The most important thing was to finalize his financial arrangements with Koppel.
Even though he had fallen from grace, Koppel still had an impressive background and a world of experience in the financial markets. His credibility could easily be restored, given the appropriate economic backing. His new company would be funded through an investment firm he would create with Traiman’s money. After Nine Eleven, the United States regulatory agencies had become vigilant about suspicious foreign investments. Koppel was decidedly American. He was a man with a reputation, someone who had enjoyed great wealth.
Now, through a series of sanitized financial transactions, Koppel would be bankrolled and given an opportunity to repeat the success of his past. Except this time, his principal sponsor would be betting on failure. Koppel was as desperate as a man can become, and his cooperation was easily purchased, even if he would not comprehend the extent of his complicity in Traiman’s scheme until it was too late.
Even as his Arab compatriots pressed Traiman for action on a series of assassinations that would never really take place, his men would complete their true missions, in the United States, England and Italy. The resulting panic would drive the financial markets to new lows. France and Germany, America’s faithless allies, would be rewarded for their weakness by being spared these strikes. This would create an even larger rift between the Western powers, while generating a marked disparity in the economic reaction to these new terrorist assaults. Consumer and institutional confidence would plummet.
Andrioli scanned the scene below from the long stretch of ascending steps that rose from the street to the side entrances of the terraces just beneath him. He smiled at the irony of making his second visit to a church since arriving in Paris, reflecting on the grim reality that the first ended with a body lying in the street. Steve Jackson was his friend, and he hoped their meeting did not suffer a similar fate. Still, there was no way of knowing who might have detected his call or learned of their meeting.
As Andrioli worried over these dangers he spotted him. Jackson had begun climbing the stairs, steadily, slowly, off to the right. He appeared to be alone.
He was younger than Andrioli, not yet forty. He was tall and slim, his long, dark hair combed straight back in a fashionable Parisian style. He moved cautiously and, when he reached the terrace level, stopped and had a look around. His motions were deliberate, as if checking to see if he was being followed.
Andrioli was just above him now, standing beside a huge, marble pillar. He did not move, did not show himself. The section of terrace below was empty. For a moment the two men stood in place, waiting. Then Jackson turned and began up the last set of steps leading to the church entrance. He was near the center of the wide staircase, still to Andrioli’s right. When he had climbed to the top, nearly reaching the tall doors of the basilica, Andrioli quietly called out, “Steve.”
Jackson did not break stride. He continued toward the entrance of the cathedral, turning around to look behind him again. Then he turned and moved slowly until he disappeared from any view below and faced his friend behind the width of the stone column.
“You think you’ll need that?” Jackson asked, pointing to the automatic that Andrioli had drawn and ready.
“You never know,” Andrioli said with a smile, then shoved the Colt back into his waistband.
“If I was going to turn on you, I wouldn’t even be here. You’d be in someone’s crosshairs by now.”
Andrioli realized he was right. “Yeah, well, I guess I should tell you thanks for coming.”
Jackson took a moment to look at him. “What you should tell me is what the hell you’re doing in Paris?”
“Good question. Wish I had a good answer for you.”
Jackson hesitated then said, “Well I’ve got some good advice for you, buddy. Get out of here, and fast.”
“And go where?”
“What do I know? China. Brazil. Look Tony, you ran out on Traiman, wasted two guys in Florida, then took out one of his favorite Arabs this morning.”
“Who was the other guy, the one who skipped?”
“Kerrigan. You ever meet him?”
Andrioli shook his head.
“Tall, blond guy, right?”
Andrioli nodded.
“IQ about fifty-four,” Jackson told him, “and vicious as a snake. He was the one got to McHugh.”
“So I heard.” When Jackson responded with a quizzical look, Andrioli said, “Not important. I just heard it.”
“What is this, Tony, you on a one man crusade?”
“Not one man, no.”
“Don’t tell me you’re still dragging around the girl and that CIA washout.”
Andrioli’s eyes narrowed, then he determined to forego any pretense, instead giving a quick nod. “Yeah,” he admitted. “When did you find out Sandor reached me?”
“When I was keeping them off your ass in Florida.”
“What?”
“I screwed up a transmission when they first made you there a few days ago. Rode them off your tail for a little while.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Sorry I couldn’t get word to you.”
“I understand. You guys in ground ops know how to play it safe.”
“Communications is the place to be, man. No danger. Nice clean work.”
“Yeah.”
“Look, Traiman has offered to meet with you. Didn’t you get that message?”
“Oh sure, I got it when they blew up my friggen boat.”
“No, that was only after Jimmy held out on them. He had a ticket back here, then changed his mind. He was supposed to get to you, set up a meeting.”
Andrioli shook his head, wondering once more about McHugh’s intentions. He found it hard to believe his friend was going to flip again, but maybe Jimmy really did think about coming back here alone, hanging him out to dry.
“Look, Tony, you’re a big boy. You do what you want, but this is too dangerous for me to be standing around having a chat with you. You asked me to come here, and I did. Now tell me what you want and let me go inside the church to pray for your immortal soul.”
