Targets of Deception (38 page)

“Yes,” he said. “I’m afraid they’ve gone off to join the foreign legion in the sky.”

Zayn raised his hand to strike Sandor with the butt of his pistol, but his partner stepped forward and stopped him. “Not now. We’ll have time for everything. Let’s get them on the boat.”

The first three men dispatched to Portofino by Deputy Director Byrnes were now gathered in the room they had taken at the small hotel just behind the shops on the edge of the harbor. One of them had been on watch and saw Traiman’s man come and collect Koppel from the Hotel Splendido for his meeting. The agent then followed at a safe distance into the center of town. There, the other two CIA agents, who had taken a position in the café near the main dock, witnessed a second Traiman henchman arrive, accompanied by John Covington. They joined Koppel and his escort, and the four of them proceeded to the dock. It was near the entrance to the pier that they had encountered Christine Frank, who was standing alone, gazing out at the dock. They took her just moments before Sandor appeared on the wharf and went face to face with Traiman’s operative at the power launch.

The three agents then hustled back to their hotel where they convened to make arrangements for their next move.

As two of the agents stood at the window, using binoculars to monitor the activities at the power boat, the third called Byrnes and reported these developments.

“They have Covington, then?”

“Yes sir.”

“And the girl?”

“Yes. They’re with Koppel now. And two of Traiman’s men. They also have Sandor.”

“Good,” Byrnes said.

The agent asked if it was time for them to move.

“Not yet,” the deputy director told him.

“Sir, I must report the situation is grave.”

“I know,” Byrnes replied.

“The risks are extreme, sir. If I may say—” he attempted to go on, but the DD cut him off.

“We all appreciate the risks.”

“Yes sir.”

“You go to the fallback position as we planned. And remember what’s at stake. We need the information more than we need the kill. Sandor is exactly where we need him.”

FIFTY-EIGHT

Any prospects for a celebration on the
Halaby
, with Martin Koppel as the guest of honor, had evaporated with the radio transmission from the launch. Traiman, however, was not entirely displeased. He was disappointed perhaps, that his conference with Koppel would not go as smoothly as he would have liked, but he was determined to conclude their financial venture. Or to discover that it was a ruse.

Traiman was in the main salon, accompanied only by his top aide, Nelson, a former British commando with broad shoulders, a thick neck and a bald, bullet-shaped head.

“Once they’re aboard,” Nelson was saying, “we should weigh anchor and leave.”

“There appears to be no sign of backup. This is Covington’s mission, and he’s on his way here. Where’s the concern?”

“What if there is backup? What if Koppel was followed? If we move right now, they’d never chance an attack in open waters.”

“Perhaps not,” Traiman said. “I’m not so sure.”

“The Americans would never be that reckless, not without confirmation that you’re aboard. And how will they get that confirmation? If they do, they’ll also know we have Covington, Sandor and the girl.”

“You may be right. On the other hand, they don’t need to launch missiles or torpedoes to mount an attack.”

Nelson shook his head.

“We need to conclude our business with Koppel,” Traiman said, “then put him safely ashore. If there’s any sign of a problem, we can make the appropriate arrangements then. Meantime, our security details are in place.”

 There was a knock at the salon door, followed by the entrance of one of his guards. “They’re approaching, Mr. Traiman.”

“Good, good.” Traiman remained seated while his man went back to meet the boat. Traiman turned again to Nelson. “If we run, we’ll surely be at risk. Consider it. As long as we stay right here, the chance of an assault is less likely and more manageable.”

“And if it isn’t? Time will work against us.”

“Perhaps so, but I think our guests will ensure a measure of safety. Remember, our Arab clients will prove an even bigger problem if we fail to deliver.”

Nelson knew he was right. He knew that this was Traiman’s final opportunity to square himself with those who believed he had betrayed Khalid Sheikh Mohammed in Pakistan and the assault team in Washington—which, of course, he had.

There was another knock at the door. The same guard appeared. “They’re aboard.”

“Fine,” said Traiman. “They’ve been disarmed?”

“Yes sir.”

