“Good,” the man continued, “because we are here to discuss this recent interference with our activities.”
Rahmad seated himself behind his desk. “Please, gentlemen, make yourselves comfortable.” He nodded to his two aides, who were standing behind these visitors, but no one sat other than Rahmad.
“We would prefer to stand,” the young man said without apology. “What we have to tell you will not take long.”
Rahmad looked beyond him, to his older assistant. “Interference?” Rahmad repeated the young man’s word.
“Our team in Washington was betrayed,” the young man continued. “We have been compromised by someone within our organization.”
“How can that be?” Rahmad asked.
“It can be,” the young man said, “when one of our own forsakes the integrity of Allah’s mission in exchange for the excesses of Western comforts and depravity.”
Rahmad felt himself stiffen. “Who?” he asked weakly. “Who would have done such a thing?”
“We think you know.”
Now Rahmad sat up and nodded vigorously. “Yes,” he said. “The American.”
The older man, who had not spoken yet, broke into a smile, revealing a mouthful of stained, uneven teeth. “Why would Traiman destroy his own efforts?” His accent was much heavier than his younger companion’s.
Traiman’s intentional sacrifice of his own team seemed far-fetched, even to Rahmad. Still, he had long ago decided that Traiman could not be trusted. “I suspect these men were sacrificed in the name of a larger mission,” he told them.
“What utter nonsense is this?”
“I’m certain of it. It was part of Traiman’s plan. Don’t you see? He is not one of us, after all.” He attempted to go on, but the older man stopped him.
“No, Rahmad, we have learned the source of this treachery. Your name must now be added to the Sijjin.”
The mere utterance of that word, the scroll bearing the names of those Muslims going to hell, resolved any doubt or hope for the Saudi. Rahmad’s epiphany was complete. Traiman had engineered things perfectly, arranging for the removal of anyone who was privy to or even suspected his real motives.
“Wait,” he said, “let me explain. You’re making a mistake.” But it was too late.
The next few seconds, the last moments of Rahmad’s life, seemed to unfold in slow motion. He watched as the younger man drew a revolver, spun around, and fired shots into the chests of Rahmad’s two aides.
The older Lebanese said, “Allahu Akbar.” God is great. Then he pulled out his weapon, smiled his filthy smile, and fired repeatedly at Rahmad as his body was thrown back in his chair and then sprawled forward, lifeless, across his large desk.
FORTY-SEVEN
The French physician summoned by Andrioli confirmed what they had suspected. The slug had passed through Andrioli’s side. The loss of blood was serious. If they did not get him to a hospital soon, he could slip into unconsciousness and die.
The doctor was a distinguished looking gentleman, short and slender, with a thin mustache. He removed his jacket, folded back his sleeves and worked with meticulous care to treat the wound. First he swabbed the area, then injected Andrioli with a local anesthetic and then with an antibiotic. Andrioli almost passed out twice from the pain and blood loss.
The doctor gave Jordan more than a couple of looks, telling him he needed to get his friend proper care as soon as possible. After he closed the area with sutures, he handed Jordan a small vial of morphine capsules.
Andrioli had explained that the doctor was well known to his old cronies, so Jordan paid the man with a fistful of five-hundred franc notes from the attaché case and told him to keep his mouth shut.
“Monsieur,” he said to Andrioli, “you know my reputation well enough to believe that I will exercise discretion.”
“And you know me well enough to believe that I’ll find you if you don’t,” Andrioli told him.
The doctor responded with a knowing smile. They realized he could only be counted on to stay quiet for a few hours at best. They hoped that would be enough.
Christine showed the doctor out. When he was gone, Jordan told them he had a plan.
Andrioli was in desperate need of a transfusion, and Jordan knew the first thing he had to do was contact John Covington. Since there was no reason for further pretense, Sandor pulled out his secure reach number. The operator promptly referred him to the United States Embassy in Paris.
After being shunted from one level of bureaucracy to the next, he heard the familiar voice say, “Well, well, well. Jordan Sandor.”
“Hello, Covington.”
“Good to hear from you again. I trust you and your friends are enjoying France.”
Jordan was seated at the writing table. “One of my friends wants to say hello.”
Christine handed Andrioli the phone from the extension beside the bed. “Covington,” he said into the extension.
“Ah, Mr. Andrioli. Finding Paris to your liking this time around?”
“Actually,” Jordan said, “my friends are finding Paris a little tough to take. Thought we might get out of town.”
“That so?”
“It is. And I’m going to make your life easy, so you can drop the trace on this call. We’d like to see you before we leave. This way, when you’re trying to follow us, you won’t be two days behind.”
“How kind of you.”
“I don’t want you to think we’re not flattered by the attention, but you’re just not giving us much help, is all. We keep getting shot at, and there’s no one around to cover our backs.”
“That’s not my job, gentlemen.”
“We noticed,” Andrioli said.
“You three are fugitives wanted by the United States government,” Covington said. “You’re also wanted for questioning by the French authorities for a shooting that took place here in Paris today.”
“Four shootings,” Jordan interrupted, “just to keep your scorecard straight.”
