“It’s okay,” Jordan said. “We could use some quiet.”
The taxi hugged the sharp curves that ran above the coast en route to their destination, the Hotel Continental, chosen for them by Andrioli.
When they arrived, they found it to be a square, squat structure, considerably more modest than the promise of its title. It was located on one of the cobblestone streets toward the rear of the village, away from the sea.
Portofino is small, its compact geography defined by a tiny, horseshoe shaped seaport. Situated on the edge of the Mediterranean, the front of the town faces the water, an inlet sheltered by the semi-circular protrusion of surrounding mountains. Adjacent to the modest harbor is a plaza paved in stone, ringed by a variety of restaurants, cafés and specialty shops. Behind these one and two story buildings are hotels and inns, each of which is more proximate to the real action, and with better views than the Hotel Continental.
Further inland, at the foot of the mountains, away from the trattorias and boutiques, are the local merchants and private homes that stand in the shadows of the larger villas above. At the highest reaches, above the crowded quarters of the native Italians below, atop the overlooking hills, are the exclusive estates of the very wealthy, with views of the town, the sea and the beautiful yachts anchored outside the small harbor.
Jordan paid the taxi driver, and they entered the lobby of the Continental. It was surprisingly airy, almost tropical. There were a couple of wicker chairs and a desk arranged in a sitting area. A large wooden table seemed to serve as the registration desk. No one was there. Jordan rang the brass bell on the table, and a young man appeared through a side door.
“Buon giorno,” he greeted them with a smile.
“Scott Kerr,” Jordan said. “You should have a reservation for us.”
The young man opened a cabinet off to the side of the desk, revealing a computer, a master telephone and some related office equipment. “Si, signore,” he said, after punching a few keys. “Signore e Signora Kerr.”
Jordan registered, then held up his black leather bag, Andrioli’s attaché, and pointed to Christine’s large tote from Paris, showing the young man that they could handle their own luggage.
The clerk frowned and shrugged his shoulders. He was obviously a one man operation, which included check-in, bellhop and room service. When he handed Jordan his key, Sandor gave him a hundred dollar bill.
“Haven’t had time to make change into euros yet.”
The clerk’s smile made it clear he didn’t care.
“If anyone calls for me, put it through right away.”
“Si signore,” he said, still grinning as he pointed to the stairs.
By the time Jordan and Christine made it to the Hotel Continental, several Company field agents were converging on the area. Three were already in Portofino, another two waiting for instructions at an inn near the center of a neighboring town, Rapallo. These were not Covington’s men. This team had been sent on the direct order of Deputy Director Byrnes.
Martin Koppel had also arrived. He was safely, if nervously, ensconced in a luxurious suite at the renowned Splendido, Portofino’s finest hotel. He was alone, but not far from the watchful eyes of the three operatives dispatched by Byrnes. Koppel was instructed to stay in his suite and await his summons from Vincent Traiman.
Byrnes had taken great pains to inform Koppel of the risks. What the hell, the financier thought as he paced the generous living room, waiting for the phone to ring. He had done everything, seen everything, run as far up and down the ladder as any man could travel. This was the ultimate challenge, dealing with stakes so high that life and death were part of the equation. What the hell, he told himself again. With all the financial deals he had created and produced, he would once again be the star of the show, produced and directed by the Central Intelligence Agency.
John Covington knew nothing of Koppel. At the moment, his concern was Traiman and the terrorist teams that were moving into position throughout the United States and Europe.
He had flown from Paris to Genoa and was now riding in the front of a car driven by Todd Nealon. Another agent, Paul Betram, sat in the back seat beside Andrioli.
Covington had no choice but to bring Andrioli along. There was no way he could risk leaving him behind, not with what he knew, not with everything that would be happening in Portofino. The doctors had another look at Andrioli’s side, re-dressed the wound, filled his pocket with painkillers and authorized him to fly. The turbulence over the Appennino mountain range was painful, but Andrioli popped another pill and suffered through. Now they were traveling together by car toward the coast.
“Just so you’re clear on this,” Covington said over his shoulder, “I’m going to say it one more time. First, you’re going to talk to Sandor. He might listen to you and get the hell out of our way before he screws up the entire operation. Second, we need to keep Traiman off guard. And since you’re so willing to get in his line of fire again, you’re volunteering for that assignment too. You got that?”
“I got it.”
Now Covington turned to face him. “Good,” he said sharply. “Just remember, you’re not here to redeem yourself. You’re here to do as you’re told. Got it?”
“I got it.”
“Good. Sandor’s at the Continental, right?”
Andrioli was slumped in the back seat, trying to find a comfortable angle as the car jostled him painfully to and fro. He nodded.
“Okay.” Covington faced forward again.
“Mind if I ask you something?”
“What is it?” Covington didn’t bother to look back.
“How were you so sure Traiman was going to be here?”
“We have our sources. And you confirmed what we suspected.”
“No,” Andrioli said. “I’ve been listening to you guys. The way you have this set up, it was more than a suspicion. You were sure of it before I told you anything. How is that?”
