Targets of Deception (35 page)

“Better go easy on those.”

Andrioli smiled. “Yeah. Like it matters.”

Covington watched him for a moment, thinking. “We’ve got to stop him,” he said. “He’ll never make it alone.”

Andrioli shook his head. “That’s the funny part, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“He really is alone. I mean, you used us to get here, I understand that. But now that we’re here, you have no use for any of us anymore.”

Covington did not answer.

“It’s a little late for you to be worrying about that, unless you’re going to help us move Sandor out of the way.”

Andrioli muttered to himself.

“What’s that?”

Andrioli grinned. “I said it’s not like me.”

“What isn’t like you?”

“Worrying about someone else.”

An hour or so after Jordan and Christine had returned to their hotel, the desk clerk received a call. It was a familiar voice, one of the local men who specialized in providing personal services to wealthy tourists. His instructions to the clerk were clear—do not put through any incoming calls to the American claiming to be Mr. Kerr. Get the caller’s name then say you have instructions not to disturb their room. Notify me of any calls. And notify me immediately if either the man or the girl leaves the hotel.

The clerk knew he would receive an appropriate reward for his cooperation. More important, there would be no recriminations, so long as he complied.

As Jordan and Christine waited in their room, the clerk intercepted Andrioli’s third phone call in the past twenty minutes, telling him that Mr. and Mrs. Kerr were not to be disturbed. Once again, the caller refused to leave a message.

The clerk recognized the caller to be the same all three times. He did not have a name, but he picked up the switchboard phone to report it each time. Just in case.

Damnit,” Andrioli said as he slammed the phone down. “They won’t put the call through.”

Covington turned to Nealon. “Come on,” he said, “three strikes and you’re out. Let’s go.”

FIFTY-THREE

Darkness was descending on the Mediterranean coast, and Jordan knew it was time to make his move. They had waited long enough for Andrioli’s phone call. They were on their own.  

Christine had dozed off, curled up on the floor with her head in his lap. He gently roused her. They needed to get ready to leave.

“It’s time,” Jordan told her.

She sat up and rubbed her eyes.

“Come with me,” he said.

He took Andrioli’s attaché case and she followed him into the bathroom. He placed the case on the counter and removed the two packets of explosives. He removed the paper and carefully molded two pieces of the C-4 plastique. He smoothed the first piece and taped it against the small of Christine’s back. The second he fixed with adhesive along the inside of his upper thigh.

Hiding the detonators was more difficult—the remote electronic device in Andrioli’s case would be found in the most cursory frisking, leading to strip searches and discovery of the plastique. So the remote would have to be left behind. Sandor needed to rely on the magnesium strips. Not as reliable, more difficult to gauge the response time, but certainly easier to conceal. He placed two strips in the lining of his jacket and wove two under the collar of Christine’s blouse.

When he was done, Jordan checked the clip on the Colt and pocketed two spares. At some point he expected to be taken by Traiman’s men. Once captured, he knew the gun would be the first thing they would take from him. When they searched him and found the extra ammunition clips, it might be enough to satisfy his captors that Jordan was otherwise clean.

It was a theory, anyway.

“What about me?” Christine asked as he jammed the automatic into his waistband.

“What about you?”

“You know, like in
The Wizard of Oz
. Don’t you have anything in there for me?”

Jordan smiled. “Are you looking for courage, my dear?”

“I was thinking more about a gun.”

“Sorry, Tony only brought the two from Paris, and he’s got the other one.”

She nodded, forcing a brave smile. “I’ll be right behind you then. All the way.”

“Oh, you’ll be doing more than trailing me around.” Jordan told her what to do when they left the room, then took the remote detonator and hid it between the towels that were stacked on the ledge of the tub. Then he went back to the bedroom and placed the attaché case in the closet. When he turned around, she was standing there watching him.

“Well, it’s time to go for it.”

Christine walked towards him slowly, the unsteady rhythm of fear. “I’m ready,” she said, then held herself against him.

