There was a noise from inside the boat, up towards the forward hatch. He snapped his head in that direction, then gave a quick whistle to the American, who jumped back and pulled out his Sig Sauer.
Jordan had smacked his hand twice against the inside bulkhead of the forward cabin. Then he sprinted back through the main salon, vaulting the steps to the pilothouse in a single motion, slamming his shoulder hard into the door that Andrioli had unlocked, bursting through in a sideward roll, hitting the deck with a thud. He scampered behind the instrument panel tower just as the Englishman detonated the small charge attached to the front hull, the explosion sending a spray of fiberglass, teak and other debris into the air and across the dock.
The American saw Sandor first and, having the better angle from the rear, he opened fire immediately, sending three shots spitting through his silencer that shattered fiberglass and ricocheted inside the wheelhouse.
Jordan fired back at the American, who took cover next to the boat docked behind them.
Andrioli had emerged from below, diving to a position alongside the wheel and firing his automatic at the crouching American to their rear. His weapon was the only one of the four not equipped with a silencer, and the reverberating report of the Browning echoed inside the wheelhouse.
The Englishman, seeing Andrioli emerge, shot two rounds through the plastic windscreen, whistling just above his target’s head.
A woman somewhere inside the sailboat to their stern let out a scream, and people along the canal began coming above decks to see what was going on.
In the noise and confusion, Sandor gestured to Andrioli to cover the forward shooter, then crawled on his stomach towards the transom. He climbed over the port railing on the water side and crept along the catwalk until he came to the end. There, he spotted the second explosive against the side of the hull. He couldn’t tell if it was set for remote ignition or timed detonation, but he knew that touching the charge might set it off either way.
He peered around the transom until the American, crouching behind the next boat, rose slightly to fire another shot. Sandor saw the man was holding something in his left hand and, figuring it was the remote, he leveled his gun and fired. The first shot hit the American in the arm. The second caught the side of his neck, spinning him around until he was in full view. Jordan fired again, striking him in the chest and dropping him to the ground, dead, before he could detonate the aft charge.
Sandor wondered if there was other plastique in place, or if the second shooter could set off the C-4 attached to the transom.
The first explosion had caused a fire to break out in the forward cabin, and Jordan knew they had little time before the flames on board reached the fuel tanks or another explosion was detonated. The smoke alone would eventually drive them into the open. He had no line of sight on the man up front, but continued to move along the stern of the boat until he was at the corner of the starboard side, at the dock. He heard Andrioli’s Browning send off three more shots in rapid succession and, using that cover to leap from the water deck onto the concrete path, he squeezed off two shots at the Englishman, who was squatting low behind a bulkhead piling. One splintered the pole. The second glanced off the man’s shoulder, turning him into a better line of fire.
As Sandor pulled the trigger on that last round, however, he heard the nauseating, metallic click of the slide snapping open. “Damnit,” he cursed himself for not keeping track of his ammunition.
The Englishman also saw what happened and righted himself for a shot at Jordan, who now jumped back towards the cover of the burning Winsome II, reaching in his pocket for more shells.
But Andrioli had also seen Jordan come up empty. He stood and fired off the new clip he had just slid into the Browning, driving the Englishman backwards with four bullets ripping into his chest and face.
Jordan peered above the aft railing and nodded at Andrioli. “Thanks, pal.”
“Any time.”
“Get Christine, my bag, anything else you need, and let’s get the hell out of here. There’s more plastic against the stern and there may be other charges. Don’t know if it’s on timers or what.”
Andrioli leaped down the four steps into the main cabin and rushed into the aft stateroom. Christine was standing there, terror in her eyes, her body rigid with fear. Andrioli pulled out an attaché case he kept in the locker below his bunk, then grabbed Christine roughly by the arm. As they raced through the salon, he picked up Jordan’s bag and made it above decks.
“Come on,” Jordan urged them. “Let’s move.”
A growing crowd inched nearer the scene, but Jordan loudly warned them back.
“Someone call the police. Call the fire department. Get the Coast Guard out here,” he yelled at the crowd. “And back up. This boat is going to explode.”
That sent the crowd moving backward.
Andrioli and Christine jumped onto the dock, even as sirens began to sound in the distance. Andrioli walked up to the Englishman he had shot. He was face down, so Andrioli turned him over with the toe of his boot. “I knew this dirty sonuvabitch. I recognize the other guy too.”
“You’ve got nice friends,” Sandor said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Koppel knocked on the door of the room in the Mayflower Hotel in Washington. As instructed, he had come alone.
The man who greeted him was not at all what Koppel had expected. He was Koppel’s age, nearly sixty, but unlike Koppel he was tall and trim and had a patrician bearing. He looked more like a corporate executive than a government agent, and his piercing gaze made Koppel instantly uneasy.
“So good of you to come,” the man said, stepping to the side to allow Koppel inside.
Martin Koppel proceeded warily, having a quick look around, surprised to see that no one else was there.
Shutting the door behind them, the deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency offered his hand and said, “I’m Mark Byrnes.”