“Four?”
“That’s right. Three dead, one injured. Check the evening news if you want an update. Look, you want to see us or not?”
Covington said he would be pleased to meet with them, so Jordan gave him the name of their hotel and hung up.
They packed Christine’s tote and Jordan’s black leather bag.
“Get going,” Andrioli said. “They’ll be here any minute.”
Jordan stood at the side of the bed, placing his hand on Andrioli’s shoulder. “You’re sure you’re up to this?”
“Go, will you?”
Christine went over and kissed Andrioli on the forehead.
“I’ll be all right, as long as Covington gets here before Traiman’s people do.” He looked up at Jordan. “Right?”
Jordan nodded solemnly. “Either way, I’m worried.”
“The government boys won’t pull anything with me, not till I tell them what you’re up to. I’ll keep talking long enough to give you a head start.”
Christine said, “Make sure they take good care of you.”
“Sure thing.” He pointed to his battered attaché case. “Remember that thing. And what I told you about the explosives.”
Jordan nodded again.
“I guess you know more about those gimmicks in there than I do.”
“We’ll find out,” Jordan said.
“So, you track him your way, and I’ll have the cavalry right behind.”
“That’s the idea. I just want a little lead time.”
Andrioli grabbed a cigarette from the nightstand and fumbled as he tried to light one. Sandor took the pack of matches and fired it up for him.
“Not a great idea,” Jordan said.
“What the hell.” Andrioli took a long drag and blew it out. “Too late to be worried about my health.” He looked at Christine. “You sure you don’t want to sit this one out with me? Be a lot safer for you.”
“He’s right,” Jordan said.
“No. If
I stay, they’ll just take me into custody when they get here. I’m seeing this through.”
Jordan nodded. “Let’s go then.”
Andrioli gave them a weak, narcotic influenced smile, then patted the Colt automatic that sat in his lap. “I feel kind of like Jim Bowie at the Alamo, you know? When Davy Crockett sets him up in bed for the final battle with a brace of pistolas.”
Jordan nodded. “I remember. Hold a better thought for the outcome. Okay, cowboy?”
Andrioli smiled. “See you in Portofino.”
Then Jordan and Christine left him alone in the room to wait.
About ten minutes later, the door burst open with a loud crash. Two agents lunged forward, guns drawn, ready to fire.
Andrioli was sitting on the bed, puffing away on another cigarette. He raised his head slightly and said, “Doesn’t anyone just knock anymore?” He looked pale and, although the doctor had stopped the bleeding, was badly in need of plasma. The gash in his side was throbbing, and he had yet to take any additional morphine, afraid to dull his senses before he knew who would get to him first.
The two agents remained poised and silent as John Covington and Todd Nealon came in behind them. Having a look at Andrioli’s condition, Covington said, “Take his gun, but don’t move him.”
The first agent removed the automatic from Andrioli’s lap and backed off. Covington pulled up the desk chair and sat down beside the bed. Nealon stood behind him.
“Seems you got the worst of the action in Montmartre.”
Andrioli slowly crushed his cigarette in the ashtray and lit another. “Not really. The worst of it is dead already.”
Covington nodded. “You look better in your dossier photo.”
“That so? Well, I probably hadn’t been shot the day they took it.”
“So where are your friends? Got tired of playing with you? No, hold on. Let me guess. They turned you in because they thought they’d be doing you a big favor. We’d get you a doctor and have that nasty little cut taken care of, is that your play?”
“That’s it.” Andrioli shifted uncomfortably. “My medical plan doesn’t cover foreign gunshot wounds, and Sandor told me what a sweetheart you are.”
“Bad judge of character, Sandor.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“I think you’ll have a chance to find out. We should have a little chat.”
“Suit yourself,” Andrioli said. He was in no rush. He offered Covington a cigarette.
“No thanks. Not one of my vices.”
Andrioli felt the room starting to spin and planted his right hand on the bed to brace himself in case he was about to pass out. “I sure could use a doctor, I’ll tell you. Lost enough blood to be a Red Cross poster boy.”
“We’ll get to that in due course. First, tell me where Sandor’s going.”
“I’m too weak to remember.”
The CIA man glanced at Andrioli’s bloody shirt. “Maybe Nealon here could poke a finger into your side, perk you up a bit.”
Andrioli took an uneven drag on his cigarette and then coughed a small cloud of gray brown smoke into Covington’s face. “This your tough guy routine?”
“I thought you were the tough guy here,” Covington said.
“Not me, not anymore.”
“So, what do you have to sell me today?”
“Depends what you’re after. I can give you Sandor. I can give you my life story as a bad guy in Libya. I can give you Vincent Traiman.”
The last comment caused Covington a nearly imperceptible flinch. “You can’t give me anything I don’t already have.”
“If I got nothing you need, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Maybe I’m here to arrest you.”
“You’re a cop now? Hey, go ahead and arrest me, man. A prison infirmary sounds pretty good about now.” He reached down and touched the bandage on his side. “I’ve got some stories to tell, if you’re interested, but I’m running out of steam.”
“You’re just another sorry case of Vietnam burnout run wild. That’s an old story, mister.”
