Targets of Deception (19 page)

The address Christine had for Andrioli—which Jordan would only have her tell him once they were on the plane—was a numbered boat slip along the Intracoastal Waterway at New River Drive. The taxi moved along the sun-bleached streets to Las Olas Boulevard, the main thoroughfare adjacent to the canal. Christine had directions that would lead them from there to the docksite of the boat where Andrioli was staying.

At Sandor’s request, the cab driver let them out at a corner about a quarter mile from New River. They stood there for a few moments, Jordan looking up and down the street.

“What are you thinking?” Christine asked him. “You didn’t say a word the entire ride over here.”

“It just strikes me as odd that you have his address, that’s all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just what I said. This guy is in mortal danger. He’s hiding from his own government, not to mention the people who killed your brother. It just seems strange that he’d be giving out his address like he was having a cocktail party. He could have given you a cell phone number, a contact address. That’s what I mean.”

“What you’re really saying is that you still don’t believe me.”

“Come on, we can’t stand here all day. Let’s walk.”

Christine remained where she was. “Tell me. Do you believe me or don’t you?”

“No,” Jordan said. “Not completely.”

Christine’s angry look told him she was all done with sadness, at least for now. “Why are you here, then?” she demanded. “Why?”

Jordan’s eyes narrowed. “The truth?”

“Of course, the truth.”

“Because it doesn’t matter whether or not you’re lying to me. You’re the only lead I have right now. I’d just as soon not step on any land mines along the trail, that’s all.”

The frankness of his response seemed to diffuse her anger. Her voice softened again as she said, “I’m not lying to you. Jimmy didn’t want to know where Tony was, just in case, in case . . .”

“I understand.”

“I was the contact.”

Standing there in the Florida sun, as the reflection of the bright morning danced off her sandy-colored hair and her clear blue eyes gazed up at him, he wanted to trust her. But too many years of training and too much experience in the field told him that he should know better. “It’s all right,” he said in a soothing voice. “We’re here to find this guy. Let’s find him.”

They exchanged a momentary look that became a truce.

“All right,” she said with a nod, and they walked on to their unscheduled appointment with Anthony Andrioli.

Traiman’s men were scheduled to arrive in Florida that evening. Their plane, having departed from Paris, was already cruising high above the Atlantic as Christine and Jordan strolled along the cement pier that ran beside Fort Lauderdale’s inland canals.

But the assassins sent by Traiman were not coming for Jordan. They were not even certain he would be there. These two well-dressed men, seated comfortably in their business-class seats, were coming to find Anthony Andrioli.

Traiman did not like losing men, particularly those he had recruited himself. Competent men. Men who knew more about his plans than was comfortable for them to know, now that they had departed his organization. In his world, there was no provision for early retirement. He certainly agreed with Special Agent Prescott about that.

In the instance of the hit team in DC, however, he had arranged to betray those men himself. They had been dispatched to Washington as part of a program of coordinated assassinations. They had been awaiting instructions on their targets, the dates for action and the precise plans for implementing the murders of several high-ranking legislators. When they were arrested, they were still looking forward to receiving their orders.

But there were no orders coming. And there was no program of coordinated assassinations. Traiman had sent these men as a decoy, planning for Groat to turn them in as soon as his mission at Loubar headquarters was complete. These Arab assassins would be arrested, blamed for the explosion, interrogated. One or more of them would crack—Traiman was counting on that—and the Americans would then believe they had discovered a new al-Qaeda conspiracy involving several teams of assassins being sent to the United States to murder political leaders.

But there was no such conspiracy. The authorities would run off in all the wrong directions, spending their energy and resources protecting congressmen and cabinet secretaries, entirely missing the essence of Traiman’s real plan. And no one would know the truth.

No one, Traiman feared, except Anthony Andrioli.

When McHugh and Andrioli disappeared from Paris, Traiman began by making conciliatory gestures. He offered them special inducements through an intermediary in France to bring both men back. McHugh and Andrioli were well aware of how generous such enticements could be—the money, women and drugs that were virtually without limit. They were also aware of how Traiman would ultimately make them answer for their disloyalty.

