Targets of Deception

by Jeffrey Stephens[epub]

  “Main dock.”

  “Which yacht out there is the Halaby?”

  “I’m bleeding to death here.”

  “Which one is the Halaby?” Jordan repeated.

  Kerrigan said, “Go to hell,” then made a show of trying to hold his wounded side with his right hand as he slid his left arm down towards his ankle.

  Jordan saw the move and, as Kerrigan nearly reached his ankle holster, Sandor said, “Nice try,” then fired two shots into his face.

  Christine turned away, but Jordan watched the man’s head snap back in a bloody spasm and then fall forward onto the rocks.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Jordan checked the magazine in Kerrigan’s Glock. It was full, a cartridge already in the breech. The man had never gotten a shot off. He handed the gun to Christine.

  “You’re going to tell me you’ve never shot one of these, right?”

  She nodded, holding the butt of the gun like it was covered with slime.

  “All you’ve got to do is point and pull the trigger.” He turned it in her hand so she was holding it properly. Then he gently pointed the barrel to the ground. “But you probably won’t have to. If they take us, you just need to have a weapon. Once they find it, they probably won’t search you beyond a frisking.”

  She responded with a look of fear and confusion.

  “Trust me,” he said. Then he took her by the hand and started off for the center of town.

  The gunfire at the Hotel Continental had caused neighbors to call the police. The shootings of Kerrigan and his partner were going to excite even more local activity.

  Sandor hurried along with Christine at his side. He had no way of knowing whether any of the things Kerrigan had said were true. He only knew that he needed to get to Traiman.

  As they neared the center of the town, he stopped beside a short brick building. “Come here,” he said.

  She followed him into the shadows, where he took her by the shoulders and looked into her frightened eyes. “We’ve got to split up. I’m heading for the main dock. I want you to go into the café near there, the one closest to the water. Go inside, order something and don’t come out unless I signal you.” He took the Glock from her and placed it inside her bag.

  “You’re going to leave me behind,” she said.

  “No,” he lied, “but I need to try and get to the launch alone. If they see us together, they’ll make us from a hundred yards away. If I’m on my own, I’ll have a chance.”

  She stared into his dark eyes, understanding. “I’ve told you the truth. Do you know that?”

  He nodded.

  “No, really Jordan. I need to know that you believe me.”

  He took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly on the cheek. “I believe you,” he said. “Now please believe me when I say that I know what I’m doing.”

  “You’re going out there alone.”

  “Please,” he said, “leave it to me.”

  She lowered her head and nodded.

  “Good. Now wait here just one minute, then go right to the café, the first one we visited today. And hold onto that gun, we may need it.”

  He kissed her again, and she held herself against him for what she feared would be the last time. Then she watched as he walked towards the sea and disappeared from view.

  Jordan stole his way around a row of powered skiffs, sunfish and rowboats that had been pulled ashore for the night. As he came closer to the pier, he could see in the distance a man seated on a bench, directly across from what he assumed would be the Halaby launch. Traiman’s lookout.

  Jordan had taken the radio from Kerrigan’s pocket to see if he could listen in and confirm what he’d been told about Andrioli and Covington, but whoever else was in town was obviously now observing radio silence. He turned the two-way off and headed for the underside of the quay.

  He mounted a support post beneath the dock, then climbed from strut to strut. The old wooden beams were wide and round and slippery with years of the ebb and flow of the sea. He moved carefully and quietly, making his way by stepping in the joints of the crossbeams. When he reached the white power boat marked Halaby, he continued past it, carefully traversing the interior supports to the outside piling, where he climbed atop the dock behind the man standing guard.

  He pulled himself up, finding that he was just beyond the bench where the guard was seated. He placed his foot on a rounded wood brace and drew the Colt from his belt. Then he yanked himself higher, slipping over the railing, his weapon pointed at the back of the man’s head.

  “Buona sera,” Sandor said.