Marty Koppel had seen better days. Back in the seventies he had emerged as a golden boy of American finance. He had run hedge funds that were among the darlings of Wall Street, helping to make any number of wealthy people wealthier. Whether he was financing dot com start-ups or investing in blue chip companies, Marty Koppel knew what worked.
Then Marty lost his touch.
The eighties had come and gone. And so did the bull market. Regrettably, Marty was not a man who took short positions. He had fought the new trends as long as his capital held out, then watched helplessly as his stock market investments shriveled up as quickly as a winning streak at a Vegas craps table.
By the time the nineties rolled around, his instincts had completely betrayed him, his golden sensibilities having morphed into a cluster of mistakes. The high-tech hedge funds he rode up the Nasdaq wave had all turned to dust, taking with them his assets—and those of his investors. Marty had become an instant dinosaur. A modern, up-to-the-minute, techno-age anachronism. He had leveraged everything he owned and lost it all. What was worse, he became a star in one of America’s greatest sporting events—witnessing the spectacular rise and disastrous fall of a celebrity. The people who had enjoyed his champagne and eaten his caviar now found him a pathetic boor, avoiding him with the same eagerness they had once expended to court his attention. All the while bearing witness to his slide into oblivion.
There was a sad irony to all of this, since Marty had taken pains not to make enemies as his wealth and fame increased. Having grown up poor in the Kingsbridge section of the Bronx, he was mindful of the admonition about the people you meet on your journey up and down the ladder of life. It was a puzzle to him, therefore, that so many took so much pleasure in watching his demise.
But recently, through a friend of a friend, Marty had been introduced to an opportunity for funding new investments. An admirer of his aggressive style was interested in teaming with Koppel on something new, something au courant.
There followed the mandatory string of
telephone calls and lunch meetings at tony restaurants in New York. Then Marty was invited to meet a man named Robert Groat, the direct representative of a consortium of European investors. Or so he claimed. The principal money man, it was explained to Koppel, was a wealthy recluse who lived on a yacht in the Mediterranean. Mr. Groat had informed Marty that his client was particular about whom he met or spoke with, and that he regarded secrecy as the highest priority in his business dealings.
Koppel was not interested in the man’s social idiosyncrasies, nor was he curious about his religious affiliations, eating habits or sexual preferences. Koppel readily vowed his discretion, and made arrangements to travel to Europe to meet the money man.
It was only after those plans were made that Koppel was contacted by another party interested in his new opportunity—a representative of the United States government. Marty was invited to a meeting the next day, the intimation being that his presence was required, not requested.
You’re the guy I spoke with on the phone?”
“I am.”
“And we’re alone here?”
“Absolutely.”
“No tapes, no recording. Just you and me.”
“That’s right.”
“And you want to talk with me about what, exactly?”
Byrnes offered a tight smile. “I can see your reputation is well deserved. You’re a man who likes to come right to the point.”
“That’s me,” Koppel said, having another look around as if he expected a more lavish room to be provided for this meeting. “It’s not exactly a thrill to have the feds call you down to Washington, if you know what I mean.”
“Of course,” Byrnes said. He did not offer Koppel a seat. They were standing, face to face. “We have information that you’re about to enter into a business arrangement, setting up a domestically based fund for national and international investments, correct?”
“Who’s asking?”
“I am.”
“And who are you, exactly?”
“Let’s just say that I represent the federal government, as you have suggested. That should be enough for now.”
Koppel wasn’t so sure, and he shook his head slightly. “Okay, let’s say you’re right. I’m starting a new company. That against the law or something?”
“Not necessarily.”
Koppel didn’t like the man’s tone. He also didn’t like that they were still standing. Marty was short, heavy and decidedly out of shape. He would be perfectly happy to sit down. “What is this about, taxes?”
“No, Mr. Koppel. It’s about the fund you will be establishing. I’ve been informed that it will be financed by overseas investors. Am I correct?”
Koppel saw no reason to deny what they obviously both knew to be the truth. “Yeah, you got it,” he said.
“And the investments you are to make will largely be placed in short positions with respect to various commodities, stocks, derivatives and so forth. In common parlance, your investors want you to bet that the market prices will fall in the near future.”
The extent of this man’s information took Koppel back a step. That was exactly what he understood as the intention of Mr. Groat’s bearish client or clients, whoever they were. How this man knew that was quite beyond him. “The plans of my clients—”
“Of course,” Byrnes cut him off. “I understand. We have a matter of ethics to deal with.”
“We sure do,” Koppel told him.
“Good. I just wanted to be certain I was dealing with a man of character. Please,” he said, finally pointing to one of the two chairs in the room, “have a seat. It appears we have a great many things to discuss.”
The crowd along the New River Canal, gathering closer to the burning vessel, was too concerned with the dead men on the quay to pay much attention to the three people fleeing from the scene. Andrioli led Jordan and Christine up a short set of concrete steps, around the back of the dock and down the street to a nearby parking lot.
He took them to a beige Toyota Corolla, unlocked the door and told them to get in.
