Traiman was on the bridge, directing the captain on their course, as well as handling the radio, monitoring the flow of the action. He ordered his men to keep the smaller craft at bay while they made way out to sea. Thus far, neither had come close enough to attempt boarding. Heavy fire had kept them away.
He picked up the intercom and called Nelson in the main salon but received no answer. “Damn,” he said, returning to the walkie-talkie.
“Dombroski, this is Traiman. Where the hell is Nelson? Come back.”
Dombroski replied immediately. “Main salon with Sandor and the girl.”
“I’m getting no answer. Check it out.”
“Right away. Over,” Dombroski said.
At that moment, the yacht was rocked by the explosion Jordan had set below.
Traiman grabbed a handrail and steadied himself as the captain was thrown against the control panel.
“What the hell was that?” Traiman hollered into his radio.
“We’re not sure,” his man on the foredeck responded. “Explosion below.”
“Send two men down there to find out. And protect your flank. It could be a diversion.”
“Yes sir,” the man said. “Over.”
Traiman stared out at the dark sea ahead.
“Stay the course?” the captain asked.
“Yes yes. Push it,” he said. Then he slammed his fist down. “Damnit,” he said. “Push it.”
Byrnes’ lead agent radioed back to shore. “We just heard an explosion on the Halaby, sir. How much longer?”
The DD knew that it would become more dangerous as the yacht led them further out to sea. He also knew that Sandor should be given as much time as possible to complete his mission.
“All right,” Byrnes said reluctantly. “Call in the chopper. Give it three minutes, then get on the bullhorn.”
Jordan and Christine were hiding in the companionway, just outside the entrance to the steps leading down to the engine room. They listened as Traiman’s men scurried towards the site of the first blast.
“I’m going below one more level,” he whispered. “Alone.”
She began to say something, but he put his finger to his lips.
“I need you here. Anyone comes this way, you shoot them. I’ll be right back.”
Sandor did not wait for a response. He lowered himself down the metal steps, facing forward, one hand on the rail the other holding the automatic. He moved as quietly as he could, but as soon as he came into view from below, one of the ship’s mates spotted him.
Jordan could not afford to hesitate. He fired, hitting the man in the shoulder, then leaped to the deck and dove for cover behind one of the huge diesel engines that powered the ship.
He heard men shouting and then the sound of feet scuffling on the other side of the room, but no answering gunfire came. He rigged the C-4 he had already removed from his leg with the detonator fuse and secured it against one of the engines.
Judging from the first charge, he would have less than sixty second to get clear. He looked towards the metal steps, listening to the movement of the others as they pulled the mate to safety.
Jordan started the fuse and bolted, firing his pistol behind him, under his left arm, as he moved to the metal stairs. He was half way up when a series of gunshots followed, one of which caught him in the right calf just as he made it to the top. He clung there for a moment, almost falling backward, then sprung upwards, collapsing beside a startled Christine.
“You’ve been shot,” she said as he slammed the metal door behind them.
“Again,” he said, trying to force a smile that didn’t work. He struggled to his feet. “That charge is about to blow.” He dropped the clip in his automatic to the floor and inserted the final replacement. “Let’s go,” he said, taking her hand and leading her back toward the set of steps to the main deck.
The second explosion was more powerful than the first, the C-4 positioned as it was beside the engine, sending a violent shudder thundering throughout the yacht. Jordan and Christine held on as the boat shook, then ran to the corner of the passageway where they came face to face with two more men.
Both men had their guns drawn. Sandor responded by shoving Christine back and diving atop her, the two of them tumbling behind the corner of the bulkhead as the guards opened fire. Jordan grabbed the Uzi from Christine, scrambled to his hands and knees, and then, pointing the weapon around the turn, answered their fire.
In the small area, Traiman’s men had no chance, falling under a barrage of rapid and ricocheting shots as Jordan emptied the submachine gun at them. He got to his feet and, holding Nelson’s automatic at the ready, made sure they were finished.
One of them was the tall Arab, Zayn.
“We owed him that one,” Jordan said. “For Andrioli.”
He leaned over and picked up the man’s MP5.
“Come on,” he called out to Christine, and they hurried to the main deck.
Traiman was still in the wheelhouse. He ordered the captain to go full throttle, but the explosion in the engine room had slowed the boat to a few knots.
“Engine’s shot,” the captain told him after speaking to his engineer on the intercom.
Traiman got a call on his radio from Dombroski. “Nelson’s dead,” he reported.
“Damnit,” Traiman said through clenched teeth. “Sandor.” He knew it was getting close to the time when he would have to exercise his emergency escape plan.
“Prepare for seaside,” Traiman said.
“Copy that,” Dombroski said.
Jordan led Christine to the port deck. They were squatting below the steps to the pilot house. “I want to get Koppel out of here,” he whispered.
Just beyond the main cabin structure, they could still hear gunfire on the starboard side.
“Where is he?”
“They said something about the dining salon. Come on.”
He moved swiftly along the deck. As he threw each door open he was ready with the SMG. They finally found Koppel in the main dining room, hiding in a corner, beside a large breakfront.