Andrioli uttered a hollow laugh. “I want to know what Traiman’s got cooked up with these teams he’s placing. And don’t give me any bullshit about assassinations.”
Jackson shook his head. “I’m here for old time’s sake, but I’m not crazy enough to cut my own throat.”
“Come on, cowboy, time to give it up.”
Jackson said, “Take a vacation in South America, will you?” Then he turned to walk away.
Andrioli grabbed him by the arm with his left hand and pulled out the automatic with his right. “I always liked you, Steve, but I got nothing left to lose. Now answer my question.”
Jackson made a slight move with his free hand, but Andrioli jammed the barrel of the Colt into his ribs. Jackson stared into his friend’s eyes. “You wouldn’t kill me Tony. Even if you figure you’re dead already, you wouldn’t shoot me.”
“I’ll tell you, Steve, I’m not so sure myself anymore, and I don’t wanna have to find out.”
They stood there in silence, each man measuring the other.
“All right,” Jackson said, “for all the good it’ll do you. It’s Traiman’s VX scheme.”
“Get outta here.”
“I’d love to, if you’d let go of my arm.”
“Traiman’s going with VX gas? That’s insanity.”
“That’s what I hear, and that’s all I can tell you. Now get outta town, will you?”
Two gunshots, spit from a silencer, caromed off the stone wall behind them. Without the loud report, Andrioli couldn’t determine the placement of the shooter. When those rounds were followed immediately by two more shots that blew chunks out of the marble column, Andrioli figured they were coming from just behind the balustrade off to their right. He yanked Jackson’s arm and the two of them hit the cold, marble ground.
Andrioli turned to Jackson to ask hi
m if he had a gun. Then he saw the thick blood oozing from the side of his friend’s head.
He wiped at the source of the bleeding to see how bad Jackson had been hit. “Steve, I’m gonna take a run at him. It may only be one guy.” Jackson’s eyes were nearly shut. “Can you hear me, Steve?”
Jackson made a low, guttural sound. Then he muttered, “Must’ve followed me.”
Andrioli had a quick look above the stone railing, then ducked again as another two shots took pieces out of the pillar. “I’m sweeping wide then coming back up the stairs at him. We need to get you help fast, and he probably has backup on the way.”
Jackson’s eyes opened now. They were the eyes of death. “Go on, Tony,” he urged him in a barely audible voice. “Just go.”
The shooting had stopped, their attacker likely on the move. “Traiman,” Andrioli said. “Is the VX assault for real?”
Jackson nodded weakly and managed to say, “Go home.”
“There’s no way home for me. When is Traiman coming out again?”
Their eyes met for the last time. “Portofino,” the dying man said in a raspy whisper. “Tomorrow. On the Halaby.” Jackson tried to draw a breath, to say something else but a gunshot, from closer range now, hit him in the chest as he lay there. His body convulsed. Then he was dead.
Andrioli wheeled around, but it was too late. The sniper had come up the stairs on the far end, and Andrioli took the crippling blow of a bullet to the left side of his chest before sheer reflex caused him to squeeze off three rounds from his .45. The first shot went high, but Jackson’s killer was staggered by the second and third. Then Andrioli fired a fourth, dropping the man to the ground.
Andrioli struggled to his feet. He stood there for a moment, leaning with his back against the pillar, bracketed by the bodies of Steve Jackson and his murderer. Both dead. But he was still alive, even as the searing pain of his wound nearly paralyzed him. He wasn’t certain how badly he’d been hit himself. He worried about maintaining consciousness long enough to get the hell out of there.
People were screaming, the loud crack of the gunshots from Andrioli’s automatic having created mayhem along the steps and terraces below. He pulled out his handkerchief, reached inside his shirt and pressed it against his left side. He shoved the Colt in his belt, closed his jacket, then picked up his attaché case and made his way off to the left, wary of any other shooters that might already be in place. He moved quickly despite the staggering pain, somehow making his way down the stairs, and headed to the row of cabs near the Place du Tertre.
FORTY-SIX
Jordan and Christine were up and dressed when the clerk at the front desk rang them.
“Monsieur Kerr,” the man said, “a Mr. Forest to see you.”
“Right,” Jordan said. “Send him up.”
Jordan reached for the gun.
“What is it?” Christine asked.
“Mr. Forest is coming up to see us.”
“Wouldn’t that be Tony?”
“Maybe,” he said.
She nodded then stood off to the side.
Jordan checked the clip in the automatic and chambered a round. Then he unlocked the door and moved against the wall, checking for the best line of sight. “Lock yourself in the bathroom,” he told Christine. “Don’t make a sound until you hear from me.”
Christine nodded again, then disappeared inside. Jordan took his position and waited.
He heard the knock and said, “Come in,” ready to take out at least the first two men through. The door swung open, and Andrioli stumbled in.
“What happened?” Jordan said, helping him onto the bed as he called for Christine.
They insisted on taking him to a hospital, but Andrioli wanted to straighten some things out first.
He began to tell them what Jackson had said, but his narrative coming in short bursts punctuated by long gasps for air and a look of pain that etched his features in dark relief.
Christine stopped him, pleading for them to get help.
