Targets of Deception

by Jeffrey Stephens[epub]

“Hold it,” Jordan snapped, taking hold of her arm again, before she could step forward. “We’re not moving anywhere until Christine gets a look at you.”

  There was silence. Then a curtain was pulled back at the porthole of the main salon, below deck, and a face appeared. The man peered cautiously from beside the short drape. Even with a growth of beard and shaggy hair, Christine knew him at once.

  “Tony,” she exclaimed with relief.

  “All right,” he barked in military fashion. “Get aboard. And buddy, you leave your hands out where I can see ‘em,” he said, his accent retaining a tinge of his Southern upbringing. “Christine, you take the bag.”

  They stepped past the opening in the railing, through the wheelhouse and down the stairs to the main sitting area below. If Andrioli trusted Christine, it was belied by the Heckler & Koch USP 9 with the long, silenced barrel he leveled at them as they entered the cabin.

  Andrioli was a wiry man somewhere in his fifties, his age tough to judge from the unkempt growth of beard and sloppy attire. His white polo shirt was dirty and wrinkled, and the khakis he wore looked as though they’d been slept in. He studied Jordan and Christine with sad brown eyes as they stepped into the main salon.

  “Sorry for my crude idea of hospitality,” he said. “Close that hatch behind you and latch it.”

  Jordan did as he was told.

  “All right, lemme have a look see.” He motioned Christine to drop the bag, then pressed the barrel of the automatic into Sandor’s back as he gave him a quick, but expert, frisking. He inspected the contents of the leather case, mostly feeling around for anything sharp or metallic. Then he searched Christine, all the while holding his pistol at the ready.

  “Not exactly a warm-hearted reunion,” Jordan said.

  “Afraid not. These are troubled times, you know. Sorry Christine.”

  “It’s all right,” she said. “We understand.”

  “Whatever,” he replied coldly, obviously beyond caring about anyone’s understanding. “Go ahead, siddown.”

  Jordan and Christine sat on the settee facing their host, who settled into the captain’s chair in front of the chart table. He laid the gun in his lap. “Smoke?” he asked them as he pulled out a pack of Marlboros. They both declined. “Filthy habit, I gotta admit.” He lit up and took a long drag. “So,” he said to Christine, “who is this character and what’s up with Jimmy?”

  She looked at Jordan, hoping he would respond.

  “This character,” he said, “is Jordan Sandor. I’m the guy your friend Jimmy wanted to meet.”

  “You’re Sandor, eh?”

  “Right. And, in case you hadn’t heard, your friend Jimmy is dead.”

  Andrioli’s eyes moved slowly away from them, more pain in his expression than surprise. It was obvious he had not heard about McHugh. There was nothing to make the murders in Woodstock a national story. Unless Andrioli had an active source of information, which he probably did not, he would be in the dark. From the looks of the man, he was going it very much alone.

  “Poor Jimmy,” he said at last. “How?”

  Sandor answered him. “Two men, one a small, dark-skinned Arab, the other a tall, light-haired American.” Jordan searched his face for some sign of recognition. If Andrioli had any ideas, he wasn’t sharing them yet. “They tied him to a chair, beat him senseless, then put two in his head.”

  Jordan’s description was purposely harsh, but the vivid description of his comrade’s death didn’t seem to faze Andrioli. Instead, he turned to Christine and asked, “You all right?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Lousy sons o’ bitches.”

  “Jordan is the man Jimmy was going to talk to before, well, before—”

  “I know that, assuming this is really Sandor.”

  “The same people who did this, they’ve also come after Jordan.”

  That got Andrioli’s attention. He shot a quick glance at Sandor, but said nothing. He looked back at Christine. “What about you?” Andrioli asked her.

  “You mean has anyone—”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean.”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Well then, what the hell are you doing here?” Andrioli’s anger surprised them both. “Jimmy should never have gotten you involved in this bullshit. I told him he was wrong to have you come to Paris in the first place, the selfish little bastard. What in hell are you doing now, getting mixed up in this?”

