Targets of Deception

by Jeffrey Stephens[epub]

  Jordan pulled out another five bills from his sport coat and placed them beside the five he was already holding. “This is it,” he said, peering over the man’s shoulder. “For a thousand dollars, I’ll buy a boat from someone else. Just two hours.”

  The man snatched the money and shoved it in his pocket. “Due oras,” the man repeated.

  “That’s all,” Jordan said. “We’ll come back for it in a little while. Just leave it right here.”

  The man looked confused.

  “I’ve got to buy a little wine. You know, vino.”

  The man shook his head, as if to say he felt crazier than the American for allowing this. Then he showed Jordan where he would leave the ignition key, beneath the board that served as the aft bench in the boat.

  “No,” Jordan said, bending over and grabbing the key. “I paid in advance, right. This way I know I have the key, capisce? Wouldn’t want someone to steal it before we get back.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll leave it under there when we get back.”

  The man frowned and said, “Due oras, eh?”

  Sandor nodded. “We’ll be back in less than an hour,” he assured him, then looked at his watch. “We’ll take a quick ride, tutto finito en due oras.”

  “Bene,” the man said, then turned and walked away, up the hill past the concrete reinforcement that ran beside the dock.

  Jordan made a pretense of taking Christine back into town. Once he was certain the fisherman was out of view, they doubled back to the spot where the small boats were set aground.

  “Now what?” Christine asked. “We’ve got ourselves a little dinghy for a thousand dollars, and pretty soon everyone in town is going to know about it.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “That’s just what we want.” He gazed out into the moonlit night, the sea lapping gently at the shore just a few yards from where they stood.

  “We want them to come here thinking they’ll get the drop on us, expecting us to be gone for the next hour.”

  He led her to a spot behind some dry-docked skiffs, and they made themselves as comfortable as they could for another long wait ahead.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Traiman’s men came ashore at the main wharf, on the end of the harbor opposite from where Jordan and Christine were waiting on the rocky beach. They tied up the launch and prepared to split into two groups as instructed.

  Kerrigan told Fraser they would start in the main plaza. Fraser was also American, an athletic looking man with the bow-legged stride of a horseman that belied his New Jersey upbringing. Like Kerrigan, he was a veteran of the Gulf War and had been in Traiman’s employ for the past three years. He had never seen Sandor, but he had met Andrioli.

  “We’ll see you back here in an hour,” Kerrigan told the others.

  The two men assigned to the hotel were Iraqis, survivors of the American war of liberation in their homeland. Having been members of Saddam Hussein’s Republican Guard, they did not remain in their country to celebrate their new freedom. They recently joined forces with al-Qaeda, presently taking their orders from Traiman. The taller of them was Zayn. He was carrying a canvass duffle bag with their automatic weapons and extra rounds of ammunition inside.

  “We’ll start at the Hotel Continental,” he told Kerrigan in his heavily accented English.

  The fifth man in the group had been appointed to stay with the motorboat. He was a short, trimly built Syrian, whom Traiman often used as a lookout. He found a bench on the pier, where he sat down and placed his cellular radio beside him. He lit a cigarette and prepared to wait.

  A short time later, Covington arrived in Portofino with Andrioli, Nealon and Bertram. They had driven along the same winding route Jordan and Christine had traveled earlier in the day. They parked away from the Hotel Continental and set off on foot. Covington had left his other two men back in Rapallo, as their control team.

  Covington and Nealon walked ahead, Bertram guarding Andrioli as the wounded man limped along, trying to keep pace.

  “You going to make it?” Betram asked.

  Andrioli made an effort to steady his gait. “Probably not.”

  “How’s the side?”

  “Sore.” The surgery on his chest seemed a long time ago, mainly because he was in a continual fog induced by the painkillers. “I almost forgot about it, till you reminded me. Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  They trudged down a hilly walkway where Andrioli pointed to a set of ancient stone steps. “That’s the place, right around the corner.”

