Targets of Deception (3 page)

“We were all lucky to get out of there,” Sandor said.

Collins reached out and took hold of Jordan’s arm. “You were the luck.”

“Just one more question, then I’ll let you get some rest. Know a guy up here, name of Jimmy Ryan?”

Collins started to shake his head, but it hurt too much. “No. Can’t say as I do.”

“Never mind.” Sandor patted his hand and offered a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. Your boys will catch them.”

Collins looked up at him in a way that told Jordan he knew it was a lie. “They knew what they were about,” he said. “They’re long gone, aren’t they?”

“We’ll see.”

The young man hesitated, then said, “Take care of yourself.”

“You too,” Jordan said and turned away.

Collins was asleep before he left the room.

THREE

Sandor found Captain Reynolds just outside the ICU, where he was quietly giving instructions to two troopers standing guard in the hospital corridor assigned to protect Jack Collins.

“Captain.”

Reynolds turned from his men.

“I was wondering if we could have that cup of coffee.”

Reynolds told his men he would be gone a while, then took Jordan by the arm and led him down the hallway. “How’s Jack?”

“Good as can be expected.”

The Captain nodded. “Come on, we’ll take a walk.”

They sat across from each other in a booth in the small diner a couple of blocks from the hospital. Reynolds told Sandor about his days in Vietnam with the 101
^st
Airborne, information Jordan had not requested, but the trooper wanted to share all the same.

“Ran that computer check on you,” Reynolds told him after he finished his personal reminiscence. “Like I said before, saw some of your service record.”

Jordan waited.

“Not all of it, though. Some major gaps. Looked to me like CID blocks. Where’d you disappear to after your first tour? Military Intelligence, am I right?”

“An oxymoron,” Jordan replied.

“Like ‘civil servant’?”

Jordan smiled.

“So you were still in some kind of government service.”

“Some kind.”

“And now you’re some kind of reporter?”

“Some kind.”

“I’m not a big fan of reporters.”

“Neither am I.”

Reynolds gave him a look that told him saving Jack Collins was not a license for any smart mouth crap, not if he knew what was good for him. “So, what happened to government duty?”

Jordan looked up from his coffee and met the captain’s eyes. “It got old, Captain. Too many friends got sold out by too many fat-ass bureaucrats.”

“It’s all part of the game, son.”

“It shouldn’t be a game.”

“Lapsed patriot, eh?”

“No, still a patriot,” Jordan said. “Just too much bullshit.”

Reynolds shook his head, making a face like he just remembered something he never wanted to think about again. “Yeah, lost my taste for those games myself. Took my retirement, came back home. Got this nice job, working towards a second pension. Local politics are a piece of cake once you’ve done the Potomac shuffle. It’s funny though, even now. Always thought I’d spend my entire life in the military.”

“Any regrets?”

“Sometimes. Nine Eleven happened to all of us, know what I mean?”

Sandor nodded.

“Especially when you’ve worn the uniform. Made me want to re-enlist.”

Sandor stared directly into Reynolds’ eyes.

“So what really went down today?” Reynolds asked.

“I was hoping you’d tell me.”

The captain did not reply, retaining his erect bearing as he took a drink of his coffee.

“If I knew I’d tell you,” Sandor said.

“I wonder,” Reynolds said. He shook off another thought. “I suppose I should get over to the barracks, see what they’ve turned up.”

“Tell me about the second car, Captain, the one they had waiting near the reservoir.”

Reynolds took a moment to study Sandor. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Let’s just say there are a lot of rumors flying around here today.”

Reynolds frowned. “They were professionals, that much is certain.”

“That’s exactly what Collins said.”

“They had the second car waiting. Made the switch and took off, headed for God knows where.”

“Were there any more victims today?” Jordan’s question caught the captain halfway between sitting and standing.

Reynolds nodded slowly. “Who have you been talking to?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might.”

“Okay.” He sat back down. “Call it a guess, then.”

“That the truth?”

“It is. I heard about the second car at the hospital. The other part is just common sense. Two pro shooters didn’t come up here to nail a cop for a speeding ticket.”

