Targets of Deception (4 page)

“I heard two nurses yapping out in the hallway.”

“And?”

“Why don’t
you
tell me?”

Jordan came back, moved the metal armchair beside the bed and sat down. “I’m not sure yet. It seems the two shooters were on their way back from a visit with your friend Ryan when we ran into them.”

Peters worked that over for a moment, the narcotics muddling his ability to think in a straight line. “Maybe not just unlucky.”

“Meaning what?”

“Gimme some time, I might sort it out. I’m kinda slow today.” He shifted slightly with a grunt.

“You think Ryan told them we were coming?”

“Doesn’t look that way. Collins said he stopped them for speeding.”

“That so?” He took a moment to have a sip of water then settled back again. “What about Ryan?”

“What about him?”

“Come on, damnit.”

Jordan leaned forward in his chair and, speaking very softly, said, “Way I get it, they did a number on him . . . before they killed him.”

“Christ.”

“Listen, I haven’t told the police we were on our way to see him. Better not share that. Not yet. All right?”

“Why?”

“It could mean more trouble for us than we need right now.”

“More trouble than getting shot?”

Jordan smiled. “I’m going out to see Ryan’s place with Reynolds, the trooper in charge.”

“He asks you something, you gonna lie?”

Jordan sighed then sat back. “I won’t be volunteering anything.”

“Yeah, I guess not,” Peters agreed. “So what about me?”

“What about you?”

“You going to keep lying to me?”

“I guess that depends.”

“On what?”

Sandor pushed his hair back with the palm of his hand. “You go first.”

“What the hell do I know—”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

Danny’s pallid complexion seemed to flush for a moment. “You figure someone found out we were going to see Ryan?”

“That’s what I figure.”

“Look, I admit our timing was lousy. You think it’s more than that?”

“That depends on what else you have to tell me.”

Peters struggled to keep his focus. “I told you already. I met Ryan after he got back from Europe. Real quiet guy at first. Met him in the local saloon drinking beers. Got to talking about the service . . . you know how it goes. What branch of the service are you in? What division? Where did you tour?”

“Go on.”

Peters’ words came a little more easily now. “He was like a lot of the guys who did time overseas, except more so. Always looking over his shoulder, like an old gunfighter.”

“And how old was this old gunfighter?”

“Not sure. Somewhere between you and me. Anyway, we got friendlier, talked about Nam and the Gulf. He told me he did a tour in the Orient before doing a stretch in the Middle East. He said he saw a lot, wanted to put some of it on paper but couldn’t write a lick. He was thinking about contacting some reporters. That’s when I told him about you. A week or so later, he says he wants to meet you.”

“Just like that? He was going to dictate his memoirs to me?”

“I told him you were the best.”

“At what?”

Dan answered with a frown. “When he got back to me, he said he’d been to the library, looked up a couple of pieces you’d written. He thought you might be the right guy to help him.”

Jordan nodded. “I guess I should be flattered.”

“Hey, I’m already in pain here, all right. Cut me some slack. Anyway, he said he had some dynamite you could put a match to. Worked with people who knew about al-Qaeda, Qadaffi, Iraq, illegal arms trade, biological and chemical weapons, you name it. Told me he also knew a lot about former GIs who sold out.”

“And you figured he was one of them.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.”

“And now you figure that these two hit men found out Ryan was talking to you?”

“If they didn’t know before, they must know now, right?”

Jordan nodded. “I would assume so. They worked him over pretty good, according to Reynolds.”

“Reynolds?”

“I told you, the captain heading up the investigation.” Jordan had a look at his friend. “You’re out of steam, pal. Get some rest.” He stood and placed his hand on Dan’s arm.

“Okay, but you gotta know this includes you too now. I mean, if Ryan spilled his guts, he wasn’t just talking about me.”

“I realize that”

“Whatever Ryan told them, he knew I was bringing you there today, right?”

“I understand.”

