Targets of Deception (25 page)

“Who are you going to call?”

“What’s the difference now?”

 Andrioli didn’t like the answer.

“A friend in New York. He’s okay. We may need a contact person.”

Andrioli reluctantly handed over the telephone and Jordan pulled a number from his pocket. He turned away from his companions and quickly punched in the numbers. A trooper in Woodstock, New York, answered the call, and Jordan asked for Captain Reynolds.

“Tell him it’s Jordan Sandor,” he said, then waited.

“Sandor,” Reynolds growled in his best combat voice when he came on the line, “they tell me you’ve become a fugitive. Where the hell are you?”

“I can’t tell you that Captain, but I have to ask you to do something for me.”

“You are a brash young man,” Reynolds said.

“Look, I have no one else I can trust. Is this line clean?”

“Clean? It better be.”

“You have a pencil?”

“I’m listening,” the captain said.

Jordan quietly recited a phone number. “You got it?”

“I got it.”

“It’s a secure line. Call that number, and just say that all three of us are on our way. Would you do that? Just say all three of us are on our way.”

There was silence on the other end.

“Captain?”

“I’m here, Sandor.”

“Will you do that?”

“Give me one decent reason I should.”

Jordan shook his head. “Because I’m asking, that’s all.”

The captain paused again. “All right.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jordan said.

“Be careful,” Reynolds said, then hung up.

The next call Jordan made was to Bill Sternlich.

“Where are you now?” Sternlich asked, after Jordan briefly described the Fort Lauderdale shootings.

“It’s better if you don’t know. In fact, I’ve got to keep this call short so they can’t run a trace. How’s Beth?”

“Getting better. Pretty banged up, I can tell you, but she’ll be fine.”

“Is she under guard?”

“You bet.”

“Good,” Jordan sighed. He had moved off to the end of the bar, farther out of earshot from his traveling companions.

“I finally got some dope on your pal McHugh. Guess it’s too late to do you any good, eh?”

“Not at all. What’ve you got?”

“Not much, except he’s a Code Orange on the terror alert barometer. Records sealed and all that. Most of his dossier is classified, still regarded as a national security issue. I even got a threatening little e-mail message warning me off the search.”

That brought Sandor up short. “Be careful Bill. These people are serious.”

“I believe you.”

“I’ll call you when I can.”

“Listen, Jordan, I did get one little tidbit you might find interesting.”

“I’m listening.”

“There’s no record James McHugh ever had a sister.”

Jordan and Christine sat in business class. Andrioli was up front, in first.

Less than an hour after they took off Christine was asleep. Sandor watched her, wondering again what she was about. He knew Sternlich would be following up on her name and background, even though he told him not to, but whatever he uncovered might be another fabric of lies. But devised by whom?

Jordan stared out the window as the plane passed through the clouds in a darkening sky. He tried again to get some much needed rest.

It was just past daybreak when they landed. They navigated their separate ways through customs and immigration, then met up on the taxi line. There the three of them climbed into a cab that wound its way around the curves of the French
autoroute
past the recently constructed, multi-level buildings that had become part of the landscape of suburban Paris.

“No problems?”

Andrioli shook his head. “Customs opened the suitcase, but I told them I was here to buy some clothes. You know the French. They love that bullshit.”

The cab cruised along the highway that belted the city in an uneven circle.

“What do we do first?” Christine asked.

“First, I visit an old friend,” Andrioli said. Then, speaking French with an accent Jordan knew must be like fingernails on a blackboard to their driver, Andrioli gave the man his itinerary.

They would make a brief stop on the Boulevard Raspail before heading to the hotel Pas de Tour on the Rue des Saints-Pères. This was the small hotel on the Left Bank where Jimmy McHugh had made a reservation the day before he died.

“Is that a good idea?” Christine wondered aloud. She was sitting between them. She looked to Andrioli for an answer.

Andrioli was thinking about something else, tugging on his scraggly beard, staring out the window. “Is what a good idea?”

“Going to that hotel.” She lowered her voice, just in case the driver’s English was better than it seemed when they entered the taxi.