  Traiman’s scout turned, his hand about to drawn his weapon.

  “Uh uh uh,” Jordan said. “Stay right there.”

  The Syrian did not move.

  “I’m going to need your help,” Jordan said, “but first I’m going to need your gun.”

  The man smiled, his white teeth in stark contrast to his swarthy complexion. “I don’t think so,” he said, motioning with his head at what he had been watching when Jordan appeared.

  Sandor glanced down the length of the pier. Coming towards them were four men and a woman.

  The Syrian said, “I think you better give me your gun instead.”

  Jordan had another look at the approaching group. Two men he did not recognize were walking close behind Christine, John Covington and a man Jordan imagined to be Martin Koppel.

  He bowed his head at the sight and exhaled slowly as he released the butt of his automatic, the pistol now hanging from his index finger by the trigger guard. He extended his hand, and the Syrian stepped forward and took the gun.

  “Now you will get in the boat,” the man ordered.

  “Not without her,” he said, “and him,” gesturing to Covington.

  “Don’t be concerned, Mr. Sandor. Everyone is invited.”

  The party of five had almost reached them. The only one speaking was Martin Koppel.

  “What is this with guns?” he demanded nervously. “I’m a businessman. I’m here for a business meeting.”

  No one was paying any attention to Koppel. When they were only a few paces from Jordan, one of Traiman’s men told the group they had gone far enough.

  “Who are you?” Koppel asked Sandor.

  Jordan ignored him. “Hello, Covington,” Jordan said. “I see you’re also having a bad night.”

  “Extremely,” he replied grimly. “Lost both of my agents. And Andrioli.”

  “I heard,” Jordan said. “Where?”

  “At your hotel, where you should have been.”

  “I’m not sure how to take that, John.”

  Zayn barked at them, “Enough. No more talking.” He turned to the Syrian, who was now holding out his Glock as well as Jordan’s Colt. “Any sign of Kerrigan and Fraser?’

  The man shook his head.

  Jordan said, “I’m afraid they won’t be joining us, if that’s what you’re waiting for.”

  Everyone looked at Sandor.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m afraid they’ve gone off to join the foreign legion in the sky.”

  Zayn raised his hand to strike Sandor with the butt of his pistol, but his partner stepped forward and stopped him. “Not now. We’ll have time for everything. Let’s get them on the boat.”

  The first three men dispatched to Portofino by Deputy Director Byrnes were now gathered in the room they had taken at the small hotel just behind the shops on the edge of the harbor. One of them had been on watch and saw Traiman’s man come and collect Koppel from the Hotel Splendido for his meeting. The agent then followed at a safe distance into the center of town. There, the other two CIA agents, who had taken a position in the café near the main dock, witnessed a second Traiman henchman arrive, accompanied by John Covington. They joined Koppel and his escort, and the four of them proceeded to the dock. It was near the entrance to the pier that they had encountered Christine Frank, who was standing alone, gazing out at the dock. They took her just moments before Sandor appeared on t
he wharf and went face to face with Traiman’s operative at the power launch.

  The three agents then hustled back to their hotel where they convened to make arrangements for their next move.

  As two of the agents stood at the window, using binoculars to monitor the activities at the power boat, the third called Byrnes and reported these developments.

  “They have Covington, then?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And the girl?”

  “Yes. They’re with Koppel now. And two of Traiman’s men. They also have Sandor.”

  “Good,” Byrnes said.

  The agent asked if it was time for them to move.

  “Not yet,” the deputy director told him.

  “Sir, I must report the situation is grave.”

  “I know,” Byrnes replied.

  “The risks are extreme, sir. If I may say—” he attempted to go on, but the DD cut him off.

  “We all appreciate the risks.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You go to the fallback position as we planned. And remember what’s at stake. We need the information more than we need the kill. Sandor is exactly where we need him.”

