Targets of Deception (39 page)

“This discussion is at an end,” Traiman said. “Mr. Nelson, take them to the library and keep them there. I’m going to meet with Mr. Koppel. I’ll deal with them later.”

“Leaving so soon?” Jordan asked as Traiman made for the door.

“Don’t worry, Jordan. I’ll be back.”

FIFTY-NINE

Deputy Director Byrnes gave the order to move out. His agents, who had been waiting for instructions in Rapallo, were now on board a 37-foot, Italian made Cranchi Smeraldo speed boat that would travel a course around the point on a southeastern bearing into the Mediterranean. The three men in Portofino were taking a larger craft, cruising at a slower speed, due south.

A Black Hawk helicopter crew had taken off from Genoa, and remained out of sight and earshot from the
Halaby
, just beyond the ridge of the Appennino mountain range.

Meanwhile, the
Halaby
was anchored in the distance, gently rocking on the calm sea.

Traiman was in the private dining salon, doing his best to calm Martin Koppel’s frayed nerves. He explained that the man and woman who had come aboard were rivals of his, and his bodyguard had been overzealous in protecting him. “Their presence here has nothing whatever to do with our arrangements.”

Koppel told him that he did not buy any part of that story. “What about the other guy?” Koppel asked, referring to Covington.

“He’s an associate of mine,” Traiman told him confidently. “United States government official.”

“Is he involved with our project?”

“No. Knows nothing of our plans.”

“Why is that?” Koppel asked.

Traiman leaned back and had a good look at his guest. The more they spoke, the more relaxed Koppel appeared. “I have always made it a policy to segregate the data and people involved in the different aspects of my business life.”

“Need-to-know basis, eh?”

“That’s one way to put it.” Traiman lifted his glass of Pellegrino water and took a sip. “So, I assume that by now you’ve researched the matrix set up by Montana Management in Switzerland.”

“Yes, I have. You know whose money that is?”

Traiman’s thin lips parted in his imitation of a smile. “Of course, Mr. Koppel. Together with the MidCo Finance group, these companies possess the riches stolen from the people of Iraq by Saddam Hussein and his minions.”

Koppel nodded.

“My aspirations are not that grand, Mr. Koppel. Have you organized the investment funds we discussed?”

“Everything is set to go,” Koppel told him. “But I don’t like all this gun-toting nonsense. What kind of man are you? Are you kidnapping your competitors? Is that what’s going on here?”

Traiman liked the questions Koppel was asking. They were the logical questions of a man who was here to do business, not a CIA plant. He was particularly relieved to have witnessed the fact that Covington and Koppel did not know each other, or about each other. Traiman had never entrusted Covington with any information about his investment plans with Koppel. Covington had simply been told that there was a scheme in place that would generate enormous profits in which he would share. He was on a need-to-know basis, just as Koppel said. If Koppel was part of a CIA gambit, Traiman reasoned that Covington would surely have known about that.

“Please, Mr. Koppel, don’t allow your Hollywood-inspired imagination to run wild. There’s nothing so dramatic at play here as kidnapping. Save those creative inspirations for the wealth we will produce together. After we have dinner and conclude our business, we will put you ashore. My associates and I will then address the matters we have to discuss with these . . . competitors. It’s as harmless as that.”

“Whatever,” Koppel replied, proud of the acting job he was doing. “It’s none of my business, anyway? I just don’t like all these guns. Let’s wrap up the details so I can get the hell out of here.”

“Of course.” Traiman held up his glass again. “We are going to be very wealthy men, you and I, and very soon.”

Jordan and Christine were sitting side by side in the library. The walls of the cabin were lined with oiled walnut bookshelves, many of the volumes bound in leather. There was a campaign-style captain’s table in the center of the room, several club chairs set around the table and a settee against the wall that Jordan and Christine occupied. Directly across from them, Nelson was comfortably seated in one of the armchairs, his weapon resting in his lap. The security guard had stepped outside, waiting on deck near the door.

“Hey Nelson,” Jordan said. “That’s your name, right? Nelson?”

He did not answer.

