Targets of Deception (16 page)

He opened his bag and removed a flat piece of metal with a rounded hook at the end from his cloth-covered tool kit. In a few moments he had the hood open and the alarm system disarmed. He used the same tool to unlock the driver’s door. Then he slid under the dashboard, pulled out the ignition wires and started the car while Christine kneeled on the ground beside him. “Come on,” he told her, and she climbed across his lap to the passenger side.

Jordan backed the car out, drove up the ramp and stopped at the cashier station. He rolled down his window. The clerk inside the glass booth was a trim black man who appeared to be in his early forties. He asked for the parking receipt.

“You must be Louis,” Sandor said.

“I know you?”

“No, but Celia told us to ask for you.”

A slight smile came to the man’s lips.

“You see, Louis, we’ve lost our receipt and we’re kind of in a hurry. She said you could help us out.”

The man’s smile vanished. “She did, eh? And how do I know you’re not stealing this here car?”

Jordan turned to Christine. “You hear that, sweetheart? Isn’t that rich.” He turned back to Louis. “Let me ask you something? If I was going to steal a car from this parking lot, why would I choose this old heap?”

Louis nodded at the logic of his argument. “All right,” he said as he began to lean forward, “but lemme see your car key. So I know you ain’t pullin’ the wool, if you see my point.”

“Of course,” Jordan said but, instead of reaching for the non-existent key, he picked up the Walther and leveled it at Louis’ face. “I’m sorry Louis, but if you move a hair, I’m going to have to shoot you in the head. And believe me, I would really prefer not to have to do that.”

With his other hand, Jordan pulled a hundred dollar bill from his pocket. “You see, Louis, we have a problem and not much time to work it out. So here’s the drill. You raise the crossbar and get out of your booth. You take this hundred dollars and run up the ramp where I can see you. All we need is a minute. Then you can come back here and call the police or whoever you’ve got to call. In the meantime, you get to keep the hundred.

“So what’s it going to be, Louis? I’m all out of time, and I would really hate to have to blow your head off.”

Louis started to move.

“Eh eh eh eh,” Sandor responded, waving the gun at him. “No panic buttons, Louis.”

“Easy man, I’m just gettin’ outta the booth.”

“Raise the bar first. And Louis, if I hear an alarm go off, I’ll come after you. Maybe not right now, but Celia knows where you live.”

The bar came up, Louis stepped gingerly from his booth, grabbed the C-note from Jordan’s hand and took off like a deer in rut up the ramp.

Jordan stepped on the gas and turned east on 44th Street.

TWENTY-THREE

John Covington was trying to catch a nap in his hotel room, fully clothed, on top of the quilted bedspread when the telephone rang. It roused him from an uneasy sleep. He had the receiver in his hand before the second ring.

“I just got the call from downstairs, sir. He’s gone.”

Covington nodded into the darkness. “Good.”

“It seems Washington was right about him,” Nealon said.

Covington bristled at the suggestion that the deputy director, not he, had made that evaluation.  

“He’s a loose cannon, isn’t he, sir?”

“Sandor was never a team player,” Covington said. “Now he’s not even on the roster.”

“Yes sir.”

“What else?”

“Sandor tried to reach Reynolds. They shut him down. Then he spoke to his friend, the reporter at the
Times
. He knows about Beth Sharrow.”

Covington considered that for a moment.
It might help
.

“We think he made another call, on a cell phone. We couldn’t get that one, too much background interference.”

“Let me know if you get a trace.”

“Yes sir,” Nealon said.

“So it’s Sandor and the girl.”

“She sure won’t make for unattractive company for him, will she, sir?”

Covington had enough of Nealon’s unenlightening observations. “Did they leave on foot?”

“No, they stole a car from the hotel garage. We’re trying to get a lead on them now.”

“Excuse me? You’re telling me you lost them?”

“Prescott’s men lost them, sir.”

“I instructed you to move his men aside, not shove them in a ditch.”

“We did our best to stay with them, but Prescott’s agents were the gate-keepers. Sandor gave them the slip.”

“Do we have any information on the car?”

“We do, but it’s no help. It was abandoned a few blocks away.”