“Show them in.”

He and Nelson waited a few moments. Then Jordan walked into the spacious salon, stopped, and had a look around at the modern décor, a combination of teak and glass and saddle leather upholstery. “I’m glad to see you’re doing so well for yourself, Vincent.”

Sandor was followed by Christine, Koppel, Covington, and the three men who had been ashore. Two more from Traiman’s security force joined them.

Traiman remained seated as they entered. He pressed his hands together and brought them to his lips. “Jordan. You can’t imagine what a pleasure it is to see you again. And Miss Frank. Your photograph doesn’t do you justice.”

It was Koppel who spoke first, demanding once again to know what the hell was going on.

Traiman ignored him, looking instead to his men. “You say they’ve been searched.”

All five men nodded.

“My friend Jordan has carried some interesting toys with him, from time to time.”

One of the men from the shore detail said, “Yes sir.” He had searched them, but so far had not discovered the C-4 Jordan had molded and taped to the small of Christine’s back and the inside of his thigh. The man held out his hand to Traiman. “We took their guns and an extra clip. He had one of our radios. Here are the papers and other things we found on them.”

Traiman took what the man offered and placed it on the table, waving a careless hand without bothering to have a look. “No portable laser beams, Jordan? No nuclear devices? What a disappointment.” He turned away and faced his other guests. “John Covington. So good to see you again, too. And you, sir, you must be Mr. Koppel.”

“Damn right I am. See here—”

Traiman held up his hand, palm forward, and then rose from his chair. He was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt with French cuffs bearing gold links, and a gray silk tie. He appeared every bit the successful businessman. “I truly apologize for all of these theatrics, but you see, a man in my position has many enemies. I’m sure you understand. Corporate espionage has become a ruthless game.” Traiman’s congenial tone seemed to nonplus Koppel, if only long enough for Traiman to add, “I assure you, our meeting will proceed as scheduled. Gentlemen, please show Mr. Koppel to the forward dining salon, and get him anything he wants.”

“What the hell—?” Koppel started up again, but he stopped as Traiman once more raised his hand.

“Please indulge me, sir. I’ll only be a few minutes,” he said, and two of the security detail politely, if firmly, escorted Martin Koppel from the cabin.

As soon as Koppel was gone and the door closed behind him, Traiman’s tone became more severe. “Where are Kerrigan and Fraser?”

The dark-skinned Syrian, who had acted as scout on the pier, said, “They never made it back. He,” gesturing toward Sandor, “claims they’re gone.”

“Gone?”

“Afraid so,” Jordan told his old mentor. “A Viking funeral may be in order.”

Traiman turned his steely gaze on Sandor. “I was very fond of Kerrigan. He was a good soldier.”

“Only the good die young, Vincent.”

Traiman responded by issuing several commands. Covington was to be detained in one of the guest cabins and kept under guard. They were to make ready for the dinner with Koppel. He would take a few minutes with Sandor and the girl, and then they would also be held for further interrogation.

Two men grabbed Covington roughly by the arms and led him away. That left only Traiman, Nelson, and one security guard with Jordan and Christine.

“Sit down,” Traiman told his two guests. “And Jordan, please believe me when I say that in the event you make even the slightest untoward move, these men will kill you without another warning.”

The guard lifted the submachine gun he was holding and pointed it at Sandor, just to reinforce the warning. Nelson removed a pistol from his shoulder holster and laid it on the table before him.

“You see, Jordan, in addition to the loyalty I command from these men, several of them were quite friendly with Mr. Kerrigan and Mr. Fraser.”

“Thanks for the tender moment Vincent.”

Traiman responded with a disapproving frown. “Do me a favor, please,” he said as he resumed his seat. “Begin by explaining why on earth you’re here. Other than a burning desire to get together with me to reminisce.”

“I’d have to say it all began when your people started shooting at me in Woodstock—by the way, how far back do you want me to go? You want me to talk about how you screwed me when we were in Kuwait? Should I get into the Manama gambit?”

