he told Byrnes that Curaçao was the spot he had chosen for some R&R, it at least provided a credible story.

After spending the night on St. Barths, Sandor grabbed the early flight to St. Maarten and made the connection to Curaçao. He didn’t bother to check into a hotel, instead taking a taxi directly to the air base. At the gate he asked for the man in charge.

When the CO got the call that Sandor was at the perimeter checkpoint, he jumped into his Jeep and drove out to meet his former platoon mate.

“Sandor, you old pretender.” Captain Doug Carlton was a tall, muscular black man, with a personality to match his size, a deep voice, and a warm Georgia accent. He turned to the sentry. “Let this boy through,” he ordered.

“Commanding Officer, pretty impressive,” Sandor said as he
climbed into the passenger seat of the jeep. “What’s the real deal with getting yourself stationed down here? You working on your tan?”

Carlton laughed. “Glad to see nothing’s changed. You’re still not funny.”

During the short ride back to Carlton’s office they caught up on a lot of names from the past, at the end of which Sandor said, “Bergenn’s on his way here.”

“I know, heard from him yesterday. When does he blow in?”

“Couple of hours. With Craig Raabe. Don’t think you’ve met him.”

Carlton shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.” He pulled to a stop outside the squat rectangular building that served as headquarters for this small outpost. Before he climbed out he said, “I heard about what happened in Louisiana. That was nice work, guy.”

Sandor shook his head. “Lost some good people there.”

“Always the price we pay,” Carlton said. “Always.”

Inside the air-conditioned office Carlton handed Sandor a Coke. They sat facing each other across the captain’s steel desk.

“So,” Carlton said, “I’ve got these crates with your name on them inside the hangar, left it alone just like Bergenn asked, but I have several questions to go along with the delivery. The first, obviously, is what devilish sort of business brings you to my part of the world?”

“You want this on or off the record?”

Carlton gave him a hard, military stare, then said, “I think we’ve got enough history that I should get it both ways.”

“Fair enough. Officially I’m taking some personal time. Unofficially, I’m going to track down the sonuvabitch responsible for all those deaths we just talked about.”

“I see.”

“Those crates contain the glider you’re going to tow for me.”

Carlton laughed. “We gathered that much, Jordan. You don’t really think we stand out in the sun all day here, do you?”

Sandor smiled. “I’m going to pilot the thing into the jungle in western Venezuela. From there I’m going to hunt the guy down.”

“And you expect me to have my men help assemble that paper airplane and then use one of my aircraft to tow it?”

“I do. And I expect to leave tonight.”

“Which means, all things considered, you’re as crazy as ever.” Carlton nodded slowly. “Can’t wait to hear what Bergenn has to say.”

————

The captain did not have to wait long. Bergenn and Raabe arrived at the base a couple of hours later. After greetings and introductions were concluded Sandor got down to business.

“Those phone numbers Vauchon and I faxed you last night, were they any help?”

“They certainly were,” Bergenn told him. “We triangulated the various coordinates and pinpointed Adina’s location. It confirmed the intel we had.”

“Hope he’s home when you come calling,” Raabe said.

“Where else would that weasel be hiding?”

“Caracas?”

“No way,” Sandor disagreed. “He’s still got to be lying low. Chavez is not going to risk having Adina seen anywhere near him. Not now, not so soon after the attacks. Chavez talks a big game, but he’s as yellow as Adina. He’s never going to give us an excuse to take his head off.”

“Funny,” Bergenn said, “I thought he already had.”

“I agree,” Carlton chimed in. “The way that bastard talks about our country, I reckon we’ve got reason enough already. I just wish someone’d give the order. Remember, I’m right here, staring across the water at that ugly sumbitch every day.”

Sandor smiled. “You see why I love this guy, Craig?”

“But remember,” Bergenn interrupted, “Craig may be right. Adina might not even be there; that’s the one thing we cannot confirm.”

“So I’ll sit on his porch and wait for him to get home.”

“Jim,” Carlton interrupted again, “you’ve always had more sense than he does. You think this can work?”

Bergenn took a moment before answering. “I’d rather all three of us were going, but Jordan is right. This is a one-man job. All we can do is get him in there, then make sure we get him out when he’s done.” He stopped again. “If anyone can pull this off, Sandor’s the guy.”

————

Carlton assigned his two mechanics to the detail, not telling them the why or wherefore, only that they were to assist in the assembly of a Schleicher ASG 29 glider.