Targets of Deception (37 page)

He saw that Nealon and Andrioli were down, the clerk was huddled against the wall, and Covington was standing in the middle of the corridor with his weapon at his side.

There was no time for Bertram to comprehend the treachery. Covington answered the agent’s startled look by raising his automatic and firing three rounds into his chest. Bertram crumpled to the floor.

Traiman’s men came slowly to the door, their SMG’s still in position.

“It’s all right,” Covington told them. “That’s everyone. They’re done.”

The second Iraqi followed Zayn into the hallway.

“What the hell are you guys doing here?” Covington asked. “Where’s Sandor?”

“We don’t know,” Zayn said. “We came here looking for him. We had an hour before we had to meet Kerrigan, so we waited here, in case he came back.”

“What about him?” Covington asked, pointing to the Italian clerk who was crouched against the wall, not looking towards them.

“He works for the locals,” Zayn said. “Let him go.”

“No,” Covington said. He turned, extended his arm, and fired two shots into the back of the boy’s head. “We’re not leaving any loose ends this time.”

Traiman’s men stepped over Nealon’s body to stand alongside Covington. He was staring down at Andrioli.

Andrioli was covered in blood, his breathing uneven and shallow, his eyes still open. He had fallen with his head propped against the baseboard of the corridor wall. He stared up at Covington.

Covington smiled down at him. “You just refuse to die, don’t you?”

Andrioli struggled for air. “It was you all along.”

Covington said nothing.

“You miserable traitor,” Andrioli managed to gasp.

“That’s kind of the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think?” Covington said. Then he took the H&K from Zayn and fired a three-round burst into Andrioli’s chest.

FIFTY-SIX

Jordan and Christine had no way of knowing what had occurred at the Continental. They were still waiting near the shore in the cold, damp evening, Jordan sensing that the time for action was near.

A few minutes later, they heard footsteps coming down the long wharf, firm and unhurried. It was the confident gait of men who believed they were too early to be concerned about concealing their arrival. They had obviously learned of Sandor’s renting the boat and bought the story he had fed the local about going for wine. These men probably assumed he was going for help, and they intended to get there first.

The sound of the water sloshing against the rocky beach made it difficult for Sandor to determine how many there were. It was certainly more than one. Three or more coming for them would be a problem. All he had was the one pistol. And the advantage of surprise.

As the men drew nearer, he was able to distinguish their steps. There were two men approaching and, as they came into view, Sandor could make out their silhouettes against the misty backdrop of the growing darkness. One man appeared to be broad, of average height, with an athlete’s bearing. The other was tall, the swagger of his stride now recognizable as Kerrigan.

Jordan and Christine were silent as they watched the men slow, then step down onto the beach. They passed directly in front of them, just a few yards from the stacked skiffs that provided their cover. They watched as the men turned toward the water trying to identify which of the boats Jordan had rented.

“This might be it,” one of them said.

Jordan stood, rising above the pile of inverted boats, his hand gripping Andrioli’s Colt .45. “Sorry boys, you guessed wrong, but thanks for playing. Now, under the rules of our little game, if either of you so much as twitch, I’ll shoot you both.”

Kerrigan wasn’t waiting to find out what came next. He dove to the ground, reaching for his gun.

Fraser, with no warning that Kerrigan was going to make a move, was a split second late in reacting. As he turned to his side, trying to pull out his weapon, Sandor squeezed off two shots, both finding their mark.

As Fraser collapsed onto the sand, Jordan turned to Kerrigan, getting a bead on the large man as he scampered on his hands and knees to find cover behind a nearby rowboat. Kerrigan had unholstered his pistol, but Jordan fired, hitting him with a shot in the back of the thigh, a second ripping through his side. Kerrigan lurched forward, sprawling face down on a rocky outcropping, his gun skittering out of his reach.

Sandor stepped cautiously from behind his makeshift barricade of wooden boats, his Colt trained on Kerrigan’s back. He had a quick look at the other man. He appeared to be dead.

 “I said I’d shoot you if you moved. You’ve got to learn to trust what people tell you, Kerrigan. Now I’ve got this gun pointed at the back of your ugly head. You move again, you die.”

Kerrigan groaned some obscenity Sandor could not quite make out.

“Whatever,” Jordan said as he circled slowly, keeping his distance as he retrieved the Glock 9mm and shoved it into his waistband. “If you want to have any chance at all of living through the next few minutes, you’ll have to tell me where I can find Andrioli.”

Kerrigan made a move, trying to roll onto his side.

“No no no,” Jordan said. “Talk first, move later.”

Kerrigan fell back on his face, uttering another painful moan. Then, as he attempted to speak, Christine cried out, “Jordan.”

Sandor turned to see Fraser raising himself, gun in hand.

Jordan’s instincts prevailed. He fired three rapid shots, one after the other causing the man to jerk back in a convulsive pantomime of death.

Jordan swiftly returned his attention back to Kerrigan and, in one deft motion, released the spent clip from the Colt and replaced it with a new magazine. “I asked you a question.”