“No Jordan, not that far back. Truth being told, I don’t have all that much time for this interview, and if you insist on wasting it on the tiresome sarcasm you find so amusing, I’ll be left no choice but to turn you over to more persuasive members of my staff. Am I clear?”

“As always.”

“So then, let’s conduct ourselves as professionals and get to the point.”

“Professionals?”

“Oh no, I feel it coming. We’re about to move from sarcasm to jingoism, am I right?”

Jordan stared across the cabin without giving a response.

“Ah yes, Jordan Sandor, fighting for paychecks and patriotism while I, the mercenary, opted for wealth and power.”

Jordan still refused to reply.

“Propaganda and peanuts, that’s what you’ve risked your life for, Jordan. You’ve always been supremely talented, but incredibly naïve.”

“You consider morality naïve?”

“Ah, morality. Tell me, Jordan, what gives the United States the moral high ground? It aids and abets the assassination of leaders in third world nations, promotes civil war in those countries, then invades them when their internal politics become distasteful to the American administration
du jour.
How many have died in the fields of Afghanistan or the streets of Baghdad? How many are slaughtered every day in the wars that rage endlessly in Africa, places where none of those bleeding hearts in New York or Los Angeles could begin to find on a map? No one cares about those tens of thousands that die of poverty, starvation, and internecine battles. Not really.

“So where is it written that only the United States cannot be attacked or invaded without provoking a world conflict? Why, when someone blows up a building in the United States in protest against its policies in the Middle East, must the entire world be made to pay? Spare me your sanctimonious patriotism, Jordan. Tell me, which of us is the mercenary here?”

“In answer to your first question,” Jordan said slowly, “I came here because I wanted to see you again. And to kill you.”

No one in the room moved.

Then Traiman began to laugh. “You see,” he said to Nelson, “do you see why I’ve always loved this man so?”

No one else seemed to find it funny, except Sandor. He was smiling.

“So that’s why you let my men take you without a fight. You actually did want to come aboard?”

“No. To be honest Vincent, I only gave up my weapon because they had Christine and Covington.”

“Of course. You gave up your weapon to protect the damsel in distress and your old boss from the CIA, a man you don’t even like, if memory serves.”

“Not much. No.”

“Always the hero. You just can’t seem to help yourself, can you?”

Jordan watched him without answering.

“All right. And now that you’re here, and we still have your lady friend and our old crony from the Agency—not to mention you, dear man—what did you really want to see me about? Before you killed me, that is.”

“One of the items is moot, since I understand Tony Andrioli is already dead.”

“I see. You came to argue for clemency.”

“That’s true, yes.”

“What else, then?”

“I would like you to leave Christine alone.”

Traiman turned his attention to her now. “I am sorry about Mr. McHugh. Not about his death, you understand. That became unavoidable. It is his disloyalty I regret.”

Christine did not speak. She stared at him with obvious loathing.

“So then,” Traiman said as he got to his feet again. “You have set your sights rather low, Jordan, and failed in all respects. Mr. Andrioli is dead, and there is nothing you can do to save Miss Frank or Mr. Covington. You should never have left the game, Jordan—it appears you’ve lost your edge.”

“There is something else.”

“Yes?”

“I want to know why you betrayed your own people?”

“Why I left the CIA?”

“No, of course not. I mean the people you work with now. I mean, I thought I had you all figured out, Vincent. The money, the power. That whole cynical speech you made. It all fits. But then you torpedo your own team of hit men in Washington. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why.”

Traiman could feel the gaze of his Syrian security man bear down on him as he stood there. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” Jordan smiled again. “Look, everyone in the business knows you’ve worn out your welcome in Libya. Qaddafi is playing the moderate now, and he’s giving you the heave ho. He might even turn you over to us, offered the right deal. So why risk your chance at a safe haven somewhere among your Arab friends by screwing them now? Especially when you’re about to launch your VX project?

The Syrian turned from Sandor to Traiman.

Traiman’s eyes flashed with anger as he said, “Nonsense”.

“I don’t think so,” Sandor replied with a knowing smile. “Vincent Traiman, always the traitor. I guess you just can’t help yourself.”