“Don’t worry,” he told her. “We’ll just have a quick drink on Traiman’s yacht, then I’ll get you home early so your mother’s not upset.” He stepped back and looked into her pale blue eyes. “You know what to do?”

She nodded.

“It’ll be all right. Come on.”

“I’m ready.”

They stepped into the quiet corridor just above the small lobby. Christine handed Jordan her jacket and then, as calmly as she could, descended the steps leading to the front desk.

As she walked downstairs, Jordan took a small piece of paper and wedged it against the jamb at the lowest hinge, closing the door on it. He moved to the edge of the landing and listened.

Christine was doing her best to explain to the clerk that they were expecting a package that should have come already, doing everything she could to give the young man a reason to check in the back room for a delivery. “Maybe it came yesterday. Or before you got to work today.”

She was at her most charming, even trying some Italian as the clerk pretended to struggle with his broken English, insisting there was no package.
Not a very polite young man
, Jordan thought, as the unhelpful clerk refused to check for her. It confirmed Jordan’s suspicions that the boy was on watch and that he had probably intercepted Andrioli’s phone calls.

The clerk finally relented. “
Aspete
,
aspete
.”

Christine nodded, which was Jordan’s cue. As the clerk disappeared for a moment into the storage room behind his desk, Sandor stole down the stairs and hurried into the street.

A moment later, when the clerk returned empty handed, Christine expressed her disappointment, but thanked him all the same.

“
Si, si signora. Prego
.”

Christine showed him her smile and then turned towards the stairs. As soon as she rounded the corner, she stopped and listened. She heard the young man making a phone call, which meant he had his back to the front door. She turned and hurried across the small, carpeted lobby and outside.

The clerk spun around, having heard something, but she was already gone.

Jordan was waiting at the corner. “All right?” he asked as he helped her on with her jacket.

She nodded, although her heart was beating faster than she would have liked. “I think so. He seemed so nervous. I was just asking him to check for a package.”

“I noticed. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I think it’ll help if he believes we’re still in the room.” He placed his arm around her shoulder, felt her trembling as they began to walk.

“You think he saw you leave?”

She shook her head.

“Good. Let’s take a stroll.” He led her down the stairs, around the perimeter of town toward the private docks where they arrange daily rentals of small power boats. “Take a couple of slow, deep breaths,” he told her. “The night is young.”

Martin Koppel received a phone call from Mr. Groat. There was a change in plans. The dinner, scheduled for a cozy restaurant in town, had now been arranged on the yacht. Two of Mr. Groat’s associates would be by at seven to pick him up and take him by launch to the
Halaby
.

He nervously put down the phone, standing there, numb.

This was not the deal. He was supposed to have dinner at a restaurant, where he would be watched. And protected.

Koppel felt he should call someone, but he was warned not to make any phone calls. They would contact him, they said, and he reminded himself that they had his line tapped. They had certainly heard the call, and they would tell him what to do next. Otherwise, he would be having dinner on Traiman’s yacht in less than an hour.

FIFTY-FOUR

Traiman was standing beside the bed in the teak lined stateroom. The comforter and pillows were on the floor, the sheets in disarray. He pulled on his robe, giving the two young women a last, dispassionate look. They were naked, lying face down, their fleshy, rounded asses bearing the marks of the lashes he had inflicted on each of them in turn, while the other was obliged to attend to him, until he became bored and forced them to assume new positions.

“Get up,” he ordered them, having spent himself, knowing he had already wasted too much time at these games.

The women slowly turned and rose. The face of the Egyptian girl was marked and red, the mouth of the African woman swollen and slightly bloodied. Traiman took no notice. He waved them towards their dressing gowns and dismissed them, sending them off to another cabin where they might rest and heal. He was having guests, and their services might be needed again.

After bathing and dressing, Traiman met with his four scouts in the main salon, where they briefed him on their reconnaissance in town.

“And is that all?” Traiman asked.

