Targets of Deception (12 page)

Making his return , Prescott strutted in ahead of Covington and Nealon, his bearing and expression intended to convey a message to Sandor—that Prescott was still the man in charge.

Jordan was amused, realizing that of the four of them, Prescott understood the least of what was at stake. All the same, the two CIA officers obligingly submitted to Prescott’s show of authority, reminding Jordan yet again why he had chosen to turn his back on these bureaucrats and their corrupt and, ultimately, lethal games.

Covington was at his obsequious best, an act Sandor had had occasion to witness in the past. Covington agreed with Prescott’s assertion that the FBI had jurisdiction over the matter, and was certainly in the best position to conduct the investigation. He maintained his ruse about the State Department, giving his assurance that they had only intervened because of the coincidental involvement of their former employee, the insubordinate Jordan Sandor. Covington and Nealon were there to assist Prescott solely for whatever purpose the Bureau might regard as helpful.

They were soon joined by an FBI agent who operated the recording device and, as Prescott pursued his interrogation of Sandor, his questions only confirmed the shallowness of his understanding. Jordan saw no reason to educate him. If the Agency wanted to keep the Bureau in the dark for now, that was their business. He answered the questions, volunteering nothing. Covington suggested an occasional question, but steered wide of anything that might actually lead to the truth of his relationship with Sandor. Jordan did not interfere, allowing Covington to maintain the deception.

Prescott inquired into the shootings upstate, Sandor’s intended visit to McHugh’s home, the trashing of Jordan’s apartment and the attack that afternoon. Prescott reached into a file and read off a series of Arabic names, none of which Sandor admitted recognizing as he memorized the list for future reference.

At the conclusion of the interview, Jordan was invited to stay overnight at a nearby hotel.

“Invited?”

“Let’s say you are being requested to stay.”

“You’re locking me up, is that the idea?”

“No, I wouldn’t put it that way,” Prescott replied testily.

“Just how would you put it?”

“It will only be for a short time,” Covington interrupted, giving his best imitation of a concerned tone. “You are in serious danger. Your apartment has been vandalized, you’ve been the target of an assault and your safety is obviously compromised. Mr. Prescott is offering his help. There are agents available, and a night or two under guard might be the best thing for all of us.”

“For all of us? I suppose being taken into custody is a fitting reward for saving a cop’s life.”

“You can stow that hero bullshit,” Prescott snapped. “That may go over big with your new friends upstate, but as far as we’re concerned, you just showed up at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Who am I to disagree?” Jordan shrugged. “That’s it, then?”

“That’s it.”

Jordan stood to face him. “They have a penthouse suite at this hotel?”

Agent Springs led Sandor down to the underground garage and got into the FBI sedan.

“No motorcycle escort?”

Springs grunted.

“I get the feeling you don’t like me.”

“Not much, no.”

“Any reason? My face, maybe? It’s been known to annoy people from time to time.”

“You’re an inconvenience, that’s all.”

“And you don’t like acting as my babysitter.”

Agent Springs allowed himself a slight grin. “Not what I signed on for, no.”

“Fair enough. How about I make it up to you? I’ll buy you dinner. On the government account, of course.”

The grin faded.

“Lighten up,” Sandor said. “You allowed to drink on duty?”

The hotel they were using was on Times Square, just a couple of blocks west. Springs checked Sandor in. Then, to Sandor’s amazement, he handed him his leather bag.

Jordan declined the desk clerk’s offer to get him help with his luggage. “I can handle this,” he said, holding up the satchel.

Springs took him to the elevator and they got in together. “You need this to get off at our floor,” Springs said, placing a plastic room key in a slot that cleared access in the elevator to the concierge level, where the contingent from Washington was staying.

“No penthouse suite, eh?”

Springs frowned and said, “We’ve arranged for room service. If you want something to eat, just dial the operator.”

“Right,” Jordan said. “So I guess dinner for the two of us is out, then.”

