Targets of Deception (27 page)

The men had not paused or, if they did, Jordan had not seen it. He waited to hear them reach the next landing below, then grabbed Christine again and led her up the stairs as quickly and quietly as they could move.

Maybe Andrioli was right. Perhaps surprise was on their side. Traiman would never expect them to be there. Why would he be looking for Jordan and Christine in the dimly lit hallway of his own hotel?

As soon as Jordan and Christine reached Room 57, they made their way inside. And the moment Jordan shut the door behind them, Christine broke down and began to sob. Jordan took her in his arms and held her close. “Go ahead,” he said, “I don’t blame you a bit.”

If Ridaya was satisfied with Traiman’s assurance that the Andrioli matter was being handled, Abass was clearly not. Nor was he constrained by the dictates of Ridaya’s political correctness. “These would not be the same people who have failed up to now, would they?”

“Of course not. The men who failed in eliminating Andrioli have paid the ultimate price for their incompetence.”

Abass stood up and walked towards the edge of the large desk to face Traiman. “We realize that you do not share the vision or the passion or the commitment of my people. For us there is the
jihad.
For you, only a capitalist motivation which is foreign to our holy crusade. You are, what you Americans so quaintly call, a gun for hire, a necessary evil in our war against the greater forces of sin. When you speak of paying the ultimate price you betray your misunderstanding of all we live and die for. Do I make myself clear?”

Traiman looked up at him, his dark eyes meeting the ebony gaze of the Arab terrorist, neither of them blinking. “I understand only this,” Traiman said. “In this life, we are rewarded for success and punished for failure. In the new order, if and when it comes, I will have succeeded and my position will be secure.”

“Perhaps so. For now, with the loss of our team in Washington, we need the others to be put in place.”

“Of course,” Traiman agreed, knowing that no such arrangements would be made.

Then Abass leaned forward. “And we need to know about the shipments you have been arranging.”

Traiman did what he could to conceal his surprise, sorry he had not already sent Rahmad back to New York. He filed away the notion that this was something he would have to take care of soon. “Those arrangements have nothing to do with our current plans. They have been set in motion for a future project I am developing.”

Abass waved Rahmad aside and offered up a sneer that was as close as he ever came to a real smile. “We are most interested to hear of your future plans, but for now I am concerned about the success of the planned attacks. The exposure of our team in Washington was an unfortunate loss we do not expect to suffer elsewhere. Do I make myself clear?”

Traiman was not about to back down. He also knew well enough that this was no time to confront Abass. “What reason would you have to doubt me?”

“Up to now you have provided munitions, technology and intelligence gathering. The raids you have organized were minor skirmishes. We are embarking on a greater scale of action, and we must have assurances that our operations will succeed.”

Traiman had to do his best to appear committed to the success of these operations, especially as he knew that he had worn out his welcome in Libya. Contrary to what most of the others believed about his teams of assassins, Traiman had a far more sinister scheme in play.

 “Believe me, Ibrahim,” Traiman said, addressing the al-Qaeda henchman in this familiar way, his tone becoming friendly as he reminded himself of his real goal, “I am as committed to the success of these plans as you are.”    

FORTY-ONE

Inside their room, Christine sat on the edge of the bed, watching as Sandor busied himself with the contents of Andrioli’s brief case.

There was no remote detonation device for the plastique. All he had was a primitive fuse, which would afford them only minimal time to leave the hotel before the explosion. He tore off a small piece, went into the bathroom, placed it in the sink and lit it to get a sense of the burn time.

“Well,” he said as he came back into the room, “at least it appears to be a slow burner. Should give us enough time to get clear.”

She gave him a look that begged him to say he was only teasing.

“Once I set this charge and light it, we’re going to have to move.”

Christine nodded. “All right,” she said. “Just tell me what to do.”

“The clerk has likely gotten word out by now. They may send someone to check us out.”

