Targets of Deception (17 page)

While he was with the Company, Traiman used his experience and training to land several assignments in the Middle East, where he cultivated influential friends and contacts along the way. He also found a way to amass a small, private army.

The United States government provided unwitting assistance to Traiman’s enterprise, having created a sub-class of sociopaths among the combat veterans from Southeast Asia. These soldiers had been part of the elite teams trained to become vicious jungle killers, snipers and close-order assassins. After being continually exposed to the threat of death, these men were incapable of resuming their normal lives after the fall of Saigon.

Some came home ill-equipped to carry on with their prior lives, falling victim to the haunting memories of war. Others re-upped, seeking in military service that sense of danger that had become their personal opiate. But the American Armed Forces could no longer provide what they needed. Even when the United States had wars to fight, they were now different wars. The Gulf War of 1991 was typical of this new era of conflict. Scud missiles and Stingers took the place of boots on the ground. The public had no stomach for sending men overseas to fight in battles perceived to be the problems of other countries. Vietnam had changed all that.

These impatient warriors were not willing to wait more than a decade for the United States to launch its next offensive in Iraq. They became increasingly frustrated, breaking rules and violating laws. Those still in the service became insubordinate to younger, higher-ranking officers who had no idea what real fighting was about. And each of these malcontents had his name and serial numbers entered into the all-knowing computers of the United States intelligence community.

While he was still with the CIA, Vincent R. Traiman had had access to those computers. He knew who these men were, knew that they were candidates for the platoon he intended to build. To the most talented men who were unable to leave the thrill of war behind, he offered lucrative contracts. He used his position not only to create personal profit through illegal arms transactions, but also to build his own forces. These were men he could enlist, not to risk death for God, country or ideology, but for money. And a renewed sense of purpose. And the sheer excitement of battle.

When Traiman left the CIA, he did not resign. He simply disappeared, drawing on the protection of his own palace guard as well as the resources of al-Qaeda. Ironically, he had never armed himself with so much as a pocket knife.

Your omissions have become dangerous, Rahmad.” Traiman’s manner was always direct, his speech a potent economy of words. “You will have to rectify these errors.”

“This work has already begun.”

“Has it? Then how could you have missed the significance of Jordan Sandor’s presence in Woodstock?”

Rahmad hesitated, then said, “We have placed a team on Sandor.”

“Yes, I know. And does this team know that Sandor is no longer in government custody?”

Rahmad did his best to conceal his surprise. Just before he left New York, he was informed that Sandor had been taken by the FBI. Now Traiman was suggesting that his intelligence sources in Libya were better than Rahmad’s, right there in New York. “We suspected that he would be released,” he lied. “Our team is on this.”

“Are they? We’ll see. Are you also aware that Tafallai was killed last night in New York? In the process of attacking a woman Sandor worked with at the Agency?”

“I’ve been flying all night. I—”

“Yes, I understand that. But in the meantime, your principal concern remains unresolved.”

“Andrioli,” Rahmad said tentatively.

“Of course.”

Now Rahmad’s eyes avoided Traiman’s critical gaze. “I must be honest and report that our men have been unsuccessful in locating him. If McHugh knew where he is, our men were not able to extract this information.”

Traiman’s laughter had no trace of humor as it cut through the tension of the interview. “Very noble of you, Rahmad, to admit the failure of your men. And what of you? What part do you have in this failure?”

The Arab did not respond. He suffered Traiman’s anger in silence, still averting the cold gaze that bore down upon him. He only looked up when Traiman stood and walked to the wall of windows behind his desk.

“It has become increasingly difficult to recruit skilled men.” Traiman spoke as he looked out at the city, his back to Rahmad. “We have had to increase salaries and bonuses, and to give assurances we prefer not to give. Revelations from our friend Andrioli could compromise our plans, not to mention the efforts of the teams we have already put in place. The longer he remains at large, the greater the risk.”

“I understand.”