They got off the lift and found their way to Sandor’s room without further conversation. Springs held out the electronic key, which Jordan took and opened the door. He turned back to Springs, who was still standing there, then looked down at the agent’s hand. “You’re not expecting a tip, are you? I mean, I carried my own bag.”

Springs gave him a look that told him how happy he would be to close the hand Jordan was looking at and plant it squarely on his chin. Instead, he turned and strode away.

Jordan switched on the light, locked the door behind him and went to the small desk near the window. The first thing he did was check the contents of his leather bag. To his surprise everything was there, even the two handguns. He sat down and thought that through.

The interview with Prescott and Covington had been more informative than he had expected. Using the ballpoint pen and note paper provided by the hotel, Jordan wrote the names Prescott had asked him about:

Zayn

Mahmoud Rahmad

Suaramar

Mustafa Tagliev

Talal Abdullah Driann

Ibraiam Abass

Most of them meant nothing to him. Not yet. But it was a start.

He went over to the bed and lay down, studying his list, trying to connect the names with any of the research he had done during the past several months. Mahmoud Rahmad, Saudi diplomat, as Jordan recalled, was the only familiar name. The only name, that is, except for the one he had not written down.

Vincent R. Traiman. Sandor’s former field supervisor in the Agency, who had disappeared four years ago, only to emerge as a paid al-Qaeda operative who was allegedly behind a string of terrorist strikes in Israel and Europe. Traiman had reportedly engineered the illegal arms deals that facilitated those attacks, all the while living under the protection of Qadaffi in Libya.

After the invasion of Iraq and removal of Saddam Hussein, Qadaffi claimed to have seen the light and made a show of laying down his arms and abandoning his anti-Western rhetoric. Whether his conversion was real or just a convenient pose based on self-preservation, his regime made no admission that Traiman had ever been holed up in Tripoli. Traiman’s whereabouts were currently listed as unknown, but rumor had it that Traiman had overstayed his welcome in Libya. Sooner, rather than later, he would be on the move.

Now, as Jordan watched a television news report on the explosion at the Loubar Corporation in Washington, he remembered a covert investigation, a couple of years back, into shipments of electronic matériel from Loubar that the Agency believed were connected to Traiman’s mercenary operations. Nothing was ever proved, but the suspicion persisted. And now, the day after McHugh was murdered, someone took out the headquarters of Loubar, and an al-Qaeda cell in the Capitol was exposed.

Jordan knew that these three events must somehow be related, and he knew Traiman well enough to know that they had his fingerprints all over them. All he had to do was connect the dots.    

EIGHTEEN

The evening had begun to grow dark, late autumn breezes blowing a chill through the angular ravines that define the sharp contours of space between the buildings of Manhattan. Tafallai noticed neither the weather nor the passers-by. As people hurried along, he casually finished another cigarette, dropped the butt to the sidewalk and sauntered slowly into the human stream as it moved up the avenue.

Beth Sharrow joined the flow of pedestrians as she began her walk uptown. Pulling her coat closed around her neck, she kept a brisk pace as she tried to make the lights at each corner. She had not heard from Jordan all afternoon and was anxious to get home. Perhaps she would find a message there.

Tafallai had the appearance of another young man who had come to the States to make his future. He looked like an academic, perhaps a graduate student in his mid-twenties, which was in fact the basis for his visa. His skin was olive-toned, his hair curly, long and unkempt. He was not physically imposing, standing only five foot six, slight of build, fine featured. He wore a crew neck sweater and jeans, and a tweed sport coat that hid the 9mm automatic slung in a holster pulled tight against the left side of his chest.

Such a large city, New York. So congested, particularly at this time of day, that the relentless rhythm and nearly frantic movement of the people furnished him cover and provided opportunities to observe. It was just a few years after the attack on Nine Eleven, but his swarthy complexion and Arab features aroused no special notice in New York. Americans have short memories and very little sense of history, he told himself.

He kept a safe distance, watching as Beth stopped only once, in a small grocery store. She walked the entire way to East Sixty-Fifth Street, making it that much easier to follow her. Perhaps he would be doubly lucky and find Sandor waiting at her apartment. That would be too much to ask. He would be satisfied with the answers she would provide. That should be enough.