“Sir?”

“Is that all you know?”

The men from the advance party looked from one to the other, then back at Traiman. “Yes,” the senior agent replied. “That’s all we learned so far. There doesn’t seem to be any other unusual activity. Sandor and the woman are still in the hotel. No calls are being allowed in or out of their room. We know that someone was trying to get through to them from a location in Rapallo. We’ve been waiting for you, sir, for further instructions.”

Traiman responded with a malevolent smile. “That’s always a safe bet, isn’t it? ‘We’ve come back for orders.’ What an excellent way to shun responsibility. ‘We were awaiting your pleasure, sir.’” He mocked them, but they offered no reaction. “Get Kerrigan in here.”

They waited through an uncomfortable silence until Kerrigan was shown into the room. The tall, blond American was usually one of Traiman’s favorites. Formerly Special Ops in the US military. Recently the murderer of James McHugh.

“I hope you enjoyed your trip to the City of Lights,” Traiman said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to promenade along the Champs-Elysées.”

“It’s the same,” Kerrigan replied sullenly.

“Well, that’s good to hear. We were just having an unscheduled convention of incompetents, and I felt such a gathering wouldn’t be complete without you. Please,” Traiman said, pointing to a chair, “sit down.” He waited for Kerrigan to ease his large frame into the seat. “Now then. It appears fate has provided you an opportunity to atone for your failures.”

“How’s that?”

Traiman stood and began slowly pacing the large salon. “Your inability to resolve a nagging problem will be tested once again. My old friend Jordan Sandor seems to be visiting us here in Portofino.”

Kerrigan’s eyes widened, but he did not interrupt.

“Isn’t it amazing? My former comrade-in-arms, the man with the most annoying, overdeveloped sense of patriotism I have ever seen, he haunts me still.” He looked around the room at his five men. “Sandor’s morality can be an insufferable pain in the ass, let me tell you, but he’s worth more than all of you combined. I have to admit, it’ll be good to see him again. Pity it’ll be such a brief get-together.”

He paused again. “All right, here’s the situation. Our associate, Faisal Ridaya, has contacted me from Paris. It seems that Anthony Andrioli was picked up there yesterday morning by his own countrymen.” He let that sink in for a moment. “Yes, gentlemen, Faisal’s inside source assures him that Mr. Andrioli is quite alive, although wounded. The shooting at the Sacre Coeur was apparently not fatal. At least not to him. In any case, he is yet another burr under our saddle. In fact, at this moment he is also en route to Portofino.”

Kerrigan spoke up. “You should weigh anchor and leave right now,” he said. “It makes no sense for you to risk being here another minute. Leave this to us. We’ll handle it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kerrigan, I appreciate your concern. However, I have already anticipated certain of these developments, and I can assure you that there is no need for us to leave this lovely setting. Not yet.” Traiman seated himself behind the captain’s table again, his eyes moving from one to the other of these five men.

“Before we act, we must consider each of the distressing possibilities we face.” He picked up the phone and called the steward, ordering sparkling water to be served. “Jordan Sandor left the Agency after he had a difference of opinion with his superiors over the operation in Bahrain. You remember Bahrain, Mr. Kerrigan.”

The American nodded.

“It is conceivable that Mr. Sandor has by now learned his true adversary in those proceedings was none other than his former partner. Add to that the death of Mr. Peters in Woodstock and the unfortunate assault on his lady friend in New York, and one might believe that he is bent on revenge. In short, he may have journeyed all this way to find me for personal reasons.”

None of the five spoke.

“As appealing as that theory may be, it is the least likely of the three I have considered. Jordan Sandor is an able and tenacious operative, not a reckless fool. It is more likely that he is in league with Mr. Andrioli, attempting some maneuver we have yet to fully discern.”

Four of the agents were nodding their heads, but Kerrigan was not.

“What is it, Mr. Kerrigan? Aren’t you enjoying my speculation?”

“You said there was a third alternative.”