Targets of Deception

by Jeffrey Stephens[epub]

  Prescott curled his upper lip above his uneven teeth, as if he just detected a bad smell. “Have it your way. We’ve heard from the coroner.” He held up a sheet of paper. “Faxed in while you were on your way here. Preliminary blood tests indicate Mr. Peters’ coronary was chemically induced.” He looked at the report. “They suspect a massive dose of a potassium nitrate solution was injected into his IV, which would cause a fatal coronary reaction in less than a minute.” He glanced up at Sandor. “It says that this sort of potassium compound wouldn’t leave the kind of trace other drugs might have, but they’re still working on it.”

  The news was not unexpected, but it hit Jordan hard. He felt his eyes burn, and he took a deep breath.

  “How well did you know Peters?”

  “We were friends,” Jordan said, feeling lousy talking about him in the past tense. “Fought together in the Gulf War.”

  “I know all that. I’m asking how close you were, how much you knew about his activities since he moved to upstate New York.”

  Jordan was thinking about Dan, not really paying attention to Prescott. Then, as if finally hearing the question, he looked up and said, “Not much. We spent a lot of time together when we served in the military. Only kept in touch on and off since then.”

  One of the telephones on Prescott’s table rang. He answered it. “Yes? I see. Are they here now?” Prescott did not bother to disguise his annoyance. “All right, show them in.” He placed the receiver back in its cradle. “We’re going to be joined by, uh, others.”

  “Should I guess, or are you going to tell me who?”

  Before Prescott could reply, the door to the conference room opened and John Covington entered, followed by one of his men, Todd Nealon. The door was closed behind them.

  “Hello Jordan,” Covington said pleasantly as he stepped to the front of the room. He looked the same as the last time Sandor had seen him in Washington, at the debriefing after the mess in the Persian Gulf. His fine features and cropped hair gave him the look of a bank manager, not a senior CIA operations chief.

  Nealon was taller and slimmer than his boss. He and Sandor had met in the past, and Sandor had not been impressed. He was not likely to be impressed by an operative who had yet to earn a position any better than John Covington’s lackey.

  Jordan said, “You’ll excuse me if I don’t get up.”

  Nealon sat in a chair near the door, and Covington walked over to Prescott, whose confusion was apparent as he got out of his seat to shake hands.

  “You know each other?” Prescott asked.

  Covington explained that he and Mr. Nealon were from the State Department, attached to a unit involved with international liaison work. “Mr. Sandor was assigned to our delegation at one time.”

  Prescott nodded, as if that meant something to him.

  It was all Sandor could do not to laugh at the bogus job description.

  “It’s been a while, Jordan,” Covington said, taking a seat halfway between Sandor and Prescott.

  “You don’t call. You don’t write. Not even a Christmas card since you stood me up in Bahrain,” Jordan said.

  Covington shrugged indulgently. “Things don’t always turn out the way you expect.”

  “No, I suppose not. It would have been nice, though, if someone told those guys in Manama exactly what they could expect. I mean, they did get their heads blown off, for whatever was expected, right?”

  Covington calmly turned back to the FBI man, saying, “I don’t want to interfere with your investigation, Special Agent Prescott, but I wonder if we might have a few minutes alone with Mr. Sandor.” As an inducement, he offered his pale imitation of a smile.

  The effort was wasted on Prescott, who had already guessed that Covington and Nealon were not with the State Department, doing international liaison work, and that the background on Sandor, as reported to him by the computer, had been sanitized beyond recognition.

  “Not so fast,” Jordan interrupted. “Did anybody search them before they came in here?”

  Ignoring the sarcasm, Covington assured Prescott they would only be a minute.

  Prescott studied Covington, knowing he could not refuse the request, but doing his best to appear as though he was actually weighing his reply. After all, he was in charge here. “Fine,” he said. “But we’ve got to move this along. We’re wasting time.”

