Targets of Deception (14 page)

McHugh followed his friend to Libya.

In the beginning things had been fine, or so he wrote to Christine. He was earning good money, had a certain level of authority and, most important, he had a reason to get up in the morning. He did not tell her the truth about his work, not in the beginning. He claimed he was working for a foreign company. Eventually he confessed what he had been doing, admitting that that he had rationalized his role by being far removed from the actual consequences of his actions. He was a purveyor of military knowledge, nowhere near the bomb blasts in Jerusalem, the assassination attempts in Yemen, the plots to upset the uneasy balance of power throughout the world’s most volatile region.

He visited the compound at Bab el-Azziziya, where Qadaffi’s disingenuous array of Bedouin tents were actually surrounded by a fortress of walls, bunkers and a sprawling military complex. He went into the desert to training grounds where mock attacks were acted out like rehearsals for a bad action movie. McHugh was not part of the fighting, or so he told himself, even as his doubts were assuaged with money and alcohol and women—all of which were made available to him and his fellow mercenaries in a society where liquor and pornography were contraband.

And so he stumbled forward through the years . . . until one night, when he was watching a cable newscast about the war in Iraq, a report about the soldiers being killed by terrorist assaults . . . until he heard the report about a decorated captain, an old friend, who had been blown to pieces by a roadside bomb . . . until that instant, when he was confronted by everything he had managed to ignore up to then. And then there was Nine Eleven. In a few blinding moments, he was compelled to open his eyes to the contribution he was making to this devastation.

He did not react immediately. Biding his time. Continuing to perform his duties. Waiting several months before requesting leave for some R & R in France. He contacted Christine, whom he had not seen in more than a decade. She was going on her summer vacation, on leave from her position as an assistant professor of art history at Penn State. He invited her to visit, to tour the museums of Paris, providing a rationale for his excursion. He received permission from the quasi-military order of command, then in June flew to Orly, with the secret intention of disappearing forever.

“That was a couple of months ago,” Christine said. “When we got together in Paris, that’s when Jimmy told me everything he’d been doing in North Africa.”

Jordan nodded. “Go on.”

“When he invited me to Paris, he told me he was going to be on vacation. Then, when I got there, he told me he wasn’t going back, that he wanted to come home. He was scared. There was fear in everything he said, everything he did. That’s when he left Paris.”

“And you left with him?”

“No. I flew to Madrid and stayed there for two weeks. He insisted on it, paid in advance for everything—the hotel, plane tickets, everything. He wanted people to think we were going there together.”

Jordan shook his head as he contemplated the risk she had unwittingly taken. If her story was true, her brother had placed her life in danger by involving her in his scheme to escape. “And before Paris, you hadn’t seen him for more than ten years?”

“Hadn’t had a letter from him in more than three.”

“Okay. So what happened after Spain, when you got back home?”

“Nothing. Not for a couple of months, anyway. I had no way to find him, no idea where he was. Then I got a call from his friend. He asked me to go to Woodstock and see Jimmy. You know the rest.”

“You knew this friend?”

“I only met him once, in Paris this past summer. When he called me the other day, he said Jimmy was in trouble, that he needed my help.”

Jordan had another good look at her, allowing a brief silence to fall over them as he studied her pale blue eyes for any sort of tell. “So,” he finally said with a sigh, “who are you, really? Who sent you to me? Prescott doesn’t have the imagination. It would have to be Covington. But frankly, I expect more of him.”

Christine began to speak, but he held up his hand. “Wait. Let me get this straight. You were supposed to tell me this last bit, about your brother’s friend. Then we’re supposed to compare everything the two of us know and run off into the night to avenge your brother’s murder. How am I doing?”

Christine’s eyes filled with tears and she began to cry. She sobbed in a quiet, soulful way that Jordan was sure she had calculated for maximum effect.

“Save it,” he said, having another pull of his whiskey. “I don’t melt at the sight of a woman crying. No hard feelings, but the whole act is wasted on me.” He handed her a napkin. “Just go back to wherever you came from and tell them it was a nice try, but it didn’t work.”

