Targets of Deception (36 page)

“Option, Mr. Kerrigan, option. There can only be one alternative to a proposition, but there can be many options.”

“Option, then,” the American said with a disgusted look.

“And so there is. Care to have a guess?”

Kerrigan had enough of Traiman’s pedagogy. “Sandor is still an American agent.”

“Very good,” Traiman said, slowly clapping his hands. “Go to the head of the class.”

“If that’s what you think, why stay here in Portofino?”

“If this is a CIA trap, you mean? Because, gentlemen, when you play chess, the key to success is planning several moves ahead. In this case, I have taken precautions to protect our position. What we need to determine is whether the financial arrangements I have put in place with our friend Martin Koppel are authentic or part of this so-called trap. That is an answer I do not yet possess.”

They listened in silence.

“As a consequence,” Traiman continued, “I have insisted that the meeting with Mr. Koppel take place here, on the
Halaby
.”

They waited for more, but Traiman was done. Only Kerrigan, of the five men, knew of the plans with Koppel. Only Kerrigan understood what Traiman knew—that their days as trusted allies of the Arab extremists were at an end. The successful completion of Operation VX was not only critical to Traiman’s personal financial scheme, but also necessary to an amicable parting from their Islamic hosts. If all went well, it would be an agreeable, but final, parting.

“Should we go ashore and take out Sandor?” Kerrigan asked.

“You have not managed that up to now. We might as well make use of your failure. You will take him alive and bring him here. Perhaps he can supply some of the information we need. You two, start at the hotel. Find Sandor and bring him to me. Mr. Kerrigan, you take Mr. Fraser and revisit the issue of whether there is other surveillance in town. I need to know if Sandor is truly alone. Then you can bring Mr. Koppel for his dinner. And you,” he said, pointing to the fifth man, “you stay with the launch unless we radio you other instructions.”

“What about the woman?” one of the men assigned to the hotel asked.

“She’s of no use to us, except as leverage.” He offered his thin smile again. “Jordan always had a weak spot in that regard, so she might provide some opportunity for persuasion if he is still his old, stubborn self.”

“So we should bring her too, then?”

“Yes,” Traiman said, “that would be best. But if she gets in your way, kill her.”

As Traiman’s men were heading for shore, Jordan and Christine were negotiating with a local man for the use of his small boat and outboard. The man was finishing up for the day and was not pleased to be bothered with them.

“No, no to start at night,” the man said in his best English.

Jordan gave him a wink, then nodded in Christine’s direction. “It’s romantic at night,” he said with a smile.

The Italian shook his head. He was short, with unruly black hair and an unhappy look on his face. “
Freddo
, no? Cold.”

Jordan pulled out his cash and peeled off five one hundred dollar bills. “Just a couple of hours,” he promised.

The boatman looked from Jordan’s money to the small wooden vessel. “No. No at night. You get killed.
Domani
.
Domani
.”

Jordan pulled out another five bills from his sport coat and placed them beside the five he was already holding. “This is it,” he said, peering over the man’s shoulder. “For a thousand dollars, I’ll buy a boat from someone else. Just two hours.”

The man snatched the money and shoved it in his pocket. “
Due oras,
” the man repeated.

“That’s all,” Jordan said. “We’ll come back for it in a little while. Just leave it right here.”

The man looked confused.

“I’ve got to buy a little wine. You know,
vino
.”

The man shook his head, as if to say he felt crazier than the American for allowing this. Then he showed Jordan where he would leave the ignition key, beneath the board that served as the aft bench in the boat.

“No,” Jordan said, bending over and grabbing the key. “I paid in advance, right. This way I know I have the key,
capisce
? Wouldn’t want someone to steal it before we get back.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll leave it under there when we get back.”

The man frowned and said, “
Due oras
, eh?”

Sandor nodded. “We’ll be back in less than an hour,” he assured him, then looked at his watch. “We’ll take a quick ride,
tutto finito en due oras
.”

“
Bene
,” the man said, then turned and walked away, up the hill past the concrete reinforcement that ran beside the dock.

