Targets of Deception (33 page)

“Whatever. Let’s get going.” Andrioli again tried to raise himself but buckled under the effort.

“I congratulate you on your tenacity, I really do. Your determination has exceeded my wildest expectations. Learning Traiman’s destination was very resourceful. And then, having us plant that story with the press so he wouldn’t interrupt his plans. That was very clever.”

“Is it in the paper today?”

“Of course. Just as you asked. Two international businessmen slain by an unidentified American who was also killed in the shooting. The description in the article didn’t do you justice, but we included your name.”

Andrioli drew a deep, uneven breath that hurt more than he would admit. The cracked rib, he thought. “You just told me you knew it already, that Traiman is headed for Italy.”

“Let’s just say our intelligence department does a fair job on its own. We planted the story for the same reason you requested it. We didn’t want your clumsy interference to disrupt his appointment. We also happen to be quite anxious to have Traiman in Portofino.”

Andrioli’s numbed look phrased the question he could not ask.

“We owe you an apology, Mr. Andrioli. It seems you have been used. You, that is, and your two accomplices. You’ve all played important parts in moving this forward. Unfortunately, you became more successful than we had anticipated.”

“Sorry to screw up your plans. Were we supposed to get ourselves killed along the way?”

“It was a considered risk but no, that wasn’t it. We simply never expected you to learn of the meeting in Portofino. We never anticipated you and your friends getting in our way there.”

Andrioli nodded. “Sorry to outlive our usefulness.”

“So, when will they arrive?”

“I’m not sure. They should reach Santa Margherita later this morning.”

“Damnit,” Covington said, expressing more annoyance than anger.

As he turned and started for the door, Andrioli finally managed to sit all the way up, ignoring the searing pain that radiated from his side. “You said we were used, that you knew Traiman was heading for Portofino.”

Covington stopped and turned back to him. “Yes.”

“Without my help, Jordan and Christine might be a problem.”

“I hope not. We’re flying to Genoa right now. We’ll find them and back them off.”

“Sandor won’t back off. You know that.”

Covington hesitated. Then he walked towards the door. “I’ll see you later,” he said over his shoulder.

“No good,” Andrioli hollered after him. “You need me there. You hear me Covington?”

Covington heard him, even as the door to Andrioli’s room eased its way closed behind him.

Throughout his professional life, Vincent R. Traiman had always been just that—a professional. In his ability to separate emotion from reason, he was as clinical as a surgeon.

His current passage across the Mediterranean was part of a plan shared with only a select few in his organization. His preparations and purpose were carefully guarded secrets. The death of Steve Jackson on the steps of the Sacre Coeur, therefore, caused concern among Traiman’s closest aides.

The accounts of the shooting were sketchy at best. Jackson, Andrioli and the assassin who followed them to the cathedral were all dead. Traiman had to assume that Jackson, in his role as communications coordinator, would have been able to decipher some information about the planned trip to Portofino. If Andrioli had extracted that information from Jackson before he died, and if Andrioli had an opportunity to pass it on before he was killed, the mission might be compromised. Traiman therefore knew the Americans might be coming for him. He also suspected that Jordan Sandor would be part of the welcoming party, a collateral issue that could make for an interesting reunion.

And yet, Traiman went ahead with his plans.

His top assistant, Nelson, who accompanied him on the cruise, suggested the meetings in Portofino be postponed, but Traiman overrode his advice. He kept his own counsel, realizing that time had grown short, particularly after the explosion at Loubar and these violent incidents in New York, Florida and Paris. Matters had intensified, and the resultant scrutiny was also increasing. Traiman, however, had already arranged to minimize the risks.

As the luxurious, 132-foot yacht cut through the blue-green waters of the calm sea, Traiman satisfied himself that he had taken the appropriate precautions and had made the prudent decision. Martin Koppel would be in Portofino. It was an important meeting and, even if John Covington was bringing his men, Traiman already had his insurance policy in place.

