Targets of Deception

by Jeffrey Stephens[epub]

  “You’re willing to take the risk? You guys kill me. Did anyone ask Christine Frank if she’s willing to take the risk?”

  Covington stared back at Prescott.

  “So that’s it?” Prescott demanded. “That’s the full level of cooperation we get?”

  “That’s all that I’m permitted to divulge at this time.”

  “I see. And are we supposed to be looking for them?”

  “Yes. You are. As you said, this is CONUS jurisdiction, right?”

  Prescott grunted. “So you gave them a lead, they spit the bit and now it’s my problem. Is that the way this is going down?”

  Covington gave no answer.

  “And where do we think they’re ultimately headed? Paris?”

  Covington’s narrow eyes widened slightly.

  “That’s right. You’re not the only one with intelligence sources. We know all about McHugh’s plane ticket to France.”

  “Have you alerted the international airports?”

  “I’ve made the necessary communications, yes.”

  “JFK, Newark?”

  “Logan and DC as well.”

  “What about domestic flights?”

  “We’re working on that. A little tougher, of course, but doable.”

  Covington hesitated.

  “What is it?” Prescott demanded.

  “Is the Bureau ordering them captured or just followed?”

  “You tell me, since this seems to be your show.”

  Covington looked away from him. “We want them out there,” he admitted, then picked up his menu again.

  If a manhunt had been mounted to find them, Jordan saw no evidence of it when they got out of their cab at LaGuardia.

  He correctly guessed that Covington would thwart any attempts to apprehend them, at least for the time being. Sandor was not worried about benign surveillance. His concern was enemy action. Amidst the busy, early morning pedestrian traffic inside the terminal, he was alert to any indication they were being watched. He glanced at the faces of strangers, particularly those who were standing still rather than moving. He eyed guards and airline personnel as they walked past or looked in their direction. But he spotted nothing unusual as they made their way through the terminal to the automated ticket machine.

  He felt particularly vulnerable without a weapon, exposed in the wide-open, pre-security check-in area, where anyone could be armed. He retrieved their tickets from the machine, using one of the credit cards in the name of Scott Kerr. For now, Christine would have to use her real name and identification. They would rectify that, however, once they got to Florida. For now, he could only hope that his name was the one they would be tracking and that he would make it through.

  They joined the long, slow line for screening. If they were going to be stopped, Jordan expected it to happen here or at the boarding gate. A TSA agent stood at the beginning of the queue where Sandor displayed their first class electronic tickets. Christine showed the man her driver’s license. Jordan held up his passport, opened to the first page.

  They moved ahead to join the line, waiting silently as the procession crept along. When it was her turn, Christine went through the metal detector without incident. Jordan placed his bag on the conveyor belt, removed his silver M-clip from his pocket and the steel-banded Rolex Daytona from his wrist and placed it in the gray plastic tray. He stepped through the frame of the machine. It made no sound. He picked up his money and watch, then waited for his bag to slide through on the conveyor belt.

  “Could you step over here please,” a small, Hispanic woman in a dark blue uniform said to him as he picked up the leather overnight case.

  Jordan turned and followed her off to the side, where she instructed him to place the bag on a Formica-topped table.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked with a polite smile.

  He received no smile in response. “Please sit down and remove your shoes.”

  Christine was standing twenty or so feet beyond the checkpoint. Jordan gave her a reassuring look, nodding across the wide corridor at a man who was being put through the same drill. He sat down, removed his shoes and watched as the woman passed them through the scanner again.

  She brought back his loafers and asked him to unzip the bag.

  Sandor was pleased he had taken the time to secrete his additional passports in the false pocket along the inside of the case. The scanner would have picked them up as a bunch papers, but if the guard pulled them out and saw multiple identification documents it would cause a problem.

  The woman gave the contents a cursory inspection, then told him he could go.

  Jordan slipped on his shoes, picked up the bag and joined Christine.

  He took her by the arm and they proceeded through the terminal.

  “Routine,” he assured her. “I’ll probably get stopped at the gate too. Don’t worry. Just a random check. Sometimes your number comes up, that’s all.”

  They purchased magazines and coffee, then found seats near their gate. “This is the first time that I’ve felt safe since we got here,” Christine said.

  Jordan nodded, not admitting that he would not relax until takeoff. All the same, it was mildly reassuring to know that no one other than airport personnel would be armed on his side of the electronic gates.

  When boarding began, Jordan was pulled aside again for a quick search. He chatted amiably with the security guard, all the while scanning the surrounding areas for unfriendly faces.

  Once the cursory examination of his bag was completed, he and Christine joined the other first class passengers, settled into their comfortable leather seats, then waited anxiously until the plane filled up and the door was closed.

  When the jet made its way to the runway and began its rapid acceleration along the tarmac, Jordan felt his body relax for the first time that morning. He knew they would be in danger again when they landed, but for the next couple of hours he could rest.

  He wondered again how much of a risk his traveling companion might be. Then he let the thought go.