Jordan made a pretense of taking Christine back into town. Once he was certain the fisherman was out of view, they doubled back to the spot where the small boats were set aground.

“Now what?” Christine asked. “We’ve got ourselves a little dinghy for a thousand dollars, and pretty soon everyone in town is going to know about it.”

“Exactly,” he said. “That’s just what we want.” He gazed out into the moonlit night, the sea lapping gently at the shore just a few yards from where they stood.

“We want them to come here thinking they’ll get the drop on us, expecting us to be gone for the next hour.”

He led her to a spot behind some dry-docked skiffs, and they made themselves as comfortable as they could for another long wait ahead.

FIFTY-FIVE

Traiman’s men came ashore at the main wharf, on the end of the harbor opposite from where Jordan and Christine were waiting on the rocky beach. They tied up the launch and prepared to split into two groups as instructed.

Kerrigan told Fraser they would start in the main plaza. Fraser was also American, an athletic looking man with the bow-legged stride of a horseman that belied his New Jersey upbringing. Like Kerrigan, he was a veteran of the Gulf War and had been in Traiman’s employ for the past three years. He had never seen Sandor, but he had met Andrioli.

“We’ll see you back here in an hour,” Kerrigan told the others.

The two men assigned to the hotel were Iraqis, survivors of the American war of liberation in their homeland. Having been members of Saddam Hussein’s Republican Guard, they did not remain in their country to celebrate their new freedom. They recently joined forces with al-Qaeda, presently taking their orders from Traiman. The taller of them was Zayn. He was carrying a canvass duffle bag with their automatic weapons and extra rounds of ammunition inside.

“We’ll start at the Hotel Continental,” he told Kerrigan in his heavily accented English.

The fifth man in the group had been appointed to stay with the motorboat. He was a short, trimly built Syrian, whom Traiman often used as a lookout. He found a bench on the pier, where he sat down and placed his cellular radio beside him. He lit a cigarette and prepared to wait.

A short time later, Covington arrived in Portofino with Andrioli, Nealon and Bertram. They had driven along the same winding route Jordan and Christine had traveled earlier in the day. They parked away from the Hotel Continental and set off on foot. Covington had left his other two men back in Rapallo, as their control team.

Covington and Nealon walked ahead, Bertram guarding Andrioli as the wounded man limped along, trying to keep pace.

“You going to make it?” Betram asked.

Andrioli made an effort to steady his gait. “Probably not.”

“How’s the side?”

“Sore.” The surgery on his chest seemed a long time ago, mainly because he was in a continual fog induced by the painkillers. “I almost forgot about it, till you reminded me. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

They trudged down a hilly walkway where Andrioli pointed to a set of ancient stone steps. “That’s the place, right around the corner.”

Covington held up his hand, and the four men came to a stop. “Andrioli goes in first. Nealon and I right after him. You stay outside and back us up, Bertram.”

Bertram nodded, happy to be relieved of trailing Andrioli.

“I’m not even armed,” Andrioli said. “Why should I lead?”

“Sandor’s your friend. He’s not going to shoot you, is he?”

“What if Sandor’s not in there?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll be right behind you.”

Lemme have a gun, for chrissakes. You afraid I’ll take the three of you out?”

Nealon and Bertram looked to Covington, but he shook his head. “You’ve got your orders,” Covington said. “Now let’s go.”

They negotiated the steps, Bertram lagging farther behind now. When they reached the street, Bertram took a position against the stone wall. He watched as Andrioli, Covington and Nealon entered the hotel.

Inside, the three men found the young clerk behind the desk.

“We’re looking for our friends, Mr. and Mrs. Kerr,” Andrioli told him.

The young man eyed them suspiciously then said something in Italian none of them understood.

“Kerr,” Andrioli repeated. Then, in response to the look in the clerk’s eyes, he leaned forward slightly and said, “Now, fella.”

The clerk stared into Andrioli’s eyes and saw the man meant business. He nodded slightly and told him the room number. Then, in his broken English, he explained nervously that he didn’t think
Signore
and
Signora
Kerr were in their room. Two men came by just a little while ago and went upstairs, but there was no answer.