  “Of course,” Covington agreed genially. He and Nealon even stood as Prescott left the room. A proper show of respect. Jordan remained in his chair. When Covington sat down again, he turned toward Sandor, trying to read something from his impassive expression.

  “Nausea,” Jordan said, “if that’s what you’re wondering about.”

  “Look, I told you before, and I’ll say it again. We didn’t know what you were up against in Bahrain.”

  Sandor shook his head. “You hung those men out to dry. You left them behind because they were politically inconvenient. And what happens? Byrnes gets a promotion to deputy director, you get a gold star for the effort and those poor bastards get dumped in an unmarked grave by al-Qaeda. Tell me, Covington, what’s wrong with that picture?”

  Covington’s shoulders slumped as he blew out a long breath. “And what if you’re right? We were all following orders, including me.”

  “Following orders?” Sandor shook his head. “If that isn’t the lamest answer you could give, I just don’t know. You want some time, see if you can come up with something better?”

  “Look, the DDO was told to pull the plug, and that was that. What difference does it make what we say about it now?”

  “What difference, John? I’m the difference now. You’re here because you need something from me, and I wouldn’t cross the street to save your life.”

  Covington resumed his stiff posture. “Maybe not. But my life is not what’s at stake here, is it?”

  “Oh, I see. You’re going to scare me?”

  Covington shook his head. “You’re too stubborn and too reckless to be afraid, Sandor. I’ve had the privilege of seeing that first hand.”

  “But you need my help.”

  “Your help? Is that why you think I’m here?”

  “I’ll tell you what I think. I think that guy upstate had information you wanted. And now he’s dead, and you’re hoping I know something.”

  Covington stared at him. “And do you?”

  “If I did, why would I want to tell you?”

  Covington started to say something, but Jordan stopped him. “Save your breath. I’m finished dealing with you people,” he said and started to get up.

  “Are you?” Covington asked. “I hope not. I truly hope not for your sake.”

  FIFTEEN

  Rahmad received an urgent summons from Tripoli. Traiman wanted to see him immediately, and so arrangements were made for him to fly back to Libya that night, via Paris, on his Saudi diplomatic passport.

  Another message sent from Traiman was channeled from North Africa to a man who called himself Robert Groat. He had been waiting in a hotel room in Washington, DC, for his orders and was now instructed to go ahead with his visit to David Fryar, president of the Loubar Corporation. Groat decoded the e-mail, and then made his preparations for that conference. He retrieved his aluminum attaché case from the closet, laid it carefully on the table and opened it, removing the papers and files and placing them aside. He then lifted a false panel, exposing the tightly packed contents and a series of wires that ran to a digital sensor. He pocketed a small remote device, activated the sensor, then replaced the panel, the papers, and closing the case, went on his way.

  Mr. Fryar, there’s a gentleman here to see you. His name is Robert Groat.” David Fryar’s secretary was speaking into the intercom. “Mr. Groat says he has an appointment, but I don’t show anything in my system.” The well groomed, middle-aged woman was obviously embarrassed at the possibility of her inefficiency, and looked up at Groat with an apologetic smile.

  Groat was a short, well-muscled man, with a thick
neck and gray hair that made him appear older than his fifty-three years. He nodded at the woman, neither forgiving her gaffe nor criticizing her for it. He was simply nodding.

  “That’s all right,” Fryar replied over the speaker. “Show him in.”

  David Fryar was the president of Loubar Technical Assistance Corporation, a rapidly expanding manufacturer of specialized electronics, with offices recently opened in Paris and Hong Kong. Groat had come to the corporate headquarters and, indeed, was without an appointment. He knew Fryar would see him anyway.

  The secretary escorted Groat into Fryar’s paneled office, where he was standing behind his desk, waiting.

  “Could I get you something, Mr. Groat?” the woman asked. “Coffee, water?”