“Won’t they spot us?” Christine asked.
Andrioli ignored the question as they climbed inside. He pumped the accelerator, turned the ignition key and listened as the old sedan shuddered to a start. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, then threw the car into gear and turned out of the lot onto Las Olas Boulevard.
Once they were on the main street, Andrioli was careful to maintain the legal speed limit as the blare of sirens from police cars and fire engines grew louder. “Here they come,” he said.
Andrioli was driving away from the commercial area of the city, towards the night action near the beach. He turned off Las Olas as soon as he could, the sound of the onrushing rescue vehicles receding now as they headed for the canal.
“You’ve got a plan to get us out of here, I take it?”
Andrioli nodded at Jordan. “I do. Just chill out and let me handle this.”
Christine was seated in the back, the two men in the front of the car. Even in the balmy night air, she began to shiver.
“You okay?” Jordan asked.
“I’ll be fine,” she told him.
“So,” Andrioli said, not taking his eyes from the road, “way you handled that, I guess everything they said about you is true.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear.”
“I knew a lotta guys in the service, never coulda taken my gun from me, or moved like you did back there.”
“That so? Well, just in case you forgot, I would have had my head blown off if you hadn’t come up and taken out the second shooter.”
“You counted wrong, that’s all.”
Sandor allowed himself a grim smile in the darkness. “I knew the H&K carried fifteen shots. You’d think I could have counted to fifteen.”
“Uh uh,” Andrioli said, allowing himself a smile. “You counted right. Last chamber was clear.”
“What?”
“An old trick of mine. Call it an insurance policy.”
Jordan shook his head.
“Hey, only the paranoid survive.”
“Seems I’ve heard that line before,” Jordan said.
They reached the fringes of the town’s main activity, where Andrioli turned into a small complex of squat buildings just two blocks from the shore road. He pulled into an enclosed parking garage, coming to a stop inside.
“This is what they call the moment of truth,” Andrioli said.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning, we’re either going on together from here, or it’s hasta la vista. Up to you.”
“How about we make a call to Washington, first? We don’t have to turn ourselves in, not yet. But we can tell them what you know. I’ve got some friends I can reach.”
“I’ll bet you do,” Andrioli replied. He stepped on the gas again, pulling around a cement post and coming to a stop in a parking space there. They got out of the car, the sickly glow of the weak, florescent lighting making Andrioli appear older and more exhausted than before. “You just don’t get it,” he said, slamming the door shut.
“Get what?”
“Covington and his people. The way they’re using you to get to me. What the hell,” Andrioli said, as if speaking to himself. “You’re probably part of this already.”
“Part of what?” Christine asked across the top of the car.
“I don’t know,” Andrioli said with a dismissive shake of his head.
“Look,” she said, “if Jordan was here to hurt you, would he have risked his life just now?”
“He didn’t have much choice, did he?”
“Of course, he did. He had the gun, you didn’t. He could have given you up to those guys.”
Andrioli was not convinced.
“I asked him to come here with me,” she reminded him. “All this, this . . . whatever this is, it wasn’t his idea.”
The two men were staring at her now.
“So, wherever we’re going, whatever we’re do
ing, right now I think it’s fair to say that we’re going together.”
Sandor and Andrioli looked at each other, not speaking.
“Well?” Jordan asked him.
Andrioli scratched his beard. “That car over there is mine,” he said, pointing to a navy blue Chevy. “You and Christine take it, drive out slowly and wait on the street. I’ll dump this car down the block, then come back to meet you.” He opened his attaché case and removed a set of keys and tossed them over the car to Jordan. “Go ahead.”
Jordan caught the keys, still watching him.
“And then what?” Christine asked. “Where do we go from here?”
Jordan knew the answer. “Paris,” he said.
Andrioli nodded. “He’s right,” he said to Christine, without taking his eyes off Jordan. “We’re going back to Paris.”
The driver and his companion were sitting in the Lincoln Town Car when they heard the explosion. Their orders were to bring Traiman’s men to the canal, then take them back to the airport. They heard the gunfire in the distance, but did nothing. They had no instructions to interfere. For now they just sat and waited for two passengers who would not be returning.
THIRTY-FIVE
“You ever wonder what they’re thinking,” Andrioli asked, “in that last second? You know what I mean.”
Sandor knew precisely what he meant. “I have,” he admitted.
“You seen a lotta guys die, have you?”
“More than my share,” Jordan admitted.
“Yeah. Me too.”
They were heading up the interstate from Florida toward Georgia, Andrioli at the wheel. Switching cars had gotten them safely out of Fort Lauderdale. Even if Covington’s men tracked them to the shootings at Andrioli’s boat, it would be a while before anyone could identify and locate the old Toyota. And where would they look after that?
“I have no wife, no kids,” Andrioli said into the darkness. “All that stuff about your life passing before your eyes. I always figured you would think about your wife and kids. I don’t know.” He pulled out a cigarette, lowered his window a bit and lit up. “You married?’
Targets of Deception Page 18