Covington turned back to him now, looking him square in the eyes. “You’re here on a pass, not a fact-finding mission. Any trouble from you, and I’ll deliver you back to Traiman myself.”
Andrioli answered with a grim smile.
Covington did not respond. He returned his gaze to the road in front of them, leaving Andrioli to stare silently at the back of his head.
FIFTY-ONE
Christine stood beside him as Jordan sorted through the contents of Andrioli’s attaché. In addition to the Colt automatic and the extra ammunition, there were still two small blocks of C-4 wrapped in paper.
“So, what kind of agent, or whatever it’s called, were you?”
He looked up from the material he was organizing. “Am,” he corrected her.
Christine shook her head, a mystified look crossing her face.
Jordan took her by the shoulders and sat her on the bed. He pulled up a chair to face her. “I’m not here because of you. You’re here because of me. I work for Central Intelligence.”
“But I thought you said you left there, or something.”
“Or something, is more accurate. I’ve been working on this mission for the past few months.”
“So, what does that mean, then? You were pretending to be a reporter all that time?”
“Journalist. And yes. Tony had it right. After a mission went bad in Bahrain, I officially left the Company. Unofficially, I began working on a couple of different assignments.”
“So when you agreed to go with me to Florida . . .”
“Yes, that was part of the deal. I needed to find Tony, and I needed to get here.”
“So you lied to me. You were lying all along.”
“Yes,” he said.
“But you could have trusted me. You had to know that.”
Jordan broke into a wide grin. “I do now,” he said, “which is why I’m telling you. If you want out, you’re out. If you still want to help, we need to get to work.” He stood up and went back to the two small blocks of putty-like substance. He he
ld one up for her to see. “Things are going to get bad very quickly. This explosive may be our last chance, depending how things play out.”
“Isn’t it dangerous, holding it like that?”
“No. Not at all. It has to be detonated.”
“Like in the hotel?”
“Not exactly. When the time comes, I don’t think we’re going to be using any long burning fuses. Meantime, the tough part will be holding onto it if they take us and search us.”
“Take us?”
“Yes. Assuming we even get that far. It all depends how Traiman reacts. My guess is he already knows I’m here. My hope is he won’t be able to resist the chance to meet with me.”
“Then what?”
“Well, he isn’t likely to be feeling very hospitable by then, I can tell you that. So, if you have any other questions, now’s the time to ask.”
She looked up at him. “Paris,” she said, her voice softer now. “Was that, I don’t know, was that part of—”
“No,” he said. “That was about you and me.”
She stood up and he took her in his arms.
“I told you to turn back,” he whispered then kissed her softly on the cheek. “You can still get out of here. It’s not too late.”
“I won’t. Especially not now.” She managed one of those prize winning smiles, then held him to her. “You may need me.”
“I might at that,” he agreed. “Okay then. Let’s go for a walk, take in some of the local color. Drop a few names.”
He felt her nod, her head nestled in the crook of his shoulder.
“I don’t know how much advertising we’ll need to do, but word should travel pretty fast around here today.”
Jordan placed their key on the front desk and told the young clerk they were going out for a stroll around town. The boy replied with an uncomprehending look that Sandor figured was just a pose. Andrioli had chosen this hotel for a reason, and whatever that turned out to be, Sandor was beyond trusting anyone at this point.
He took Christine by the hand and led her into the fading, autumn afternoon sun. They headed on foot toward the main plaza, searching for a caffe Andrioli had named. The streets were virtually empty at this hour. They walked slowly towards the harbor, checking various locations until they found the place along the main wharf. They sat at a table inside and waited.
When their waiter approached, Jordan was pleased to find he spoke English, a bit of good fortune in a resort frequented more by Europeans than Americans. He ordered Camparis with soda and two panini.
“Beautiful ships here,” Jordan said to the burly man as he returned with their drinks and set their glasses on the table.
“Si, from all over the world.”
“Yes. We noticed the different flags.”
The waiter did not reply. He went to the service bar and began working on the setups for dinner.
“Might have been too subtle, huh?”
Christine forced a smile.
There was only one other couple there. They looked to be Italian and were very involved in a quiet discussion at their table in the back of the room. Jordan watched as the waiter sliced lemons and limes. A couple of minutes later, he disappeared into the kitchen and returned with their sandwiches.
“Maybe you can help me,” Sandor said to the man. “I’m supposed to meet some friends in town tonight. They’re coming in on a yacht.”
The man set their plates on the table not looking at Jordan.
“They tell me it comes to Portofino quite often. I think it’s called the Halaby.”
Now the waiter glanced at him.
“I was wondering if you knew which boat it is. I wouldn’t recognize it. I’ve never even seen it.” Jordan offered a short laugh as apology for his ignorance. “I’d like to know when it gets here, or if it’s here already, for that matter.”
The man just shook his head, saying nothing.
“That’s too bad. I’d really like to know when it arrives.”