“All right if I have a cigarette?”

“You move your hand and I’ll shoot your arm off.”

Sandor nodded. “That’s okay, I don’t really smoke.”

Nelson glared at him. “Traiman said he wants you alive for now, but he didn’t say anything about what condition you need to be in. Don’t press your luck.”

Jordan nodded again, studying the man, taking the measure of his options and gauging the eight feet or so that separated them.

The first mate , noticing something on the radar screen in the wheelhouse of the
Halaby
, was the first to see them. The speedboat was just a blip on the screen, but it was moving quickly. He radioed the man on the foredeck and asked him to have a look through his night-vision binoculars. The man obliged, scanning the dark sea to the west. The boat was not yet in view.

The lookout on the port side of the stern deck heard the radio communication from the wheelhouse and signaled back that a cruiser was moving slowly south from the Portofino harbor, still a long way off.

Neither activity was unusual in this area, but with Traiman aboard the yacht, the security detail was on high alert. When the cabin cruiser began to circle on a course slightly to the east, the man on the port side of the ship hurried to the dining salon. He knocked and then entered at Traiman’s bidding.

“Yes?”

“Sir, may I speak with you, please? Privately.”

Traiman was annoyed by the interruption, but his team was well trained and would not have intruded if it was not important. “I’m sorry, Mr. Koppel. I’ll be right back.”

Traiman followed the guard onto the deck, closing the door behind him.

“I’m sorry sir, but there seems to be movement. It may be nothing, but—”

“Details,” Traiman demanded.

The man explained what they had noticed to the west and the north.

“Stay here,” Traiman told him, then hurried forward along the teak deck.

John Covington was enjoying a drink in a guest cabin with one of Traiman’s men, the man who sometimes called himself Groat. His real name was Richard Dombroski.

Covington was having a scotch. Dombroski was having mineral water. The two men knew each other, but they were not friends. Theirs was an association forced upon them by circumstances.

“That was a rather dramatic exit you arranged for David Fryar at Loubar, wouldn’t you say?”

“We needed to make a point,” Dombroski replied in his monotone.

“You certainly accomplished that.” Covington took a sip of the fine, aged single malt scotch. “So, who is this Koppel character? Isn’t he that financier, lost his shirt a few years back?”

Dombroski looked at Covington, his hooded gaze giving the impression that he might be falling asleep. “I don’t ask questions,” he replied in his flat affect.

Once he arrived on the yacht, Covington was looking forward to abandoning his role as a double agent, anticipating a warm greeting from Traiman. He expected to be the true guest of honor, the completion of the mission in Portofino his coming out party. Covington’s days as a mole within the CIA were over, and he was disappointed to have his reunion with Traiman upstaged by Jordan Sandor and a broken-down Wall Street investor.

He was obliged to continue playing his part a little while longer.  

He took another drink of the smooth, oaky-tasting scotch, left to bide his time with the man he knew to be Traiman’s number one enforcer, wondering why Vincent had chosen Richard Dombroski as his chaperone.

Deputy Director Byrnes arrived in Portofino to coordinate the mission himself. He already had word from the men on the water that they would be circling near the
Halaby
within a few minutes. They would be approaching the yacht from two directions.

Byrnes warned them again that the
Halaby
was likely to be well armed and staffed with experienced military personnel.

The crew on the attack helicopter was standing by, but the DD wanted to hold them off as long as possible. If there was any chance at all that Sandor could get the information they needed, Byrnes was going to wait.

SIXTY

Traiman threw open the door to the cabin where Covington and Dombroski were waiting. If Covington was expecting this to be the moment for an appreciative greeting, he was wrong.

“What goes on here, John?”

Covington was too dumbstruck by the anger in Traiman’s voice to frame a suitable reply.

“There are two boats approaching.”

“What?”

“You told me your detail was the only one trailing Sandor, that it was clean behind you.”

Covington nodded. “Of course.”

“Then who the hell is out there?”

“Out where?” He stood as if to go see for himself.

