Targets of Deception (15 page)

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.” He was concerned he had already involved Sternlich too much. “Just let me know what you hear about Beth.”

“I will. Where are you now?”

“I’m in protective custody, courtesy of the feds.”

“Well that’s good, anyway.”

“I’m not so sure. Meanwhile, this is the number where you can call me,” he said, reciting the hotel line and room number.”

“All right. I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Thanks pal,” Jordan said, then hung up.

Peters. McHugh. And now Beth. All that was left to him was to search for a man whose name and location he didn’t even know. A man who might lead him to Vincent Traiman. Hopefully Covington’s men would buy his story that he was taking Christine downstairs for more drinks in the hope of getting her to tell him the truth.

He stripped off his clothes, took his toiletry kit from the bag and went into the bathroom. He brushed his teeth, shaved, then stood in a steaming hot shower, at the end of which he turned the water cold, taking his breath away as it washed away the effects of the bourbon and the wine, reviving him for what he knew would be a sleepless night ahead.

He toweled off, went back inside to his bag and pulled the second cell phone from one of the side compartments. He had to assume both cell phones had been tapped, but this one had an encryption chip that scrambled outgoing numbers and made it all but impossible to decipher the conversation. When Langley scrambles a call, even Langley has a tough time making sense of things. He also assumed Covington had the room bugged, so he went back to the bathroom, turned on the shower and the sink, which should provide enough background noise to muddy up the sound of a quiet conversation. Then he punched in the numbers for his contact’s private line.

“Yes,” the familiar voice answered.

“Sandor here.”

“I was beginning to wonder.”

Sandor gave a brief report, including his discussion with Christine. He spoke as quietly as he could.

“What do you think about Christine Frank?”

“I’m not sure. She might be for real.”

“Her background check hasn’t turned up anything irregular.”

“So I’m going to run with it, then.”

“Good.”

“What about the interrogation?”

“I didn’t get much from them. Just a list of names,” Jordan said, then recited them. “You didn’t tell me about Traiman.”

The line was quiet.

“Stay focused, Jordan.”

“Yes sir.”

Jordan hesitated. “I heard about Beth.”

“I’m sorry about that, Jordan.” There was only the slightest pause. “When do you move?”

“I’m out of here, tonight. I’m taking the girl with me.”

“Good. We’re running short on time.”

“What about the three al-Qaeda you picked up in DC today?” Jordan asked.

“We’re working on it. We don’t think they had anything to do with the explosion at Loubar. They also don’t seem to know much.”

“Want me to come down and take a run at them?”

“If I thought it would do any good, I’d get you here tonight. They were on a need-to-know basis. Or that’s what it looks like. They were waiting for instructions.”

“Then someone flipped them for another reason.”

“That’s what we think.”

“Who?”

“We’re working on it.”

“Let me know what you find out.”

“Of course. You do the same.”

“Only you,” Jordan said.

“Only me. At least for now. We can’t trust anyone else.”

“It may be a while before I can call you again.”

“I understand. You be careful. On all fronts.”

“Yes sir.”

“Remember, this is not personal—you and Traiman.”

“Right.”

“I mean it.”

“I’m clear on that, sir.”

“And Jordan . . . it’s good to have you back.”

Sandor rang off, then nodded into the darkness, reflecting for only an instant on an abandoned career revived.

TWENTY-TWO

It was half past midnight when Christine Frank left her room. The agent on duty eyed her suspiciously as she strolled down the hall and knocked on Sandor’s door. Jordan came out into the hall and gave a short wave to their sentry. He received no response.

Once they were in the room, Jordan closed the door and motioned her into the bathroom. He shut that door behind them, then turned on the hair dryer provided by the hotel and laid it on the vanity counter. It roared and rattled against the marble, making the racket he intended to mask their discussion.

“We don’t have much time,” he told her.

She nodded.

He stood with his back against the wall, arms folded. Christine was dressed in dark blue slacks and a baby-blue crewneck sweater. She had fixed her hair and made up her face, using little in the way of cosmetics as far as he could tell. It was a good look for her.

“So,” he said, “let’s have it. Speak quietly and give me the whole thing.”