“You’ve got to be careful.”

“All right, all right.”

Peters opened his eyes a bit wider. “So when do you tell me the truth?”

“Later. Take a nap.”

“Screw a nap, I want some answers.”

“I’m working on it, believe me.”

“Give me a break. This guy didn’t want to see you because you could write an article for him. He wanted to see you because of your old connections in Washington.”

Jordan offered no response.

“When Ryan said he checked you out, he found more than the articles you wrote. Am I right?”

“Maybe.”

“So . . . what’s going on?” Peters asked.

Jordan reached out and pinched his cheek. “When I figure it out, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Come on, Jordan. You owe me.”

“Owe you? You owe me, pal. I saved your life.”

“Bullshit!” Dan bit his lip, catching his breath, then forced a weak smile through a surge of pain. “Nothing but a flesh wound. You said so yourself.”

SIX

Operations Officer John Covington received a call in his Langley office about the shootings near Woodstock, New York. He was apprised of the inquiries being made by local authorities, his own sources having already concluded that the dead man was indeed James McHugh. But that identification came too late, both for McHugh and for the Central Intelligence Agency. Covington’s team had been searching for him, and under the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act they might have learned something sooner through wiretaps and other covert technology. Unfortunately, since the media was all over the government for using FISA to justify domestic spying, intelligence-gathering efforts were severely curtailed on all fronts. So now McHugh was dead and the best the CIA could hope for was that his death would somehow provide them the next lead they desperately needed.

Covington was a slightly built man of fifty with thinning hair, thin lips, and a slender nose that caused Jordan Sandor to once wonder aloud whether those stingy nostrils allowed in enough air to prevent brain damage. He was wearing his customary white button-down shirt and conservative tie to go with a conservative suit and his conservative manner. Whatever romantic image the public had of the typical CIA agent, Covington provided an accurate picture of the men who actually operated inside the Agency, his appearance and demeanor more like an accountant ready for a tough audit than a man poised for dangerous, physical action. He was part of the large corps of administrative personnel who supported the activities of the men and women in the field who risked their lives in anonymous endeavors that sometimes succeeded, but often failed.

When the call came through on his private line, David Fryar knew it had to be trouble. Only a handful of people had the number, and its use was intended only for emergencies. Emergencies were never good news.

He picked up the phone. “Fryar.”

The man on the other end did not waste time with a polite greeting. The caller, instantly recognizable to Fryar, demanded, “What the hell happened to those shipments yesterday?”

Fryar fumbled for the right words as he began to explain the customs issues the company faced in getting the shipments out, but the man stopped him.

“Our friend is extremely upset.”

David Fryar was president of Loubar Technical Assistance Corporation, a rapidly expanding manufacturer of specialized electronics, with offices recently opened in Paris and Hong Kong. That expansion, and most of its success, was due to the patronage of Fryar’s “friend,” Vincent Traiman.

They met a few years before, when Fryar was a vice president at Loubar, which was then a struggling electronics firm. Traiman was an operative at Central Intelligence who possessed considerable knowledge of technology, an understanding of foreign markets, and numerous contacts in the Middle East. They had been introduced at a promotional party being hosted by Loubar in Paris, then traveled together to Jiddah when Traiman suggested he might have some valuable contacts there.

Fryar quickly learned that Traiman was already familiar with Loubar products. The company was on the cutting edge and Traiman believed the company could have a bright future, especially in countries where he enjoyed some influence. He told Fryar that only three ingredients were needed to ensure success. First, increased sophistication in the area of surveillance and quasi-military appliances, such as those used in the deployment of chemical weapons, with which the company had been recently experimenting. Second, an aggressive sales force that could provide an appropriate presence throughout Europe, Asia, and the Middle East. Third, and most interesting to David Fryar, his new friend believed the company needed a change in leadership.