She stood as he placed the C-4 along the heater unit, where it would do the most damage. He was on his hands and knees, running the fuse along the floor, not concerned if it set the rug on fire before it burned all the way down. The important thing was for the charge to be properly ignited.

When he was finished, he looked up at her. “You ready?”

She nodded.

“All right. Once we leave the room, there’s no turning back. Stay close to me, no matter what happens.” He stood, grabbed his black bag and handed her Andrioli’s attaché. He picked up the .45 and shoved it in his jacket pocket. Then he lit a match. “Here we go,” he said, and lit the fuse.

They left the room, quietly shutting the door behind them. Then, almost immediately as they began down the stairs, they heard the sound of a door opening below them. Jordan pulled Christine behind him and felt for the handle of the .45.

They waited for an instant, listening as a door closed. They heard what sounded like two men heading down the steps.  

The staircase was narrow and winding, well suited to the bell tower design but not intended for more than one person moving up or down at a time.

Jordan motioned for her to stay put, then eased his way silently down to get a better look. He waited to hear them reach the next landing below, then he hustled back to Christine, grabbed her hand and pulled her up the stairs, moving as quickly and quietly as they could.

“Come on. They don’t know we’re here yet,” he told her. “But as soon as they get to the front desk they’ll be coming back for us.”

He continued racing upward, Christine right behind.

They reached the top level, where they found the passageway Andrioli had described.

If we had gone directly down and through the atrium, we would be on the street by now
, Jordan told himself as he thought of the fuse burning away in Room 57.

He gave Christine a gentle shove, following her as they sprinted ahead, stopping at the archway to an enclosed bridge that connected the two towers, spanning the length of the patio below.

Jordan, holding the automatic in his right hand, found himself thinking of
Al-Sirat
, the bridge Muslims walk over to see if they will go to paradise or to hell. More slender than a spider’s thread and sharper than a sword, according to Islamic tradition, it was a span only the good passed over swiftly enough to reach heaven.

He took Christine’s hand again and began running, quickly traversing the narrow overpass, reaching a door at the other end. He hesitated, listening. It was quiet, so he pushed it open, the gun at his side as he stepped out onto the top-floor landing. He looked quickly in each direction. No one was there. The stairwell below was silent.

As they raced down the stairs, Jordan remained in the lead. He checked over his shoulder to ensure that she was close behind, attentive to any sound that might tell him Traiman’s men had circled back to find them. The steep, winding staircase offered them no protection as they approached the end of each flight. These small landings were the only places a pursuer could hide, unless they had positioned themselves inside one of the rooms.

They came around the last turn without seeing anyone, but Jordan realized the gravest danger awaited them in the lobby.

He stopped at the bottom of the staircase, behind the door that led directly into the deep, narrow foyer. Christine was beside him. They paused for a moment, Sandor visualizing the layout of the area, imagining how he would position a backup team if he were preparing the attack. He would place one behind the counter, another in the corner near the entrance. He decided he would base his move on that, knowing he must move immediately. The two men they saw in the rear tower had likely begun to search for them, and they could be anywhere in the building by now.

“Stay low and close,” he whispered to her, then pushed through the door in a running crouch, his gun extended. He came to a stop beside the desk.

The clerk, who was handing a key to another guest, froze in place and stared at Sandor wide-eyed.

“Don’t make a move,” Jordan said, pointing the gun up at the clerk’s face as he quickly scanned the room.

The guest, an Englishman who had either begun the day with an early bracer or was ending a long night, had trouble getting his eyes to focus on the gray gunmetal of the Colt. “Say, what is all this?” he asked unevenly.

“Shut the hell up and get on the floor,” Jordan barked at him.

The Brit immediately dropped to his knees, either grateful to be taken out of the action or badly in need of rest.

Before anyone made another move, they were rocked by the concussive sound of the explosion coming from the rear of the hotel.

The clerk began yelling something in French, but Jordan trained the barrel of the automatic at his eyes. “Out,” he hollered.

The portly man moved cautiously, his eyes on the gun that remained leveled at him as he moved.