Christine took a deep breath.

“Jimmy’s friend was a man named Anthony Andrioli. I met him in Paris. He and Jimmy were in the service together. Tony was the one who introduced Jimmy to the Libyan connection. And when Jimmy left France, Tony also disappeared.”

Christine said that she had not told this to any of Prescott’s men, fearing that Andrioli faced the same danger that led to McHugh’s death. She did not tell them Andrioli had contacted her to say that Jimmy was living in Woodstock. She had never even mentioned his name. She had lied but somehow, she explained to Jordan, it seemed the right thing to do at the time.

She understood that Andrioli and her brother were in some kind of trouble. That much was clear to her in France. When Andrioli called her, he said that the threat came not only from the people in the Middle East who were hunting them, but from the American authorities as well. McHugh and Andrioli were criminals, but they had valuable information. They told her that they had made an attempt to trade what they knew for protection, but the government contacts they reached out to had turned them down. Now they were afraid to trust anyone.

“Why me, then?” Jordan asked.

 “I honestly don’t know. I only know what Tony told me on the phone.”

“Which was what?”

“That Jimmy was going to meet with you. That he was going to ask you to help them. I told you, that’s how I knew your name. That’s why I asked the captain in Woodstock about you.”

If she was telling the truth, and Covington was using her to draw him into the game, Jordan was going to take his chances. If she was working for the men who were trying to kill him, and had already murdered McHugh and Peters, he realized that by letting her into his room he would likely be dead already. At least it was a starting point. The compact Walther PPK he had taken from his bag and secured against the small of his back was a reminder of that uncertainty.

“Suppose I buy your story,” he said as he carefully studied her, his expression and tone severe as he asked. “Where is Andrioli now?”

“You’ll go with me?” she asked.

“Answer the question.”

She hesitated. “Florida,” she said. “Fort Lauderdale.”

He nodded, the din of the hair dryer blowing and vibrating against the hard countertop filling the small room, frustrating any sort of eavesdropping Covington or Prescott might have arranged. “Tell me where he is and I’ll go. You’ll be safe here. All things considered, protective custody is the best place for you right now. I can take whatever message you want me to deliver.”

“No,” she said. “I’m scared of these people. Besides, Tony doesn’t know you, but he’ll speak to you if I’m there.”

Sandor nodded. “Fort Lauderdale,” he said.

“Yes. Like I said, he and Jimmy had information. Important information. But they don’t trust anyone.”

“You said that already.”

“Sorry.”

“Except this guy Andrioli will trust you, right?”

“I think so.”

 “Even though you only met him for five minutes in Paris.”

“He was the one who called me. Told me to check on Jimmy. He was the one who gave me your name.”

“You said that already too.”

“You’re not making this any easier for me.”

“If he’s got my name already, why do you need to go along?”

“I told you. He’ll trust me.”

Jordan shook his head. It was all wrong.

She looked directly into his eyes, the din of the clattering hair dryer echoing off the walls of the small bathroom. “Please, can we get out of here?”

“We can try,” he said.

“Will we?”

Jordan grinned. “We’re going to the bar—”

“The bar?”

“Yes,” he said. “I want them to think I’m taking you down to the bar to get you drunk.”

“Get me drunk—?”

“That’s what I want them to think, all right? Are you always this difficult?”

She nodded.

Jordan turned off the dryer and opened the door. He took her by the arm and led her to the bed. He motioned for her purse, then dumped out its contents. It was a large handbag. She had stuffed in clean panties, an extra top and various sundries. He took his soft, black leather satchel, removed a few unnecessary items, then folded up the sides of his bag and buttoned them in place so it appeared smaller, a feature that came in handy from time to time. He moved close to her and whispered, “This is your purse. You carry it.”

They left the room, walking at a leisurely pace to the elevator. A new guard was on duty. The midnight-to-eight shift, Jordan figured.

“We’re going downstairs for a nightcap,” Sandor said with a smile. “No decent cognac in the mini bar, you know?”

The guard did not smile. “Kinda late, isn’t it?”

“Hey,” Jordan replied, “you guys can actually speak. I thought this was like Buckingham Palace. Beefeaters. No talking.” He pushed the down button on the elevator.

