Targets of Deception

by Jeffrey Stephens[epub]

  “Which leaves us where?”

  Andrioli shrugged. “You know who Traiman is.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “I have an idea.”

  Andrioli smiled, as if he knew something else he wasn’t ready to share. “Lemme help you out.” He got up, taking his automatic with him, and brought them another two cans of Budweiser from the small refrigerator. He tossed one underhanded to Jordan. “Traiman used to be an American agent. I don’t know what kind. Special Services, CIA, something. He took a powder a few years back, went turncoat on them. Now he runs a training camp for terrorists. He also brokers weapons and technology deals in the Middle East.”

  Jordan nodded. “So they say. Where did you and Jimmy fit in?”

  “We were like instructors, basically. Trained all sorts of scum that Traiman brought into the fold from all over the place.” He returned to his seat, placing the gun back atop the teak chart table. “It was wild, since we didn’t speak anything but English. We had interpreters, never even needed to learn the languages, and believe me, there were a lot of different nationalities. Like a bizzaro United Nations, if you know what I mean. All upside down. We were highly paid drill sergeants. More than that, even. We taught those sons o’ bitches everything.”

  Neither Jordan nor Christine uttered a word in response.

  “You hear about the explosion in Washington yesterday?”

  “I read the story in the morning paper,” Jordan said, “on the flight down.”

  “Yeah, I saw it on the news. The company was Loubar,” Andrioli told them. “Manufactured all types of paramilitary technology, bio-chemical stuff. If you saw the article, you know the deal. Anyway, president of the company died, along with his secretary and a couple of other people. The guy’s name was Fryar, David Fryar.”

  “Should I take a guess?’

  “Go ahead.”

  “He was Traiman’s man in Washington.”

  “One of them,” Andrioli said. “Probably stepped outta line. Asked for more money. Or worse.”

  “Such as?”

  “Held up the shipments, maybe. Traiman’s on a timetable right now. He needs to move his teams into the States, and he needs the equipment.”

  “What kind of timetable?”

  Andrioli lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply before going on. “I’m not sure. Last spring Traiman was assembling some of his best men for assignments in the States. Assassination teams, that’s what he trained them for. For here, and in Europe too.”

  “Who are the targets?”

  “Who would you think?” Andrioli asked with a frown. “Heads of state, politicians, whatever.”

  “And this wasn’t coming from Qaddafi?” Sandor asked.

  “No way. Traiman is way beyond him. Old Muammar got religion after we bombed the shit out of Baghdad. He gave it the old ‘No más.’ Threw in the towel. I think that’s when they first told Traiman his lease was up.”

  “So Traiman’s not in Tripoli anymore?”

  “Let’s say if he is, he won’t be welcome there much longer. Don’t know if he still has enough pull with the bad guys to buy a little time.”

  “Al-Qaeda?”

  “Yeah. Especially now, because it’s going to get really ugly.”

  “How? With these hit teams?”

  Andrioli shook his head. “Nah, I think those squads are a decoy.”

  “A decoy? For what?”

  Andrioli eyed him warily. “Not sure, but I know they’re moving something bad into place.”

  “Something bad?”

  “Chemicals. Biological weapons.”

  Sandor’s eyes narrowed. “Biological weapons? What kind?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “When do they make their move?”

  “Not sure of that either.” Andrioli took another drag on the cigarette. “When Jimmy and I split, we threw a monkey wrench into their scheme, if you see what I mean.”

  “I’m not sure I do.”

  “I have to paint you a picture?” He took another swig of beer. “When Jimmy and I took off, Traiman couldn’t be sure how much we knew, or where we’d go with it.”

  Jordan waited, watching Andrioli take a puff of his Marlboro. When he lifted his can of beer to have another drink Sandor lunged across the cabin, driving his left elbow into Andrioli’s chest, then grabbed the automatic with his right hand and twisted it free. Beer splashed all over Andrioli’s shirt and face as Jordan spun to the side, coming up with the pistol in hand.