“Come on,” Jordan said. “You two are going for a swim.”
Koppel responded with a stunned look. “What the hell is going on here?”
“Move it,” Jordan growled at him. “I’m the good guy, so let’s go. Now.”
Koppel stood up, more dazed than afraid, and came to the door.
“Drop over the side here,” Jordan told them. “Push as far out to sea as you can, away from the ship, and just tread water.”
“What am I, Johnny Weissmuller?” Koppel demanded. “I’ll drown in thirty seconds.”
“You’ll get shot for sure if you stay here. Look, this boat’s still moving, it’ll go by you pretty quickly. Then the cruiser to the rear should spot you.”
“Should?” Koppel asked.
“Just do it.”
“And if they don’t see us?”
“Keep your head down as much as you can until this boat is gone, then swim for the lights on shore. And whatever you do, stay together.”
“What about you?” Christine asked.
Jordan looked down at the large stain of blood on his shirt and gingerly touched his leg. “I’m okay. I’ve got some unfinished business here. Then it’s man overboard for me too.” He checked the magazine in the weapon he had taken from Zayn. There were several rounds left.
They were kneeling beside the main bulkhead. He pulled out the rubberized, waterproof chart cover that held Traiman’s file. He turned Christine around, tucked it inside the waistband of her slacks at the small of her back, and pulled her blouse over it. “This is important.”
“I know,” she said, leaning towards him. “You’re going after Traiman.”
Jordan looked beyond her, down the length of deck. “Go on,” he told her. “Don’t make me push you overboard.”
“Be careful,” she said.
“Careful?” Koppel asked. “Believe me, this is so beyond careful—” The rest
of his statement was lost in the sound of gunfire coming again from the stern.
Jordan kissed Christine on the forehead and said, “Go.” He watched as she and Koppel climbed under the rail and slipped, feet first, into the dark Mediterranean.
SIXTY-THREE
Once Christine and Koppel were in the water, Jordan stole up the stairway in a crouch, staying so low he was practically crawling. The ache in his side was not as bad as the debilitating pain in his leg. He pushed himself, knowing there was only one more thing left for him to do. He nearly tumbled as he quickened his pace, but steadied himself with the heel of his left hand, the H&K SMG securely in his right.
If Traiman was still on board, Sandor knew he would be on the bridge. It was his old partner’s style. Always in control.
As he came to the top of the companionway, he realized he had already gone too far. His head was in view of the glass wheelhouse. He froze, but it was too late. The captain spotted him and pointed. As Sandor pulled back, he caught a glimpse of Traiman.
Traiman responded with a rapid fire explosion from a MAC 10 automatic that shattered the glass and sent it in a spray across the foredeck and into the sea.
Jordan held his position, just beneath the sight line of the bridge. He extended his arm, peered up swiftly, then squeezed off two rounds. His shots were answered by another burst from Traiman’s gun.
“Get to the wheelhouse. Port side,” Traiman hollered at his men into the radio.
Sandor acted quickly, diving across the fiberglass foredeck, firing up at the pilot house, striking the captain, whom Traiman was now using as a human shield. As the captain slumped, Jordan ignored the blast from Traiman’s gun, knowing this might be his best and last chance. He came up shooting, catching Traiman in the shoulder and side of the neck, sending him reeling backward against the wall on the starboard side of the pilot house.
Jordan, on his feet again, moved cautiously forward. Traiman was barely standing, leaning against the control panel, his submachine gun now lying nearby on the deck. Sandor moved slowly inside, checking behind him, and kicked the door shut.
“What a bore you can be, Jordan.” Traiman coughed.
“Every party has a pooper.”
“I hope you don’t expect me to answer any more of your endless questions.”
“No Vincent. As it turns out, I got everything else I needed from Covington.”
“That sniveling bureaucrat?”
“I never liked him.”
“Neither did I,” Traiman said with a slight laugh that became a throaty cough. When he caught his breath, he said, “Dead?”
“Very,” Jordan told him.
Traiman nodded slowly. “Probably deserved it.”
“That’s how I saw it.”
Traiman had a look at Jordan’s blood stained shirt and trousers. “My men will be here in a few moments, but it appears I may not need their help. You’re already done for.”
Sandor steadied himself, grabbing hold of a handrail. “Maybe. You’re not looking too swift yourself.”
“So then, we old comrades end up dying together.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Vincent. We’re not comrades, and we’re not going to die together.”
In that instant, Jordan saw the flicker in Traiman’s eyes, even before he heard the movement behind him. Sandor spun and slid to the side in one fluid step, firing a long burst at Dombroski. The man staggered backwards, down the steps to the wheelhouse, and over the railing. Given the moment, Traiman dove for the MAC 10 that had fallen to the deck. He looked up as he strained to reach the weapon, his gaze now met by Jordan’s.
“I can’t say I’ll miss you, Vincent.”
Traiman forced a grim smile. “I suppose not, old friend.” Then he lunged forward the last foot or so. Jordan did not hesitate. He fired a burst of shots that sent Traiman sprawling face first across the deck of the bridge.
