Targets of Deception (26 page)

Jordan understood but he didn’t like it. It was Andrioli’s show for now, and for now Sandor would play it his way.

THIRTY-NINE

The taxi turned past the Hotel des Invalides and onto the Boulevard Saint-Germain. Andrioli told the driver to circle past the corner of the Rue des Saints-Pères, then had him stop in front of a café that was busy with morning customers.

“Now you two be careful,” he said as the car pulled up to the curb, allowing himself a tense smile. “All of a sudden I feel like I’m Mother Goose.” He turned back to the cabbie and told him to drop his friends at the Pas de Tour. The Frenchman was obviously annoyed by all the detours, so Andrioli paid the fare in advance and gave him a large tip, which managed to erase the man’s Parisian frown. Andrioli closed his attaché case and handed it to Jordan. “Good luck,” he said as he stepped out into the morning air.

Jordan did not have time to watch Andrioli enter the café. As soon as the door slammed shut the cab took a wild right turn across several lanes of the broad boulevard and lurched down a narrow street, stopping about halfway down the block in front of the hotel.

Christine stepped out and Jordan followed. They took the two suitcases from the trunk while the cabbie, his fare already in hand, made no pretense at helping them with their bags. As soon as they shut the trunk, he sped away.

The façade of the Pas de Tour was set in the middle of the street, an inconspicuous place one could pass again and again without ever realizing it was a hotel. Jordan handed Christine the lighter valise, then picked up Andrioli’s attaché case and, slinging his leather bag over his left shoulder, pushed through the wooden door and entered the lobby.

The clerk’s desk was near the rear, over towards the left. The small lobby surprisingly deep and rather narrow. That explained the two tiers, Jordan thought. One in front for the general roster of guests, the one in the rear reserved for special patrons. As he approached the desk, he could see the patio and the glass door to the side, just as Andrioli had described it.

“Room for two,” he said without offering a greeting. “With bath.”

The clerk was a short, stocky, middle-aged man with an inexpressive face bathed in tedium. “I am sorry,
monsieur
, but—”

“Room Forty-seven.” Jordan’s brusque interruption was greeted by nothing more than a slight furrowing of the man’s brow. Then, as the clerk reached below the desk, Jordan felt his body tense, the hard metal of the Colt pressing against his side beneath his sport coat. But the bored Frenchman brought up nothing more threatening than a key.

“
Cinquante-sept, monsieur
.”

“No,” Sandor replied firmly, “I said Forty-seven.”

“I am sorry
, monsieur
, this is not available. Fifty-seven,” he said in his heavily accented English and held out the key.

Jordan nodded and took the key. The clerk made no request for a credit card, identification or passport. Sandor motioned for Christine to proceed out the rear glass door to the patio. As he followed her, the clerk called after him.

“
Monsieur
. The messages. In what name will you accept messages?”

Jordan kept moving, letting the door swing shut behind him.

They stepped quickly across the tiled terrace, their footsteps echoing in the quiet of the enclosed courtyard. An elderly couple was having their morning coffee, not bothering to take notice of the new arrivals. Once Jordan reached the other side, he found the rear stairway. It was darker than in the lobby.

“I’m afraid,” Christine said, her voice trembling in the dismal silence of the hallway.

“Come on,” he said softly. “No English, not until we get to the room.” He placed his arm around her shoulders, urging her on.

Deputy Director Byrnes was seated in the office of his boss, Michael Walsh, the Director of Central Intelligence. They were linked by secure videoconference with the Secretary of Homeland Security, the Secretary of Defense, the President of the United States and his National Security Advisor. Byrnes had been given the floor to provide a briefing on the current status of the counter-terrorist operation involving Vincent Traiman. When he concluded, the Secretary of Homeland Security began to speak, but the President interrupted him.

“I want to be sure I understand this, gentlemen, because a lot of this is news to me.”

“Yes sir,” Byrnes responded, knowing it would be his obligation to answer the President. And to take the heat.

