Targets of Deception (13 page)

Beth writhed convulsively. All that mattered now was getting him away from him, but this small man was much stronger than he appeared. He pulled the pillow away from her—it was stained with blood from her swollen mouth and jaw—and threw it to the floor.

She shrank from him, curling up, fetus-like against the carved mahogany headboard.

Tafallai leaned forward, his eyes meeting hers in the dim light. “Tell me,” he hissed at her through clenched teeth.

She could not focus, her body cold with shock. “Woodstock,” she muttered. “It’s all I know.” She spoke slowly and with difficulty. “Woodstock,” she mumbled again.

“When?”

“Today.”

“You’re lying,” he said, raising his hand above her shattered jaw.

“Leave me alone.” She was whimpering uncontrollably, her entire body trembling.

Tafallai shook her by the arm, pointing the gun at her face. He realized he would get nothing more from her. “This is the last time I’m going to ask you. Where is he?”  

Beth’s hazel eyes widened, perhaps sensing she had come to the end. She stared at him, only for an instant, then screamed, “Leave me alone,” collapsing under the pain of the effort.

When she heard the sound of wood shattering and metal twisting from her doorway, it seemed a distant event to Beth, a surreal moment of violent action she was witnessing from afar. The door had come crashing open, two men bursting through. Tafallai turned to fire at them, but he was too late. The small apartment erupted in a barrage of gunfire and bloodshed. Not hers, Beth was beginning to understand, but his. The spray of blood was his—his blood.

The first man through was already standing over Tafallai as the second pulled the blanket from the bed and covered Beth.

As he leaned forward she shrank away in terror. “Miss Sharrow,” the man said, “we’re here to help you. Are you all right?”

She reached up and wrapped her arms around the man’s neck, then wept as he lifted her from the bed.

“It’s okay,” the agent told her. “It’s going to be all right.”

“She’s in shock,” a third man said as he came in. “Get her the hell out of here.”

“They call an ambulance yet?”

“Yeah.”

The two men looked to the first agent, who was now kneeling over Tafallai’s body. He was shaking his head.

“No good,” he said. “He’s dead.”

“Damnit,” said the third man. “Covington isn’t going to like it.”

NINETEEN

Jordan had not eaten since he munched on peanuts and cashews at the Algonquin. He considered room service, calling for a rare steak and a bottle of whatever they claimed to be their most expensive red wine. But, deciding he didn’t feel like sitting alone in the room, he dialed the operator to see what sort of restaurant was available downstairs. He was not surprised to find that his call went directly to an FBI hookup.

“Well,” he said, “do you think you can at least get me a decent table?”

Yes, the agent told him humorlessly, he was free to go down to dinner. Then hung up.

When Jordan left his room, he was greeted by a brief nod from an agent stationed in the hallway. Whatever Prescott and Covington were up to, they were serious about keeping tabs on him.

He rode down in the elevator and then strolled through the lobby, keeping an eye out for familiar faces, friendly or otherwise. He entered the restaurant and went straight for the bar. It was a dark room with reflective ceilings, sparkling walls, and black lacquer cocktail tables—all about as cozy as stainless steel. Still, Jordan was happier here than sitting upstairs.

He ordered a Jack Daniels Single Barrel on the rocks and had a seat.

He knew he was being watched. He also knew that any attempt to leave the hotel would create havoc. Even so, he longed for one of the comfortable armchairs at the Algonquin.

His drink came and he took a sip, the first burning taste cutting through a long day’s thirst.
Maybe I should skip dinner altogether
, he thought.
Maybe I should
just get good and drunk
.

He was turning that idea over when he noticed a woman approach. She stopped a few barstools away, standing there, staring at him. She looked to be in her thirties, her trim figure clad in tight jeans and a fitted black v-neck. Her arms at her sides. Her hands empty. She had sandy colored hair and unhappy eyes. In the dimly lit bar he made her for a working girl. He gave her a little frown then looked straight ahead, hoping she would get the idea that he wasn’t the type.

She approached him, and he was about to suggest that she peddle her story elsewhere. Before he had the chance, however, she asked quietly, “Are you Mr. Sandor?”