Sandor leaned over to make certain he was dead. He kicked aside the SMG, stood up, and stared down at Traiman one last time. He shook his head sadly and then made his way to the foredeck.
The Halaby held its course, cruising slowly through the calm waters of the indifferent Mediterranean, the speed cut well back due to the damage Sandor had caused in the engine room. The sound of gunfire had subsided, the two crafts piloted by Byrnes’ men having moved out of range. The remaining force on the yacht heard the helicopter before they saw it approaching from the east.
Jordan also spotted the Black Hawk as it emerged through the darkness, realizing that if Traiman’s men refused to surrender in the next few moments, the Halaby would be pulverized, along with everyone on it.
Sandor had reached the foredeck and was kneeling in the cool night air in front of the enclosed bridge. He heard two men running fast along the starboard walkway. He was too weak now to chance another battle, especially if a second team followed them forward, along the port side, which was more than likely.
Jordan held the MP5 out, beyond the cover of the wheelhouse, and sent a barrage of shots at the two approaching gunman, holding them off for the moment. Then he hobbled to the railing and dropped himself overboard.
The Black Hawk attempted to radio the yacht, but the two men who had been on the bridge, Traiman and the captain, were both dead. The American agents aboard the helicopter watched as the yacht limped slowly through the calm sea, its course set, its engines damaged.
Their next option would have been to send a warning shot across the bow, a small charge that would explode in the sea, sending a huge spray of water high into the air.
Instead, Byrnes ordered the co-pilot to hold off, instructing him to train two large spotlights on the deck of the ship. Then, using the high-powered loudspeaker, he directed him to tell the men remaining on the Halaby that they had exactly ten seconds to kill the engines and come on deck with their arms raised. The Black Hawk had to be concerned about the launch of a shoulder-mounted rocket, so no further warning would be given.
By now, the men aboard had spread the word that Traiman was gone. They also knew the Black Hawk could fire a charge smack into the center of the ship that would end the debate in one shot. One of the men argued that they could use a Stinger to take out the chopper, but the others shut him up. Even if they got lucky and took out the chopper, there was more artillery where this Black Hawk came from. If they missed, they would be annihilated in seconds.
So, without further argument, they marched onto the main deck, threw down their weapons, and held up their hands.
“Into the spotlight,” the loudspeaker ordered them. “You will be boarded now. A hostile move by anyone on the ship will be an act of war by all.”
The co-pilot radioed the larger boat and told them to take the Halaby.
Meanwhile, the pilot of the smaller, faster boat had spotted Christine and Koppel when they went over the side and had circled back to pick them up. Now he was looking for Sandor as the larger cabin cruiser headed straight towards the Halaby.
Even with the aid of their night-vision glasses, it was Christine who saw him first. “Jordan,” she cried out, pointing at him.
The speedboat swung sharply to the port side and came around to where he was struggling to stay afloat. They motored swiftly to his position, reached over the side, and hauled Sandor to safety.
SIXTY-FOUR
Jordan Sandor, his left arm in a sling, a cane resting against his chair, sat at a small table in Doney’s on the Via Veneto in Rome. He was sipping a cup of espresso with anisette, looking out the window at the stream of pedestrians that crowded this famous boulevard on a sunny afternoon.
“Listen to this,” Christine said, reading from the International Herald Tribune. She recited another account of the capture of terrorists in New York and San Francisco. There were only a few details, including a reference to the interception of a shipment of potentially dangerous chemicals from Marseilles, but no mention of VX gas.
“Potentially dangerous,” Jordan repeated with a shake of his head.
“Excuse me, if I don’t get up,” Sandor said.
“Good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”
“Along with the blood, you mean?”
The DD sat down, taking a chair across from them, his back to the street. “It was a good job, Jordan.”
Sandor nodded. “Too bad about—” he began, but Byrnes cut in.
“We stopped them. You stopped them. It was important, and you got it done.”
“Yeah. Stopped them for now.”
“We can only fight one battle at a time,” the DD said. It was one of his favorite sayings.
“Koppel okay?”
“He’s fine, thanks to you. And he’ll wind up the hero, of course. Probably get someone to make a movie about him.”
“One of life’s sweet ironies.”
“So it would seem.”
“No glory for us though, right chief?”
The deputy director offered no response to Sandor’s wry look.
When their waiter came by Byrnes said he would not be staying. The man ambled away, muttering something in Italian.
“I just wanted to meet Miss Frank, to thank her personally. And to tell you to take as much time as you need.”
“And then?”
“And then you’re coming back, aren’t you?”
Jordan forced a smile. “Where else have I got to go?”
Byrnes looked at Christine now. “The world can be a pretty lousy place, young lady.” He stood up and extended his hand. “Thank you for your courage.”
Christine was not sure how to respond, so she shook his hand and said nothing at all.
“The name Covington gave me,” Jordan said. “Was he telling the truth?”
“Unfortunately,” Byrnes said. “Figueroa was a good agent, or so we thought. Smarter than Covington. We were onto Covington, but we had no idea Figueroa was involved. I’m surprised John gave him up.”
Targets of Deception Page 33
