She was staring out the window again, remembering.
“I’m listening,” Jordan said.
“He started writing to me from over there, chatty kind of letters, the kind soldiers write home. Jimmy never had a lot of friends and, like I say, his family wasn’t worth writing to. So I wrote back. We knew each other for so long, it was no big deal for me to send him a note every now and then, tell him about this guy or that girl or what was new in town. But then his letters changed. They started sounding, I don’t know, romantic or something. Not really romantic, that’s not it, but he was writing to me as if we were, well, lovers.”
“And you weren’t?”
“No. Never. I mean, he was like an older brother to me, or a cousin or something. I don’t think he ever really had a girlfriend before he went away, so he began making up this fantasy relationship between us that didn’t exist.”
“So what happened, you wrote him a Dear John letter?”
She turned back to him. “No. I should have. I realized that later, but I didn’t. I was a kid, and it was nice having this guy overseas sending me these beautiful letters. I thought, if it made him feel better, what was it to me? I mean, he was fighting in Vietnam. From one letter to the next, I never knew if I’d ever hear from him again.”
“So you led him on.”
“No, I never did. I would keep writing letters that were like local news reports.” She sighed. “But I guess I never told him to stop being serious in his letters to me. I guess I liked the attention. If that’s leading him on, then I suppose I did.”
Jordan watched as she remembered.
“Then one day he came home.”
She nodded, not looking at him. “He stayed in the service, stationed someplace overseas for a while. But yes, then one day he was back, thinking we had this great romance and that I was going to marry him or something. It was crazy. I mean, I was still in high school.”
“How did he take it?”
“Not very well. And I guess I didn’t handle it the right way.” She paused, and Jordan waited. “He became demanding, angry. It got really uncomfortable. He threatened my boyfriend. The police were involved. It was a real mess.”
She hesitated again.
“Then what happened?”
“You know what happened,” she said. “That’s when he left, went back overseas. Disappeared.”
“Which solved your problems with him.”
“That makes me sound so horrible,” she said. “I felt responsible. I still do. He was heartbroken when he left, and it was all my fault. It was like I cheated a friend, a friend who really loved me.”
“Even if you didn’t love him.”
“Yes.”
“But you were just one of the reasons McHugh left the States again.”
“I know that, in here,” she said, pointing at her head, “but not here.” She held the palm of her hand over her heart.
“Guilt and affection are a lethal combination,” Jordan said, thinking of Dan Peters and Beth, among many others. “So what’s the rest of the story?”
“The rest of it you pretty much know. After some years went by Jimmy began writing to me again. I don’t even know how he found me. I was at Penn State by then. He apologized for everything, wanted us to be friends and all that. I was really careful this time, very particular about what I said.”
“So, when did you decide to become his sister?”
“When he invited me to Paris. He offered to pay for the entire trip, insisting it would be a ‘brother-sister’ visit. I felt like I owed it to him. He made it sound so important. When I got there he explained what he was doing.
“It was only when I arrived that he told me all of his friends believed I was his younger half-sister. He said that if those people thought I was any sort of girlfriend, they might be concerned about him wanting to go home with me. So I agreed to be his half-sister. It didn’t seem like a big deal to me.”
“So he admitted it to you—that he was using you as cover to get him to Paris and then back to the States.”
“Yes. He introduced me to Tony and some other guys. I can’t even remember their names. After a couple of days, he shipped me off to Madrid and disappeared.”
“Until you heard from him again, when he was holed up in Woodstock.”
She shook her head. “No, I heard from Tony. He wanted me to go to Jimmy, said he might need my help to get to Florida. I never spoke to Jimmy again.”
“Didn’t you have any idea how dangerous it could be?”
“Not then.” She uttered a short laugh. “You people, you seem to live with all of this killing and craziness. It wasn’t real to me, not until I got to Woodstock and found out Jimmy had been murdered and they took me down to New York like I was some sort of criminal. Up to then, I actually thought Jimmy had been exaggerating, to make it all seem more romantic or heroic.”
“Heroic?”
“You know what I mean.”
Jordan watched her as she settled back in her seat.
“That’s it, and that’s why I’m here.”
“Paying a debt to a dead man.”
“It sounds morbid, I know, but I guess that’s it. Yes.”
“And you want me to believe all of this.”
“Everything I’m saying is the absolute truth.”
He stared at her for a while. “Then go back home. This isn’t your fight. Go back as soon as we get to Santa Margherita.”
She shook her head, very slowly. “No,” she said. “I told you—”
“I know. You’re in this to end.”
She smiled. “So now you know who I really am. And whoever you really are, Jordan Sandor, I feel like I’m part of the reason you’ve gotten mixed up in this, and I’m not leaving until we’re done doing whatever it is we need to do.”
“Right,” he said quietly. “But remember, this may be your last chance to walk away.”
“Do you want me to walk away?” she asked him.
Jordan turned away from her, gazing out at the hypnotic dance of the ever moving sea, the train swaying gently as it climbed another stretch of mountainside. He knew the answer he should give, but he said nothing at all.