She took the napkin, lowered her head and wiped her eyes. Watching her, he had to wonder. If she was acting, she was very good.

“Come on,” he said. “Knock it off.”

She looked up at him, her eyes red and swollen again. “I don’t understand.” She spoke in halting fashion now, struggling to take a deep breath. “Those men, they said you were going to leave, that you’d never stay here. That’s why I tried to find you. Why would I lie about all this?”

“Why would you lie? There are all sorts of reasons, believe me. But let’s assume you’re for real. What do you expect me to do?”

“I hoped you would help me.”

“I’m listening.” She nodded, and Jordan knew that if he was being taken, he was being taken but good.

“Okay,” Christine said, “this other man—”

“Don’t say any names,” Jordan cut her off.

Christine nodded. “This other man, he was Jimmy’s best friend over there,” she said. “He was the one who took him to Libya in the first place. Now he’s here, in the States.”

“I’m still listening.”

“These people—the people that killed Jimmy—they’ll be after him too.”

“And you and I are supposed to save him.”

“There’s more to it than that.”

“Then why not tell the feds?”

“I can’t. Don’t you see?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“He told me that if Traiman doesn’t kill him, the government will.”

The mention of Traiman’s name got him to sit up straight in his seat. “No names, right?”

“Sorry. But he was their boss, or whatever, the man they worked for.”

Jordan felt his spine stiffen even more. “And what do you expect to do for this other guy?”

“Warn him? Help him? I don’t know. He and Jimmy wanted to speak with someone, someone they could trust.”

“And that was supposed to be me?”

“I think so.”

“And you knew my name before you got here.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” she admitted. “I knew your name.”

“From Jimmy’s friend?”

“Yes.”

“Who got my name from your brother?”

“I’m not sure.”

“But he needs your help. Our help.”

“He does.”

“And he has information he’s willing to share with me.”

“I believe that, yes.”

“Where is he?”

“Will you help me?”

Jordan sat, staring at her. She knew Traiman’s name. She knew his name. She told the tale and, if it was not entirely credible, it wasn’t the worst setup he’d ever heard. He had to figure she was either a plant from Covington or a trap set by the men who had murdered McHugh and Danny. Either way, he had to know.

“Let’s eat something first,” he said. “I’m starving.”   

TWENTY-ONE

Covington was still in his hotel room when Nealon called back.

“We’re only getting parts of their conversation,” Nealon told him. “They’re speaking very quietly. We’ll have to go back and filter out the ambient noise on the tape.”

“Cut the techno crap, Todd. Where are they?”

“They’re still in the restaurant, sir.”

Covington sucked air through his clenched teeth. “I mean, in their conversation.”

“Sorry. She said McHugh had a friend. She wants Sandor to help her find him.”

“Did she give him a name?”

“No sir. Sandor told her not to use names.”

“Any location on this friend?”

“Not yet.”

“Well stay with it. And keep me informed. Move Prescott’s men out of the way if you have to.”

“Yes sir.”

“But gently. Move them gently.”

“Yes sir.”

Sandor had a salad, a rare sirloin steak and drank off the best part of a bottle of Opus One. Christine only picked at her salad and barely touched her lamb chops.

As Jordan stood to leave, the two government agents at the far table turned toward him.

“
Upstairs
,” Jordan mouthed towards them, pointing toward the ceiling. He extended his hand to help Christine from her chair and told her, “No reason to have them jumping up and pulling out their guns.”

He wrote a large tip on the bill and charged it to the room, then took Christine by the arm and led her back through the bar to the elevators.

“I assume you’re staying on the concierge floor with the rest of the spooks.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the plastic pass key.

“Good,” he said. “I’ve got some calls to make. Then we’ll get together again.”

Christine inserted the plastic card into the slot, and they rode up in the elevator. She leaned against the mirrored wall and lowered her head.

“Tired?” Jordan asked.

She nodded.

He moved close to her, whispering directly in her ear. “I want you come to my room in thirty minutes. Bring whatever you need to take with you. No suitcase, just a purse and whatever you can stuff in it.”