“Listen, you take a foreigner to the hospital with a gunshot wound and they call the Sûreté, Interpol, the embassy. I’ll be finished.”
Jordan looked down at him. “You’ll be finished if we don’t stop the bleeding.”
Andrioli motioned for his attaché case. Christine brought it to him, and he pulled out a number. “Call this doctor. Tell him you have a friend with acute gastric distress. He’s got to come at once. He’ll know what that means. He’ll come.”
Sandor nodded and dialed the number. “What about the desk clerk? Did he suspect anything?”
Andrioli offered a wan smile in response. “Whatever he noticed, a couple of five hundred euro notes made him forget.”
While they waited for the doctor, Andrioli did his best to explain what Jackson had told him.
“VX is a nerve gas—”
“VX?” Jordan interrupted.
“Shut up and listen,” he said, clenching his jaw until another wave of pain passed. “Yeah. VX. It’s a nerve gas developed by the British about fifty years ago. It has the consistency of oil, and it’s totally lethal. If you inhale it or touch it, you’re dead. You can spray it, explode it, whatever. It’ll wipe out a crowd in a minute.”
“I know all about it,” Jordan admitted.
“That company, Loubar, they’ve helped with the delivery system. They might even be the means for transporting it.”
“Where?”
“Who the hell knows? The US for sure.”
“Where in the US? Did he say?”
“If he knew the targets, he didn’t have a chance to tell me. Any place they can expose a lot of people at one time. Think of it, hit a major city, kill forty or fifty thousand people in one shot.”
“And it’s already in process?”
“So he said. I can’t believe they’d go that far. Can you imagine the American response?”
“Yes,” Jordan agreed. “It would take things to another level.”
“As in . . . all-out war. Even a measured nuclear response is possible.”
“Against who?”
“I don’t know, but you’re going to Italy to find out. Your old friend Traiman is on his way to Portofino tomorrow. He’s going there to work out the final details.”
“Portofino?”
“Yeah. And Sandor. They all know who you are.”
Mahmoud Rahmad was feeling rather pleased with himself as he strolled down Fifth Avenue. He glanced at window displays of the familiar stores, the upcoming holiday season another opportunity to treat himself to the finest of what New York had to offer. Bergdorf, Tiffany, Gucci, Cartier.
The meetings in Tripoli went better than he had anticipated. His failure to deal with the American, Sandor, had not been the problem he feared it might, and he certainly could not be held accountable for the failure of Traiman’s men to resolve the issue of Andrioli down in Florida. In fact, if the rumors were correct, Traiman was falling out of favor with their Arab associates. The debacle in Fort Lauderdale might be another nail in his coffin.
On the other hand, the New York operations were proceeding smartly. It was true that he had exceeded his budget during the past few months, but he could not concern himself with those details. Results were all that mattered.
He had successfully coordinated the placement of the extraordinary team that had been hand-picked by Traiman himself. Two men were already in New York, and the rest of the team would gain entrance to the country through Canada. Of those additional men, four would be sent to San Francisco. Two others were to be assigned to St. Louis and the final two would replace the men assigned to the mission in Florida, the two who had been killed in Fort Lauderdale. They would act as rovers. Together, these men would be the vanguard of the attack.
Now that the Loubar Corporation was back on line, the return of the containers to the Port of New York would be as easy as sending an overnight package by Federal Express. The inspectors would never guess that they would be facilitating a transfer of VX
from Europe back to the United States.
The disinformation being circulated, of assassination teams dedicated to the murder of key government officials, had fooled the others in Libya, but Rahmad had already uncovered Traiman’s real plan. The Americans would also be kept busy with their useless Homeland Security efforts, moving ever further in the wrong direction. The team that had been arrested in Washington would resist any attempts to uncover the purpose of their mission. However, after a dose of sodium pentathol or some other cocktail mixed at the CTC, these zealots would reveal what they knew about an assassination plot. They knew nothing of Operation VX.
Rahmad wondered whether Traiman had been the one behind the exposure of the Washington team. He was certainly capable of such treachery, and Rahmad had long suspected that Traiman was responsible for the capture of Khalid Sheikh Mohammed in Pakistan. That betrayal dealt a crippling blow to al-Qaeda operations at the time, temporarily restoring Traiman’s importance to the extremists. If either suspicion proved to be true, Rahmad acknowledged to himself if to no one else, they were brilliant ploys.
Yet, even as Rahmad reviewed the progress of these plans, he knew he had one more hurdle to overcome. The meeting that awaited him at his office was not to be a mere debriefing session. It was, in fact, an important strategy session with representatives of Ibrahim Abass, his direct link to al-Qaeda.
When Rahmad arrived, his aides had already admitted their guests into the office. One was a Saudi in his mid-twenties, the other appeared to be Lebanese, about forty years old. They had come, they announced, from Washington. There they had attempted to gather information on the apprehension of the three-man team. There was great dissatisfaction about their capture.
The younger of the two emissaries explained this to Rahmad.
“I see,” Rahmad replied, although it was not clear why they had come to him with this report. The team in DC and its exposure had nothing to do with him.
Targets of Deception Page 24