“You afraid we’ll be in danger?”

Christine nodded vigorously, as if to say how obvious her concern should be to both of them.

Tony smiled. “A little late to be worried about that now.” He took Christine’s hand and patted it gently. “I’m sorry, but we’re already up to our asses in alligators. No time to be worried about jumping in the old swimming hole. The only thing we’ve got going for us is surprise, the oldest ally in the book of war. They don’t expect us to be coming at them, which may be our best chance. If we try to run and hide they’ll find us, and we’ll end up all over the front page of
Le Figaro
. Am I right, Sandor?”

“I’m afraid so,” Jordan agreed.

Andrioli responded with a short laugh. “By the time we reach the city, half of Traiman’s men in Europe will already know we’re in town. We need to make a show of force. The only chance we have is a direct attack, correct?”

This time Jordan gave no answer.

“Way I see it, we’ve got to rattle their cage, show them that we can get inside their organization. We have to shake something loose to get the information we need.”

“Then trade it with the US to stop Traiman and buy Tony his freedom,” Sandor said, finishing his thought.

“Something like that.”

“And who do you think is going to make that deal?”

“Come on. Covington knew we were on our way to Paris. That’s what he said to you on the phone, right?”

“Yes,” Jordan admitted.

 “Good. So, if we’re going into the trenches together, no more secrets, all right?”

“All right,” Jordan said.

They turned to Christine.

“What secrets could I have?”

“Everyone has a secret,” Sandor said.

She turned away from him without a response.

The cab stopped at the address on the Boulevard Raspail. Andrioli told the driver to wait. “I’ll be right back,” he said, climbing out of the cab, taking his attaché case with him. Before he shut the door, he leaned in and spoke quietly to Jordan. “If you hear anything—any trouble—or if I’m not back in ten minutes, get the hell outta Dodge. You hear me?”

Jordan nodded. Andrioli stood up, shut the door and disappeared into a small apartment building across the street.

When he was gone, Christine asked Jordan, “What did you mean? About my having a secret.”

“Just what I said. No one lives without a secret.”

She shook her head but did not speak. When she looked up at him, her sad, moist eyes were met by his cold gaze.

“It doesn’t make you a bad person,” he said with a grin that softened his features but did nothing to hide the suspicion in his eyes.

She was about to say something, then hesitated.

Andrioli removed a set of keys from his case, used one of them to get into the building, and took the stairs two at a time till he reached the third floor. There were four flats on the landing. He paused in front of the door on the left, listening.

Nothing.

He placed his attaché on the floor and, standing off to the side, knocked twice and waited.

Nothing.

If they were waiting for him, he had no time to finesse a quiet entrance. Using another key, he turned it in the lock, the click as loud as an explosion in the quiet. In one motion he turned the knob and thrust the door open, bursting into the small apartment like a fullback going through the line. Low, hard and fast.

Nothing.

There was no one there.

He hurried into the kitchen, kneeled down and reached under the sink, feeling for a small package he had taped there two months before. Just as he detached the parcel he heard something behind him. He spun quickly, coming to his feet as he dropped the bundle and raised his hands to the ready.

Nothing.

He nodded at the dim silence, waiting, his muscles tense, his eyes alert. Then Emil’s cat scooted across the floor and jumped onto the counter beside him.

There’s something you’re not telling me,” Christine whispered.

Jordan shook his head. “There’s a lot I’m not telling you, which makes us even.” He checked his watch and had a look across the street. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll have time to catch up.”

“Will we, Jordan?”

He looked at her again without answering.

“You still don’t believe me, do you?”

“No,” he said. “But I want to. I want to very much.”

Andrioli emerged from the building. He looked up and down the street, then hustled across to the taxi and told the man to drive on. He placed the attaché case on Christine’s lap and opened the top so the driver could not see what he had inside. He showed them the two US government-issue Colt .45 automatics and a box of cartridges he had removed from the package upstairs. “My friends and I always kept at least one safe house,” he said. “Jimmy and I left these behind.” There were two other small boxes, still wrapped in paper, for which he offered no explanation. At least, not yet.

