Targets of Deception (41 page)

He knelt down, took Covington’s gun, and tossed it on a chair across the cabin. Covington was gagging. “Oh no, John, I didn’t crack your windpipe, did I? Not with one kick.”

Covington made an effort to lunge at him, but Jordan responded with another swift blow from the butt of the automatic, striking him squarely on the forehead. Covington fell backwards, gasping and moaning, still struggling to breathe.

“Don’t be throwing up all over the place now, John. We don’t have much time, and I need some answers.”

Covington panted, panic in his bulging eyes. “You’re going to kill me anyway,” he wheezed.

“Not me, John. I’m one of the good guys, remember? You tell me what I need to know, and I’m gone. I’ll leave you to Vincent and his merry men.”

Covington’s mouth was bloody, his jaw broken, and he was still having trouble getting a breath. He stared at Jordan’s face. “I’m dead either way.”

“Maybe,” Jordan said with a nod, “but I can tell you, you don’t answer me right now, you’re dead for sure.”

Covington stared at him without moving.

Christine said, “I think I hear someone.”

“Keep that thing pointed at the door,” he told her without taking his eyes off Covington. “So John, what are you trying to protect? Traiman’s plans? He didn’t even tell you about Koppel. Come on, I saw it on your face. You had no idea. You thought this was only about Andrioli and me.”

Covington tried to look away, but Sandor grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back.

“That’s why Byrnes never let you in on the Koppel play. This way Traiman would buy the whole show and come out to make his plans.”

Covington stared up at him, realizing the truth. He was just another Vincent Traiman casualty.

“So let’s have it, John. When and where is Vincent making his move?”

Covington did not answer.

“John.” Sandor pushed the barrel of the automatic against Covington’s bloodied forehead. “I keep telling you, bench jocks shouldn’t play field games. When and where?”

Covington looked up at him. “I’m not sure.”

Sandor figured it was true. And now he had Traiman’s papers. Hopefully, the answers were there. “Then who’s been your go-between up to now?”

When Covington hesitated, Sandor pressed the metal a little harder against his head. “You and Traiman never would have risked direct contact. Who was it?”

“Figueroa,” he growled, giving Jordan the name of the other traitor inside the Agency.

“Thanks pal,” Sandor said.

“Drop dead.”

Jordan nodded. “Not yet, John.” He pulled the gun back and stood up. “You hear anything else?” he asked Christine.

“Yes,” she said, giving her head a nervous shake, still watching the door. “I think someone just ran past.”

Sandor stood there for a moment, listening. The intermittent sound of gunfire outside had not relented. He turned back to Covington. “Just so you know, we had you in our sights the whole time I was on the move. The DD figured you were the leak. You iced it when you got the call, that anonymous message exposing Traiman’s team in DC. Typical Vincent, that move, giving up his own men. The old Queen’s sacrifice. I played too much chess with him to miss it.”

“And he usually won, didn’t he?” Covington voice was raspy with pain.  “What makes you think you’ll beat him this time? Traiman has every option covered. You’ll never get off this boat.”  

“Maybe not, John. Maybe not.”

A loud noise from outside caused Sandor to turn toward the door and Covington made his move, lunging for the gun Jordan had tossed aside.

 Sandor did not hesitate, spinning and firing two shots. Then he watched as Covington struggled to draw his last breath before he fell over, dead.

SIXTY-TWO

Jordan led Christine out of the cabin and down the steps, below decks. The bleeding from his side had increased again after grappling with Covington, but he felt clear-headed enough and quickly found his way to an aft compartment. Most of the crew were above, so he moved swiftly to place the plastique against the bulkhead and set the makeshift fuses he had taken from Andrioli’s attaché case.

“This is going to blow,” he said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Traiman was on the bridge, directing the captain on their course, as well as handling the radio, monitoring the flow of the action. He ordered his men to keep the smaller craft at bay while they made way out to sea. Thus far, neither had come close enough to attempt boarding. Heavy fire had kept them away.

He picked up the intercom and called Nelson in the main salon but received no answer. “Damn,” he said, returning to the walkie-talkie.