When neither man responded to these entreaties, all indications were that they had returned home. Traiman assigned Rahmad and his US based espionage network to find and remove them. They had now been successful in locating McHugh, but McHugh was never as bright as Andrioli. McHugh made stupid mistakes, using the telephone, contacting people. Once they tracked him down, the methods employed by Kerrigan and Mustafa to get him to talk were direct and brutal.

Under torture, McHugh admitted his suspicions that the assassination teams sent by Traiman were diversionary. That there was another offensive being planned for the United States and elsewhere. But he admitted that he lacked any knowledge of the details.

Andrioli was another matter entirely.

Traiman was therefore obliged to put the mission on hold until he could determine the extent of the damage the second of his two traitors might cause by revealing what he knew to American authorities. The interference of David Fryar at Loubar with key shipments had caused another temporary setback. As Traiman realized, his Arab associates were not patient men, and their intolerance of the delay was growing.

That was the reason Traiman summoned Rahmad to Tripoli. Every now and then, a face-to-face meeting was necessary, if for no other reason than to remind his subordinates of his influence.  

Even though some time had been wasted on the journey east, it would be paid off in the effect of the visit. Mahmoud Rahmad needed to have the importance of this task emphasized, his own expendability underlined.

Rahmad would be sent back to New York to fulfill his other responsibilities and, soon, Anthony Andrioli and the growing stain of his betrayal would cease to be a problem.

TWENTY-EIGHT

The boats on the New River canal were docked broadside, bow to stern, secured with spring lines, their hulls cushioned by bumpers against the concrete bulkhead. Jordan and Christine strolled along the northern embankment, silently reading each transom, searching for the name Christine had for Andrioli’s boat. which was all she had. The name of the boat and the general location of the dock.

They moved without speaking, Jordan’s sense of uneasiness amplified by the fact that he was unarmed. He walked with his bag slung over his shoulder. Christine stayed right beside him as they passed an assortment of cabin cruisers and sailboats. As each boat came into view, their anxiety intensified. Perhaps Andrioli had abandoned the vessel, or moved to another marina. He might have put out to sea. Christine might have the name wrong.

The midday sun now conspired to heighten their discomfort, the cloudless sky offering no relief. They were fresh from the chill of autumn in the north, and the early feeling of comforting warmth was replaced with a sweltering heat. Sandor found himself wishing he could change from his long-sleeved knit shirt.

They had just passed a two-masted sloop called the
Excess
from Wilmington, Delaware, when the stern of the next vessel, a power boat, came into view. It was about forty feet long, of white fiberglass construction with teak trim. It bore the name
Winsome II
.

Christine stopped, but Jordan took her arm and urged her forward, the two of them continuing past the boat in silence.

Sandor was a stranger to Andrioli. He knew he could not step aboard the vessel without risking a sudden and violent reaction. Christine would have to make the approach. That much was certain.

As they passed the bow of a cabin cruiser docked ahead of Andrioli’s. Jordan said, “Look, we have no way of knowing what the situation is in there. He may not be alone. He may not be there at all. He may have other visitors already, we can’t be sure.”

They stopped and Jordan turned to have another look at the
Winsome II
. It appeared very quiet. “How well do you really know him?”

“I told you. I met him in Paris, with Jimmy.”

“And he’ll recognize you?”

“Of course.”

“So you’ll have to go first. I’ll wait just off to the side. There,” he said, pointing to a bench along the walkway.

Jordan knew they had already been standing there long enough. “All right, go to the stern and call for him. Quietly. First name only. And be careful. First sign of trouble, anything that bothers you, you take off. Understand?”

She nodded and turned towards the boat, then looked back again. “What should I say to him?”

“Say hello. Tell him you’re in trouble and ask to come aboard. Tell him your brother’s dead.” The last statement sounded harsher than he intended. “I’m sorry. Look, just let him hear your voice. Let him have a look at you. I’ll be waiting right there.”