“You’re not wrong about me, but you’re wrong if you think I don’t have something to deal.”
“Suppose we’re interested in your fairy tales? What do you want, other than the Congressional Medal of Honor?”
“I don’t know. Immunity. Federal protection. A new identity. A girl with really big—”
“Come on Andrioli, we sit here much longer you’re liable to die in that bed. Where’s Sandor?”
Andrioli took a deep, painful breath. “He’s on his way to find Traiman.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Maybe so, but here’s what I really need. I need you to arrange a piece in the papers and on the wire services. Say two international businessmen and an American ex-pat were slain this evening in Montmartre in an exchange of gunfire. Something like that. Give them a good description of me. Make sure they list me as dead. Got it?”
“I got it, but why should we do it?”
“Traiman’s got to believe that I died with those two guys. This way I’d have no way of telling you what his man said, about where he’s going.”
“One of his people told you that Traiman is on the move?”
“Sandor told me you were an asshole. He never said you were slow.”
Covington ignored the taunt. “So what if I have Interpol make a release, the news services run the piece. Then what? Where’s Sandor off to?”
“Not so fast. The immunity, protection—all that bullshit. I want it in writing. Official-like. For Sandor and Christine too.”
“We’ll get it, but right now my patience is running thin. Where are they?” Covington had his own information. He had to know if Sandor was headed in the right direction.
But Andrioli refused to answer. “Just a little while more, then I’ll tell you.” He took another puff of the cigarette and dropped it in the ashtray. “Meantime,” he said, “get me to a hospital.” Then he fell to his side, face down on the bed. He was unconscious.
FORTY-EIGHT
Early the next morning, as Andrioli was recuperating in the infirmary of the United States Embassy, Jordan and Christine were traveling to the port town of Santa Margherita on the Italian Riviera. They had taken an evening train from Paris, spent the night together in the Hotel Meridien in Nice, and now they proceeded by rail into Italy.
The train rolled southeast along the coastline, racing past rocky beaches below and hurtling through cavernous tunnels that had been gouged from the sides of craggy mountains that rose defiantly above the blue Mediterranean. Jordan and Christine, alone in their compartment, paid little attention to the passing scenery. They were reviewing, yet again, the plans for their arrival in the village of Portofino.
“Maybe we should have listened to Captain Reynolds,” Christine said with a wistful smile.
“What did he tell you?”
“He told me to stay out of it. He said I should leave town and let the authorities handle everything.”
Jordan reached across and took her hand. “Well, you certainly left town.”
Christine laughed. “I don’t think this is what he had in mind.”
“It’s not too late,” he told her. “You can turn around when we get there, leave this to me. Or just wait in Santa Margherita.”
She shook her head, never taking her eyes from his. “I told you before, I’m in this to the end.”
“I know, but by now Andrioli has told them everything we know. Covington and his men will fly down here this morning, maybe even get there before we do. You don’t need to do this.”
“I really do.”
Jordan sat back in his seat and studied her face, the pale blue eyes that had not smiled enough in these past several days. “Since everyone has fessed up, as Andrioli would say, how about you tell me the truth now?”
Christine also sat back. They were as far away from each other as they could be in the small compartment. She looked out the window for a moment, s
eemingly lost in the majesty of the passing mountain range. When she turned back to him, some of the sadness had returned. “I’m not Jimmy’s sister,” she said.
Jordan nodded slowly. Whatever she was going to say next, whoever she was, regardless of the intimacy they had shared the past two days, his instincts were now in control. He thought about the Colt in his waistband, then felt his mind racing back to catalogue her movements since they left Paris. Did she have a weapon? Was she an enemy? He hated himself for the inability to escape his own training, his innate suspicions. Still looking at her, he said, “I know.”
“You know?”
Her surprise seemed genuine. “Yes. I’ve known since the airport in Atlanta.”
Her wonder at his admission turned quickly to anger and she leaned forward. “You knew, but you never said anything?”
Jordan responded with a puzzled look. “That’s a strange reaction, don’t you think? After all, you were the one who lied.”
“I had my reasons.”
“Really? Then you’ll have to believe I had my reasons too.”
She appeared to be considering what he said, then waved it away. “You made love to me.”
“Damn,” Jordan said with a slight smile, “and I thought there were two of us there.”
Christine responded with an embarrassed smile. “I guess we’re a couple of liars,” she conceded. “But mine was just a white lie. You never told me you worked for the government or any of that.”
“Uh huh. And telling everyone you’re Jimmy McHugh’s sister . . . that was a white lie?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” he said.
She shook her head. “It all sounds so crazy, even when I say it to myself. I mean, I really hadn’t heard from Jimmy in years. That was true. But I’m not his sister.”
“I got that part. So who are you?”
“I told you, I’m an assistant art history professor at Penn State.” She sighed. “Jimmy and I grew up together in Wilkes Barre. In Pennsylvania. He was much older. We were from the same town, neighbors sort of, and our families knew each other. Not much good to say about our families,” she added with a dismissive shake of her head. “Anyway, he went off to Vietnam.”
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