“We are at a crossroads, Rahmad, and time is a luxury we do not have. You understand that too, I presume.”

“I do.”

Traiman turned to face him. “It happens that I do know where we can find Mr. Andrioli. We have a team ready to depart for the United States today.”

Once again, Rahmad was rocked by Traiman’s superior intelligence sources. “Where?” he asked, straining to sound composed.

“Don’t be concerned,” Traiman said with an abrupt wave of his hand.

Rahmad wanted to know where Andrioli was and how Traiman had learned of his location, but held his tongue.

“You will meet with the team this morning. Right now. They will debrief you. Tell them everything you know about Andrioli. Give them all the information your men have gathered.”

“Of course,” Rahmad agreed quickly.

Traiman replied with an impatient look that said he no longer expected much from Rahmad. “Our teams are moving into place in New York and San Francisco. They’re already situated in London and Rome. However, we received some other bad news. The group in Washington has been compromised.”

“I am aware of that,” Rahmad said, grateful to finally be told something he already knew, even if he had learned of it from Fox News before leaving the States. “A tragedy.”

“Yes,” Traiman agreed. Although Rahmad doubtlessly suspected that he was behind the explosion at Loubar, there was no reason for him to suppose that Traiman had orchestrated the betrayal of the team in Washington.

“How were they discovered?” Rahmad asked.

“We’re investigating that now. Their cell is being blamed for the explosion at Loubar.”

“Is that possible?”

“Of course not.”

Rahmad’s eyes narrowed as he said, “Their capture must have been a blow to our friends here.”

Traiman nodded, not revealing to Rahmad that he had been the one behind the exposure of the hit team in Washington, “Yes, a shame, but all part of the business we have chosen. For now we must deal with the technical supplies being shipped from Loubar. Since the problem with Mr. Fryar has been resolved to our satisfaction, we’ll need to monitor the situation until a new chief executive of that company is selected.”

“Of course.”

Traiman also kept to himself the pressure he was receiving from Qaddafi’s regime to leave Tripoli. He was becoming a political liability, and was preparing to abandon his bunker in Libya for a yacht that would take him to anonymous safety on the Mediterranean. In the meantime, the release of the shipment from Loubar would be enough to buy him some needed time.

 “Your assistance may be required in that process,” he told Rahmad. “If you are contacted by a man named Groat, you are to give him your full cooperation.”

TWENTY-FIVE

It was nearly two in the morning by the time Jordan and Christine had finished talking. She claimed not to know anything more of importance than she had already shared with him, but Sandor encouraged her to go over everything again, filling in some blanks along the way.

Jimmy McHugh was actually her half brother, which explained their different last names. He was more than ten years older than Christine. Born when their mother was a teenager too young to take care of her baby. Jimmy was raised by foster parents, and Christine never knew of his existence until after both of her parents had died. Christine, who believed she was an only child, had come to live in the care of her mother’s sister, Aunt Sarah in Wilkes Barre. It was Aunt Sarah who told both Christine and Jimmy the truth. Jimmy, who was already in the service, had begun writing to his sister from Vietnam. Christine met him a couple of times after the war, but he was moving around a lot in those days, and they lost touch again for several years.

Christine had difficulty speaking about her family, at times unable to look directly at Jordan as she recounted her personal history. Jordan helped keep her on track, not expressing his continuing skepticism, eventually leading her back to her final meeting with McHugh in Paris.

Christine said that she had begun to hear from Jimmy again less than a year ago. There were some phone calls and letters from overseas. Then a few months ago he had written and asked her to come to France.

When she visited her brother in Paris, she really believed it was going to be a family reunion and a vacation. “The day after I arrived, that’s when he told me the truth. At least most of it. He said he needed help to get away from the people he was working for. That’s why he sent me to Madrid. He wanted them to believe we were going to visit the Prado and all that, with my being an art history professor.”

“You mentioned.”

“Well, an assistant professor.”

“Right. But he put you in harm’s way. They could have come looking for you to find him.”