He looked her up and down now. She had a nice shape, an extremely pretty face, and pale blue eyes that seemed even sadder than they had from a distance. “Who’s asking?”

“I’m Christine Frank,” she said. “Jimmy McHugh’s sister.”

The telephone rang . Covington was in his room on the concierge level, hanging up the few things he had brought from Washington. It was Nealon. He explained that Beth Sharrow had been attacked but was in stable condition.

“How the hell did that happen?”

“They had just arrived,” Nealon told him. “Two men were being positioned inside, one at the front. As soon as they heard her scream, they went through her door.”

“And the man?”

“He’s dead, sir. He was armed. We had no choice but to fire.”

Covington sat down on the edge of the bed. Holding the phone in one hand, he rubbed his face with the other. “Any ID on him?”

“Not yet.”

“Check all sources. Find out what you can about him. See if we can connect some dots here.”

“Yes sir.”

Covington put down the hotel phone, reached for his cell and placed a call.

Jordan had turned on the barstool to face the young woman. “You mind spinning around once? Slowly.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve been kind of unpopular lately,” he said. “I don’t need another stranger making an unfriendly visit. Not up close and personal like this.”

She blinked, not moving.

“The way those jeans fit, I don’t think I need to frisk you, but just to be sure . . . if you don’t mind.”

Christine responded with a confused look. “Are you asking me if I have a gun or something?”

“Or something, yes.” Jordan was holding his drink, watching her. “A gun, a bomb, a blackjack, a hidden microphone. Anything at all. Yes, that’s what I’m asking.”

She forced a smile and, although it took an effort, he thought it was a very good smile. It managed to light up her entire face just for an instant. Even her doleful eyes.

She did a pirouette for him, even lifting her sweater just enough to expose some of her midriff which, as far as he could tell, was also pretty good. There were no wires, and there was no gun.

“All right?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Sit down.”

She took the seat beside him.

Her features were cleanly drawn, her lips full, her tousled blond hair worn to shoulder length, a natural color for her fair complexion. Her pale blue eyes were tinged with red and a bit swollen. There was a slight scar over the left brow that gave a hint of character. She rested her hand on the bar, her fingers moving up and down to some beat that had nothing to do with the piped-in music playing in the background.

“Relax,” he said. “Can I get you something?”

“No.”

“I was going to have dinner. Thought I’d eat at the bar, if you’re interested.”

“No, thank you.”

“A drink?”

She thought it over. “All right.”

The bartender came over to see what was going on, especially after Christine did her little one-step rumba.

“New jeans,” Jordan said to the man. “She wanted me to see how well they fit.”

The bartender appeared unconvinced. “Can I get you something?” he asked her.

“Yes, please. Uh, whiskey sour. Straight up. And sweet.”

“Right,” the man said, took another look at the two of them before shoving off to mix the drink.

“Whiskey sour, sweet and straight up. You’re a real boozer, I can tell.”

“Not really, no,” she said.

“So you’re McHugh’s sister?”

“Half sister.”

“I’m sorry about what happened.”

She looked down at her hands, and he thought she might start crying.

“Sit down,” he said, and so she perched on the stool beside him.

“I heard you were here for questioning,” she said, almost in a whisper. “Like me.”

“How did you hear that?”

“The state trooper from Woodstock, the one in charge there.”

“Uh huh.”

“Then the officers who brought me here. They said you were staying here too.”

“They told you I was here?”

“Yes. I mean, they didn’t say it was you. They said there was someone else they were ‘helping,’ but I knew it was you from the uh . . .”

“I know, the trooper upstate.”

“Right.”

“So how did you know who I was?”

“The trooper described you.”

“I guess Captain Reynolds has quite an artistic way with words. You made me right away.”

“No, actually. You’re the third man I’ve approached in the past hour.” She gave him another look at her smile. “I think that’s why the bartender is watching me.”

“He’s not the only one.”

She looked over her shoulder at two agents seated at a small table between them and the exit to the main lobby.

“I noticed them when I came in. And they’re letting you run free in here, picking up strange men at the bar?”

“I wouldn’t put it like that.”