 “Where are those two men?” Andrioli asked.

The boy told them they were gone, but the way he said it caused Andrioli to turn to his two companions. “I don’t believe him.”

“Ring their room,” Covington said.

The clerk shrugged. “I try before,” he said. “No answer.”

“Try again.”

The three men watched as the boy placed a call. There was no answer.

Inside Jordan’s room , Zayn and the other Iraqi were waiting. They had already removed the two H&K MP5 submachine guns from their satchel and chambered the first rounds. The guns carried 9mm shells, with the option of single shot, three round bursts or continuous firing. The SMG was designed for a magazine with 30 rounds and an attached replacement clip carrying the same load.

Each man occupied one of the far corners of the room, facing the door. When the phone rang, they tensed, glancing quickly at each other as they brought their weapons into position.

When the clerk finally hung up the phone after half a dozen rings, Covington asked, “You been at this desk all evening?”

The young man became agitated, insisting that he never leaves the desk. He was just like a good soldier, he told them, ever at his post.

“I think he’s full of shit,” Andrioli said.

“We’ll have a look for ourselves,” Covington agreed.

The clerk understood their comments, as well as the demand. He was definite in his refusal. “No,
signore
.
Impossibile
.”

Now Nealon stepped forward, pulled out his 9mm and pointed it at the clerk’s face. “Key,” he said in plain English.

The clerk turned slowly to his side and grabbed a spare key to the room, then held it out in a trembling hand.

“
Grazie
,” Andrioli said.

Nealon stepped behind the desk and grabbed the young man by the arm, pulling him forward. He held his finger to his lips and motioned with the gun for the clerk to lead them up the stairs. The four of them proceeded in single file up to the first landing. Once again, Nealon put his finger to his mouth. This time the clerk pressed his lips tightly together to show that he understood.

Andrioli held out his hands, palms upraised, and shrugged his shoulders. The clerk pointed across the corridor to one of the doors.

Nealon took the clerk by the shoulders and spun him around, facing him against the wall. “Shhh,” he whispered in his ear.

Andrioli noticed the small strip of paper on the floor near Sandor’s door. When Covington motioned him forward, Andrioli shook his head and pointed to the paper.

Covington nodded his understanding then mouthed the words, “Call his name.” Nealon had walked silently past the door. Covington stood on the near side, beside Andrioli.

“Jordan,” Andrioli called out. It was a raspy whisper, but in the quiet of the hallway it was like a shout, sure to be heard inside. “Jordan,” he said again. “It’s Tony.”

There was no answer.

Covington motioned for Andrioli to open the door with the key. Andrioli responded with a look that told him he must be out of his mind. Covington reached out and took hold of the knob. He could feel it was unlocked. He turned it and pushed at the door as he moved quickly two steps back down the hall.

A splintering crash of gunfire erupted before the door had come all the way open, shattering the wood and piercing the opposite wall. The fusillade, coming at crossing angles, struck Andrioli and dropped him to the floor before he could move aside. Covington and Nealon refrained from firing, just for an instant, giving the shooters enough time to think that Andrioli might have been alone. Then Nealon took a step forward and began firing.

The men inside responded with another hail of shots. The walls of the hotel were old and wooden and easily gave in to the powerful explosions launched from the automatic weapons. Nealon was hit in the side of the face, spinning him sideways as another series of shots killed him before he hit the floor.

As Nealon’s lifeless body collapsed at his feet, Covington hollered out, “Hold your fire. It’s Covington.” He had yet to fire a shot.

Traiman’s man, Zayn, who was off to the right, hunkered down behind the bed and took a quick look, his weapon at the ready.

“It’s Covington,” the CIA man repeated as he stepped into view in the open doorway. “Hold your fire.”

The two men inside the room stood up.

The sound of the gunshots had already brought Bertram racing in from the street. He took the stairs two at a time, coming around the turn in the corridor at a crouch, just in time to hear Covington use his own name to bring the exchange to a halt. He froze, gun in hand, staring at his operations chief.