  Covington held up his hand, and the four men came to a stop. “Andrioli goes in first. Nealon and I right after him. You stay outside and back us up, Bertram.”

  Bertram nodded, happy to be relieved of trailing Andrioli.

  “I’m not even armed,” Andrioli said. “Why should I lead?”

  “Sandor’s your friend. He’s not going to shoot you, is he?”

  “What if Sandor’s not in there?”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be right behind you.”

  Lemme have a gun, for chrissakes. You afraid I’ll take the three of you out?”

  Nealon and Bertram looked to Covington, but he shook his head. “You’ve got your orders,” Covington said. “Now let’s go.”

  They negotiated the steps, Bertram lagging farther behind now. When they reached the street, Bertram took a position against the stone wall. He watched as Andrioli, Covington and Nealon entered the hotel.

  Inside, the three men found the young clerk behind the desk.

  “We’re looking for our friends, Mr. and Mrs. Kerr,” Andrioli told him.

  The young man eyed them suspiciously then said something in Italian none of them understood.

  “Kerr,” Andrioli repeated. Then, in response to the look in the clerk’s eyes, he leaned forward slightly and said, “Now, fella.”

  The clerk stared into Andrioli’s eyes and saw the man meant business. He nodded slightly and told him the room number. Then, in his broken English, he explained nervously that he didn’t think Signore and Signora Kerr were in their room. Two men came by just a little while ago and went upstairs, but there was no answer.

  “Where are those two men?” Andrioli asked.

  The boy told them they were gone, but the way he said it caused Andrioli to turn to his two companions. “I don’t believe him.”

  “Ring their room,” Covington said.

  The clerk shrugged. “I try before,” he said. “No answer.”

  “Try again.”

  The three men watched as the boy placed a call. There was no answer.

  Inside Jordan’s room , Zayn and the other Iraqi were waiting. They had already removed the two H&K MP5 submachine guns from their satchel and chambered the first rounds. The guns carried 9mm shells, with the option of single shot, three round bursts or continuous firing. The SMG was designed for a magazine with 30 rounds and an attached replacement clip carrying the same load.

  Each man occupied one of the far corners of the room, facing the door. When the phone rang, they tensed, glancing quickly at each other as they brought their weapons into position.

  When the clerk finally hung up the phone after half a dozen rings, Covington asked, “You been at this desk all evening?”

  The young man became agitated, insisting that he never leaves the desk. He was just like a good soldier, he told them, ever at his post.

  “I think he’s full of shit,” Andrioli said.

  “We’ll have a look for ourselves,” Covington agreed.

  The clerk understood their comments, as well as the demand. He was definite in his refusal. “No, signore. Impossibile.”

  Now Nealon stepped forward, pulled out his 9mm and pointed it at the clerk’s face. “Key,” he said in plain English.

  The clerk turned slowly to his side and grabbed a spare key to the room, then held it out in a trembling hand.

  “Grazie,” Andrioli said.

  Nealon stepped behind the desk and grabbed the young man by the
arm, pulling him forward. He held his finger to his lips and motioned with the gun for the clerk to lead them up the stairs. The four of them proceeded in single file up to the first landing. Once again, Nealon put his finger to his mouth. This time the clerk pressed his lips tightly together to show that he understood.

  Andrioli held out his hands, palms upraised, and shrugged his shoulders. The clerk pointed across the corridor to one of the doors.

  Nealon took the clerk by the shoulders and spun him around, facing him against the wall. “Shhh,” he whispered in his ear.

  Andrioli noticed the small strip of paper on the floor near Sandor’s door. When Covington motioned him forward, Andrioli shook his head and pointed to the paper.

  Covington nodded his understanding then mouthed the words, “Call his name.” Nealon had walked silently past the door. Covington stood on the near side, beside Andrioli.

  “Jordan,” Andrioli called out. It was a raspy whisper, but in the quiet of the hallway it was like a shout, sure to be heard inside. “Jordan,” he said again. “It’s Tony.”