Jordan walked away, stopping beside the wooden bench, watching her.
Damn
, he thought,
I would feel a lot better if I had a gun.

The
Winsome II
was a solid looking sport fishing boat with an enclosed wheelhouse, flying bridge and deep-sea rigs. There was no activity that Sandor could detect. No sign of movement above or below deck. Maybe Andrioli was out. Maybe he really was gone.

He watched Christine lean forward and knock on the hull near the aft railing. She knocked again and, when she received no response, moved forward to have a look inside through a porthole of the main salon. She knocked again. There was no reply.

Jordan moved towards her now. Something did not feel right. When he moved up behind her, she nearly jumped with fright.

“You scared me to death!”

“He’s not answering?”

“I called his name, but I didn’t want to yell it out.”

Jordan looked behind them, up and down the quay. “Call your own name,” he said.

“What?”

“Tell him who you are.”

She leaned closer to the opening into the stern cabin. “Tony,” she called out softly. “It’s Christine. We’re here to see you.”

She said it again and they waited.

“Move two steps back,” a voice from somewhere inside the vessel responded now, “and keep your hands at your sides. Nice and natural now, the both of you.”

Two steps back would put them squarely in front of the salon porthole. Jordan thought about diving to the ground before a shot could be fired, but that would leave Christine an easy target. He hesitated. Whoever was inside could have taken them out already, if he was willing to shoot them right there, in the open. He dropped his hands to his sides. “Come on,” he said, taking her by the wrist and pulling back.

They stepped away from the railing then heard Christine’s name spoken in an astonished tone from the disembodied voice. “Come aboard, both of you. But leave your hands where they are. Especially you, cowboy.”

“Hold it,” Jordan snapped, taking hold of her arm again, before she could step forward. “We’re not moving anywhere until Christine gets a look at you.”

There was silence. Then a curtain was pulled back at the porthole of the main salon, below deck, and a face appeared. The man peered cautiously from beside the short drape. Even with a growth of beard and shaggy hair, Christine knew him at once.

“Tony,” she exclaimed with relief.

“All right,” he barked in military fashion. “Get aboard. And buddy, you leave your hands out where I can see ‘em,” he said, his accent retaining a tinge of his Southern upbringing. “Christine, you take the bag.”

They stepped past the opening in the railing, through the wheelhouse and down the stairs to the main sitting area below. If Andrioli trusted Christine, it was belied by the Heckler & Koch USP 9 with the long, silenced barrel he leveled at them as they entered the cabin.

Andrioli was a wiry man somewhere in his fifties, his age tough to judge from the unkempt growth of beard and sloppy attire. His white polo shirt was dirty and wrinkled, and the khakis he wore looked as though they’d been slept in. He studied Jordan and Christine with sad brown eyes as they stepped into the main salon.

“Sorry for my crude idea of hospitality,” he said. “Close that hatch behind you and latch it.”

Jordan did as he was told.

“All right, lemme have a look see.” He motioned Christine to drop the bag, then pressed the barrel of the automatic into Sandor’s back as he gave him a quick, but expert, frisking. He inspected the contents of the leather case, mostly feeling around for anything sharp or metallic. Then he searched Christine, all the while holding his pistol at the ready.

“Not exactly a warm-hearted reunion,” Jordan said.

“Afraid not. These are troubled times, you know. Sorry Christine.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “We understand.”

“Whatever,” he replied coldly, obviously beyond caring about anyone’s understanding. “Go ahead, siddown.”

Jordan and Christine sat on the settee facing their host, who settled into the captain’s chair in front of the chart table. He laid the gun in his lap. “Smoke?” he asked them as he pulled out a pack of Marlboros. They both declined. “Filthy habit, I gotta admit.” He lit up and took a long drag. “So,” he said to Christine, “who is this character and what’s up with Jimmy?”

She looked at Jordan, hoping he would respond.

“This character,” he said, “is Jordan Sandor. I’m the guy your friend Jimmy wanted to meet.”