“It’s okay,” she said. “The history of art will still be there when I get back.”
FORTY-NINE
When Andrioli regained consciousness, the first thing he did was ask for John Covington. A few minutes later, the CIA operative strolled into Andrioli’s private room at the embassy clinic.
“What time is it?” Andrioli wanted to know.
Covington told him it was almost seven in the morning. “How do you feel?”
“Seven? We better get going, man.”
“I’m having some trouble getting those guarantees you wanted. It could take some time.”
“Screw the guarantees.” Andrioli was in no mood for an argument today. He was sore and drugged and worried about his friends. “They’re on their way already,” he said, searching his groggy mind for a sense of how far Jordan and Christine would have gotten by now. He had trouble clearing away the morphine haze. “No, they wouldn’t be there yet.”
Covington looked down at him, his thin lips approximating a smile. “When you say ‘there,’ do you mean Portofino?”
Andrioli tried to sit up, a painful attempt that failed. As he grew more alert, the ache in his side became more acute. “Where’d you get that?”
“After a narcotic cocktail, a man can become more talkative than you think. Don’t worry yourself. You only confirmed what we already knew. We’re getting ready to leave now.”
“Good. Gimme a minute to get dressed,” Andrioli said, having another try at pushing himself up.
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not? What’d the doctor say?”
“Said you’ll be fine, eventually. Some muscle damage, a fractured rib. Nothing that won’t heal. Your biggest problem is the loss of blood.”
“Fine. Get me something for the pain. I’m going back in
the game.”
“Why would I allow that?”
He made another attempt to sit up. “I can think of three reasons. First, I know exactly where Sandor is going and what he’s doing, and I won’t tell you unless you take me along. Second, I know Traiman’s operation better than you do.” He paused to take a breath, still trying to steady his thinking. “Third, I know what Traiman is up to.”
Covington walked to the foot of the bed, where the two men had a good look at each other. “If I move you, you’re likely to die before we get to Italy.”
“Whatever. Let’s get going.” Andrioli again tried to raise himself but buckled under the effort.
“I congratulate you on your tenacity, I really do. Your determination has exceeded my wildest expectations. Learning Traiman’s destination was very resourceful. And then, having us plant that story with the press so he wouldn’t interrupt his plans. That was very clever.”
“Is it in the paper today?”
“Of course. Just as you asked. Two international businessmen slain by an unidentified American who was also killed in the shooting. The description in the article didn’t do you justice, but we included your name.”
Andrioli drew a deep, uneven breath that hurt more than he would admit. The cracked rib, he thought. “You just told me you knew it already, that Traiman is headed for Italy.”
“Let’s just say our intelligence department does a fair job on its own. We planted the story for the same reason you requested it. We didn’t want your clumsy interference to disrupt his appointment. We also happen to be quite anxious to have Traiman in Portofino.”
Andrioli’s numbed look phrased the question he could not ask.
“We owe you an apology, Mr. Andrioli. It seems you have been used. You, that is, and your two accomplices. You’ve all played important parts in moving this forward. Unfortunately, you became more successful than we had anticipated.”
“Sorry to screw up your plans. Were we supposed to get ourselves killed along the way?”
“It was a considered risk but no, that wasn’t it. We simply never expected you to learn of the meeting in Portofino. We never anticipated you and your friends getting in our way there.”
Andrioli nodded. “Sorry to outlive our usefulness.”
“So, when will they arrive?”
“I’m not sure. They should reach Santa Margherita later this morning.”
“Damnit,” Covington said, expressing more annoyance than anger.
As he turned and started for the door, Andrioli finally managed to sit all the way up, ignoring the searing pain that radiated from his side. “You said we were used, that you knew Traiman was heading for Portofino.”
Covington stopped and turned back to him. “Yes.”
“Without my help, Jordan and Christine might be a problem.”
“I hope not. We’re flying to Genoa right now. We’ll find them and back them off.”
“Sandor won’t back off. You know that.”
Covington hesitated. Then he walked towards the door. “I’ll see you later,” he said over his shoulder.
“No good,” Andrioli hollered after him. “You need me there. You hear me Covington?”
Covington heard him, even as the door to Andrioli’s room eased its way closed behind him.
Throughout his professional life, Vincent R. Traiman had always been just that—a professional. In his ability to separate emotion from reason, he was as clinical as a surgeon.
His current passage across the Mediterranean was part of a plan shared with only a select few in his organization. His preparations and purpose were carefully guarded secrets. The death of Steve Jackson on the steps of the Sacre Coeur, therefore, caused concern among Traiman’s closest aides.
The accounts of the shooting were sketchy at best. Jackson, Andrioli and the assassin who followed them to the cathedral were all dead. Traiman had to assume that Jackson, in his role as communications coordinator, would have been able to decipher some information about the planned trip to Portofino. If Andrioli had extracted that information from Jackson before he died, and if Andrioli had an opportunity to pass it on before he was killed, the mission might be compromised. Traiman therefore knew the Americans might be coming for him. He also suspected that Jordan Sandor would be part of the welcoming party, a collateral issue that could make for an interesting reunion.