“Dombroski, this is Traiman. Where the hell is Nelson? Come back.”

Dombroski replied immediately. “Main salon with Sandor and the girl.”

“I’m getting no answer. Check it out.”

“Right away. Over,” Dombroski said.

At that moment, the yacht was rocked by the explosion Jordan had set below.

Traiman grabbed a handrail and steadied himself as the captain was thrown against the control panel.

“What the hell was that?” Traiman hollered into his radio.

“We’re not sure,” his man on the foredeck responded. “Explosion below.”

“Send two men down there to find out. And protect your flank. It could be a diversion.”

“Yes sir,” the man said. “Over.”

Traiman stared out at the dark sea ahead.

“Stay the course?” the captain asked.

“Yes yes. Push it,” he said. Then he slammed his fist down. “Damnit,” he said. “Push it.”

Byrnes’ lead agent radioed back to shore. “We just heard an explosion on the
Halaby
, sir. How much longer?”

The DD knew that it would become more dangerous as the yacht led them further out to sea. He also knew that Sandor should be given as much time as possible to complete his mission.

“All right,” Byrnes said reluctantly. “Call in the chopper. Give it three minutes, then get on the bullhorn.”

Jordan and Christine were hiding in the companionway, just outside the entrance to the steps leading down to the engine room. They listened as Traiman’s men scurried towards the site of the first blast.

“I’m going below one more level,” he whispered. “Alone.”

She began to say something, but he put his finger to his lips.

“I need you here. Anyone comes this way, you shoot them. I’ll be right back.”

Sandor did not wait for a response. He lowered himself down the metal steps, facing forward, one hand on the rail the other holding the automatic. He moved as quietly as he could, but as soon as he came into view from below, one of the ship’s mates spotted him.

Jordan could not afford to hesitate. He fired, hitting the man in the shoulder, then leaped to the deck and dove for cover behind one of the huge diesel engines that powered the ship.

He heard men shouting and then the sound of feet scuffling on the other side of the room, but no answering gunfire came. He rigged the C-4 he had already removed from his leg with the detonator fuse and secured it against one of the engines.

Judging from the first charge, he would have less than sixty second to get clear. He looked towards the metal steps, listening to the movement of the others as they pulled the mate to safety.

Jordan started the fuse and bolted, firing his pistol behind him, under his left arm, as he moved to the metal stairs. He was half way up when a series of gunshots followed, one of which caught him in the right calf just as he made it to the top. He clung there for a moment, almost falling backward, then sprung upwards, collapsing beside a startled Christine.

“You’ve been shot,” she said as he slammed the metal door behind them.

“Again,” he said, trying to force a smile that didn’t work. He struggled to his feet. “That charge is about to blow.” He dropped the clip in his automatic to the floor and inserted the final replacement. “Let’s go,” he said, taking her hand and leading her back toward the set of steps to the main deck.

The second explosion was more powerful than the first, the C-4 positioned as it was beside the engine, sending a violent shudder thundering throughout the yacht. Jordan and Christine held on as the boat shook, then ran to the corner of the passageway where they came face to face with two more men.

Both men had their guns drawn. Sandor responded by shoving Christine back and diving atop her, the two of them tumbling behind the corner of the bulkhead as the guards opened fire. Jordan grabbed the Uzi from Christine, scrambled to his hands and knees, and then, pointing the weapon around the turn, answered their fire.

In the small area, Traiman’s men had no chance, falling under a barrage of rapid and ricocheting shots as Jordan emptied the submachine gun at them. He got to his feet and, holding Nelson’s automatic at the ready, made sure they were finished.

One of them was the tall Arab, Zayn.

“We owed him that one,” Jordan said. “For Andrioli.”

He leaned over and picked up the man’s MP5.

“Come on,” he called out to Christine, and they hurried to the main deck.

Traiman was still in the wheelhouse. He ordered the captain to go full throttle, but the explosion in the engine room had slowed the boat to a few knots.

“Engine’s shot,” the captain told him after speaking to his engineer on the intercom.