  Groat took a moment to survey the oversized room, his heavy-lidded eyes giving the false impression that he was either tired or uninterested. He sized up the man who came from behind his desk to greet him. Close to sixty. Overweight and comfortable. Eyes and chin gone weak with success. His posture a bit stiff, apparently concerned about this meeting, his handshake tentative. “No, thank you,” Groat finally replied to the woman.

  As his assistant turned to leave, Fryar went back to his chair. Groat slid his metal attaché case under the desk then sat down.

  “They said I would be hearing from you,” Fryar said. “I didn’t expect you so soon.”

  “There was no reason to wait,” Groat replied in a monotone that expressed his indifference to the task at hand. “As soon as they saw the problem develop, they sent me here straightaway.”

  “Problem?” Fryar’s anxious gaze wandered about the room. “Does Traiman think there’s a problem?”

  “Yes. Interference with our shipments is always a problem.”

  Fryar was not prepared for this meeting, not today. He had not been sleeping well since learning of the problems with the latest cargo destined for the Middle East. Although the cargo was routed through Marseilles, its ultimate destination had been exposed. He agonized over the possible discovery by Customs officials that this shipment of electronic materiel was being illegally forwarded to a prohibited port, not to mention the consequences of what a full investigation of his company might reveal. He was even more troubled that his decision to hold back the freight was too impulsive. He knew that dealing with Vincent Traiman could be worse than a government inquiry. Far worse.

  He had worried over this since he received the phone call from one of Traiman’s salesmen—that’s what they were called, salesmen—informing him that they were extremely upset that he had halted the shipment of two containers of highly sensitive surveillance equipment. Fryar was told he would be hearing from their regional representative, Robert Groat. Fryar had not had a full night’s sleep since.

  Fryar was aware, of course, that the orders placed by Traiman’s salesmen would ultimately find their way to the Middle East. The itineraries for these shipments were always obscured by a series of documents and intervening transports that concealed their intended destination. These interim transfers, and a complex network of bills of lading, provided Loubar a veneer of innocence while circumventing federal laws making such shipments of quasi-military equipment illegal. Every shipment was positioned for delivery to a lawful port and described as non-military in content.

  Over the past few weeks, however, Traiman had stepped up the timing, demanding a more direct approach. That was the cause of the error, Fryar believed. One of the forwarding documents had been discovered by an executive in the shipping company, making it apparent that the merchandise was intended for Libya. Discreet inquiries were quickly made through an intermediary, but it was apparent that the man could not be bought off. That was when Fryar feigned ignorance of the true destination for the shipment and made the decision to postpone the exports.

  Now, being visited by Vincent Traiman’s emissary, Fryar wondered whether he had made the wrong choice. What if the shipment had been sent? Traiman could have dealt with the trans-Atlantic shipper later. Some arrangement would certainly be made. Fryar and his company could have pleaded ignorance, or they might have claimed they had no involvement in the actual transfer of the goods once they arrived in Marseilles. After all, this was the same rationale that had assuaged Fryar’s conscience for the past three years. His products were shipped to European ports. What was done with them after that was not his concern. His real concern was Traiman.

  Now, as Groat sat watching him, Fryar struggled with his predicament. He tried to explain how difficult it would have been to justify a release of the product once the intended port had been uncovered. He attempted to enlist

  Groat’s aid in resolving the dilemma to everyone’s satisfaction. He offered to work out the issue, not realizing that it was already too late, not realizing that he, David Fryar, had become the issue.

  “This goes far beyond the usual request,” Fryar gave by way of explanation.

  “The risks are considerable.”

  “Yes, of course, of course, but one must be prudent too. There is real danger here.”

  “For whom, Mr. Fryar? For you?”

  “For all of us.”

  Groat shook his head slowly. “The danger for all of us exists only if you continue to block these shipments.”