She was sitting up against the padded headboard now. “I know,” she said. “What else could he do? He needed me.”

Jordan realized he was becoming angry at this dead man’s thoughtlessness and the selfish risks he took at her expense. Then he thought of Dan Peters, and of Beth, and exhaled slowly. “I guess he did,” he said.

“He still does,” she said softly.

He let that go. “And you didn’t share any of this with Prescott?”

“Not really. I just told him that Jimmy was my brother. He didn’t seem very interested in my past.”

“What was he interested in?”

“Mainly about anything Jimmy told me, how I came to be visiting him, that stuff.”

“Did you tell him about Paris and Madrid?”

“Yes. But actually, it was the other man who asked me about it.”

“Covington?”

“Yes.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Everything except about meeting Tony.”

“Did you talk about helping him?”

“I told you, I never even mentioned his name.”

“Did they?”

She shook her head.

“Well, we’ll find out how much help we can be to Mr. Andrioli in a few hours. Let’s get some rest.”

She got up from the bed and pulled back her side of the covers. “I don’t have anything to sleep in,” she said.

Jordan stood up and turned down the other half of the bedspread. “How about I turn around, you get yourself ready and climb under the sheets?’

She laughed. “What a prude you are, Mr. Sandor.” She began to undress. “You going to just stand there and make me feel ridiculous?”

“Sorry,” Jordan said, his back to her now. He stripped down to his underpants, then dialed the automated wake-up call mechanism. He climbed under the sheets and switched off his light as she did the same on her side of the bed.

“Just one last thing,” he said quietly into the darkness. “Who is Tony to you? Really.”

“I told you. He’s Jimmy’s best friend.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“And you’re willing to risk your life to get to him, to warn him?”

He waited until she finally said, “No. That’s not what this is about. Not for me. Jimmy wanted to do something. He and Tony, they have information they wanted to give to someone they could trust.”

“And that’s us.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“All right.”

“But what you just said. About risking my life.”

“Yes?”

“It’s hard for me to think of it like that. I still can’t, you know?”

“I understand.”

They let the darkness fill the quiet for a while.

“It’s hard for me to believe Jimmy is gone,” she said.

Jordan didn’t respond.

“You’ll watch out for me, won’t you?”

“Yes, I will. Now try and get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be another long day.”

He heard her utter a sigh. Felt her relax a little beside him.

He wanted to believe her, but he didn’t. She had just lost her brother, and yet she hadn’t even mentioned a funeral. Her family saga was sketchy at best, delivered in a staccato fashion that spoke more of invention than remembrance. He believed that she was truly frightened, but he still wasn’t convinced he knew what was driving her.

Prescott found Covington in the hotel lobby. It was the middle of the night. Neither the late hour nor his sour mood helped Prescott’s lousy complexion and homely face. There were no polite greetings as he approached.

“Well?” Covington asked.

“Still nothing,” Prescott admitted.

“I wish I could understand this. I really do. You were alerted that they were on the move and you lost them fifty yards from the hotel.”

“Save it,” Prescott barked back at him. “You can throw your weight around someplace else. My people know their job.”

“Of course.”

“We’re working on a lead. They may have been spotted on foot, heading up Broadway.”

“Look, don’t misunderstand. I’m not here to criticize the Bureau’s procedures. But we have a shared problem. We need to find them, or it’ll be an embarrassment to both of us.”

“Not to mention a danger to the Frank girl, if your friend Sandor is allowed to run amuck.”

“Yes, that too,” Covington replied, sounding less concerned than Prescott had expected, but he let it go.

 “So when are you going to drop this State Department bullshit and tell me why the CIA is involved?”

Covington pressed his thin lips together and nodded. “You need to make a phone call,” he said. “And so do I.”

TWENTY-SIX

As Sandor struggled to find a couple of hours’ sleep in the middle of the New York night, Mahmoud Rahmad was completing his interview with two men who had been brought to Vincent Traiman’s office in the heart of Tripoli.