“And then what? Cab, subway, on foot, what?”

“We’re tracking that down. You think they’ll stay in New York?”

“That’s what I need you to find out,” Covington replied angrily. “Get on it. And once you pick up the scent again, remember, Sandor will be looking for us, so give him room to move. I don’t want him to see us. At least not yet. I want him to spend his energy finding Andrioli, not shaking our team.”

Covington didn’t wait for an answer before hanging up. He switched on the lamp and stood up, having a look out the window at New York City below. Sandor had taken the bait. He probably wouldn’t trust the girl. Not at first. He might not even buy any of what she had told him. All Sandor had to believe was that there was danger and that he could protect her.

As Covington knew, it was a role his former agent would find irresistible. And then, perhaps, he would lead them to Andrioli.

After Sandor had exited the parking garage and turned the Taurus onto 44th Street, he checked the rear-view mirror and saw two agents in front of the hotel. One was on a radio transmitter, the other frantically looking around. He saw one of them point at the car, not certain whether they had guessed right or if they had just received a call from inside the hotel.

Jordan maintained a steady speed, reaching Sixth Avenue where he took a quick left and then another left on Fifty-Third Street. He pulled to the curb and left the car running next to a fire hydrant just east of Seventh Avenue. He told Christine to get out, grabbed his bag and exited the sedan. Shoving the Walther in his pocket he took her hand. They ran to Broadway, then north to 57th Street, where Jordan hailed a cab.

Covington got another call from Nealon. The FBI had given him some worthless details about the Taurus that Sandor had stolen. They located a man who spotted the couple leaving the car and walking west, toward Broadway. Other than that, they had nothing.

Once it was clear that they had lost Jordan, Covington had no choice but to telephone Washington.

The deputy director was not pleased to be called at one in the morning, especially to be given bad news.

“You’re telling me between the FBI and the Agency combined, you lost him?”

“Yes sir.”

“Without a single lead on where he’s going?”

“So far, that’s the situation.”

“Unbelievable,” Mark Byrnes fumed. “This was supposed to be a long leash, Covington, not an open cage!”

“Yes sir.”

“Well, do something about it.”

“Yes sir. What about involving the Bureau?”

“What do you think? We have no choice now. Explain the predicament. Tell them to call in their Homeland Security liaison. And try to be diplomatic about it.”

“Yes sir.”

 Byrnes took a deep breath. “You heard about the takedown of the three-man cell, just a couple of hours after the explosion at Loubar?”  

“I did.”

“Interesting timing. And doesn’t it strike you as odd that the informant had a direct number for the Agency? Used that, rather than calling the police or the FBI?”

“The thought had occurred to me,” Covington said.

“Yes,” the DD replied, musing over the possible implications of that seemingly small issue.

“They could have someone inside, sir. Is that what you’re thinking?”

“It’s not the most obvious conclusion but yes, that was my concern.”

“These men are being interrogated now?”

“Of course.”

“Maybe that will lead to something.”

Byrnes paused. “We’ll see. So far we’ve gotten nothing. But I intend to become involved in the questioning.”

Covington did not voice his surprise at the DD becoming hands on at that level.

“Bottom line,” Byrnes said, “find Sandor and find Andrioli.”

“Yes sir.”

“And Covington . . .”

“Sir?”

“No matter what else goes down, we need Andrioli alive.”

“Yes sir.”

The DD ended the call without further comment.

Jordan had the cab take them to a motel he knew, just across the Grand Central Parkway from LaGuardia Airport. It was the sort of motel where the clerk at the front desk was accustomed to the sight of a man and a woman arriving after one in the morning, knowing it was none of his business. Jordan paid for the room in cash—which was also none of the clerk’s business. He handed Sandor a key to a room on the second floor and bid them a good night.

Jordan and Christine found the room and let themselves in. It was square with a large, well-used bed against the wall, one chair, an old television bolted to the top of the dresser, and a nightstand. Jordan went to the telephone, set his bag on the floor and began making arrangements for a flight to Fort Lauderdale the next morning.

“Nine o’clock,” he said over his shoulder. “That’s the first flight I could get us on.”

