Targets of Deception (29 page)

“So tell us.”

“I will. After I find Jackson.”

“Okay,” Jordan agreed. He looked down at the drinks and food on their table. “It’s been a while since I’ve flown to Paris for cognac and baguettes.”

The three of them lifted their glasses in a silent toast.

Covington and four of his men, including Todd Nealon, were on their way to France. He had just received an e-mail via satellite describing the shootings near the Cathedral Saint-German-des-Près. It was not yet clear what had happened, but one man had been found dead. Interpol identified him as a known terrorist. No one at the scene had been apprehended.

The deputy director told Covington it was time to shorten the leash on Andrioli and Sandor. Regardless of what Andrioli managed to find in Paris, he should be taken in for questioning. If Sandor was with him, Covington was instructed to bring him in as well.

Covington had other plans, however. But for now he would follow instructions.

FORTY-FOUR

On the way to their new hotel, Jordan and Christine stopped to purchase a few items. The suitcases and clothing they had picked up in Atlanta were abandoned in Room 57 of the Pas de Tour. Andrioli suggested the shops just off the Rue de Rivoli, on a small street featuring an assortment of boutiques.

The shopping provided a welcome diversion. They visited a number of stores, replacing Christine’s cosmetics and personals, choosing a couple of outfits for her, slacks and shirts for Jordan. By the time they were done, the two of them were laden with shopping bags and a large, signature khaki Longchamps tote for Christine.

“I don’t think I can carry anything else,” Jordan told her.

The spree over, they found their way to the small but elegant hotel Andrioli had chosen for them just a couple of blocks away.

The desk clerk greeted Jordan with a polite nod.

“I’m Mr. Kerr,” Jordan told him. “I believe you have a reservation for us.”

“Yes,” the clerk said, “we received the call a short time ago.” He asked for a passport and credit card. Jordan signed the register and American Express vouch-er as Scott Kerr, then they followed the bellboy who took their bags, led them to the lift and escorted them upstairs.

The room was generously sized, with French provincial furniture and appointments, a view of the street below and a large bed that beckoned as they felt a wave of exhaustion wash over them.

Jordan tipped the bellboy and locked the door behind him. When he turned back, he found Christine had already pulled back the comforter, kicked off her shoes and was lying on the bed.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Jordan said. “You want to go first?”

Christine shook her head. “I can’t move.”

“I won’t be a minute,” he said.

Inside the marble-walled bathroom he removed the toiletry kit from his leather bag and had a shave, then stepped into a warm, steaming shower. He let the water wash over him, relaxing his tense muscles and tired mind for a long time. He toweled off and pulled on the plush, terrycloth robe provided by the hotel.

Back in the room, he found Christine had removed her slacks and blouse and was curled up under the beige coverlet, fast asleep.

He watched her for a moment, realizing that in the three days he had known her, it was the first time he had ever seen her lovely face truly at peace. He leaned over and straightened out the duvet to make her more comfortable.

Jordan considered dialing the front desk for a wake-up call, but thought better of it. He knew he would not sleep for long, and if Andrioli needed him, he knew where to find them. He took off the robe and slid under the cover, doing his best not to wake Christine. The satiny texture of the comforter felt good against his skin and, as he turned on his side, he was surprised to find that her eyes had opened. She was watching him.

“We need some rest,” he said.

She nodded.

“You all right?”

She nodded again then moved closer to him, placing her arm around his neck.

“Danger is an aphrodisiac,” he warned her, reaching out to stroke her sandy-colored hair.

“Is it?”

He nodded. “Wouldn’t be fair to take advantage of the situation.”

She smiled, maybe the best of the smiles she had shown him up to then. “So if you frighten a girl to death, then what? Is that like getting her drunk at a party?”

“Never thought of it that way,” he said, taking her by the shoulders and gently drawing her towards him. “I guess it’s the right analogy, though. Just isn’t done.”

She kissed him tenderly on the lips, her legs now eagerly entwined in his. He pulled back slightly and looked into her pale, blue eyes and saw a resolve that would have surprised him that evening when he had first met her at the cocktail lounge in New York.

Jordan held her, his emotions a mix of desire and doubt, passionate instinct and clinical analysis, wanting to trust her, but knowing he should not.

She reached up to kiss him again, pressing herself against him as she became lost in the moment, her hands searching his strong form. She pulled away from him slightly, remaining under the coverlet as she slipped off her panties and tossed them to the floor. Then she took his face in her hands and looked into his eyes. “You don’t have to worry,” she said with a slight smile, “this isn’t because I’m afraid.”

Their lips met again, mouths open, immersing them in a warm, moist flood of sensations, an enveloping wave that permitted no other experience but this embrace. He reacted to the feel of her firm breasts pressed against his chest, the taste of her, the reassuring suppleness of her body next to his. He felt her fingers dig into his back, pulling him closer and closer, until they were together. Lost in the grand illusion for the time being.

Anthony Andrioli believed he understood things that his new partners in espionage had no way of knowing.

He understood the brutality of their adversary, Vincent Traiman, and how difficult that would make it for them to prevail. Even to survive.

He understood that life cares not at all what you think of it, that life rolls on with unremitting determination and uncaring inevitability, requiring no approval, unaffected by the intent or purpose of a man’s deeds. He understood that life itself ultimately becomes the greatest teacher of how to live.

He also understood that for him, all that was left to him was the opportunity to stop Traiman, even if there was no valor in the deed. He had sacrificed his ideals long ago, saw them bleed to death with his friends in Vietnam, watched them tormented out of existence when he discovered how little remained for him back in the States. He had taken a handful of peculiar skills and become a traitor without a cause, a heretic with no religion to betray.