“I am sorry, signore. Your friends, they will look for you, I am sure.” He turned to leave them, but Jordan reached out and touched his arm. The waiter looked down at Jordan’s hand like it was something dirty that had just soiled his sleeve.
“I suppose you’re right,” Sandor said, keeping his tone friendly. “But just in case they stop in here, you can tell them I’m in town.” Jordan held out a fifty dollar bill. “Jordan Sandor,” he said. “At the Hotel Continental. Just in case anyone asks for me.”
The waiter began protesting in rapid Italian, pushing the money away, saying something about never having heard of the Halaby yacht. An older man emerged from the kitchen. He could have been the waiter’s father by the looks of him. He strode towards the table and stepped in front of the younger man. Without speaking, he took the fifty dollar bill from Sandor’s hand and placed it on the table.
“We know nothing about this Halaby, signore. We don’t know who comes in and goes out. This is not our business.” His countenance bore a severe look that told Sandor the conversation was at an end.
“That’s too bad,” Jordan persisted. “This was the place my friend told me to come.” He waited, but there was no further response in the offing. The waiter had already walked back to the bar, and now the older man turned and went back into the kitchen.
“What now?” Christine asked quietly.
“I didn’t make much of an impression.”
She forced a smile.
“We did just fine,” he assured her. “I may run for mayor here when this is all over.”
They finished their drinks and sandwiches and left, leaving the fifty dollars on the table to cover the bill.
They stopped at two more caffes along the dock, and each time Jordan asked about the Halaby he received the same sort of reaction. If anything, the responses were even stiffer. As soon as the name of the yacht was mentioned, it was clear Jordan was no longer a welcome patron. He knew that, by now, his own name would already be burning up the local telephone lines.
“At this point,” he told Christine, “they’ll know where to come for us.”
“Jordan,” she said as they walked back to the hotel, “I feel like we’re being followed already. I suppose you’re going to tell me that’s good. I mean, that’s what you want, isn’t it?”
Sandor shrugged. “Depends on who’s doing the following.”
They retrieved their key at the front desk and found their way back to the small room upstairs. Jordan went to work immediately, first closing the shutters and pulling the drapes tight, then moving the table and two chairs.
He answered Christine’s puzzled look by saying, “If we’re going to have company, we better see them before they see us.”
He went about rearranging the pillows on the bed, adding two from the closet and using a chair cushion, lining them up, then plumping them and pulling the covers over them. In the darkened room, his soft sculpture appeared to be two bodies between the sheets.
“That’s supposed to be us?”
“Go ahead and laugh,” Jordan said as he fluffed the pillows again. “Art was never my strong subject.”
“And where are we going to sleep tonight?”
He looked up. “We won’t be doing any sleeping in bed, not for a while. For now, let’s just sit here and see who shows up.” He put down a blanket and pillow on the floor, then sat beside her, their backs to the wall, out of view from the door.
“It’s siesta time for you,” he said.
She moved close to him, resting her head on his shoulder. “I am a little tired.”
“Let’s be quiet, then. See who comes for a visit.”
FIFTY-TWO
As soon as the imposing Halaby dropped anchor in sight of the Portofino harbor, four of Traiman’s men set off in the power launch. Once ashore, they split up. The first team would make contact at a few locations in the center of town. The other two men would generally canvass the area.
All four quickly learned that an American couple ha
d been making the rounds, asking for the Halaby. The man had identified himself as Jordan Sandor.
The town seemed otherwise quiet, exuding its normal level of casual charm and studied indifference, particularly in the middle of autumn. Sandor intended his brazen arrival to distract attention from the other, more covert, activities initiated by Byrnes’ agents. The three advance men Byrnes dispatched had not caused a ripple in the placid waters of the peaceful village or, if they had, it was obscured by the loud splash made by Jordan. Meanwhile, Jordan hoped that Traiman’s men would be left to worry over why and how Sandor had come to Portofino.
Precisely one hour after their arrival on shore, the four Traiman scouts regrouped at their launch. The two men who made a general survey of the area reported that Koppel had checked into the Splendido. They also shared the news that Sandor was in town, staying at the Hotel Continental. He and the girl had been announcing their presence and leaving his name, asking for the Halaby, claiming it carried an old friend, acting as if they expected to be invited aboard. The second pair of Traiman’s scouts confirmed the information.
As they motored back to the yacht to report their findings, they debated how Sandor’s presence might affect Traiman’s plans. He had proved himself an elusive target up to now, but Andrioli was dead, and that might make it easier to take him out. They had heard enough about Sandor, and they were eager to be rid of him as soon as possible.
Andrioli was not dead, however. He was seated in the back room of a small restaurant in Rapallo under the close watch of Covington, Nealon and Betram, all of whom were keeping a close watch over him. The two other operatives who had been waiting now joined the group.
“Let me get this straight,” Covington said. “He’s going to try and get to Traiman himself?”
“That’s the plan of last resort, if he doesn’t hear from me.”
“He’s going to board the yacht and take Traiman alone?”
“Not exactly. We discussed some variations on that theme.”
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