Reynolds nodded again. “Okay. They took out a guy, name of James Ryan.”

Jordan did not respond to the mention of the name, the man he and Peters were on their way to see. Reynolds searched Sandor’s expression for any sign of recognition, but saw nothing.

“Ryan just moved up here a month or so ago,” Reynolds said. “We’re checking it out now.”

“Uh huh.”

“We backtracked from where Collins first spotted the car. Didn’t take much. The house this Ryan was renting isn’t far from there.”

Sandor waited.

“Apparently, they caused that boy some pain before they did him.”

“How’s that?”

“Tied him up and beat the living crap out of him. Then put two in his head.”

“You been there yet to have a look yourself?”

“I’m going over, soon as I clean up some of the paperwork at the barracks.”

“Mind if I ride along?”

“Not regulation, you know.”

“Neither is the hole in Dan Peters’ chest.”

Reynolds paused. “What the hell. Need you at HQ anyway, to look through some of the mug shots they brought down from Albany, the usual routine.”

Jordan slid out of the booth. “Mind if I make a quick stop first? Just want to see how Peters is doing.”

“Not a problem,” Reynolds said as he stood.

Jordan grinned. “Might even like to have a look around. Beautiful country you have here.”

The captain fixed him with a hard stare. “You know, Sandor, I may be from a small town in upstate New York, but I’m no yokel. You follow me?”

“Yes sir,” Jordan said, stopping with his jacket half pulled on.

“Relax,” the captain said, giving him a slap on the shoulder. “I just want you to keep it in mind, is all.”

FOUR

At the same time Jordan was having coffee with Captain Reynolds, a uniformed waiter at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York was delivering a meal to a suite on the seventeenth floor. The young man wheeled in a large tray of fresh orange juice, poached eggs, several rashers of bacon, wheat toast, and a pot of espresso. Also at hand were the pleasant incidentals this grand hotel provides—fresh marmalade and preserves, poppy seed rolls with sweet butter, and a fine setting of flatware and china. The sitting room was decorated in a sedate yet affluent style, an elegant motif harmonizing with the cool blues and greens of the drapes, warm woods, and the rich brocades of the upholstery.

“Will that be all, sir?” the young man asked.

The well-dressed Saudi gentleman seated before his mid-afternoon breakfast did not look up. One of the two men attending him pressed a tip into the waiter’s hand and escorted him out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Mahmoud Rahmad removed the cloth napkin from the serving cart, then stared down at his decidedly American meal. He did not speak until his assistant returned to the room.

“The timing was truly unfortunate,” Rahmad said without looking up. His English was polished and formal, an accent produced by a British education. His features were smallish and soft, his complexion dusky, and his eyes were as dark as onyx. His black hair was combed straight back and kept neatly in place. A man in his fifties, he obviously took great care with his appearance. “However,” he continued, “it was a mistake to leave them behind.” He poured himself a cup of the dark coffee while his two subordinates watched in silence.

“But sir,” his younger assistant protested, “Kerrigan called him back to the car. Surely Mustafa could not risk being left there.”

Rahmad looked up for the first time, taking a moment before he spoke. “Mustafa was wrong not to have completed what he had begun.” The young aide grew uneasy under his superior’s critical gaze and lowered his eyes. Rahmad turned back to his meal. “How concerned you are for Mustafa. Do you really believe our American friend would have driven away without him?”

“I do not know Kerrigan, sir. I am sorry.”

“That is quite all right. Kerrigan is a skilled operative, and he will also be made to answer for his actions. Nevertheless, the problem created still remains.”

He poked at his eggs with a fork. “In England they serve kippers,” he observed with a smile, which amounted to a slight parting of his lips, revealing white teeth that gleamed in contrast to his brown, oily complexion. “I came to enjoy kippers. In many things I have become infected by occidental ways.” He laid down his fork, too perturbed by the notion to continue eating. “Here, for instance, we engage in thought and discussion when action is at a premium.”

Rahmad sat back in his chair. “Are we certain that the man they eliminated was McHugh?”

“Yes sir.”

“Very well. And they elicited everything they could from him?”