Traiman was both a clear thinker and capable of bringing his plans to fruition. Within a year the former president of the company, a decidedly uncooperative man with limited global vision, met with an unfortunate automobile accident. After some corporate in-fighting, Fryar became head of the company. Under his stewardship the sales force amassed an impressive record of increasing revenues, and Fryar had remained at the helm since, with the Loubar Corporation continuing to grow rapidly in income and international stature.

Along with that success, however, came certain risks. Traiman left government service and became involved with indeterminate principals who were developed into lucrative customers of Loubar. Since the products being sold were often on a proscribed list for shipment to certain unfriendly foreign countries, great pains had to be taken to route these goods through acceptable ports, to describe the contents with special care, and to otherwise cover tracks.

A recent order had proved especially troublesome. So much so, in fact, that before it could be released for shipment to Marseilles, Fryar had interceded and held up the transit papers. He feared that this time Traiman had stepped too far over the line, even for Fryar, and he knew there would be hell to pay for his decision.

“I know he must be disappointed,” Fryar said to the caller. “Please tell him that it was a difficult decision, but the matter deserves special attention.”

“A difficult decision,” the man replied in a mocking tone. “I don’t think so.”

“We need to review the matter.”

“We need the shipment.”

Fryar was silent.

“Mr. Groat will be contacting you. You can review it with him.” And with that, the line went dead.

Mark Byrnes was waiting in his office when Covington arrived to make his report. Byrnes was a handsome man of about sixty with well-defined features, his graying hair cut short and combed close, his blue eyes shrewd in a way his subordinates often found unsettling. He was a product of Harvard and Oxford, the diplomatic corps and State Department, not to mention the breeding of a wealthy family that was as close as America comes to aristocracy. Byrnes had recently been rewarded for his hard work by a promotion from deputy director of operations stationed overseas to deputy director of operations in Washington. He was a man who always knew what he was about.

Covington entered the DD’s office and, after polite greetings, Byrnes asked a few questions. Covington’s answers were satisfactory.

“So then, you’re up to speed.”

“I am,” Covington agreed.

“This is the only thing I want you working on right now, John. And I want you there right away. McHugh’s death may give us the best lead we’ve had in weeks.”

“Yes sir,” Covington said.

The deputy director took a look around his large, warmly appointed office. The walls were covered with photographs of Byrnes and the President, Byrnes with various congressmen, and Byrnes with heads of state. He waited as Covington also had a look. It was a reminder of how far he had moved up the chain of command.

“What do we know about Andrioli?” the DD asked.

“We have no lead on his whereabouts. Not yet.”

“Even with McHugh dead we still have a chance to get to him”

“Yes sir.”

“We’re running out of time on this operation, John. We can’t announce to the media that there are new security threats without a single positive shred of information in hand.”

“I understand.”

“I hope you do. I truly hope you do. Now get to New York and find out what you can.”

Jordan spent the late afternoon at the state trooper barracks. A police artist had driven down from Albany and Sandor worked with him to refine the descriptions he had given earlier. They also reviewed a new series of mug shots on the computer, after being granted access to the federal database. They struck out there, but Jordan was not surprised. The more they searched, the more evident it became to him that the two shooters were men who flew below the radar.

For now, he kept those thoughts to himself and struggled to be as patient as he could manage. Matters for the local authorities were fairly chaotic, one of their own having been shot. That was their principal focus. There was also discussion about Ryan, about taking his body to Kingston for an autopsy, and Sandor listened as three junior officers debated the necessity of such action. After all, the youngest of the three argued, there was clear evidence that Ryan had been beaten before getting plugged with two shots from close range. They understood that an autopsy was standard procedure, the trooper said, but what was the point in tearing the corpse apart just to confirm what they already knew?

Sandor had answers he was not giving. The ballistics expert would be interested in the slugs they recovered. They would need to confirm that the shooters on the road had also taken out Ryan. There would also be questions about chemicals that might be found in the dead man’s system, and Sandor assumed they would find traces of so-called truth drugs.