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Any prospects for a celebration on the Halaby, with Martin Koppel as the guest of honor, had evaporated with the radio transmission from the launch. Traiman, however, was not entirely displeased. He was disappointed perhaps, that his conference with Koppel would not go as smoothly as he would have liked, but he was determined to conclude their financial venture. Or to discover that it was a ruse.

  Traiman was in the main salon, accompanied only by his top aide, Nelson, a former British commando with broad shoulders, a thick neck and a bald, bullet-shaped head.

  “Once they’re aboard,” Nelson was saying, “we should weigh anchor and leave.”

  “There appears to be no sign of backup. This is Covington’s mission, and he’s on his way here. Where’s the concern?”

  “What if there is backup? What if Koppel was followed? If we move right now, they’d never chance an attack in open waters.”

  “Perhaps not,” Traiman said. “I’m not so sure.”

  “The Americans would never be that reckless, not without confirmation that you’re aboard. And how will they get that confirmation? If they do, they’ll also know we have Covington, Sandor and the girl.”

  “You may be right. On the other hand, they don’t need to launch missiles or torpedoes to mount an attack.”

  Nelson shook his head.

  “We need to conclude our business with Koppel,” Traiman said, “then put him safely ashore. If there’s any sign of a problem, we can make the appropriate arrangements then. Meantime, our security details are in place.”

  There was a knock at the salon door, followed by the entrance of one of his guards. “They’re approaching, Mr. Traiman.”

  “Good, good.” Traiman remained seated while his man went back to meet the boat. Traiman turned again to Nelson. “If we run, we’ll surely be at risk. Consider it. As long as we stay right here, the chance of an assault is less likely and more manageable.”

  “And if it isn’t? Time will work against us.”

  “Perhaps so, but I think our guests will ensure a measure of safety. Remember, our Arab clients will prove an even bigger problem if we fail to deliver.”

  Nelson knew he was right. He knew that this was Traiman’s final opportunity to square himself with those who believed he had betrayed Khalid Sheikh Mohammed in Pakistan and the assault team in Washington—which, of course, he had.

  There was another knock at the door. The same guard appeared. “They’re aboard.”

  “Fine,” said Traiman. “They’ve been disarmed?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Show them in.”

  He and Nelson waited a few moments. Then Jordan walked into the spacious salon, stopped, and had a look around at the modern décor, a combination of teak and glass and saddle leather upholstery. “I’m glad to see you’re doing so well for yourself, Vincent.”

  Sandor was followed by Christine, Koppel, Covington, and the three men who had been ashore. Two more from Traiman’s security force joined them.

  Traiman remained seated as they entered. He pressed his hands together and brought them to his lips. “Jordan. You can’t imagine what a pleasure it is to see you again. And Miss Frank. Your photograph doesn’t do you justice.”

  It was Koppel who spoke first, demanding once again to know what the hell was going on.

  Traiman ignored him, looking instead to his men. “You say they’ve been searched.”

  All five men nodded.

  “My friend Jordan has carried some interesting toys with him, from time to time.”

  One of the men from the shore detail said, “Yes sir.” He had searched them, but so far had not discovered the C-4 Jordan had molded and taped to the small of Christine’s back and the inside of his thigh. The man held out his hand to Traiman. “We took their guns and an extra clip. He had one of our radios. Here are the papers and other things we found on them.”

  Traiman took what the man offered and placed it on the table, waving a careless hand without bothering to have a look. “No portable laser beams, Jordan? No nuclear devices? What a disappointment.” He turned away and faced his other guests. “John Covington. So good to see you again, too. And you, sir, you must be Mr. Koppel.”

  “Damn right I am. See here—”

  Traiman held up his hand, palm forward, and then rose from his chair. He was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt with French cuffs bearing gold links, and a gray silk tie. He appeared every bit the successful businessman. “I truly apologize for all of these theatrics, but you see, a man in my position has many enemies. I’m sure you understand. Corporate espionage has become a ruthless game.” Traiman’s congenial tone seemed to nonplus Koppel, if only long enough for Traiman to add, “I assure you, our meeting will proceed as scheduled. Gentlemen, please show Mr. Koppel to the forward dining salon, and get him anything he wants.”

