Targets of Deception (42 page)

Jordan, on his feet again, moved cautiously forward. Traiman was barely standing, leaning against the control panel, his submachine gun now lying nearby on the deck. Sandor moved slowly inside, checking behind him, and kicked the door shut.

“What a bore you can be, Jordan.” Traiman coughed.

“Every party has a pooper.”

“I hope you don’t expect me to answer any more of your endless questions.”

“No Vincent. As it turns out, I got everything else I needed from Covington.”

“That sniveling bureaucrat?”

“I never liked him.”

“Neither did I,” Traiman said with a slight laugh that became a throaty cough. When he caught his breath, he said, “Dead?”

“Very,” Jordan told him.

Traiman nodded slowly. “Probably deserved it.”

“That’s how I saw it.”

Traiman had a look at Jordan’s blood stained shirt and trousers. “My men will be here in a few moments, but it appears I may not need their help. You’re already done for.”

Sandor steadied himself, grabbing hold of a handrail. “Maybe. You’re not looking too swift yourself.”

“So then, we old comrades end up dying together.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Vincent. We’re not comrades, and we’re not going to die together.”

In that instant, Jordan saw the flicker in Traiman’s eyes, even before he heard the movement behind him. Sandor spun and slid to the side in one fluid step, firing a long burst at Dombroski. The man staggered backwards, down the steps to the wheelhouse, and over the railing. Given the moment, Traiman dove for the MAC 10 that had fallen to the deck. He looked up as he strained to reach the weapon, his gaze now met by Jordan’s.

“I can’t say I’ll miss you, Vincent.”

Traiman forced a grim smile. “I suppose not, old friend.” Then he lunged forward the last foot or so. Jordan did not hesitate. He fired a burst of shots that sent Traiman sprawling face first across the deck of the bridge.

Sandor leaned over to make certain he was dead. He kicked aside the SMG, stood up, and stared down at Traiman one last time. He shook his head sadly and then made his way to the foredeck.

The
Halaby
held
its course, cruising slowly through the calm waters of the indifferent Mediterranean, the speed cut well back due to the damage Sandor had caused in the engine room. The sound of gunfire had subsided, the two crafts piloted by Byrnes’ men having moved out of range. The remaining force on the yacht heard the helicopter before they saw it approaching from the east.

Jordan also spotted the Black Hawk as it emerged through the darkness, realizing that if Traiman’s men refused to surrender in the next few moments, the
Halaby
would be pulverized, along with everyone on it.

Sandor had reached the foredeck and was kneeling in the cool night air in front of the enclosed bridge. He heard two men running fast along the starboard walkway. He was too weak now to chance another battle, especially if a second team followed them forward, along the port side, which was more than likely.

Jordan held the MP5 out, beyond the cover of the wheelhouse, and sent a barrage of shots at the two approaching gunman, holding them off for the moment. Then he hobbled to the railing and dropped himself overboard.

The Black Hawk attempted to radio the yacht, but the two men who had been on the bridge, Traiman and the captain, were both dead. The American agents aboard the helicopter watched as the yacht limped slowly through the calm sea, its course set, its engines damaged.

Their next option would have been to send a warning shot across the bow, a small charge that would explode in the sea, sending a huge spray of water high into the air.

Instead, Byrnes ordered the co-pilot to hold off, instructing him to train two large spotlights on the deck of the ship. Then, using the high-powered loudspeaker, he directed him to tell the men remaining on the
Halaby
that they had exactly ten seconds to kill the engines and come on deck with their arms raised. The Black Hawk had to be concerned about the launch of a shoulder-mounted rocket, so no further warning would be given.

By now, the men aboard had spread the word that Traiman was gone. They also knew the Black Hawk could fire a charge smack into the center of the ship that would end the debate in one shot. One of the men argued that they could use a Stinger to take out the chopper, but the others shut him up. Even if they got lucky and took out the chopper, there was more artillery where this Black Hawk came from. If they missed, they would be annihilated in seconds.

So, without further argument, they marched onto the main deck, threw down their weapons, and held up their hands.