  “I wanted to help, that’s all.”

  “Hold on a minute,” Jordan said. “Let’s back up here.”

  “Yeah,” Andrioli agreed, “that’s a good idea. Why don’t you start by telling me what you know about all this.”

  “Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing,” Jordan said. “Of course, you do have the gun. Why don’t I go first.”

  Bill Sternlich sat at the desk in his office, staring at the screen. He received no reply to any of the inquiries he had made for Jordan, except for the warning that found its way to his personal e-mail address at home. The lack of response from his usual sources was odd, to say the least. Based on what Jordan had told him, he was certain there would have been some Homeland Security report. He found none.

  One thing was obvious—Jordan was back at his old job. Sternlich was sure of that. But the total information blackout was extraordinary. Whatever his friend had happened upon was bigger than either of them had first suspected. At least it was bigger than Jordan had told him.

  He picked up the telephone and dialed Jordan’s cell phone number for the fifth try that morning. This time, he didn’t bother to leave a message.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Jordan described the events of the past three days, from the shooting in Woodstock and the murders of McHugh and Peters, to the attempt on his own life, the ransacking of his apartment and the apparent attempt of the government to hold them in protective custody. Sandor had already concluded that Andrioli was no amateur, and if he wanted the man’s help, it wasn’t going to work for him to hold back what he knew so far.

  Andrioli interrupted occasionally to ask for details. He wanted more precise descriptions of the two shooters in Woodstock. He was interested in the questions put to Jordan and Christine by Prescott and Covington.

  Sandor answered everything, withholding only the fact of his former career with Central Intelligence. He also stayed with John Covington’s claim that he and Todd Nealon were from the State Department.

  The information Andrioli found most disturbing was the evidence that Jimmy had made arrangements to return to Paris. Was he planning to flip again? Was he going to back to save himself and sell out his friend? It was difficult for him to contemplate any of that, especially in front of Christine.

  Andrioli brought out some beers, passed them around and laid his gun on the chart table. He took two large gulps from his can then eyed Jordan with obvious suspicion. “That it?”

  “Those are the headlines and the back stories as far as I know,” Jordan said. “Mind if I ask a few questions now?”

  “You can if you want, but I’ll tell you up front, the more you know, the more dangerous this gets.”

  “Your pal Jimmy didn’t worry about that when he asked to meet me, which is why I’m here in the first place, right? And you two didn’t worry about it when you got Christine involved in all of this.” He let that thought linger. “Anyway,” Jordan said, “how much more dangerous can it get? They’ve tried to kill me twice already.”

  “You’ve got a point there,” Andrioli conceded without a trace of sympathy. “But they failed. You happened to get in their way in Woodstock. That was bad luck. They tried to clean you up at your apartment, but they missed that chance. Maybe they’ll let you be,” he suggested, but there was no conviction in his voice.

  He sat back, slowly stroking his scraggly, auburn beard, drawing his hand across his mouth thoughtfully, as if trying to convince himself that these killers might actually abandon their interest in these unclaimed victi
ms.

  Jordan could see in his eyes that he had dismissed the idea, so he decided to change the subject. Try to get him talking about what he knew. “So, what made you choose a boat in Fort Lauderdale? It’s pretty exposed for a man in hiding, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe.” Andrioli permitted himself a brief smile that brightened his gray features. For a moment. “Not exactly the old Hole-in-the-Wall in Wyoming, is it?”

  “Not exactly. No.”

  Andrioli took another long gulp of beer. “That’s all right. Haven’t you ever read ‘The Purloined Letter’? I thought you’re supposed to be a writer.”

  “Sort of a writer. I know the story.”

  “Hide in plain sight, right? When we split up, Jimmy ran for the mountains. Bad move, if you ask me. That’s why I never told him where I was going. He was a good guy, but he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.” He glanced at Christine. “Sorry.”

  “I understand,” she said softly.