  “What the hell—?” Koppel started up again, but he stopped as Traiman once more raised his hand.

  “Please indulge me, sir. I’ll only be a few minutes,” he said, and two of the security detail politely, if firmly, escorted Martin Koppel from the cabin.

  As soon as Koppel was gone and the door closed behind him, Traiman’s tone became more severe. “Where are Kerrigan and Fraser?”

  The dark-skinned Syrian, who had acted as scout on the pier, said, “They never made it back. He,” gesturing toward Sandor, “claims they’re gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Afraid so,” Jordan told his old mentor. “A Viking funeral may be in order.”

  Traiman turned his steely gaze on Sandor. “I was very fond of Kerrigan. He was a good soldier.”

  “Only the good die young, Vincent.”

  Traiman responded by issuing several commands. Covington was to be detained in one of the guest cabins and kept under guard. They were to make ready for the dinner with Koppel. He would take a few minutes with Sandor and the girl, and then they would also be held for further interrogation.

  Two men grabbed Covington roughly by the arms and led him away. That left only Traiman, Nelson, and one security guard with Jordan and Christine.

  “Sit down,” Traiman told his two guests. “And Jordan, please believe me when I say that in the event you make even the slightest untoward move, these men will kill you without another warning.”

  The guard lifted the submachine gun he was holding and pointed it at Sandor, just to reinforce the warning. Nelson removed a pistol from his shoulder holster and laid it on the table before him.

  “You see, Jordan, in addition to the loyalty I command from these men, several of them were quite friendly with Mr. Kerrigan and Mr. Fraser.”

  “Thanks for the tender moment Vincent.”

  Traiman responded with a disapproving frown. “Do me a favor, please,” he said as he resumed his seat. “Begin
by explaining why on earth you’re here. Other than a burning desire to get together with me to reminisce.”

  “I’d have to say it all began when your people started shooting at me in Woodstock—by the way, how far back do you want me to go? You want me to talk about how you screwed me when we were in Kuwait? Should I get into the Manama gambit?”

  “No Jordan, not that far back. Truth being told, I don’t have all that much time for this interview, and if you insist on wasting it on the tiresome sarcasm you find so amusing, I’ll be left no choice but to turn you over to more persuasive members of my staff. Am I clear?”

  “As always.”

  “So then, let’s conduct ourselves as professionals and get to the point.”

  “Professionals?”

  “Oh no, I feel it coming. We’re about to move from sarcasm to jingoism, am I right?”

  Jordan stared across the cabin without giving a response.

  “Ah yes, Jordan Sandor, fighting for paychecks and patriotism while I, the mercenary, opted for wealth and power.”

  Jordan still refused to reply.

  “Propaganda and peanuts, that’s what you’ve risked your life for, Jordan. You’ve always been supremely talented, but incredibly naïve.”

  “You consider morality naïve?”

  “Ah, morality. Tell me, Jordan, what gives the United States the moral high ground? It aids and abets the assassination of leaders in third world nations, promotes civil war in those countries, then invades them when their internal politics become distasteful to the American administration du jour. How many have died in the fields of Afghanistan or the streets of Baghdad? How many are slaughtered every day in the wars that rage endlessly in Africa, places where none of those bleeding hearts in New York or Los Angeles could begin to find on a map? No one cares about those tens of thousands that die of poverty, starvation, and internecine battles. Not really.

  “So where is it written that only the United States cannot be attacked or invaded without provoking a world conflict? Why, when someone blows up a building in the United States in protest against its policies in the Middle East, must the entire world be made to pay? Spare me your sanctimonious patriotism, Jordan. Tell me, which of us is the mercenary here?”