  “Nice move,” Andrioli said as he righted himself and wiped some of the beer away. “Man, I’m outta practice.”

  “All right, enough of this good ol’ boy bullshit. Let’s get some real answers about what you know, shall we?”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Traiman’s men decided it was dark enough. There was no one in view. This part of town was far from the night action along A1A near the Fort Lauderdale beach. Anyone they passed would pose little in the way of risk or subsequent identification. They got directions from the driver then made their pick-up plan. They went over everything twice before the two men stepped out into the balmy night air and made their way to the quay where they would find Andrioli’s boat.

  The American knew Andrioli, having spent time with him outside Tripoli during the operations briefings earlier in the year. The Englishman had met him once. Traiman had selected these men for this clean-up task since neither was a friend of Andrioli’s, but either could readily identify him. Prior personal contact was superior to a photographic survey, particularly since the target had likely altered his appearance. There were physical characteristics that could not be easily disguised, and these men were trained to penetrate such camouflage.

  Ultimately, the risk that Andrioli would recognize either or both of them was immaterial; everyone understood that Anthony Andrioli would be awaiting this appointment, that he was serving time on his own death watch.

  There was no crisis of spiritual confidence, no conflicting loyalties, no apprehension about the consequences of their actions. They were hired and trained as assassins, and the part they played in the rising tide of international terrorism, even when it involved a fellow combatant, was not their concern.

  The American was a sharpshooter and, even by the standards of his trade, a particularly vicious killer. He had been schooled in martial arts and could be as deadly with his hands as he was with a gun. The Englishman, like his companion, was an expert marksman. He was also skilled in the use of explosives, hence the inclusion of C-4 and detonators in their arsenal.

  If they took Andrioli alive, their instructions were to find out what he knew, using any means they chose. Then they were to eliminate him.

  That’s quite a move for a reporter, cowboy.”

  “United States Army, cowboy. I had training from a pretty good drill instructor myself.”

  Andrioli wiped his shirt with his hand and drank off what was left in the can of Bud. “Yeah, I know.”

  “You know what?”

  “I know you’re not just some reporter. Why the hell you think Jimmy picked you, because you’re Ernest Hemingway?”

  Jordan stared at him.

  “We were with Traiman long enough. We heard all the old war stories. You were his fair-haired boy, back when he was doing his part for Uncle Sam. When he went AWOL, you were also the guy who got away.”

  “What’s going on?” Christine asked Andrioli then turned to Jordan. “What is he talking about?”

  “Nothing—”

  “Come on, Sandor, drop the act. Traiman tried to have you done four years ago. Then he almost had you in Bahrain. You were a heartbeat from being buried neck high in the Sahara Desert.”

  “Jordan?” Christine burrowed her gaze into Sandor’s eyes.

  Jordan sighed and, stretching his neck, tried to rub out the tension with his free hand.

  “Little over a year ago, our friend Sandor here was part of an undercover operation in Manama,” Andrioli explained. “That’s the c
apital of a small sheikdom called Bahrain located in the Persian Gulf, just off the coast of Saudi Arabia. Way we heard the story, Sandor was assigned to meet with four locals from Qatar, another little country on the Gulf, who claimed to have information about an al-Qaeda cell. Sandor was supposed to work with these informants to organize a raid on the al-Qaeda camp and take as many of the terrorists alive as they could while destroying the operation.”

  He was looking at Jordan now. “Traiman’s men got word and kidnapped the locals from their hotel rooms in broad daylight before the CIA assault team was in place. Sandor arrived a half a day too late, then called for backup, intending to rescue his team. But Covington, who Sandor still wants to claim is with the State Department, refused the request, aborted the mission and ordered Sandor brought back before the United States was embarrassed by anyone finding out about an American military operation being planned smack in the middle of Bahrain. Tends to create some bad feelings, you start waging war in someone else’s country.”