  He was asleep before the plane completed its ascent.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Fort Lauderdale was warm and humid, but Jordan was not slowed by the change to a tropical climate. They had disembarked without incident, and as they stepped out into the Florida sun, Sandor felt refreshed, his reserves of energy restored.

  He removed his sport coat and took Christine’s jacket, folding them into his bag which he enlarged by unsnapping the sides. They took a cab and headed for the marina.

  The address Christine had for Andrioli—which Jordan would only have her tell him once they were on the plane—was a numbered boat slip along the Intracoastal Waterway at New River Drive. The taxi moved along the sun-bleached streets to Las Olas Boulevard, the main thoroughfare adjacent to the canal. Christine had directions that would lead them from there to the docksite of the boat where Andrioli was staying.

  At Sandor’s request, the cab driver let them out at a corner about a quarter mile from New River. They stood there for a few moments, Jordan looking up and down the street.

  “What are you thinking?” Christine asked him. “You didn’t say a word the entire ride over here.”

  “It just strikes me as odd that you have his address, that’s all.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just what I said. This guy is in mortal danger. He’s hiding from his own government, not to mention the people who killed your brother. It just seems strange that he’d be giving out his address like he was having a cocktail party. He could have given you a cell phone number, a contact address. That’s what I mean.”

  “What you’re really saying is that you still don’t believe me.”

  “Come on, we can’t stand here all day. Let’s walk.”

  Christine remained where she was. “Tell me. Do you believe me or don’t you?”

  “No,” Jordan said. “Not completely.”

  Christine’s angry look told him she was al
l done with sadness, at least for now. “Why are you here, then?” she demanded. “Why?”

  Jordan’s eyes narrowed. “The truth?”

  “Of course, the truth.”

  “Because it doesn’t matter whether or not you’re lying to me. You’re the only lead I have right now. I’d just as soon not step on any land mines along the trail, that’s all.”

  The frankness of his response seemed to diffuse her anger. Her voice softened again as she said, “I’m not lying to you. Jimmy didn’t want to know where Tony was, just in case, in case . . .”

  “I understand.”

  “I was the contact.”

  Standing there in the Florida sun, as the reflection of the bright morning danced off her sandy-colored hair and her clear blue eyes gazed up at him, he wanted to trust her. But too many years of training and too much experience in the field told him that he should know better. “It’s all right,” he said in a soothing voice. “We’re here to find this guy. Let’s find him.”

  They exchanged a momentary look that became a truce.

  “All right,” she said with a nod, and they walked on to their unscheduled appointment with Anthony Andrioli.

  Traiman’s men were scheduled to arrive in Florida that evening. Their plane, having departed from Paris, was already cruising high above the Atlantic as Christine and Jordan strolled along the cement pier that ran beside Fort Lauderdale’s inland canals.

  But the assassins sent by Traiman were not coming for Jordan. They were not even certain he would be there. These two well-dressed men, seated comfortably in their business-class seats, were coming to find Anthony Andrioli.

  Traiman did not like losing men, particularly those he had recruited himself. Competent men. Men who knew more about his plans than was comfortable for them to know, now that they had departed his organization. In his world, there was no provision for early retirement. He certainly agreed with Special Agent Prescott about that.

  In the instance of the hit team in DC, however, he had arranged to betray those men himself. They had been dispatched to Washington as part of a program of coordinated assassinations. They had been awaiting instructions on their targets, the dates for action and the precise plans for implementing the murders of several high-ranking legislators. When they were arrested, they were still looking forward to receiving their orders.

  But there were no orders coming. And there was no program of coordinated assassinations. Traiman had sent these men as a decoy, planning for Groat to turn them in as soon as his mission at Loubar headquarters was complete. These Arab assassins would be arrested, blamed for the explosion, interrogated. One or more of them would crack—Traiman was counting on that—and the Americans would then believe they had discovered a new al-Qaeda conspiracy involving several teams of assassins being sent to the United States to murder political leaders.

  But there was no such conspiracy. The authorities would run off in all the wrong directions, spending their energy and resources protecting congressmen and cabinet secretaries, entirely missing the essence of Traiman’s real plan. And no one would know the truth.

  No one, Traiman feared, except Anthony Andrioli.

  When McHugh and Andrioli disappeared from Paris, Traiman began by making conciliatory gestures. He offered them special inducements through an intermediary in France to bring both men back. McHugh and Andrioli were well aware of how generous such enticements could be—the money, women and drugs that were virtually without limit. They were also aware of how Traiman would ultimately make them answer for their disloyalty.

  When neither man responded to these entreaties, all indications were that they had returned home. Traiman assigned Rahmad and his US based espionage network to find and remove them. They had now been successful in locating McHugh, but McHugh was never as bright as Andrioli. McHugh made stupid mistakes, using the telephone, contacting people. Once they tracked him down, the methods employed by Kerrigan and Mustafa to get him to talk were direct and brutal.

  Under torture, McHugh admitted his suspicions that the assassination teams sent by Traiman were diversionary. That there was another offensive being planned for the United States and elsewhere. But he admitted that he lacked any knowledge of the details.

