Targets of Deception

by Jeffrey Stephens[epub]

  “The clerk has likely gotten word out by now. They may send someone to check us out.”

  She stood as he placed the C-4 along the heater unit, where it would do the most damage. He was on his hands and knees, running the fuse along the floor, not concerned if it set the rug on fire before it burned all the way down. The important thing was for the charge to be properly ignited.

  When he was finished, he looked up at her. “You ready?”

  She nodded.

  “All right. Once we leave the room, there’s no turning back. Stay close to me, no matter what happens.” He stood, grabbed his black bag and handed her Andrioli’s attaché. He picked up the .45 and shoved it in his jacket pocket. Then he lit a match. “Here we go,” he said, and lit the fuse.

  They left the room, quietly shutting the door behind them. Then, almost immediately as they began down the stairs, they heard the sound of a door opening below them. Jordan pulled Christine behind him and felt for the handle of the .45.

  They waited for an instant, listening as a door closed. They heard what sounded like two men heading down the steps.

  The staircase was narrow and winding, well suited to the bell tower design but not intended for more than one person moving up or down at a time.

  Jordan motioned for her to stay put, then eased his way silently down to get a better look. He waited to hear them reach the next landing below, then he hustled back to Christine, grabbed her hand and pulled her up the stairs, moving as quickly and quietly as they could.

  “Come on. They don’t know we’re here yet,” he told her. “But as soon as they get to the front desk they’ll be coming back for us.”

  He continued racing upward, Christine right behind.

  They reached the top level, where they found the passageway Andrioli had described.

  If we had gone directly down and through the atrium, we would be on the street by now, Jordan told himself as he thought of the fuse burning away in Room 57.

  He gave Christine a gentle shove, following her as they sprinted ahead, stopping at the archway to an enclosed bridge that connected the two towers, spanning the length of the patio below.

  Jordan, holding the automatic in his right hand, found himself thinking of Al-Sirat, the bridge Muslims walk over to see if they will go to paradise or to hell. More slender than a spider’s thread and sharper than a sword, according to Islamic tradition, it was a span only the good passed over swiftly enough to reach heaven.

  He took Christine’s hand again and began running, quickly traversing the narrow overpass, reaching a door at the other end. He hesitated, listening. It was quiet, so he pushed it open, the gun at his side as he stepped out onto the top-floor landing. He looked quickly in each direction. No one was there. The stairwell below was silent.

  As they raced down the stairs, Jordan remained in the lead. He checked over his shoulder to ensure that she was close behind, attentive to any sound that might tell him Traiman’s men had circled back to find them. The steep, winding staircase offered them no protection as they approached the end of each flight. These small landings were the only places a pursuer could hide, unless they had positioned themselves inside one of the rooms.

  They came around the last turn without seeing anyone, but Jordan realized the gravest danger awaited them in the lobby.

  He stopped at the bottom of the staircase, behind the door that led directly into the deep, narrow foyer. Christine was beside him. They paused for a moment, Sandor visualizing the layout of the area, imagining how he would position a backup team if he were preparing the attack. He would place one behind the counter, another in the corner near the entrance. He decided he would base his move on that, knowing he must move immediately. The two men they saw in the rear tower had likely begun to search for them, and they could be anywhere in the building by now.

  “Stay low and close,” he whispered to her, then pushed through the door in a running crouch, his gun extended. He came to a stop beside the desk.

  The clerk, who was handing a key to another guest, froze in place and stared at Sandor wide-eyed.

  “Don’t make a move,” Jordan said, pointing the gun up at the clerk’s face as he quickly scanned the room.

  The guest, an Englishman who had either begun the day with an early bracer or was ending a long night, had trouble getting his eyes to focus on the gray gunmetal of the Colt. “Say, what is all this?” he asked unevenly.

  “Shut the hell up and get on the floor,” Jordan barked at him.

  The Brit immediately dropped to his knees, either grateful to be taken out of the action or badly in need of rest.