  “And those four men?” Christine asked.

  “They were turned over to the terrorists. You can guess what happened to them. Anyway, Sandor resigned from the government and walked away.” He looked at Jordan and asked, “Did I leave anything out?”

  He did not respond.

  “Is this true?” Christine asked Jordan, looking at him with an odd mixture of anger and admiration in her eyes. “Is it?”

  When Jordan gave no answer, Andrioli said, “It is, believe me.” Then he turned back to Sandor. “So now what? You gonna shoot me?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On the answers I get.”

  “Shit, why not just shoot me? Probably be doing me a favor.”

  Christine began to stand up, but Jordan said, “Sit down,” without taking his eyes off Andrioli.

  “Jordan—” she began.

  “I said sit down, and I mean it.” She lowered herself back onto the upholstered banquet.

  “So,” Jordan said, keeping his attention focused on Andrioli, “here we are. You know who I am and I have a pretty good idea of who you are. Talk.”

  “What’s the point? Jimmy and I went down this road and ran into a dead end,” Andrioli said. “It’s like I told you. We made calls from Paris to people we knew through our contacts. We wound up with Covington and he told us to pound sand. To start with, he didn’t seem to believe anything we said. Even if it was true, he said we didn’t have enough to buy what we wanted.”

  “Which was what?”

  “Money, immunity, witness protection. You know the drill.” He looked at the empty beer can and flipped it onto the chart table.

  “Easy,” Jordan warned him.

  “Okay, okay. Don’t get excited.” Andrioli smiled at Christine. “He’s tough.”

  “Have you tried to speak with someone other than Covington?”

  “Sure we did,” Andrioli sighed. “Everyone we talked to figured it the same way—we were telling a tale just to make a deal, get immunity, whatever. How could we prove anything? What did we have to show them? Covington was the only one who seemed interested in giving us a tumble, but then he turned to bullshit too. That’s when we took off.”

  “And so I was another contact, is that the idea?”

  Andrioli nodded. “Maybe the last one. That was the idea, anyway. Peters to McHugh and now to me. Tinkers to Evers to Chance.” He smiled. “Did Danny tell you he knew me?”

  Jordan shook his head at this latest revelation. Now things were beginning to make sense. “I never even heard your name until Christine gave it to me last night.”

  “Good man, Peters. Served with him for about six months. I’m sorry he got in the line of fire.”

  “Me too. So your idea was what? To convince me to pitch it to someone for you?”

  “That was one idea.”

  “Why me?”

  Andrioli allowed himself a slight grin. “You know why. You’ve got an inside track. And you’re the only person I know hates Traiman more than I do.”

  Jordan nodded. “You have another idea if we can’t sell the first one?”

  Andrioli shrugged and offered a crooked smile. “Yeah. Now that the team was arrested in DC, my story starts to make sense, right?”

  “Run that by me again.”

  “The bogus hit squad they just grabbed on a tip. Who do you think the tip came from?”

  Sandor nodded but did not reply.

  “Still, I figure if they haven’t bought what I’ve told them up to now, I’ve got to get more to sell.”

  The two killers strode purposefully toward the canal, each intent on his responsibilities. Each understood what had to be done.

  They continued along the concrete dock without speaking. The American reached inside his jacket and felt for his automatic. The Englishman did the same.

  Sandor had often wondered at the blindness of such men, their inability to perceive the irony of their position—that someday their roles with Andrioli might well be reversed. Experience had taught Jordan that armed conflict had an immediacy that did not permit for reflection or doubt. Hesitation is fatal.

  And so these executioners moved on, the time for thought having succumbed to instinct as the transom of the Winsome II came into view up ahead.

  As they came even with Andrioli’s cabin cruiser, the American gave a discrete signal to move on. Without breaking stride, they kept walking, coming to a stop after passing several more boats.

  “Well then?” the red-haired Englishman asked quietly.