And yet, Traiman went ahead with his plans.
His top assistant, Nelson, who accompanied him on the cruise, suggested the meetings in Portofino be postponed, but Traiman overrode his advice. He kept his own counsel, realizing that time had grown short, particularly after the explosion at Loubar and these violent incidents in New York, Florida and Paris. Matters had intensified, and the resultant scrutiny was also increasing. Traiman, however, had already arranged to minimize the risks.
As the luxurious, 132-foot yacht cut through the blue-green waters of the calm sea, Traiman satisfied himself that he had taken the appropriate precautions and had made the prudent decision. Martin Koppel would be in Portofino. It was an important meeting and, even if John Covington was bringing his men, Traiman already had his insurance policy in place.
Traiman saw himself as a consummate tactician, not offended when others compared him to a cold-blooded reptile who thrived in the ever changing environment of the desert. He felt flattered by the comparison and viewed his personal pleasures in much the same way. Not inclined to the liquor or drugs favored by his subordinates, and utterly immune to romance, he enjoyed the anonymous privileges of his position, especially on those occasions when he traveled outside Libya. On the Halaby, the yacht owned by their man Faridz that had taken him northward across the Mediterranean, Traiman could indulge his own preferred forms of relaxation.
“Come in,” he said to the knock at his stateroom door. He was reclining on a large bed in the richly appointed owner’s suite. It was decorated in an opulent mixture of Western and Arabian motifs, featuring rich fabrics, hammered brass and gold accents.
“Hello, sir,” the steward said. “We should be arriving in less than two hours. The captain is holding a conservative speed, as you requested.”
“Good.”
“Would you like to be entertained in here, sir, or will you be using another cabin?”
Traiman’s thin mouth turned up in his imitation of a smile. “This will be fine. Just send them in.”
“Very well, sir.” The steward gave a short bow and retreated, off to fetch Traiman’s entertainment, two women who had been brought along for the ride.
Traiman got up and undressed, then slipped into a dark red satin lounging robe. When he heard another knock at the door, he was back on the king-sized bed. “Yes,” he called out, and the two young women entered.
Someone closed the door behind them. Slowly they approached the bed. One was an Egyptian girl of no more than twenty. A tall, slim young woman dressed in a black silk dressing gown. She had smooth, olive skin, long, dark hair and a nervous look in her onyx eyes. The other girl was a black African of no more than eighteen, her voluptuous shape clad only in a red peignoir. The black girl had been with Traiman before; her apprehension was therefore all the more apparent.
Traiman believed that power was the key to sexual fulfillment. For him, violent rape was the most satisfying form of sexual expression. Even with these young women, who had no choice but to submit to his whims, he would engage in a brutal rite of passion, pursuing his illusions of sadistic conquest.
With a flick of his wrists he directed them to let their robes fall away. They followed his silent instruction, revealing the firm, naked sensuality of their youth. The Egyptian was petite with small breasts, a lovely shape and silky skin. The African was a study in ebony, with a full bosom, rounded hips and narrow waist.
There was fear in their eyes as Traiman beckoned them forward. His pugilist’s features were frightening enough, but from everything the black girl had seen and what the Egyptian girl had been told, their dread of what was to co
me was real. They wanted to recoil, to run, to escape, but they had no choice, nowhere to go. They knew, regardless of their anxiety, they were there to provide whatever he demanded. Whatever pain or humiliation they were made to endure, they were there to suffer. The alternative, the consequence of his displeasure, was a far graver risk, not just for them, but for their families.
So they joined him on the bed, wordlessly attending to him, removing his robe, caressing him, clawing him, feigning resistance and then desire. The three of them acted out a deranged pantomime of his devise, the girls only praying that they would not be made to suffer too much pain as his excitement blended with anger.
They scratched at his thighs, rubbed his back, moistened him with their tongues, eager to rouse him and have it over with. He pinched them and then slapped them, abusing their firm asses, tender breasts and frightened faces. As his fury grew with his excitement, so did the viciousness of the assault. It was sex without intimacy or tenderness or compassion, culminating only when he had given full vent to the degrading cruelty and subjugation he chose to inflict upon them. Only then would he be relieved. Only then would his entertainment be complete.
FIFTY
The path along the coastline from Santa Margherita to Portofino is a craggy run, a picturesque strip of narrow, twisting roadway. Small homes and large villas populate the green hillside in the distance. Small fishing boats and large yachts rock gently on their moorings in the harbor, or sit quietly against the docks tucked along the shoreline. It is at once provincial and affluent.
“You have been before to Portofino?” the Italian driver asked.
“No,” Christine said. “I suppose this isn’t the best time of year to visit.”
“Ah, but you are wrong signora. This is the very best. Quiet. Not so many turisti.”
“Like us, you mean?”
The driver laughed. “No no, signore.”
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