The senior aide assured him with no little satisfaction that James McHugh, who was hiding under the name of James Ryan, was made to talk before he died.

“Very well. Yet we are left with the problem of these other two men. And the policeman.”

His aides nodded.

“Mustafa is certain these men did not reach McHugh first?”

“McHugh was going to meet with them this morning. Our men arrived first.”

“Which is the reason, of course, they were on that road. Unfortunate timing,” he said again, then shook his head.

“No sir,” the senior aide disagreed. “It would only have been unfortunate if they had reached McHugh first.”

Rahmad raised his eyebrows as if considering that notion. “But these men might have had previous discussions with McHugh. Who knows how much he told to the intermediary . . . what was his name?”

“Peters,” the young man replied. “Dan Peters.”

“Yes, Peters.”

“Mustafa assures us that McHugh told Peters nothing. They were very persuasive in extracting answers.”

“I am sure. And this Peters, he was only the go-between. He was to introduce McHugh to the journalist?”

“Yes sir.”

Rahmad mulled it over. “Well, Kerrigan is on his way out of the country at this very moment. Mustafa is quite capable of providing for his own safety. Even so, it would be best if all witnesses were removed.”

“What of the policeman?” asked the younger assistant. “He is under guard.”

“Yes,” Rahmad agreed. “The officer may prove more difficult to reach while he remains under special care. Amazing how this country reveres its wounded policemen, as if they should be praised rather than held accountable for their incompetence.” He shook his head in disgust. “No, for now the risk would outweigh the benefit. The trooper, he knows nothing of us, or of McHugh. He has no information except the remote possibility he could identify Kerrigan or Mustafa. If he poses any such threat, we can deal with him later. Peters and his friend are the problem.” He turned to his younger aide and pointed at him. “You see, there are things that experience can teach you, the most important of which may well be patience.”

The young man frowned.

“For now, the other two men pose the real danger. They were to meet McHugh, which means they may know something of our operations. We must be rid of them.”

“Yes sir.”

“So, we must assign the situation in Woodstock to someone subtle. Peters is in the hospital. There are police everywhere, but they will not be paying any attention to him. Still, taking care of him will require finesse.” He uttered a short, hollow laugh. “Perhaps we should choose another blond, blue-eyed friend for the job,” he said. “No reason for our Arab brothers to receive all the bad press, should something go awry.”

Mahmoud Rahmad, unofficial
charge d’affaires
for al-Qaeda espionage activities in New York, returned to the business of his mid-afternoon breakfast.

“Sir,” the senior aide asked, “to whom should we refer the reporter?”

He considered that for a moment. “Find out where he lives and have his home and office searched before he gets back. Once we are sure he has nothing pertaining to our mission, we will eliminate him.”

His aides nodded at his obvious logic and made ready to leave when Rahmad spoke again.

“The matter will be handed by Tafallai. He will know what to do.”

FIVE

“You look positively beautiful,” Jordan said as he entered the room.

“Oh, yeah,” Dan Peters responded weakly, then shot a disgusted look at the intravenous tubes that stretched from his arm to the apparatus standing alongside his hospital bed. “I’d feel a lot better if I could borrow someone else’s chest for a while.”

“Don’t look at me,” Jordan said. “My chest isn’t broad enough to fill your clothes.” Peters was a raw-boned type, a few inches shorter but much broader than Jordan.

“Funny man,” Peters groaned.

“I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss. Doctor says it’s just a flesh wound.”

“Yeah. It’s my flesh, though. I feel like a pin cushion, all the needles they’re sticking me with.” The mild sedation left his speech slow and measured. “How’s the kid?”

“Trooper Collins? He’ll pull through just fine.”

“Good thing for all of us you didn’t get hit.”

Jordan nodded. “So much for your peaceful existence in upstate New York.”

Peters attempted a deep breath, grimaced at the effort then asked, “What the hell is going on here?”

“Like what?”

“Like what happened to Jimmy Ryan?”

Jordan walked to the large window that overlooked a grassy courtyard in front of the hospital. The autumn afternoon had become unseasonably warm, and he watched two young men in shirtsleeves enter the building. “You need some rest.”