Traiman saw himself as a consummate tactician, not offended when others compared him to a cold-blooded reptile who thrived in the ever changing environment of the desert. He felt flattered by the comparison and viewed his personal pleasures in much the same way. Not inclined to the liquor or drugs favored by his subordinates, and utterly immune to romance, he enjoyed the anonymous privileges of his position, especially on those occasions when he traveled outside Libya. On the
Halaby
, the yacht owned by their man Faridz that had taken him northward across the Mediterranean, Traiman could indulge his own preferred forms of relaxation.

“Come in,” he said to the knock at his stateroom door. He was reclining on a large bed in the richly appointed owner’s suite. It was decorated in an opulent mixture of Western and Arabian motifs, featuring rich fabrics, hammered brass and gold accents.

“Hello, sir,” the steward said. “We should be arriving in less than two hours. The captain is holding a conservative speed, as you requested.”

“Good.”

“Would you like to be entertained in here, sir, or will you be using another cabin?”

Traiman’s thin mouth turned up in his imitation of a smile. “This will be fine. Just send them in.”

“Very well, sir.” The steward gave a short bow and retreated, off to fetch Traiman’s entertainment, two women who had been brought along for the ride.

Traiman got up and undressed, then slipped into a dark red satin lounging robe. When he heard another knock at the door, he was back on the king-sized bed. “Yes,” he called out, and the two young women entered.

Someone closed the door behind them. Slowly they approached the bed. One was an Egyptian girl of no more than twenty. A tall, slim young woman dressed in a black silk dressing gown. She had smooth, olive skin, long, dark hair and a nervous look in her onyx eyes. The other girl was a black African of no more than eighteen, her voluptuous shape clad only in a red peignoir. The black girl had been with Traiman before; her apprehension was therefore all the more apparent.

Traiman believed that power was the key to sexual fulfillment. For him, violent rape was the most satisfying form of sexual expression. Even with these young women, who had no choice but to submit to his whims, he would engage in a brutal rite of passion, pursuing his illusions of sadistic conquest.

With a flick of his wrists he directed them to let their robes fall away. They followed his silent instruction, revealing the firm, naked sensuality of their youth. The Egyptian was petite with small breasts, a lovely shape and silky skin. The African was a study in ebony, with a full bosom, rounded hips and narrow waist.

There was fear in their eyes as Traiman beckoned them forward. His pugilist’s features were frightening enough, but from everything the black girl had seen and what the Egyptian girl had been told, their dread of what was to come was real. They wanted to recoil, to run, to escape, but they had no choice, nowhere to go. They knew, regardless of their anxiety, they were there to provide whatever he demanded. Whatever pain or humiliation they were made to endure, they were there to suffer. The alternative, the consequence of his displeasure, was a far graver risk, not just for them, but for their families.

So they joined him on the bed, wordlessly attending to him, removing his robe, caressing him, clawing him, feigning resistance and then desire. The three of them acted out a deranged pantomime of his devise, the girls only praying that they would not be made to suffer too much pain as his excitement blended with anger.

They scratched at his thighs, rubbed his back, moistened him with their tongues, eager to rouse him and have it over with. He pinched them and then slapped them, abusing their firm asses, tender breasts and frightened faces. As his fury grew with his excitement, so did the viciousness of the assault. It was sex without intimacy or tenderness or compassion, culminating only when he had given full vent to the degrading cruelty and subjugation he chose to inflict upon them. Only then would he be relieved. Only then would his entertainment be complete.

FIFTY

The path along the coastline from Santa Margherita to Portofino is a craggy run, a picturesque strip of narrow, twisting roadway. Small homes and large villas populate the green hillside in the distance. Small fishing boats and large yachts rock gently on their moorings in the harbor, or sit quietly against the docks tucked along the shoreline. It is at once provincial and affluent.

“You have been before to Portofino?” the Italian driver asked.

“No,” Christine said. “I suppose this isn’t the best time of year to visit.”

“Ah, but you are wrong
signora
. This is the very best. Quiet. Not so many
turisti
.”

“Like us, you mean?”

The driver laughed. “No no,
signore
.”