He took a sip of whiskey. “So they offered you protective custody?”

“Yes,” she nodded anxiously. “At first they were nice about it. The men upstate. I told them I didn’t need any protection, but they insisted and drove me down here. I was in a daze after finding out about, you know, about Jimmy. They said there were men in New York wanted to question me. So that’s what they did, all afternoon. Question me. Then they told me I should stay here overnight—for my own safety—and think things over.” She began to stall out.

“Go on,” he said.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to think over.”

“You could have just gone home.”

She shook her head, as if he made less sense than they did.

She was pretty good
, he thought,
but Covington could have done better
.

The bartender brought her drink and Jordan asked for another.

“You sure you don’t want dinner?” Sandor asked her.

“I don’t think so. I’m not hungry.”

“Well, here’s to better days,” he said, holding up his glass as he watched her sip at the tart cocktail.

“I went to Woodstock to see Jimmy,” she said, then demurely wiped her lips with a paper napkin.

Definitely not much of a drinker
, Sandor noted.

“When I got there, I found out what happened.” She looked at him, her blue eyes wide, her posture considerably more relaxed than when she first walked up to him. She let out a long, audible sigh as she pushed flaxen strands of hair from her forehead.

Jordan shrugged and finished off his Jack Daniels in a gulp.

“So what do you want?”

She hesitated. “I want to leave. I have to leave.”

“Call a lawyer. You’re not accused of any crime, right? Why come to me?”

She shook her head slightly, as if to say she was not sure. “I don’t know. I thought . . . from what the captain upstate said about you and what they said here . . . I thought—”

“That I would help you.”

“Yes.”

“I know it sounds crazy—”

“That it does. So what exactly am I supposed to help you do?”

She looked at him again. “I want you to help me to get out of here. I have to go someplace. And even if you don’t want to go with me—”

“Go with you?”

“Yes.”

“Uh huh. Look, Miss Frank, people have taken to shooting at me the past couple of days. Your brother and a very good friend of mine are already dead. I’m the last guy in the world you want to be standing next to right now. No offense, but maybe protective custody isn’t such a bad idea.”

She stared at him hard. “But you don’t believe that, do you?”

Now it was Jordan’s turn to stare. “No,” he admitted, pushing some of his hair back with his hand. “I don’t.”

“But you don’t believe me either. I can see that.”

“Under the circumstances, I’m sure you can understand if I’m a little skeptical of everyone right now. Whoever you are, you’ve got to tell me something that might persuade me to help you. Wherever it is you think you’re going.”

“All right,” she said, looking around, then leaning towards him as if she were about to plant a kiss on his cheek, she whispered in his ear. “Jimmy had a friend.”

TWENTY

Jordan and Christine took a table in the grill room beside a large wall of dark tinted windows overlooking Times Square. She spoke as quietly as she could, Jordan regularly urging her to lower her voice, knowing that Covington, the FBI, or both, could be remotely monitoring the conversation. The two agents, still seated near the entrance to the bar, did not appear all that interested, except perhaps to block any attempt they might make to leave the place. Even so, Sandor knew they could easily be a decoy.

As he worked on his whiskey and listened, Christine told him about her brother.

James McHugh fought in Vietnam and Cambodia with one of the last groups of Green Berets out of Saigon. He made it home, but his experiences in Southeast Asia cast a shadow he could not outrun. He had seen young American soldiers murdered and crippled in rice paddies and bomb-pocked fields. He left every vestige of his own youth and innocence over there. The reward for his pain and sacrifice was an ungrateful homeland, filled with people who hated the war and behaved as if the veterans themselves were somehow to blame. He found himself in a society driven by a seemingly endless contest for more and greater material comforts, and he could not find a way to compete.

Drink and pills had gotten him through the days and nights as he sought to fit into the new order. Finally, when he thought he might never sober up long enough to regain a sense of purpose, an old comrade-in-arms contacted him about work in the Middle East. The positions being offered were strictly non-combat, involving personnel training, equipment and weapon education, flight instruction and technical assistance. The money was good, and tax-free. Why, his friend asked, pay taxes to a country that has no use for you after it sent you to hell, not caring whether you ever came back?