The guard picked up his two-way. “I said, I think it’s late.”

“Well gee, thanks for the concern pop, but it’s never too late for cognac.”

The elevator bell rang softly and the doors opened. The guard got to his feet.

“Give me a break,” Jordan said with a shrug of his shoulders. “How far can we go in an elevator? We’ll see your teammates in the lobby.” He held Christine’s hand and gently drew her into the lift. “Don’t wait up,” he said to the agent as the doors closed. The man was already speaking to someone downstairs.

Jordan hit the button for the lobby. Then, as the doors slid closed, he also hit the buttons for floors three, two and one. He looked down at her shoes. “Can you run in those?”

“Run? Sure, if I have to.”

“Down stairs?”

“Whatever you say.”

He took the bag from her shoulder. “We won’t have much time. They won’t be suspicious when it stops at three, but when it stops at two and then one they’ll be all over us.”

When the elevator stopped at three, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her out, heading in a trot down the hallway towards the exit sign. At the end of the corridor he pushed the stairwell door open and led the way down the steps past level two and one and then past the main floor, continuing downward, to the first basement level.

“Come on,” he said, urging her to keep up. They reached the lower landing, where Sandor was relieved to find the door open for re-entry. They would have lost too much time if they had had to find another way out. By now the elevator would have made its extra stops and opened in the lobby. The car would be empty, and Prescott’s agents would already be searching for them.

They entered a long concrete-lined passageway where the kitchen and room service facilities were located. He turned to the right and they took off.

There was still a skeleton hotel staff on hand at this hour, and a heavy-set black woman in her fifties poked her head out the door to see who was running down the hall.

“Hello,” Sandor said pleasantly, coming to a halt. “We need a quick favor.”

The woman gave them a suspicious look. “I’ll bet.”

“We’re not running out on our hotel bill, believe me. I’m rescuing my sister from her boyfriend.”

“Sister, huh?” the woman replied.

“Yeah. Her boyfriend’s a bastard. Beats her. Won’t let her go.” As he spoke, Jordan pulled a hundred dollar bill from his pocket. “All we need is a back way out of here,” he said, holding up the money.

“I could lose my job,” the woman said.

“Who’ll ever know?” Jordan asked, pulling a second bill out and giving the woman a closer look at the two portraits of Benjamin Franklin.

“Well,” the woman said, “I’m not about goin’ anywhere with you two, see? But I can tell you the best way out.”

Jordan pressed the money into her hand. The woman quickly folded the bills and stuffed them into the pocket of her apron.

“Right there,” she said, pointing down the length of corridor. “Third door on your left. Take the stairs down one more flight to the garage, then take the first door to your right and go back up the ramp to 44th Street. You’ll run into Louis—he’d be the only one on duty now at the cashier station. You just tell him Celia sent you. He’ll let you by without no trouble.”

“Thank you, Celia,” Jordan said as he turned to race down the hallway.

“I’m not Celia,” she called after them. “Celia’s a no account pain in my ass. But Louis likes her. And if there’s any trouble, it’ll be her neck.” Then she turned and went back to work in the kitchen.

They followed her directions down another level where they found the entrance to the underground garage. Jordan stopped.

“Hold it.” He put out his arm and held her back. They stood in the doorway as he surveyed the large parking area. “Security cameras. Up there.” He pointed to a stationary camera off to their left. “We need to get around that one. They’ll already be checking the monitors.”

“Then what? Can we run up that ramp?”

“They might have agents outside by now,” he told her. “I have no idea how much manpower they’ve thrown at this detail.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Only two choices, far as I can tell. We can go on foot—take our chances, hope to get lucky . . .”

“Or?”

“Or, we can steal a ride.”

He led her into the garage, heading to the right, staying low behind the parked cars, out of the line of site of the security camera. Sandor chose an older model Ford Taurus nosed in to the wall and dropped his bag to the ground. He cupped his hands around his face and peered through the driver’s window and saw the blinking red light telling him the alarm system was armed. He checked the car on the other side of him and saw it was also locked. This was a self-park garage, and he would use a bit of self-help to get them out of there. “No problem.”