  Fryar’s eyes betrayed true understanding of his dilemma, and Groat answered with a look that told him how well he understood men like Fryar, men who had no sense of allegiance and dangerously short memories. He listened as the flabby executive offered another nervous justification for his actions. It was interesting, Groat reflected as Fryar rambled on, how some men will accept prosperity without assessing its true cost, while others will scrutinize both success and failure with an eye to the causes and effects of each.

  Fryar was a scientist-turned-businessman who enjoyed an elevated position of power and wealth he had never imagined. Prestige, luxurious living, fast cars, expensive homes, even women. With the enthusiasm of an irresponsible adolescent, he failed to look beyond his pleasures, to assess the consequences of the bargain he had made. And why should he? As Groat had already observed, men like David Fryar had short memories.

  “Excuse me,” Groat said, interrupting the litany to which he was paying no attention. “I think we should come right to the point.”

  “Why, uh, yes, yes, of course. Go ahead.”

  “The shipments have been held past their embarkation dates. The integrity of our operation depends in part on your company.” He paused then added, “It depends on your company honoring its commitments.” His voice bore no inflection, the message delivered without emotion. “The goods must be released and we must be assured we will not have this problem in the future.”

  His words hung in the quiet of the overdressed office like a cloud about to burst. Fryar began to explain his concerns again, his desire to cooperate, his fear of what might occur. He held his hands up, palms facing Groat, as if he was preparing to fend off a blow. Then he placed his hands on the desk and said, “I simply don’t see how we can release these shipments right now.”

  Groat allowed that last statement to settle over them. What he knew, and Fryar did not, was the truth of Vincent Traiman’s plan. What Groat knew, as one of very few men privy to Traiman’s scheme, was that Loubar’s technology was critical to the execution of Traiman’s scheme. What Groat also knew was that Traiman was not willing to wait. “Is that the answer you want me to take back with me?”

  “No no, of course not,” Fryar said. He left his seat and walked to the window that overlooked the Capitol. “What can I do?” He seemed to be asking the question of the city that lay before him.

  “Release the shipments. We understand the crates are ready.”

  “Yes,” he admitted, “that’s right.”

  “Inform the shipping company that the goods are to be delivered to Marseilles. We give you our assurance that once they arrive in Europe, Loubar will have no participation in the transfer beyond the original destination.” Now Groat stood and picked up the telepho
ne.

  Fryar stared at him. “I need to think this through. To make arrangements. I’ll take care of it tomorrow morning, first thing.”

  Groat’s voice turned cold. “Call now,” he said. “Unless you call now, in front of me, I’ll have no choice but to report your position to Mr. Traiman. I think you know that would be a mistake on your part.”

  The threat had been made and now the two men studied each other in silence, until the receiver began beeping. Groat replaced it, but remained standing, staring at Fryar.

  “Very well,” the older man said dully, the defeat in his voice and his posture. He returned to his desk, took his seat and picked up the phone. Groat stood over him as he made the call. He gave instructions that the delayed shipment be released immediately and was about to hang up, but Groat interrupted. He insisted on speaking to the supervisor in the Loubar shipping department himself.

  Fryar felt the anger well up in his chest, but when he looked at Groat he saw in the man’s eyes that he had no choice. He handed him the phone, and Groat waited for the supervisor to get on the line, then quickly confirmed that the shipment would be in transit that night. Fryar was too upset to recognize the familiarity of their discussion, or to guess the truth - that the supervisor Groat had asked for was already on the Traiman payroll.

  “You did the right thing,” Groat told him as he put the phone down. “We have other matters to discuss, but I’m out of time.” He turned to the door.

  Fryar began to speak, but Groat cut him off. “I’ll be in touch.”

  In the front lobby, down the hall from the office, Fryar’s secretary bade Mr. Groat a good day.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Mr. Fryar would like to see you.”

  She thanked him and he walked off, heading directly for the elevators.

  Fryar’s secretary took a moment to collect some papers from her desk, turned to her employer’s office, then knocked on the door and entered. She found Fryar seated in his chair, staring out the window.

  “Yes?” he asked.