Traiman got a call on his radio from Dombroski. “Nelson’s dead,” he reported.

“Damnit,” Traiman said through clenched teeth. “Sandor.” He knew it was getting close to the time when he would have to exercise his emergency escape plan.

“Prepare for seaside,” Traiman said.

“Copy that,” Dombroski said.

Jordan led Christine to the port deck. They were squatting below the steps to the pilot house. “I want to get Koppel out of here,” he whispered.

Just beyond the main cabin structure, they could still hear gunfire on the starboard side.

“Where is he?”

“They said something about the dining salon. Come on.”

He moved swiftly along the deck. As he threw each door open he was ready with the SMG. They finally found Koppel in the main dining room, hiding in a corner, beside a large breakfront.

“Come on,” Jordan said. “You two are going for a swim.”

Koppel responded with a stunned look. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Move it,” Jordan growled at him. “I’m the good guy, so let’s go. Now.”

Koppel stood up, more dazed than afraid, and came to the door.

“Drop over the side here,” Jordan told them. “Push as far out to sea as you can, away from the ship, and just tread water.”

“What am I, Johnny Weissmuller?” Koppel demanded. “I’ll drown in thirty seconds.”

“You’ll get shot for sure if you stay here. Look, this boat’s still moving, it’ll go by you pretty quickly. Then the cruiser to the rear should spot you.”

“Should?” Koppel asked.

“Just do it.”

“And if they don’t see us?”

“Keep your head down as much as you can until this boat is gone, then swim for the lights on shore. And whatever you do, stay together.”

“What about you?” Christine asked.

Jordan looked down at the large stain of blood on his shirt and gingerly touched his leg. “I’m okay. I’ve got some unfinished business here. Then it’s man overboard for me too.” He checked the magazine in the weapon he had taken from Zayn. There were several rounds left.

They were kneeling beside the main bulkhead. He pulled out the rubberized, waterproof chart cover that held Traiman’s file. He turned Christine around, tucked it inside the waistband of her slacks at the small of her back, and pulled her blouse over it. “This is important.”

“I know,” she said, leaning towards him. “You’re going after Traiman.”

Jordan looked beyond her, down the length of deck. “Go on,” he told her. “Don’t make me push you overboard.”

“Be careful,” she said.

“Careful?” Koppel asked. “Believe me, this is so beyond careful—” The rest of his statement was lost in the sound of gunfire coming again from the stern.

Jordan kissed Christine on the forehead and said, “Go.” He watched as she and Koppel climbed under the rail and slipped, feet first, into the dark Mediterranean.

SIXTY-THREE

Once Christine and Koppel were in the water, Jordan stole up the stairway in a crouch, staying so low he was practically crawling. The ache in his side was not as bad as the debilitating pain in his leg. He pushed himself, knowing there was only one more thing left for him to do. He nearly tumbled as he quickened his pace, but steadied himself with the heel of his left hand, the H&K SMG securely in his right.

If Traiman was still on board, Sandor knew he would be on the bridge. It was his old partner’s style. Always in control.

As he came to the top of the companionway, he realized he had already gone too far. His head was in view of the glass wheelhouse. He froze, but it was too late. The captain spotted him and pointed. As Sandor pulled back, he caught a glimpse of Traiman.

Traiman responded with a rapid fire explosion from a MAC 10 automatic that shattered the glass and sent it in a spray across the foredeck and into the sea.

Jordan held his position, just beneath the sight line of the bridge. He extended his arm, peered up swiftly, then squeezed off two rounds. His shots were answered by another burst from Traiman’s gun.

“Get to the wheelhouse. Port side,” Traiman hollered at his men into the radio.

Sandor acted quickly, diving across the fiberglass foredeck, firing up at the pilot house, striking the captain, whom Traiman was now using as a human shield. As the captain slumped, Jordan ignored the blast from Traiman’s gun, knowing this might be his best and last chance. He came up shooting, catching Traiman in the shoulder and side of the neck, sending him reeling backward against the wall on the starboard side of the pilot house.