“Into the spotlight,” the loudspeaker ordered them. “You will be boarded now. A hostile move by anyone on the ship will be an act of war by all.”

The co-pilot radioed the larger boat and told them to take the
Halaby
.

Meanwhile, the pilot of the smaller, faster boat had spotted Christine and Koppel when they went over the side and had circled back to pick them up. Now he was looking for Sandor as the larger cabin cruiser headed straight towards the
Halaby
.

Even with the aid of their night-vision glasses, it was Christine who saw him first. “Jordan,” she cried out, pointing at him.

The speedboat swung sharply to the port side and came around to where he was struggling to stay afloat. They motored swiftly to his position, reached over the side, and hauled Sandor to safety.

SIXTY-FOUR

Jordan Sandor, his left arm in a sling, a cane resting against his chair, sat at a small table in Doney’s on the Via Veneto in Rome. He was sipping a cup of espresso with anisette, looking out the window at the stream of pedestrians that crowded this famous boulevard on a sunny afternoon.

“Listen to this,” Christine said, reading from the
International Herald Tribune
. She recited another account of the capture of terrorists in New York and San Francisco. There were only a few details, including a reference to the interception of a shipment of potentially dangerous chemicals from Marseilles, but no mention of VX gas.

“Potentially dangerous,” Jordan repeated with a shake of his head.

The deputy director walked through the front door, spotted them, and came to their table. He held out his hand to Christine. “Hello, Miss Frank. I’m Mark Byrnes.”

“Excuse me, if I don’t get up,” Sandor said.

“Good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

“Along with the blood, you mean?”

The DD sat down, taking a chair across from them, his back to the street. “It was a good job, Jordan.”

Sandor nodded. “Too bad about—” he began, but Byrnes cut in.

“We stopped them. You stopped them. It was important, and you got it done.”

“Yeah. Stopped them for now.”

“We can only fight one battle at a time,” the DD said. It was one of his favorite sayings.

“Koppel okay?”

“He’s fine, thanks to you. And he’ll wind up the hero, of course. Probably get someone to make a movie about him.”

“One of life’s sweet ironies.”

“So it would seem.”

“No glory for us though, right chief?”

The deputy director offered no response to Sandor’s wry look.

When their waiter came by Byrnes said he would not be staying. The man ambled away, muttering something in Italian.

“I just wanted to meet Miss Frank, to thank her personally. And to tell you to take as much time as you need.”

“And then?”

“And then you’re coming back, aren’t you?”

Jordan forced a smile. “Where else have I got to go?”

Byrnes looked at Christine now. “The world can be a pretty lousy place, young lady.” He stood up and extended his hand. “Thank you for your courage.”

Christine was not sure how to respond, so she shook his hand and said nothing at all.

“The name Covington gave me,” Jordan said. “Was he telling the truth?”

“Unfortunately,” Byrnes said. “Figueroa was a good agent, or so we thought. Smarter than Covington. We were onto Covington, but we had no idea Figueroa was involved. I’m surprised John gave him up.”

“Covington was a coward,” Jordan said.

“I suppose you’re right.”

“So what happens next?”

“After we take care of Traiman’s last team, here in Rome, I’m going home and do my best to wrap up this whole mess.”

“The VX?”

“Already have a team in possession of the shipments from Marseilles. It’s all under control.”

“Under control, sure.”

“One battle at a time, Jordan.” He turned to Christine. “Goodbye, Miss Frank. Sandor, I’ll see you in DC.”

Jordan sighed. “Yes sir,” he said, “you will.”

They watched as the deputy director walked through Doney’s front door and strolled up the Via Veneto, quickly lost among the tourists and locals, on his way back to the embassy. When Jordan picked up his espresso again, it was cold. He signaled the waiter to bring them two more.

“You’re thinking about your friends, about the people . . . all of that, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he said.

“What you did,” she said, “it needed to be done.”

Jordan stared at her. “Yes,” he said at last, “it did.”