Traiman shook his head. “No. It’s better if you continue to pretend you’re our prisoner. We may still get some mileage out of that.” Traiman was thinking now, calculating the probabilities of his situation. “Koppel. You never met him before?”

“Never.”

“Never saw a file on him at the Agency, no mention of him?”

“Nothing.”

Traiman nodded to himself. “Fine,” he said. “You wait here. Richard, you come with me.”

Dombroski followed Traiman out onto the deck, pulling the door closed behind him.

“We may be going seaside,” Traiman said to Dombroski. It was all the man needed to know. Traiman had an emergency escape plan that was arranged for only two. Below decks were scuba gear and two motorized underwater props fitted with lights and a range of more than an hour. In the event all other options were foreclosed, he and Dombroski would enter the water through the transom hatch and head for safety.

Dombroski nodded his thick head in understanding.

“Hopefully it won’t be necessary, but get it ready all the same.”

As Dombroski went below to make the preparations, Traiman hurried aft along the teak catwalk. When he passed the guard and burst into the library, his entrance was so abrupt that Nelson quickly came to his feet, his automatic aimed at the door.

“Sorry sir,” he said.

Traiman waved at him with the back of his hand and Nelson sat down. “What the hell is going on here, Jordan?”

“Not much. We were just in the middle of a staring contest.”

Traiman turned to Nelson. “The next wisecrack he makes, shoot the girl’s knee. Shatter it completely. One shot, you understand?”

Nelson responded with a satisfied smile as Christine took hold of Jordan’s wrist, digging her nails into his flesh.

“Now,” Traiman said, turning back to Sandor, “let’s have it. What are you doing here?”

Jordan looked from Traiman to Nelson and then back again. “I told you my reasons for being here. What else do you want to know?”

“There are two boats approaching. Your friend Covington knows nothing about them. What do you know?”

Jordan had never told Christine anything about Deputy Director Byrnes or their plans to take Traiman. Her look of astonishment was therefore genuine. Sandor did his best to look just as bewildered.

“I was with Andrioli and Christine. You knew that. I figured Covington was on our tail, but you know I wouldn’t count on him from here to there,” he said, pointing across the cabin with the hand Christine was not squeezing.

“Watch it,” Nelson told him.

“Right,” Jordan said, placing his palm back on the sofa. “Look Vincent, Andrioli told me about your plans to place hit teams in the States and in Europe. That’s as much as I know.”

“You’re lying, Jordan. You mentioned VX. Tell me what you know about Operation VX.”

“VX? I don’t know much. Somebody mentioned it to Andrioli in Paris.”

“Shoot the girl,” Traiman said.

Christine screamed.

Jordan hollered, “Wait,” as Nelson leveled the automatic at her leg.

Traiman raised his hand to his aide. “Well then?”

“I’ve heard rumors about a terrorist assault involving VX. I realized later that’s what McHugh wanted to talk with me about.” Sandor gave a look that suggested he had just pieced together the last part of a puzzle. “That’s it, isn’t it Vincent? That’s what Andrioli was after. The assassinations are bogus. The team they took down in DC, that’s a disinformation ploy.”

“Yes yes yes,” Traiman intoned impatiently. “But what about you? What have you cooked up for me, my old protégé?”

“I told you, Vincent. I wanted to see you, face to face.”

“Well then, you have your wish.”

“Look, if those boats were heading for this yacht, what would I be doing here now? What kind of idiocy would that be?”

Traiman thought that over. “I wonder.”

“So what are you really up to? VX nerve gas, that’s not your style, Vincent. And Martin Koppel, what’s that all that about?”

Traiman scrutinized him closely, Jordan’s gaze never leaving him.

“I recognized him, of course.” Jordan said. “Big time Wall Street at one time, right? What would you be doing with him?”

Traiman took a step back and sat in the armchair to the side of Nelson. “I’m afraid, if you insist you have nothing more to tell me, Miss Frank will have to serve as a human lie detector test.”

Christine felt all the breath go out of her.

“I told you,” Sandor said quickly, eying Nelson who was still aiming at Christine’s leg. “I know you have a plan involving VX nerve gas, that’s it.”