  Andrioli was another matter entirely.

  Traiman was therefore obliged to put the mission on hold until he could determine the extent of the damage the second of his two traitors might cause by revealing what he knew to American authorities. The interference of David Fryar at Loubar with key shipments had caused another temporary setback. As Traiman realized, his Arab associates were not patient men, and their intolerance of the delay was growing.

  That was the reason Traiman summoned Rahmad to Tripoli. Every now and then, a face-to-face meeting was necessary, if for no other reason than to remind his subordinates of his influence.

  Even though some time had been wasted on the journey east, it would be paid off in the effect of the visit. Mahmoud Rahmad needed to have the importance of this task emphasized, his own expendability underlined.

  Rahmad would be sent back to New York to fulfill his other responsibilities and, soon, Anthony Andrioli and the growing stain of his betrayal would cease to be a problem.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The boats on the New River canal were docked broadside, bow to stern, secured with spring lines, their hulls cushioned by bumpers against the concrete bulkhead. Jordan and Christine strolled along the northern embankment, silently reading each transom, searching for the name Christine had for Andrioli’s boat. which was all she had. The name of the boat and the general location of the dock.

  They moved without speaking, Jordan’s sense of uneasiness amplified by the fact that he was unarmed. He walked with his bag slung over his shoulder. Christine stayed right beside him as they passed an assortment of cabin cruisers and sailboats. As each boat came into view, their anxiety intensified. Perhaps Andrioli had abandoned the vessel, or moved to another marina. He might have put out to sea. Christine might have the name wrong.

  The midday sun now conspired to heighten their discomfort, the cloudless sky offering no relief. They were fresh from the chill of autumn in the north, and the early feeling of comforting warmth was replaced with a sweltering heat. Sandor found himself wishing he could change from his long-sleeved knit shirt.

  They had just passed a two-masted sloop called the Excess from Wilmington, Delaware, when the stern of the next vessel, a power boat, came into view. It was about forty feet long, of white fiberglass construction with teak trim. It bore the name Winsome II.

  Christine stopped, but Jordan took her arm and urged her forward, the two of them continuing past the boat in silence.

  Sandor was a stranger to Andrioli. He knew he could not step aboard the vessel without risking a sudden and violent reaction. Christine would have to make the approach. That much was certain.

  As they passed the bow of a cabin cruiser docked ahead of Andrioli’s. Jordan said, “Look, we have no way of knowing what the situation is in there. He may not be alone. He may not be there at all. He may have other visitors already, we can’t be sure.”

  They stopped and Jordan turned to have another look at the Winsome II. It appeared very quiet. “How well do you really know him?”

  “I told you. I met him in Paris, with Jimmy.”

  “And he’ll recognize you?”

  “Of course.”

  “So you’ll have to go first. I’ll wait just off to the side. There,” he said, pointing to a bench along the walkway.

  Jordan knew they had already been standing there long enough. “All right, go to the stern and call for him. Quietly. First name only. And be careful. First sign of trouble, anything that bothers you, you take off. Understand?”

  She nodded and turned towards the boat, then looked back again. “What should I say to him?”

  “Say hello. Tell him you’re in trouble and ask to come aboard. Tell him your brother’s dead.” The last statement sounded harsher than he inten
ded. “I’m sorry. Look, just let him hear your voice. Let him have a look at you. I’ll be waiting right there.”

  Jordan walked away, stopping beside the wooden bench, watching her. Damn, he thought, I would feel a lot better if I had a gun.

  The Winsome II was a solid looking sport fishing boat with an enclosed wheelhouse, flying bridge and deep-sea rigs. There was no activity that Sandor could detect. No sign of movement above or below deck. Maybe Andrioli was out. Maybe he really was gone.

  He watched Christine lean forward and knock on the hull near the aft railing. She knocked again and, when she received no response, moved forward to have a look inside through a porthole of the main salon. She knocked again. There was no reply.

  Jordan moved towards her now. Something did not feel right. When he moved up behind her, she nearly jumped with fright.

  “You scared me to death!”

  “He’s not answering?”

  “I called his name, but I didn’t want to yell it out.”

  Jordan looked behind them, up and down the quay. “Call your own name,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Tell him who you are.”

  She leaned closer to the opening into the stern cabin. “Tony,” she called out softly. “It’s Christine. We’re here to see you.”

  She said it again and they waited.

  “Move two steps back,” a voice from somewhere inside the vessel responded now, “and keep your hands at your sides. Nice and natural now, the both of you.”

  Two steps back would put them squarely in front of the salon porthole. Jordan thought about diving to the ground before a shot could be fired, but that would leave Christine an easy target. He hesitated. Whoever was inside could have taken them out already, if he was willing to shoot them right there, in the open. He dropped his hands to his sides. “Come on,” he said, taking her by the wrist and pulling back.

  They stepped away from the railing then heard Christine’s name spoken in an astonished tone from the disembodied voice. “Come aboard, both of you. But leave your hands where they are. Especially you, cowboy.”