  Before anyone made another move, they were rocked by the concussive sound of the explosion coming from the rear of the hotel.

  The clerk began yelling something in French, but Jordan trained the barrel of the automatic at his eyes. “Out,” he hollered.

  The portly man moved cautiously, his eyes on the gun that remained leveled at him as he moved.

  “Keep watch on the glass door,” Jordan said over his shoulder to Christine, referring to the entranceway to the patio behind them. “Come on,” he yelled at the clerk, grabbing him roughly by the arm then twisting him around to use him as a shield.

  “Jordan,” Christine whispered. “I think I hear something.”

  Sandor stopped, the sound of hurried footsteps in the distance coming from the front stairwell they had just used. “Let’s go,” he said, pushing the clerk towards the front door. “You first.” He shoved the man through the front door and out onto the Rue des Saints-Pères.

  As the door swung open, the man stumbled. Jordan let him go. The clerk fell to the ground on his back. Christine was right behind them.

  Jordan leaned over the stout little clerk, the automatic now hidden under his jacket. “Mr. Forest, you got that. Any messages for Mr. Forest, you hold them for me.”

  The man stared up at him, his look of bewilderment mixed with fear and rage.

  Jordan pulled out their room key and dropped it onto the man’s chest. “Mr. Forest. You got that?”

  The man nodded without speaking.

  “Good, because I don’t want to have to come back here and find you. Comprende?”

  When the clerk nodded again, Jordan took Christine’s hand and ran towards the Boulevard Saint-Germain.

  At the corner of the Rue des Saints-Pères and Saint-Germain, Jordan flagged down a passing taxi.

  “Take this cab to Fouquet’s,” Jordan told her. “Sit there as long as you feel safe, but if Andrioli and I don’t show in an hour, don’t wait any more. Take a cab to the US Embassy. Tell them you’ve got to speak to someone at Langley about Jordan Sandor.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out two phone numbers he had written out. “The first number is in Virginia. Just add 4-3-4 at the end. Tell them you’ve got to be connected to that number. It’s an emergency. You got it? Don’t write it down, just remember it. You add 4-3-4. Tell them everything you know.”

  “All right. What’s the other number?”

  “Add a 212 area code and a 5 at the end.”

  She nodded.

  “That’s my friend’s number. Bill Sternlich. He’ll help you.”

  The taxi driver was becoming impatient. “Monsieur,” he said, leaning toward the passenger window, “do you want the cab?”

  “Yes yes,” Jordan said. Turning back to Christine, he handed her some folded one hundred dollar bills and said, “Now go.”

  “Will you be all right?”

  He looked over his shoulder. He could not see very far down the street as it curved in an arc before the hotel. “I’ll be fine,” he told her. “Now get out of here.”

  She took his face in her hands and kissed him. “I’ll be waiting. Don’t worry.”

  Jordan smiled. “I’ll be there. Now go!” he said to the driver, slamming the door shut and heading off without looking back.

  FORTY-TWO

  The fair-haired American named Kerrigan came into the lobby first, his smalle
r, darker partner right behind. The desk clerk, who was brushing himself off after shouting a loud string of French expletives down the street at Jordan and Christine, had lumbered back inside. The Englishman remained kneeling at the base of the front desk. He began to utter a rueful, “I say,” but the effort was stifled at the sight of another automatic weapon, this one being brandished by the tall American.

  The concierge did not have to be coaxed into describing everything that had happened, including the message left by Sandor. Normally, he was paid for information, but this time he was only too pleased to help, giving every detail. He finished by saying that the man and woman had gone off to the right, towards Saint-Germain.

  Kerrigan and his partner cautiously opened the front door and stepped outside the hotel. They moved slowly at first, looking up and down the Rue des Saints-Pères several times before splitting up, each taking a side of the street as they began to stride purposefully towards the Boulevard. Kerrigan’s partner, on the far side of the arched lane, got a look at Christine in the cab as it pulled away. He was surprised to see Sandor remain behind.