  There was no answer.

  Covington motioned for Andrioli to open the door with the key. Andrioli responded with a look that told him he must be out of his mind. Covington reached out and took hold of the knob. He could feel it was unlocked. He turned it and pushed at the door as he moved quickly two steps back down the hall.

  A splintering crash of gunfire erupted before the door had come all the way open, shattering the wood and piercing the opposite wall. The fusillade, coming at crossing angles, struck Andrioli and dropped him to the floor before he could move aside. Covington and Nealon refrained from firing, just for an instant, giving the shooters enough time to think that Andrioli might have been alone. Then Nealon took a step forward and began firing.

  The men inside responded with another hail of shots. The walls of the hotel were old and wooden and easily gave in to the powerful explosions launched from the automatic weapons. Nealon was hit in the side of the face, spinning him sideways as another series of shots killed him before he hit the floor.

  As Nealon’s lifeless body collapsed at his feet, Covington hollered out, “Hold your fire. It’s Covington.” He had yet to fire a shot.

  Traiman’s man, Zayn, who was off to the right, hunkered down behind the bed and took a quick look, his weapon at the ready.

  “It’s Covington,” the CIA man repeated as he stepped into view in the open doorway. “Hold your fire.”

  The two men inside the room stood up.

  The sound of the gunshots had already brought Bertram racing in from the street. He took the stairs two at a time, coming around the turn in the corridor at a crouch, just in time to hear Covington use his own name to bring the exchange to a halt. He froze, gun in hand, staring at his operations chief.

  He saw that Nealon and Andrioli were down, the clerk was huddled against the wall, and Covington was standing in the middle of the corridor with his weapon at his side.

  There was no time for Bertram to comprehend the treachery. Covington answered the agent’s startled look by raising his automatic and firing three rounds into his chest. Bertram crumpled to the floor.

  Traiman’s men came slowly to the door, their SMG’s still in position.

  “It’s all right,” Covington told them. “That’s everyone. They’re done.”

  The second Iraqi followed Zayn into the hallway.

  “What the hell are you guys doing here?” Covington asked. “Where’s Sandor?”

  “We don’t know,” Zayn said. “We came here looking for him. We had an hour before we had to meet Kerrigan, so we waited here, in case he came back.”

  “What about him?” Covington asked, pointing to the Italian clerk who was crouched against the wall, not looking towards them.

  “He works for the locals,” Zayn said. “Let him go.”

  “No,” Covington said. He turned, extended his arm, and fired two shots into the back of the boy’s head. “We’re not leaving any loose ends this time.”

  Traiman’s men stepped over Nealon’s body to stand alongside Covington. He was staring down at Andrioli.

  Andrioli was covered in blood, his breathing uneven and shallow, his eyes still open. He had fallen with his head propped against the baseboard of the corridor wall. He stared up at Covington.

  Covington smiled down at him. “You just refuse to die, don’t you?”

  Andrioli struggled for air. “It was you all along.”

  Covington said nothing.

  “You miserable traitor,” Andrioli managed to gasp.

  “That’s kind of the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think?” Covington said. Then he took the H&K from Zayn and fired a three-round burst into Andrioli’s chest.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Jordan and Christine had no way of knowing what had occurred at the Continental. They were still waiting near the shore in the cold, damp evening, Jordan sensing that the time for action was near.

  A few minutes later, they heard footsteps coming down the long wharf, firm and unhurried. It was the confident gait of men who believed they were too early to be concerned about concealing their arrival. They had obviously learned of Sandor’s renting the boat and bought the story he had fed the local about going for wine. These men probably assumed he was going for help, and they intended to get there first.

  The sound of the water sloshing against the rocky beach made it difficult for Sandor to determine how many there were. It was certainly more than one. Three or more coming for them would be a problem. All he had was the one pistol. And the advantage of surprise.