“I’ve read the reports on this rogue agent, Traiman. I’m up to speed on that. Now you’re saying he went after two reverse defectors—Americans—who flew the coop and wanted to come home.”

“Yes sir. They tried to make a deal.”

“But as I understand it, you passed on it. Although, I’m still not sure I understand the reasons why. Then one of them is murdered in New York, and the other almost gets blown to kingdom come in Florida. Have I got this right so far?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“And all this time, these two men might have had valuable information specifically related to movements of these teams of killers Traiman is running.”

“We are not clear about the extent or accuracy of the information they possess. Or possessed.”

“I see.” The opportunity to watch the look of displeasure on the President’s face made the interview far worse than a simple telephone conference would have been. The commander-in-chief was not a man who tended to hide his feelings, especially when he was dissatisfied with his subordinates. “So then, while we have a real and present threat to our national security initiated by this sonuvabitch in Libya, or wherever he’s hiding at the moment, not to mention the danger to targeted allies in Europe, you guys fiddled around instead of bringing these boys in. And now, one of them is dead, while the other is on the run someplace in Europe.”

“Paris, Mr. President.”

“France. Perfect. Our ultimate fair-weather friend. Meantime, we’ve got an explosion here in Washington, a terrorist cell discovered down the block from the White House, the media demanding to know what the hell is going on, and I’m not clear what the hell we’re doing to defuse the situation.”

“Yes sir.”

“And then, to add to this chaos, we have one of our most capable operatives, who no longer works for us because we let him down a year ago, running around without giving us any idea about where he’s going or how he intends to proceed. Have I got this now?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well then, Mr. Byrnes, why don’t you explain to all of us how you can justify these actions, with everything that’s at stake here. I can’t have my people raising the Terror Alert levels with nothing but a hunch to back it up.”

The deputy director took a deep breath. “Mr. President, please understand that I know full well what is at stake, and that I would never play fast and loose with the security of our country, or of my own men, for that matter.”

“Thank you for the speech, Mr. Byrnes. Now, how about a straight answer?”

“Yes, Mr. President. First, our intelligence sources inform us that Mr. McHugh and Mr. Andrioli had incomplete data on the current offensive being planned by Traiman for al-Qaeda. Second, we have reason to believe that Andrioli still has contacts in Paris who can provide the missing pieces to the bigger puzzle on these threats. Our hope is to follow him upstream to more informed sources.”

“Is that it?”

“No sir. We are extremely close now on at least two fronts. One is an operation intended to neutralize Traiman by bringing him out into the open where he can be apprehended. The other involves Andrioli and his efforts to obtain the additional, critical information on these terrorist plans.”

“What chance does this Andrioli have, acting alone against al-Qaeda?”

“He is not alone, sir. I can assure you, Mr. President, as I have assured the director, I have teams in place on these operations.” Byrnes would disclose a general description of those arrangements, but he was not ready to divulge the full extent of Jordan’s involvement, not even to the President. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “Sandor was one of our very best men, as you’ve mentioned. Whatever he’s up to, I can vouch for the fact that he would never betray us.”

“Well that’s very comforting, Mr. Byrnes. Anything else on that score?”

“Yes sir. We have word that Sandor’s with Andrioli now, in Paris, even as we speak.”

FORTY

Vincent Traiman’s office was crowded with people or, more accurately, was as crowded as he ever allowed his office to become. He was seated behind his large, contemporary desk of glass and steel, silently surveying the group as if he were some benign corporate executive.

His key aides had been included in the conference, marking the significance of this meeting. Traiman would typically isolate his staff, doling out information on a need-to-know basis. But today, all of them needed to know.