  He signaled Kerrigan, who crossed over in time to spot Sandor before he disappeared from view, off to their right. They saw that he was alone, moving at a brisk pace in the direction of the Rue de Rennes.

  It was a chilly autumn day, the streets busy with the morning traffic of students, artists, tourists and local habitués of the Left Bank. They needed to follow him, but a public scene would be a problem. They would have to find a better place to take him out.

  When they reached the corner, they had a line of sight on him again. Kerrigan saw him cross the wide Boulevard and they waited, giving Jordan a more comfortable lead, then went after him.

  Andrioli nodded to himself as he viewed the proceedings from his ringside seat in the corner café across the way. Hiding behind a newspaper, he watched Christine leaving in the cab, Jordan heading off to their appointed meeting place and the two trailers following in a carefully choreographed ballet of pursuit.

  Andrioli waited until he saw Jordan safely cross the Boulevard in the direction of their rendezvous, the cathedral known as Saint-German-des-Près. He stood up, left a tip for his espresso and croissant, then stepped out into the brisk morning air. He did not recognize Kerrigan or his partner, but he made them immediately. He knew how Traiman worked and expected a two-man team. Andrioli doubted they had backup in place. Not if they were onto Sandor this quickly. Jordan and Christine had obviously surprised them by coming to the hotel, and there hadn’t been enough time to activate another pair of hitters.

  He stood on the corner for a moment, watching, but saw no signs of anyone else in the hunt. Andrioli timed his move to cover Jordan’s back. Left on his own, the two assassins would surely kill Sandor within a matter of minutes. But Andrioli knew where Jordan was going, and that gave him the edge.

  Rather than traveling along the bend of the avenue where they might spot him, Andrioli walked quickly to his left, then made a right on Rue Jacob. He moved with purpose, criss-crossing the narrow street twice, prepared for what might still be coming from behind. He held his attaché case tightly in his left hand, his right gripping the Colt beneath his coat.

  After walking full circle around the church, Andrioli turned up the Rue Saint Benoit and stepped into a dark, quiet doorway on the side of the ancient stone cathedral. From there he could not miss them. Not if Jordan came this way.

  Sandor did not disappoint. He hurried along the Rue Bonaparte, not breaking stride. He was fully exposed now but if he stopped, or even hesitated, his pursuers would know he had reached a meeting place. Or even worse, an ambush.

  Instead, Jordan continued past the side of the church and through the small square, as if heading for the quay along the Seine. Andrioli waited, but no one appeared. He did not want to risk showing himself, but Jordan was leaving his line of sight. He hesitated, knowing that he would put them both in danger if he made a move from his doorway.

  Jordan did not even glance in his direction as he walked by, keeping his gait brisk, passing within feet of Andrioli as he turned right towards the back of the cathedral.

  That was when the first of the two men appeared. Just as Jordan was entering the tiny Rue des Beaux-Arts, the smaller man came into view around the far corner. He was pulling a gun from inside his jacket. He appeared to be alone.

  It was the smart play, of course. His partner had likely circled back, anticipating Sandor’s course. Or he might have gone toward the river, or even hidden in one of the other recesses along the cathedral wall on the opposite side. Andrioli knew he was past waiting now. Once Jordan was completely out of his sight, he could not cover him.

  “Traiman,” Andrioli hollered, and the man on the Rue Bonaparte instinctively turned to the sound of the shout. It was all Andrioli wanted. A split second to freeze him, and to give Jordan an instant to react. Andrioli stepped from the doorway, squeezing off two shots. The bullets whizzed through the silencer he had attached and, finding their target, spun the man and dropped him to the ground.

  That extra moment was all Sandor needed. In one agile motion he drew his automatic from his belt and dove to safety in a nearby doorway. Quiet returned to the street with an eerie suddenness.

  Jordan, squatting in the sanctuary of his portal, peered out at the small square adjacent to the church. Neither Andrioli nor Sandor could see each other now, and neither of them had a bead on Kerrigan. They were both vulnerable, since Kerrigan would have spotted where the shots had come from. He would also have seen where Sandor had positioned himself. There was also the problem of the man lying in the street, dead or dying, with someone sure to happen by soon. The longer they waited, the worse their prospects became.