  “Look, I figured those sons o’ bitches were gonna find us no matter where we hid. They trap you in the mountains, you got no one around and nowhere to go. I figured I’d be better off on a boat. I can take off if I have the chance. Or I can slip over the side into the canal. And I’m surrounded by a slew of people here all the time.

  “These bastards are vicious, but they’re not stupid. The two that took out Jimmy, they were pros. They’re not about to get caught or killed just to do a job. The more careful they have to be, the better chance I have to make a move. I came south, went to a broker and rented this thing for six months, paid cash in advance. Easy as that.”

  Jordan watched Andrioli throw back another mouthful of beer. Unremitting fear had taken its toll on this man. His eyes seemed constantly alert to peripheral dangers. Exhaustion lined his face. His body seemed perpetually tense. Even worse, Jordan knew, was the realization that he had been the cause of his own inevitable destruction.

  “Who were they,” Jordan asked him, “the two who took out McHugh? Were they Traiman’s men?” It was the first time either of them had mentioned that name.

  Andrioli managed a hearty laugh. “That’s good, cowboy. Very good.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Look, I didn’t invite either of you to this party. You told me what you could. Best thing you can do now is blow the hell out of here and get as far away from me as you can.”

  “Thanks for the advice, but we’re not going anywhere. You and Jimmy had something to tell me.”

  “That right?”

  “That’s right. And I’ll tell you what else. If we walk out of here now and anyone catches up with us, they’ll figure we know too much already. So we’re cooked either way. You think it’ll be tough for them to force Christine to tell them where you are?” Christine winced at the thought, but the two men ignored her. “Even if you leave here today, you’ll be a hell of a lot easier to track when they have a starting place.”

  Andrioli stared into Jordan’s determined eyes. “Tell me again those names they ran by you.”

  “All right if I get the list from my bag?”

  Andrioli grinned. “I’ll get it.” He picked up the bag. Jordan told him where to find the list. He fished it out and handed the paper to Sandor.

  “Zayn.”

  Andrioli nodded. “I know that name. Iraqi. Former Republican Guard of the late Saddam Hussein regime. Recently joined up with Traiman, from what I hear.”

  “Mahmoud Rahmad.”

  “Yeah. Saudi. Runs Traiman’s operation in New York. Diplomatic passport. Friend of the al-Qaeda boys. Slimy bastard.”

  “Suaramar.”

  “Hmmm. Never met him, but I know the name. I think he works with Traiman in Syria.”

  “Mustafa Tagliev.”

  “He’s an agent for the CIA, NSA, some bullshit. They probably threw his name in there to keep you honest.”

  “American?”

  “Nah. Works for the US, though.”

  “What about Tallal Abdullah Driann, you know him?”

  “Sure. He’s Qaddafi’s liaison, worked on everything Traiman was running out of Libya. Now that Qaddafi claims he wants to be a good guy, he’ll sell out Driann in a heartbeat, especially if the world finds out what’s been going on over there.”

  “Plausible deniability.”

  “You got it.”

  “The last name is Ibrahim Abass.”

  “Yeah, I met him once. He’s Traiman’s direct contact with al-Qaeda. Bad guy. Most dangerous guy on your list.”

  “Where is he?”

  “No idea. Showed up in Tripoli once in a while, not often. Lately the word has been that Qaddafi’s people are trying to push the entire Traiman operation out of the country. He could be one of the group promoting that agenda, but Traiman’s not an easy man to shove around.”

  Jordan nodded. “And this Rahmad, you say he’s in New York.”

  “Usually.”

  They were quiet for a minute as Andrioli took a swig of his beer. “You know, no matter what they said, there’s no way the feds wanted you two in protective custody.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Come on, you seem like a smart guy. You think if they wanted to hold you, you wouldn’t still be there?”

  “I don’t know,” he lied. “We made a pretty good run for it, right?”

  Christine, who had been quiet for most of their long exchange, nodded. “We did,” she agreed. “You could see them on the street. They were looking for us.”

  “Looking, sure. But not holding you. See what I mean?”

  Sandor nodded. Andrioli was a bit rough around the edges, but he was no fool.