As Beth approached the entrance to the apartment building, he suddenly quickened his pace, reaching her just as she got to the front door. She felt him coming up from behind and turned to face him.

“Jordan sent me,” he said before she could speak. “I’ve been waiting across the street for you.”

“Jordan?”

“Yes. He told me you could get him a message if he and I lost contact.” His voice was filled with the urgency of the imaginary message. “I haven’t been able to reach him since noon.”

Beth eyed him with obvious suspicion. “What exactly did Jordan say?”

Tafallai recognized the look, knowing he could not chance further discussion out in the open. In a deft move, he pulled his automatic from inside his jacket and pressed the point of the silencer hard against her ribs before she could react. “What he said, was that if you don’t open the door right now, I’ll kill you where you stand.” As they stood face to face, a passerby might have thought them a young couple in love.

Beth froze, her left arm clutching the small plastic bag of groceries, her right hand holding the front door key. The training she had received was no match for the 9mm. She stared down at the weapon, her face a mask of fear. 

Tafallai grabbed the key ring from her. “Stay very close to me, you understand? And don’t try anything heroic.”

Beth looked into his dark, lifeless eyes, neither moving nor speaking.

“Go,” he said.

Beth forced herself to speak. “I’ll scream.”

“I doubt it. Believe me, you’re not important enough for me to worry about. Now move or I’ll kill you where you stand.” He unlocked the front door and shoved her into the small vestibule. “Where’s your apartment?”

“Fourth floor,” she said hoarsely.

The car came, and it was empty. He shoved her in, pressed 4, then spun her back around to face him. “Anyone in your place?”

Beth shook her head.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said, showing her the automatic at eye level.

She shook her head again, and they waited in silence until they reached the fourth floor, Beth staring at the barrel of his gun.

As the elevator door slid open, he grabbed her roughly by the arm and forced her to walk to her door, the automatic again pressed into her side. She fumbled through her keys, finding the one that fit the lock.

They entered the apartment, a large studio with a small foyer that widened into a space that served as both sitting area and bedroom. He closed the door behind them, setting the latch in place. The lamp she always left on in the entry was the only light. It appeared to him they were alone.

He shoved her into a chair, the grocery bag falling to the floor, a tomato rolling across the carpet. He had a quick look around the small apartment, all the while training the gun on her as he moved swiftly in and out of the entryways to the kitchen and bathroom. “Let’s keep this simple,” he said. “Where is Jordan Sandor?”

“I don’t know,” she replied in a voice that was so choked with fright it was barely audible.

Tafallai responded by stepping quickly towards her then lashed out, smacking her hard across her cheek with the back of his left hand. Her head snapped back and she grabbed her face with both hands.

He leaned over her, roughly jabbing the barrel of the Glock into her sternum. “You were with him today. Where is he?”

Beth began to cry, her sobs of helplessness nearly strangling the words she tried to speak. “I . . . don’t know. I swear it. I . . . I don’t know.”

He reached down, grabbed her by the collar of her coat and pulled her to her feet. He snarled into her terrified face, then struck her again, this time sending her reeling backwards. She spun, fell face down, sprawled on the edge of her bed.

“This can’t be worth it.
He
can’t be worth it.” Tafallai came at her from behind. “Now tell me what you know, and we’ll have an end to this.”

Beth did not respond. She was incapable of uttering a reply, sobbing hysterically as she crawled onto the bed, struggling desperately to get away from him.

But he was right behind her. He pulled her by the shoulder, turning her around. She stared up, her eyes transfixed on the gun. In a violent sweep he crashed the barrel of the automatic against the side of her jaw, the sickening sound of her bone fracturing beneath the blow. She screamed out in anguish, and he reached for a pillow and shoved it over her face.

Beth clutched at the pillow, gasping for air, pain reverberating through her skull in a deafening mix of panic and agony.

“Is it worth it?” he demanded, his voice angrier now. He yanked her coat open, then ripped at her blouse and bra as she struggled to push him away. “Is it worth it?”