She nodded again.

“We’ll tell them we’re going back down to the bar for a nightcap.”

The door to the elevator slid open and the guard near the elevator on their floor was still there waiting for them as they stepped out.

“Good evening,” Jordan said to him as they walked by. The agent said nothing.

Christine was staying a few rooms down from his, and he walked her to her door.

“Try and relax,” he said. “Take a bath or something.”

She gave him a curious look.

“Women like taking baths when they need to unwind, right?”

She smiled, and he decided that whoever she really was, he definitely liked her smile.

“Stop by in half an hour,” he told her in a voice loud enough for their guard to hear. “We’ll have one last cocktail.” When she was safely inside, he returned to his room, shut the door behind him and flipped the security bolt.

As he stood there, alone in the quiet, his first thought was that something was wrong. All wrong. Covington would never allow this girl to get to him unless he wanted it that way. She had far too much information, including Traiman’s name. And why would they permit him to keep his bag with everything intact?

Jordan grabbed the leather satchel from the desk, tossed it on the bed and went through it. Everything was still there, including the cash, the extra passports and his clean cell in the false pockets inside. That didn’t mean it had not been searched. It only meant they were willing to let him keep what he had, at least for now.

The obvious question was why.
The answer was just as obvious. They wanted him out there, a moving target in search of Jimmy McHugh’s friend. And Christine was somehow a part of that plan.

He used the hotel phone to make his first call. “Captain Reynolds, please.” It was nearly midnight, and the officer on duty told him the captain could not be reached. There was none of the small talk or cooperation he had had from the other trooper that afternoon, even after Jordan said the matter was urgent. It was apparent that Reynolds’ unavailability had nothing to do with the time of night. Someone had cut off that line of communication.

His next call was to Sternlich. Bill picked up the phone on the first ring.

“Sternlich.”

“Sorry to call you so late, Billy.”

“Forget it. I wasn’t sleeping. I’ve actually been trying to reach you for hours but your cell phone is off.”

“I thought it would be better to keep it shut down for now.” He did not tell him that he assumed the line was already being tapped.

“Have you heard about Beth?” Sternlich and his wife had known Beth Sharrow from the time she and Jordan had begun seeing each other.

“What about her?”

Sternlich described the attack on Beth.

Sandor paced back and forth in the small room, the phone in one hand, the receiver in the other. He finally stopped moving and sank slowly into the club chair. “How is she?”

“Pretty bad, Jordan. Broken jaw. Shock. A real mess. Good news is they say she’ll be all right.”

“Lunch,” was all Jordan could think of to say.

“What?”

“I met her today for drinks. We were supposed to have lunch, remember? They must have followed me. Used her to get to me.” The compassion he felt for Beth quickly passed into anger. “What about the sonuvabitch who—”

“Dead.”

“Damnit.”

Sternlich did not reply.

“Any word on who he was?”

“Nothing yet. Not that I’ve heard.”

“Where is she?”

“Mt. Sinai. But a visit from you is out of the question. For her sake as well as yours.”

Jordan nodded at the phone. “Have you spoken with her?”

“She’s under sedation. I’ll go over in the morning.”

“Right.” Jordan gazed numbly out the hotel window at the brightly lit New York City skyline. “So here I am, all over again,” he said. “And that sonuvabitch Covington didn’t even tell me.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He knew Covington’s men were listening on this line. His comments were for their benefit. “You get anything for me on that thing I asked you about? Just say yes or no.”

“Not really. I feel like a doped-up mouse in a rigged maze. Information roadblocks everywhere, courtesy of Big Brother, which tells me you’re onto something important. And dangerous.”

“I would say so.”

“But you’re okay?”

“So far. I’m with McHugh’s sister. She’s telling me a tale, but I don’t believe her. I think they’re setting me up. I need to get a couple of drinks in her, then see what she has to say.” Sandor clearly wanted Covington’s men to hear that. “And Bill, drop this thing I asked you about. I’ll take it from here.”