  Jordan broke from his doorway, running toward two parked cars, hoping to draw fire and expose Kerrigan’s position.

  No shots came.

  He darted from between the cars, heading away from the church to create a crossfire with Andrioli. He stopped beside a small van opposite Andrioli’s perch, and they exchanged quick nods. Jordan signaled that they should both break for the corner.

  Andrioli gave him the thumbs-up and Jordan did not hesitate. He moved first, rounding the corner in a tight, swift stride, Andrioli soon behind. Still there were no shots, no sign of the tall American. The only sound was a woman’s scream from somewhere in the small square. She had discovered the body of the first man lying in the street.

  The two men raced the length of the Rue des Beaux-Arts, each taking a side of the narrow street, then turned up towards the Seine. There, they rested together in another entranceway, another unavailing haven from a danger that may or may not yet be in pursuit.

  Andrioli was panting. “Man, am I outta shape.”

  “The American,” Jordan said. “The one still out there. He shot Dan Peters and the cop in Woodstock. And McHugh.”

  Andrioli nodded, still searching for air. “We could use a little extra motivation right now. Revenge is good.” He smiled, but his eyes were still alert. “But I don’t think he’s out there anymore. He’s a paid hit man doing a job, not a fanatic on a religious mission. He knows they blew their chance. He’s gone by now.”

  “Maybe,” Jordan said, still watching the street. “Let’s take a minute and wait.”

  They stepped back into the vestibule of the apartment house overlooking the river. Andrioli leaned against the stone wall, and Jordan watched him, smiling at the attaché case he still had clutched under his left arm and had carried like a football as they dashed through the streets of Paris.

  “Fond of that thing, are you?”

  “You can laugh, if you want,” he said, “but this baby is going to be the difference in us making it or not, believe me.”

  “Okay, so now what?”

  “There are two guys who might help. I need to get with at least one of them. Word’s out that I’m back in town, so we should move fast. But first I gotta ask you something.”

  “Go ahead.”

>   “How deep are you into this mess? I mean, really.”

  Jordan sighed. “I’m in for the long haul. Let’s leave it at that.”

  Andrioli nodded his understanding that this was all he would be getting, and that for now it was enough.

  Jordan said, “Mind if I ask you something?”

  “Why not?”

  “Did you meet Christine when she came to see McHugh in Paris?”

  “Yeah,” Andrioli said. “Why?”

  “He ever tell you she was his sister?”

  “Hey, that’s two questions. I only got one.”

  “I owe you one.”

  “I’ll remember that. Yeah, sure. He said she was his half sister, something like that. That’s what he said, anyway.”

  Jordan nodded. “Okay.”

  “So,” Andrioli asked, “where’d you send her?”

  “Fouquet’s.”

  He stuck out his lower lip and nodded. “Très touriste, no?”

  “Only place I could think of at the moment. I told her we’d meet her in an hour. Otherwise, she should get herself to the embassy.”

  “And call in the cavalry, I suppose.”

  “Nuclear strike force.”

  “We can’t let her do that now, can we?”

  Jordan smiled. “Not yet.” He paused. “But I do think it’s time to cut her loose, don’t you?”

  The sound of footsteps reached them before Andrioli could respond. They tensed, ready for action. Andrioli leveled his automatic just as a young Frenchman and his girlfriend happened by, arm in arm, the barrel of the gun pointed at his head.

  The youngsters froze.

  “Sorry,” Jordan said, offering them an apologetic grin as he reached out and gently pushed Andrioli’s gun to his side.

  The boy made some remark about crazy Americans then hurried away.

  Jordan laughed. “You really are out of shape.”

  “I guess I am,” Andrioli conceded as he stuck the automatic under his jacket.

  “So what do you think? About Christine, I mean?”

  “Were you serious about letting her go to the embassy?