“It’s okay,” Jordan said. “We could use some quiet.”

The taxi hugged the sharp curves that ran above the coast en route to their destination, the Hotel Continental, chosen for them by Andrioli.

When they arrived, they found it to be a square, squat structure, considerably more modest than the promise of its title. It was located on one of the cobblestone streets toward the rear of the village, away from the sea.

Portofino is small, its compact geography defined by a tiny, horseshoe shaped seaport. Situated on the edge of the Mediterranean, the front of the town faces the water, an inlet sheltered by the semi-circular protrusion of surrounding mountains. Adjacent to the modest harbor is a plaza paved in stone, ringed by a variety of restaurants, cafés and specialty shops. Behind these one and two story buildings are hotels and inns, each of which is more proximate to the real action, and with better views than the Hotel Continental.

Further inland, at the foot of the mountains, away from the
trattorias
and boutiques, are the local merchants and private homes that stand in the shadows of the larger villas above. At the highest reaches, above the crowded quarters of the native Italians below, atop the overlooking hills, are the exclusive estates of the very wealthy, with views of the town, the sea and the beautiful yachts anchored outside the small harbor.

Jordan paid the taxi driver, and they entered the lobby of the Continental. It was surprisingly airy, almost tropical. There were a couple of wicker chairs and a desk arranged in a sitting area. A large wooden table seemed to serve as the registration desk. No one was there. Jordan rang the brass bell on the table, and a young man appeared through a side door.

“
Buon giorno
,” he greeted them with a smile.

“Scott Kerr,” Jordan said. “You should have a reservation for us.”

The young man opened a cabinet off to the side of the desk, revealing a computer, a master telephone and some related office equipment. “
Si, signore
,” he said, after punching a few keys. “
Signore e Signora
Kerr.”

Jordan registered, then held up his black leather bag, Andrioli’s attaché, and pointed to Christine’s large tote from Paris, showing the young man that they could handle their own luggage.

The clerk frowned and shrugged his shoulders. He was obviously a one man operation, which included check-in, bellhop and room service. When he handed Jordan his key, Sandor gave him a hundred dollar bill.

“Haven’t had time to make change into euros yet.”

The clerk’s smile made it clear he didn’t care.

“If anyone calls for me, put it through right away.”

“
Si signore
,” he said, still grinning as he pointed to the stairs.

By the time Jordan and Christine made it to the Hotel Continental, several Company field agents were converging on the area. Three were already in Portofino, another two waiting for instructions at an inn near the center of a neighboring town, Rapallo. These were not Covington’s men. This team had been sent on the direct order of Deputy Director Byrnes.

Martin Koppel had also arrived. He was safely, if nervously, ensconced in a luxurious suite at the renowned Splendido, Portofino’s finest hotel. He was alone, but not far from the watchful eyes of the three operatives dispatched by Byrnes. Koppel was instructed to stay in his suite and await his summons from Vincent Traiman.

Byrnes had taken great pains to inform Koppel of the risks.
What the hell
, the financier thought as he paced the generous living room, waiting for the phone to ring. He had done everything, seen everything, run as far up and down the ladder as any man could travel. This was the ultimate challenge, dealing with stakes so high that life and death were part of the equation.
What the hell
, he told himself again. With all the financial deals he had created and produced, he would once again be the star of the show, produced and directed by the Central Intelligence Agency.

John Covington knew nothing of Koppel. At the moment, his concern was Traiman and the terrorist teams that were moving into position throughout the United States and Europe.

He had flown from Paris to Genoa and was now riding in the front of a car driven by Todd Nealon. Another agent, Paul Betram, sat in the back seat beside Andrioli.

Covington had no choice but to bring Andrioli along. There was no way he could risk leaving him behind, not with what he knew, not with everything that would be happening in Portofino. The doctors had another look at Andrioli’s side, re-dressed the wound, filled his pocket with painkillers and authorized him to fly. The turbulence over the Appennino mountain range was painful, but Andrioli popped another pill and suffered through. Now they were traveling together by car toward the coast.