“Keep watch on the glass door,” Jordan said over his shoulder to Christine, referring to the entranceway to the patio behind them. “Come on,” he yelled at the clerk, grabbing him roughly by the arm then twisting him around to use him as a shield.

“Jordan,” Christine whispered. “I think I hear something.”

Sandor stopped, the sound of hurried footsteps in the distance coming from the front stairwell they had just used. “Let’s go,” he said, pushing the clerk towards the front door. “You first.” He shoved the man through the front door and out onto the Rue des Saints-Pères.

As the door swung open, the man stumbled. Jordan let him go. The clerk fell to the ground on his back. Christine was right behind them.

Jordan leaned over the stout little clerk, the automatic now hidden under his jacket. “Mr. Forest, you got that. Any messages for Mr. Forest, you hold them for me.”

The man stared up at him, his look of bewilderment mixed with fear and rage.

Jordan pulled out their room key and dropped it onto the man’s chest. “Mr. Forest. You got that?”

The man nodded without speaking.

“Good, because I don’t want to have to come back here and find you.
Comprende
?”

When the clerk nodded again, Jordan took Christine’s hand and ran towards the Boulevard Saint-Germain.

At the corner of the Rue des Saints-Pères and Saint-Germain, Jordan flagged down a passing taxi.

“Take this cab to Fouquet’s,” Jordan told her. “Sit there as long as you feel safe, but if Andrioli and I don’t show in an hour, don’t wait any more. Take a cab to the US Embassy. Tell them you’ve got to speak to someone at Langley about Jordan Sandor.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out two phone numbers he had written out. “The first number is in Virginia. Just add 4-3-4 at the end. Tell them you’ve got to be connected to that number. It’s an emergency. You got it? Don’t write it down, just remember it. You add 4-3-4. Tell them everything you know.”

“All right. What’s the other number?”

“Add a 212 area code and a 5 at the end.”

She nodded.

“That’s my friend’s number. Bill Sternlich. He’ll help you.”

The taxi driver was becoming impatient. “
Monsieur
,” he said, leaning toward the passenger window, “do you want the cab?”

“Yes yes,” Jordan said. Turning back to Christine, he handed her some folded one hundred dollar bills and said, “Now go.”

“Will you be all right?”

He looked over his shoulder. He could not see very far down the street as it curved in an arc before the hotel. “I’ll be fine,” he told her. “Now get out of here.”

She took his face in her hands and kissed him. “I’ll be waiting. Don’t worry.”

Jordan smiled. “I’ll be there. Now go!” he said to the driver, slamming the door shut and heading off without looking back.

FORTY-TWO

The fair-haired American named Kerrigan came into the lobby first, his smaller, darker partner right behind. The desk clerk, who was brushing himself off after shouting a loud string of French expletives down the street at Jordan and Christine, had lumbered back inside. The Englishman remained kneeling at the base of the front desk. He began to utter a rueful, “I say,” but the effort was stifled at the sight of another automatic weapon, this one being brandished by the tall American.

The concierge did not have to be coaxed into describing everything that had happened, including the message left by Sandor. Normally, he was paid for information, but this time he was only too pleased to help, giving every detail. He finished by saying that the man and woman had gone off to the right, towards Saint-Germain.

Kerrigan and his partner cautiously opened the front door and stepped outside the hotel. They moved slowly at first, looking up and down the Rue des Saints-Pères several times before splitting up, each taking a side of the street as they began to stride purposefully towards the Boulevard. Kerrigan’s partner, on the far side of the arched lane, got a look at Christine in the cab as it pulled away. He was surprised to see Sandor remain behind.

He signaled Kerrigan, who crossed over in time to spot Sandor before he disappeared from view, off to their right. They saw that he was alone, moving at a brisk pace in the direction of the Rue de Rennes.

It was a chilly autumn day, the streets busy with the morning traffic of students, artists, tourists and local habitués of the Left Bank. They needed to follow him, but a public scene would be a problem. They would have to find a better place to take him out.