The waiter brought fresh coffee, and Christine topped them off from the bottle of anisette. “Let’s make a toast,” she said.

“To what? The end of tyranny for today? Or peace for all time?”

“To Anthony,” she said solemnly.

Jordan nodded. “Sure, and to doing what needs to be done.”

They touched cups before drinking and then sat silent for a while.

“Well, let’s look on the bright side,” he said. “At least we didn’t catch pneumonia in the Med.”

“Or drown.”

“That’s true.”

“Next time we tour the world together, let’s make our plans a little more carefully.”

“Fair enough,” he said.

He paid the check and they set off for their hotel, Jordan hobbling along on his cane as they slowly walked the ancient streets of Rome.

###

Did you enjoy Targets of Deception? Please continue reading for a sample of the Jordan Sandor follow-up, Targets of Opportunity from Simon and Schuster.

PROLOGUE

PYONGYANG, NORTH KOREA

ON THE EIGHTH floor of a nondescript office building overlooking the harbor in Pyongyang, two men faced off across a small table. Hwang Hyun-Su, host of the meeting, was one of Kim Jong-Il’s most trusted advisors. His guest from South America was only identified to him as Adine.

The Great Leader maintained a strict need-to-know policy, even among his closest and most prominent associates. All that was required was for Kim’s deputy to attend this meeting, hear what the man had to say and report back.

The view from the austere conference room offered a revealing portrait of North Korea’s industrial dilemma: the warehousing and docks, with their antiquated equipment and vessels, appeared largely deserted—the port was far too quiet to comport with Kim’s claim of national prosperity. In sum, the harbor evinced all the activity of a New Hampshire lake in January.

Nevertheless, Hwang pointed to the port with pride, claiming it was proof of Kim’s true genius.

Responding without irony or sarcasm, the Latin man said, “We very much respect the spectacular growth of your economy,” then waited for his host’s interpreter to explain his statement. “If we are to make progress in these discussions, however, we must be candid about your dependence on foreign sources of oil.”

Hwang stared at his guest. “The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea is an independent nation. We are not reliant on any other government.”

The man called Adina could not resist a thin smile. “I am well versed in your Great Leader’s Juche ideology, his commitment to total autonomy, and the impressive strides he has made to ensure the success and the security of your beloved nation.”

Hwang nodded his approval as the statement was translated.

“But sir, the DPRK consumes more than thirty-five thousand barrels of oil every day, an extremely conservative estimate based on a damaged economy. Even at those numbers, your country produces less than two percent of its requirements. If that is not dependence, what is?” The Asian winced slightly. “If you are uncomfortable with the word
dependence,
then perhaps we should speak of cooperation.”

“Cooperation with whom? We already have friends who help us to meet our needs.”

“Ah, yes. But your so-called friends engage in wars with the imperialists of the West, then withhold production of oil and intentionally cause the price of crude to skyrocket. What sort of friends will they be when the cost has doubled again? Who will offer you protection?”

Hwang sat silent.

“The Korean People’s Army you have assembled cannot rely on the promises of those who are consumed with their own difficulties. You cannot run your tanks and ships on those questionable assurances. And what of your financial infrastructure? Your people have suffered

great deprivation in the name of industrial progress, but how will that end if you cannot afford the oil you need to grow?”

“The people are devoted to following our Dear Leader.”

For the first time, Adina did nothing to disguise his impatience. “It is difficult for people to remain in lockstep when they are starving to death. Let’s be frank, shall we? Your country has suffered food shortages for over a decade with no end in sight. You have chosen to cut off foreign aid, even from nongovernmental agencies such as the World Food Program. .is has only worsened the situation. Your stranglehold on the people is enforced not through devotion, but

through martial law. Your policies have resulted in famine, chronic poverty, and a decline in productivity. As the price of oil climbs, your troubles will only increase. Your military remains strong, but to what purpose? You have two million men in uniform doing nothing more than guarding a border that separates you from your own brothers in the south. How will that end for you?” Hwang stood up as the translation was completed, but before he could speak, Adina said, “Sit down, I’m not finished.”