  As the men drew nearer, he was able to distinguish their steps. There were two men approaching and, as they came into view, Sandor could make out their silhouettes against the misty backdrop of the growing darkness. One man appeared to be broad, of average height, with an athlete’s bearing. The other was tall, the swagger of his stride now recognizable as Kerrigan.

  Jordan and Christine were silent as they watched the men slow, then step down onto the beach. They passed directly in front of them, just a few yards from the stacked skiffs that provided their cover. They watched as the men turned toward the water trying to identify which of the boats Jordan had rented.

  “This might be it,” one of them said.

  Jordan stood, rising above the pile of inverted boats, his hand gripping Andrioli’s Colt .45. “Sorry boys, you guessed wrong, but thanks for playing. Now, under the rules of our little game, if either of you so much as twitch, I’ll shoot you both.”

  Kerrigan wasn’t waiting to find out what came next. He dove to the ground, reaching for his gun.

  Fraser, with no warning that Kerrigan was going to make a move, was a split second late in reacting. As he turned to his side, trying to pull out his weapon, Sandor squeezed off two shots, both finding their mark.

  As Fraser collapsed onto the sand, Jordan turned to Kerrigan, getting a bead on the large man as he scampered on his hands and knees to find cover behind a nearby rowboat. Kerrigan had unholstered his pistol, but Jordan fired, hitting him with a shot in the back of the thigh, a second ripping through his side. Kerrigan lurched forward, sprawling face down on a rocky outcropping, his gun skittering out of his reach.

  Sandor stepped cautiously from behind his makeshift barricade of wooden boats, his Colt trained on Kerrigan’s back. He had a quick look at the other man. He appeared to be dead.

  “I said I’d shoot you if you moved. You’ve got to learn to trust what people tell you, Kerrigan. Now I’ve got this gun pointed at the back of your ugly head. You move again, you die.”

  Kerrigan groaned some obscenity Sandor could not quite make out.

  “Whatever,” Jordan said as he circled slowly, keeping his distance as he retrieved the Glock 9mm and shoved it into his waistband. “If you want to have any chance at all of living through the next few minutes, you’ll have to tell me where I can find Andrioli.”

  Kerrigan made a move, trying to roll onto his side
.

  “No no no,” Jordan said. “Talk first, move later.”

  Kerrigan fell back on his face, uttering another painful moan. Then, as he attempted to speak, Christine cried out, “Jordan.”

  Sandor turned to see Fraser raising himself, gun in hand.

  Jordan’s instincts prevailed. He fired three rapid shots, one after the other causing the man to jerk back in a convulsive pantomime of death.

  Jordan swiftly returned his attention back to Kerrigan and, in one deft motion, released the spent clip from the Colt and replaced it with a new magazine. “I asked you a question.”

  “Dead,” Kerrigan grunted.

  Sandor glanced briefly at Christine then asked, “When?”

  “Tonight.” Kerrigan managed to turn so he could look up at Sandor. “You just can’t seem to keep your friends alive, can you?”

  Sandor resisted the impulse to kick him in the head. “Where?”

  “Right here, in Portofino,” Kerrigan said. Then his face twisted up in a contortion of pain.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Kiss my ass,” Kerrigan spat at him.

  “Witty reply. So, where’s Traiman?”

  Kerrigan managed a grin. “Traiman? He’s having a little party on his yacht tonight. And his guest of honor is another friend of yours.”

  Jordan kneeled down, so Kerrigan could have a good look at the barrel of the Colt pointing at his face from just a few feet away. “Do tell.”

  “Yeah, once they buried that rat bastard Andrioli they took your pal Covington as an insurance policy.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You think it’s bullshit?” Kerrigan started coughing. It was not clear how bad he had been hit, and Jordan didn’t want to lose him before he got some more answers.

  “Covington?”

  Kerrigan took a couple of uneven breaths and said, “That’s right. Traiman’s got your CIA man. What are you gonna do about it?”

  “Where’s your launch?”

  He hesitated, so Jordan waved the gun at him. “I asked you a question.”