Now, after his years with Traiman, there was nowhere left for him to go. He had hidden in Florida too long. The corpses left beside the New River Canal in Fort Lauderdale was proof of that.

Now, at least, he had a reason to go on. He knew some of what Traiman meant to do, and he was determined to discover the rest. He gazed into the bathroom mirror in his small hotel room in Montmartre, his dark brown eyes staring back at him, wondering how far he would get—how far they would get—before Traiman stopped them.
What the hell
, he thought as he trimmed the edges of his beard,
we’ve come this far. What else is there for me to do?

He turned on the shower, the rush of water quickly turning warm. He had very little sleep in the past couple of days, and he needed to wake up. He stepped into the tub, the Parisian shower fixture no higher than his neck. He bent forward, letting the soothing water cascade over his head and down his shoulders and back. He cupped his hands and splashed his face and hair, ducking his head beneath the shower again until he felt renewed and alert and ready.

He dressed quickly in his wrinkled clothes, then managed to smile at himself in the mirror. His rumpled appearance would be considered
très chic
in Montmartre. He picked up his attaché case and made his way out of the hotel, stopping at a public telephone on the Rue Lepic.

Night had fallen , and Montmartre was alive with people bumping and bustling their way to the Metro, scurrying along the café lined streets, stopping to admire the local artists who displayed their work against the stone walls that climbed the hills of the area. Andrioli dialed a number and waited.

“Hello,” the familiar voice answered.

“
Bonsoir
, Steve. This is Forest.”

“What the—” Steve Jackson gasped. “Forest?”

“Yes,” Andrioli said calmly. “Meet me in five minutes at the Sacred Heart Church,” he told him, using the English name of the famous cathedral.

There was a pause on the other end. “Better make it ten.”

Andrioli didn’t bother to answer. He replaced the phone on its hook and walked away.

He hadn’t seen or spoken with Steve Jackson in more than two months, but he was still the only man in Paris Andrioli trusted enough to call. He knew that Jackson would not speak on the phone, that they would have to meet, which increased the danger. Any contact with Jackson was a calculated risk, but it was unavoidable. Andrioli had used his code name to tell him that his situation was serious, both men realizing it was a superfluous gesture under the circumstances. Most agents in the system knew that their friends, Jimmy and Tony, had disappeared. They probably knew that McHugh was now dead, and they had certainly been told that Traiman had declared open season on Andrioli.

Jackson received this information sooner than most. He worked the communications detail from Paris, the link between the free Western world and the dark operations that existed behind the veil of Arab protection. Jackson was a key man in the exchange of intelligence within Traiman’s organization. That was another reason Andrioli wanted to see him.

Andrioli never believed the story Traiman was selling, the placement of overseas assassination teams. He didn’t believe it any more than he believed that Qaddafi had become a moderate force for peace, or that Saddam Hussein had ever been committed to the dismantling of his weapons of mass destruction. There was another level to the missions Traiman had initiated. Andrioli had heard enough about the Loubar shipments to know that.

Jackson was the logical connection, the man who should be able to give him vital information to piece it together.

Why, then,
Andrioli wondered,
had Jackson seem so surprised to receive his call?
After the shooting this morning, a systems coordinator in Jackson’s position would surely have heard that Andrioli was in Paris. And that he had survived the incident. Jordan had left the name Forest with the clerk at the Pas de Tour. Jackson would have heard about that as well, probably would have been the man to relay the message to Libya.
What was so shocking about the call, then? Who else would I contact in Paris?

Andrioli had chosen a hotel two blocks from Jackson’s apartment, both of which were near the foot of the Sacred Heart steps.
Why would Steve need an additional five minutes to get there?

These questions nagged at Andrioli as he climbed the mountain of steps that led to the imposing Basilique du Sacre Coeur.

When he reached the top, he paused to view the surrounding area. This was a good meeting place. It was wide open, and now that he had ascended the long hill of stone stairs, he was afforded a fine vantage point for any possible approaches. As he looked around, he gave a subtle impersonation of a curious tourist. He pretended to be absorbed in the majestic view of Paris that stretches out below this centuries-old cathedral, which is perched atop one of the city’s highest points. He allowed himself a brief glimpse at those far reaches before he returned to the immediate area below.

He had arrived first but had purposely given Jackson very little time to meet him there. Even with the additional five minutes, there was no opportunity for any covert placement of snipers. They would have to come directly at him, and so he turned and made his way up the final flight of stairs to the front of the basilica.

He positioned himself beneath one of the cupolas, shielded from view by a large column and protected from the cold winds that whipped across the church’s façade.

He stood there, opened the hardshell attaché case, and waited.

FORTY-FIVE

Vincent R. Traiman made ready for his voyage north across the Mediterranean to meet with Martin Koppel. Everything was arranged. All precautions had been taken. The timing of his operation meant he could not delay his appointment. The trouble in Paris had to be addressed, of course, but he would rely on his men there to handle Andrioli and Sandor. If they could not, Traiman had an insurance policy in place that made his position fail-safe.

The most important thing was to finalize his financial arrangements with Koppel.

Even though he had fallen from grace, Koppel still had an impressive background and a world of experience in the financial markets. His credibility could easily be restored, given the appropriate economic backing. His new company would be funded through an investment firm he would create with Traiman’s money. After Nine Eleven, the United States regulatory agencies had become vigilant about suspicious foreign investments. Koppel was decidedly American. He was a man with a reputation, someone who had enjoyed great wealth.

Now, through a series of sanitized financial transactions, Koppel would be bankrolled and given an opportunity to repeat the success of his past. Except this time, his principal sponsor would be betting on failure. Koppel was as desperate as a man can become, and his cooperation was easily purchased, even if he would not comprehend the extent of his complicity in Traiman’s scheme until it was too late.