  “I don’t like it.”

  “The setup?”

  The American nodded. “Bow to stern. Too open. And spring lines. We make a move to board, he’ll feel us as soon as we step on deck.”

  The Englishman nodded. They were standing face to face, a hundred feet beyond the forward railing of the Winsome II. Even so, they spoke in a whisper.

  “And we don’t know what he has rigged up.”

  “What about blowing it?”

  The American shook his head. “No good, not unless we know for sure he’s inside. We can’t be sorting through the pieces afterwards.”

  The Englishman frowned. “Agreed.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  When a soldier spends enough time in active combat, he develops auxiliary senses. Awake or asleep, he becomes alert to sounds that do not quite fit with the character of other noises. Even an unusual silence can snap him to attention.

  Jordan asked a question, but Andrioli was listening to something else. He held up his hand and rose slowly from his seat.

  Sandor immediately sensed it also. He stood, turning to Christine, his finger to his lips.

  There had been two sets of footsteps, shuffling by the boat, disappearing into the night. Then they heard the footsteps again, coming back the other way, not really conscious of them until they came to a stop.

  Jordan moved next to Andrioli, who was checking to see that the blackout drapes on all of the portholes of this main salon were pulled shut. “You have any other guns here?” Jordan whispered.

  Andrioli nodded, pointed to the aft cabin, holding up one finger.

  “Get it,” Jordan breathed in his ear.

  Andrioli stepped quickly to the rear of the vessel, quietly unlatched the door to that cabin, went inside, and then emerged with a Browning 9mm.

  The footsteps had ended somewhere near the bow. Andrioli pointed in that direction and Jordan responded with a brief nod.

  Sandor saw that Andrioli was holding two extra clips for his Browning. Jordan held up the H&K with its long silencer and motioned to Andrioli’s hand.

  Andrioli disappeared into the aft cabin again and quickly returned with a box of 9mm shells. He handed it to Sandor. The two men were side by side, straining to hear what was going on above deck.

  “They’re either going to board us or blow the boat,” Jordan said in a barely audible voice, his mouth close to Andrioli’s ear. “We’ve got to move now.”

 
; Andrioli nodded. He tapped Christine’s shoulder and gestured toward the rear cabin. It would be the safest place for her, he said, once the action began.

  Christine turned to Jordan. The steely look in his eyes told her not to debate the instruction.

  As she started to move, he whispered, “Keep down, no matter what. Don’t come out unless one of us calls you.”

  Christine hurried into the aft cabin, and Jordan closed the door behind her.

  Andrioli held up two fingers.

  Sandor nodded his agreement. There were two men. They were at the front of the boat right now, but would doubtless split up. Jordan knew that he and Andrioli were running out of time, but if they acted too soon, or moved in the wrong direction, they might be cut down before they had a chance to mount a counter-attack. He reached for Andrioli’s arm and drew him toward the short stairway that led to the wheelhouse. “Open the latch as quietly as you can. I’ll go forward, make some noise there. Just get it unlocked then stand aside. When I come past, I’ll blow through the hatch. You follow me out.”

  Andrioli nodded.

  “There’s no margin for error. Shoot to kill.”

  Andrioli nodded again and watched as Jordan moved forward to the salon.

  The red-haired Englishman finished rigging the two explosive devices and handed the larger one to his partner. He fastened the C-4 near the railing of the bow, while the American stepped to the outside of the quay, taking a circuitous route to the rear of the boat where he attached the main charge to the aft hull, just behind the wheelhouse deck. Their plan was simple. The first, small explosion would bring Andrioli out. If they couldn’t finish him off with a bullet, they would ignite the second charge, and Andrioli and his boat would be history.

  The Englishman stepped away from the bow, choosing a vantage point near a thick wood piling where he would have a clear shot at anyone coming through the main cabin or out through the hatch on the foredeck. He had his automatic in hand, keeping it under his jacket as he waited for the American to finish.