Mahmoud Rahmad was in Traiman’s office. Also present were Tallal Abdullah Driann, Colonel Qaddafi’s
charge d’affaires
for matters related to Libya’s role as host to Traiman’s operation, and Faisal Ridaya, the head of Libya’s European propaganda lobby. The Colonel now steered clear of any direct communications with the terrorist cabal, limiting his involvement to the briefings he received at the Bab el-Azziziya barracks or his offices in the Villa Pietri. Having occupied the self-styled role as Great Leader for more than three decades, Qaddafi was working hard to revise his image as the Mad Dog of the Middle East, President Reagan’s accurate judgment of him in the 1980’s. Lately he had adopted lower profile, assuming the appearance of a mature and moderate statesman, undertaking a public relations push the liberal media in the West was eating up.

As evidence that this new image was a charade, Driann and Ridaya were accompanied to the meeting by Ibrahim Abass, Traiman’s direct liaison with al-Qaeda.

“I have handled the situation with Loubar,” Traiman informed the gathering. “Our current shipment has been released.” He did not disclose the true nature or purpose of the shipment.

“We understand that,” Ridaya responded with a knowing look. He was an educated man, sophisticated and experienced in the world markets, with entrée to Europe’s most exclusive circles in commerce, politics and society. “Unfortunately, the untimely death of Mr. Fryar was the subject of some discussion and speculation in the foreign markets,” Ridaya pointed out to his host.

“Speculation is only valuable in the political arena,” Traiman replied. “It is of no consequence to me.”

Ridaya nodded graciously. Grace was a necessary quality in his work, even when he would have preferred a more sincere reaction. “Is it not speculation to suggest that Loubar will be able to fulfill the outstanding contracts?”

“No,” Traiman responded in a firm tone. “It is a statement of fact. The outstanding orders will be honored.”

“Very well. We shall be guided accordingly.”

“Now then,” Traiman continued, “it appears our operations in the United States have been less covert than anticipated. The Secret Service has apprehended the team in Washington. Our teams in New York and San Francisco are worried about exposure and await further instructions.”

No one inquired as to the reasons for the failure in Washington. No one asked how the team had been compromised.

“What of the preparations in Europe?” inquired the al-Qaeda delegate, Ibrahim Abass.

“We are moving those men into place.”

“And the rumors of the two who defected from your organization?”

Traiman responded to Abass with an admiring nod. Other than Traiman himself, he knew that Abass was the most dangerous man in the room, with the most effective intelligence network. “Your sources are to be commended.”

Abass offered no reply.

“One of these men has been neutralized.”

“Had he compromised your plans before he was removed?”

“No.”

“You are certain of this?”

“We are.”

“And the other man?”

“We know that he has attempted to deal with the American government, but his efforts have been rejected. He lacks enough information to cause us any real problems. For the moment, he’s nothing more than a nuisance that we are in the process of handling.”

“A nuisance,” Abass repeated with an abrupt wave of his hand. “This sort of bungling is more than a nuisance, Mr. Traiman. We have worked too long and invested far too much with your organization to have it jeopardized at the last moment by a nuisance.”

“The operation is not jeopardized,” Traiman told them all, his tone remaining confident and restrained.

Ridaya asked, “Why were these men not eliminated in the first instance, when they were located in the United States?”

“As I‘ve said, one of them was removed as soon as we found him. The other eluded us, for a time, but has now returned to France.”

There was some muttering around the room. Ridaya’s expression confessed his surprise. “He has come back to Europe?”

“He has. And our people are working on the matter as we speak.”

Jordan and Christine headed up the carpeted stairs, finding there were only two rooms on each floor. When they got to the third landing, they hadn’t taken two steps down the hall toward their room before a door opened in front of them. Christine froze.

Two men came out, talking to each other. As they walked toward Jordan and Christine, Jordan turned her toward the door next to them. He bent forward to disguise his height and to cover his face. He made a show of looking for the key in his jacket pockets as the two men passed behind them without stopping. As they took the stairs down to the next level, Jordan glanced quickly to his side.

Even in the darkness of the hallway, he knew them at once. The second man was the driver of the car in Woodstock. The tall, blond-haired American. Jordan knew him as surely as he reached for the cold handle of the Colt automatic.