  “What does that mean?” Christine asked.

  “Well,” Andrioli said as he scratched his short, untidy beard, “it probably means they had you followed here.”

  THIRTY

  The jetliner landed in Miami, where Traiman’s men disembarked and entered the international arrivals building. They stood in different lines, one an American citizen, the other a visitor from Great Britain. The immigrations officers gave them and their papers a cursory once over. The passports were in order, and no questions were raised. They made their way through customs without incident, then into the arrival lounge where they were met by a driver holding up a cardboard sign with their assumed names.

  They followed the chauffer outside to a waiting Lincoln Town Car attended by a second man who took their suitcases and held the back door open. There were no greetings beyond an exchange of curt nods. When all four men were comfortably seated inside, the car took off for the ride up the coast to Fort Lauderdale.

  “Where are the goods?” the American asked.

  The man who met them in the terminal reached for the hardshell case at his feet, then passed it to the back seat. The American flipped the latches and opened it, finding two Sig Sauer P228 9mm automatic pistols nestled safely in foam rubber. He lifted one out and handed it to the Englishman. He removed the second, checking the fifteen-shot clip. There were extra clips, fully loaded, and each man pocketed two. There were also two small packets of C-4 explosive with detonators and infrared remote devices.

  “You have the address yet?”

  “We have a lead on a boat on the canal,” said the man in the passenger seat.

  “A lead?” the tall Englishman asked.

  “Don’t worry,” the driver said. “We’ll get you where you need to be.”

  The two killers sent by Traiman completed their breakdown and inspection of the weapons, then stared out the windows as the sedan motored north to the Fort Lauderdale exits. They circled around to Las Olas Boulevard, not far from the corner where Jordan and Christine had arrived by cab earlier in the day, turned from the main street into a public parking lot situated directly behind a low-slung row of shops and restaurants that fronted on the main street.

  They pulled to a remote end of the lot where the car came to a stop. The driver turned off the headlights and engine. Then they waited.

  THIRTY-ONE

/>   Andrioli had relaxed a bit from the beer and the company. He told them it had been a while since he had a conversation with anyone that had lasted longer than it took to order a pizza. He described the solitary life he had been living for the past couple of months. His only real sense of freedom came when he undocked his boat and set out for the calm, open sea. He admitted he was often tempted to just keep going. Only two things brought him back: the commitment he and Jimmy made to stop Traiman—that was the first reason. The second was the uncertainty of where his journey would end.

  So he described how he would return to his slip, make midnight visits on foot to the twenty-four-hour grocery store, then spend sleepless nights, trying to sort out whatever future was left to him. It was difficult to go it alone. No one else could understand the pressure or the fear. No one except McHugh. They were two fugitives in search of escape. Looking for the right approach. The right contact.

  “Now that Jimmy’s dead,” he said, “there’s no more reason to wait.”

  Jordan let him talk, waiting for his monologue to lead back to Traiman and the work they had done in the deserts of North Africa. Andrioli was not so easily manipulated.

  “If there’s no more reason to wait,” Jordan said, “why not tell us what this is all about? What have you got to lose at this point?”

  Andrioli stared at him again then turned to Christine. “You believe he never met Jimmy?”

  “I do.”

  “But you were on your way to see him,” he said to Jordan. Andrioli was working it over one more time.

  “McHugh asked to see me. Dan Peters put us together. Like I told you, I never got there.” Jordan turned away, shaking his head. “How many times you want to go over this?”

  “Your friend, Peters. He had to be working for Covington,” Andrioli announced flatly. “It’s the only thing that fits.”

  “Covington?”

  “You said Covington claimed he was from the State Department. Well he’s not. He’s CIA.”

  Sandor did his best to appear surprised. “Run that by me again.”

  Andrioli finished off his beer, set the can down and gave Jordan a dubious look that told him he wasn’t buying his act. “John Covington is a CIA chief. He’s been after Jimmy and me since before we got back. He was the man we got referred to, when we first tried to make a deal from Paris. He didn’t think we had enough to sell.”