“At least we can get some rest,” Christine said. “I haven’t slept for two nights.”

Finished with the airline, Jordan phoned Federal Express to get an address for the nearest drop box. Next, he called information and got a number and address for a commercial mailbox center in Fort Lauderdale. When he was done, he propped up two pillows and lay down on the bed. Christine sat down beside him.

“So,” Jordan said, staring up at the ceiling, “you want to tell me why you’re really here?”

She fluffed up her pillows and leaned on her arm, facing him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“What I mean is, Prescott wouldn’t have held us, at least not for long. You could have contacted anyone you chose—an attorney, a family member, a friend. People must have known you were coming to New York. Captain Reynolds could have helped. You would have been safe. They weren’t going to throw you in a dungeon. You could have found a way to contact Andrioli.”

“No,” she said, “you’re wrong. We won’t be able to reach him unless we go there and find him.”

“That’s it? That’s your whole explanation?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice beginning to tremble. “If you don’t believe me, why are you here?”

He turned towards her. “I haven’t got anything better to do.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Look, I’d like to believe you. If you’re telling the truth, I have every reason to get on that plane in the morning and help you search for Jimmy’s pal. He may have information, as you say, and I want it. Two men are dead, one of them a friend of mine, another in the hospital. And I’m beginning to feel like a moving target in a carnival game. There’s a connection somewhere, and your guy Andrioli might know what it is.” He let her think about that for a moment, then added, “Of course, if you’re lying, there might even be more reason to stay close to you.”

“That’s it, then?”

“That’s it.”

“So I’m either a liar or not.” The look of sadness in her eyes seemed genuine enough to him. “That’s why you’re here?”

“That,” he said, “and your smile.”

She lowered her head, not bothering to attend to the tear that ran down her cheek. “I only met you a few hours ago, and all I’ve done is cry.”

“I’ve noticed.” He sat up to have a better look at her then reached out and tenderly wiped her face with his fingertips. “This is the second hotel room we’ve been in together and all you do is cry.  Could ruin my reputation.”

Christine forced a slight smile.

“That’s better,” he said.

Their eyes met, just long enough for the intimacy of the moment to become uncomfortable. She turned away.

“Come on,” he said, “we’ll get this all sorted out.” He gently pushed the hair back from her face. “It’s what I do, you know.”

She allowed herself to relax into his arms. “I know,” she whispered. “Tony told me.”

“Told you what?”

“He told me that’s why Jimmy was going to meet with you. That you were a reporter or something, but that you really were something else before.”

“Andrioli told you that?”

She nodded and Jordan found himself wishing he could speak with Dan Peters one more time. He pulled away slightly, not speaking as Christine studied his face, the strong line of his jaw, the determined look in his eyes.

“You really can help, can’t you?”

“Yes,” Jordan said. “I think I can.” 

TWENTY-FOUR

Mahmoud Rahmad reached Tripoli, via a flight from Paris. He was met at the airport, then traveled by limousine to the progressive center of this historic city, oblivious to the dazzling architectural counterpoints that defined this country in transition. Modern design was mixed with traditional structures, less a blend than a dissonant metaphor of the internal struggles this nation faced. Though a man with considerable appreciation for aesthetics Rahmad was concerned with the more immediate issues at hand.

He arrived at his destination, a contemporary office building situated in the heart of town, and he proceeded at once to the top floor. The elevator rose without pause to the highest level where he emerged into a richly appointed reception area that displayed the occidental taste of its inhabitants. Although most of the international espionage activities in Libya had long been coordinated from the Villa Pietri, this penthouse was another sort of operation. Rahmad was ushered into Vincent R. Traiman’s private office.

Traiman was in his middle fifties, with short, dark nappy hair and reptilian eyes. He was not quite six feet tall, with broad shoulders and strong arms. His features were blunt and hard, possessing something of the brutality of a pugilist and the roughness of a former linebacker. He had, in fact, played football in his college days. From there he enlisted in the service, eventually rising to the rank of captain in the United States Army. Later, he worked as an aide in the diplomatic corps before being recruited as a field operative for the CIA.