“That was dangerous,” Jordan said. “What if someone was waiting?”

“What choice did we have?” Then in a whisper, he added, “Unarmed, we’re as good as dead anyway.”

He leaned towards them and said, “Here’s the deal. I’ll get out on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. There’s a small café on the corner. I’ll wait there. You and Christine take the cab to the Pas de Tour. When you walk in you ask the clerk for a double room with a bath. No matter what he says, even if he’s telling you he doesn’t speak English, you interrupt him immediately and say ‘Room Forty-seven.’ You got that? Room Forty-seven.”

Jordan nodded.

“He’ll give you a key. The hotel isn’t very big, but it’s got two tiers separated by an outdoor patio. When he gives you the key, don’t hesitate. Pick up your bag and walk through the glass door out onto the patio.”

“Where’s the door to the patio? We want to look like we know what we’re about, right?”

“It’s just to the right of the desk. Small lobby, can’t miss it. Walk across the patio to a second glass door, directly opposite. Take the stairway on the left up to the room.”

“Forty-seven.”

“Not necessarily. He might give you another room in the back tier. Our best shot is if someone is already in Forty-seven.”

“Why?”

“Don’t worry. As long as you ask for number Forty-seven, he’ll understand. That’s just the password.”

“What if there are no rooms available?”

“There’s always a room. But if he gives you any bullshit or gets on the phone, you just tell him you have no time to wait and get the hell out of there. Don’t run, don’t act nervous. Just leave.”

Jordan nodded. “Will he ask for our names? Or our passports?”

“No. Now, once you head for that rear staircase the clerk will definitely call his contact to tell him one of Traiman’s men has arrived. From that moment on, you’re in danger. There are probably others in the hotel already. They tend to check each other out, just to keep score, if you catch my drift.”

“Got it.”

“Leave your suitcase in the room and use some of this.” He picked up one of the small packages and tore back the paper to show Sandor the C-4 plastic explosive. “I assume you know what to do with this.”

Sandor gave him a look that said no explanation would be required.

“All right. Once you get to the room you set this, then you head right back out. And I mean right away. Whether or not you get to the front desk before it blows, you make sure you give the clerk the name Mr. Forest. Tell him this was a message from Mr. Forest.”

“Forest.”

“Right. Then you go on over towards the church up the street, the Saint-Germain-des-Près. Everyone knows where it is.”

“I know it,” Jordan said.

“Good. I’ll meet you there.”

Jordan nodded.

Andrioli took one of the automatics, still hidden from the driver by the top of the open attaché. He made a quick check of the weapon, then took an extra clip from the case and placed the gun and the spare magazine under his jacket.

“I take it you’re expecting a welcome committee to form right away.”

“I am,” Andrioli said.

“Then Christine should be out of the way.”

Andrioli thought that over.

“I’ll put her in a cab,” Jordan said. “You can wait somewhere very public,” he told her. “If one of us doesn’t come for you in an hour, you head straight for the US Embassy.”

Christine saw that Jordan was not about to debate the point. “All right. Where?”

Jordan leaned towards them and whispered, “I’ll pick a public spot, somewhere on the Champs-Elysées.”

She nodded.

“One last thing,” Andrioli said. “The two towers in the hotel are connected by a walkway on the top floor. Just in case you hit a snag in there you can go up, across and down. It’ll bring you back to the lobby. At least you won’t be pinned in the back of the hotel. It’s pretty quiet back there, and help is hard to find.”

“Thanks for the encouragement,” Jordan said.

“Don’t mention it. How’s your French?”

“Dead awful.”

“Good enough. When you walk in, you speak English to the clerk. No problem. But in the back of the hotel, if you can’t fake the French, both of you should keep your traps shut.”

“Why does Christine have to come in at all? Why not let her out here?”

“You’ll attract less attention at first. You’ll need the head start because when the clerk calls in with your descriptions, they’ll know who you are. Get in, rig the plastique, then get your butts outta there. Understand?”