“Dead,” Kerrigan grunted.

Sandor glanced briefly at Christine then asked, “When?”

“Tonight.” Kerrigan managed to turn so he could look up at Sandor. “You just can’t seem to keep your friends alive, can you?”

Sandor resisted the impulse to kick him in the head. “Where?”

“Right here, in Portofino,” Kerrigan said. Then his face twisted up in a contortion of pain.

“Does it hurt?”

“Kiss my ass,” Kerrigan spat at him.

“Witty reply. So, where’s Traiman?”

Kerrigan managed a grin. “Traiman? He’s having a little party on his yacht tonight. And his guest of honor is another friend of yours.”

Jordan kneeled down, so Kerrigan could have a good look at the barrel of the Colt pointing at his face from just a few feet away. “Do tell.”

“Yeah, once they buried that rat bastard Andrioli they took your pal Covington as an insurance policy.”

“Bullshit.”

“You think it’s bullshit?” Kerrigan started coughing. It was not clear how bad he had been hit, and Jordan didn’t want to lose him before he got some more answers.

“Covington?”

Kerrigan took a couple of uneven breaths and said, “That’s right. Traiman’s got your CIA man. What are you gonna do about it?”

“Where’s your launch?”

He hesitated, so Jordan waved the gun at him. “I asked you a question.”

“Main dock.”

“Which yacht out there is the
Halaby
?”

“I’m bleeding to death here.”

“Which one is the
Halaby
?” Jordan repeated.

Kerrigan said, “Go to hell,” then made a show of trying to hold his wounded side with his right hand as he slid his left arm down towards his ankle.

Jordan saw the move and, as Kerrigan nearly reached his ankle holster, Sandor said, “Nice try,” then fired two shots into his face.

Christine turned away, but Jordan watched the man’s head snap back in a bloody spasm and then fall forward onto the rocks.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Jordan checked the magazine in Kerrigan’s Glock. It was full, a cartridge already in the breech. The man had never gotten a shot off. He handed the gun to Christine.

“You’re going to tell me you’ve never shot one of these, right?”

She nodded, holding the butt of the gun like it was covered with slime.

“All you’ve got to do is point and pull the trigger.” He turned it in her hand so she was holding it properly. Then he gently pointed the barrel to the ground. “But you probably won’t have to. If they take us, you just need to have a weapon. Once they find it, they probably won’t search you beyond a frisking.”

She responded with a look of fear and confusion.

“Trust me,” he said. Then he took her by the hand and started off for the center of town.

The gunfire at the Hotel Continental had caused neighbors to call the police. The shootings of Kerrigan and his partner were going to excite even more local activity.

Sandor hurried along with Christine at his side. He had no way of knowing whether any of the things Kerrigan had said were true. He only knew that he needed to get to Traiman.

As they neared the center of the town, he stopped beside a short brick building. “Come here,” he said.

She followed him into the shadows, where he took her by the shoulders and looked into her frightened eyes. “We’ve got to split up. I’m heading for the main dock. I want you to go into the café near there, the one closest to the water. Go inside, order something and don’t come out unless I signal you.” He took the Glock from her and placed it inside her bag.

“You’re going to leave me behind,” she said.

“No,” he lied, “but I need to try and get to the launch alone. If they see us together, they’ll make us from a hundred yards away. If I’m on my own, I’ll have a chance.”

She stared into his dark eyes, understanding. “I’ve told you the truth. Do you know that?”

He nodded.

“No, really Jordan. I need to know that you believe me.”

He took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly on the cheek. “I believe you,” he said. “Now please believe me when I say that I know what I’m doing.”

“You’re going out there alone.”

“Please,” he said, “leave it to me.”

She lowered her head and nodded.

“Good. Now wait here just one minute, then go right to the café, the first one we visited today. And hold onto that gun, we may need it.”

He kissed her again, and she held herself against him for what she feared would be the last time. Then she watched as he walked towards the sea and disappeared from view.

Jordan stole his way around a row of powered skiffs, sunfish and rowboats that had been pulled ashore for the night. As he came closer to the pier, he could see in the distance a man seated on a bench, directly across from what he assumed would be the
Halaby
launch. Traiman’s lookout.

Jordan had taken the radio from Kerrigan’s pocket to see if he could listen in and confirm what he’d been told about Andrioli and Covington, but whoever else was in town was obviously now observing radio silence. He turned the two-way off and headed for the underside of the quay.

He mounted a support post beneath the dock, then climbed from strut to strut. The old wooden beams were wide and round and slippery with years of the ebb and flow of the sea. He moved carefully and quietly, making his way by stepping in the joints of the crossbeams. When he reached the white power boat marked
Halaby,
he continued past it, carefully traversing the interior supports to the outside piling, where he climbed atop the dock behind the man standing guard.

He pulled himself up, finding that he was just beyond the bench where the guard was seated. He placed his foot on a rounded wood brace and drew the Colt from his belt. Then he yanked himself higher, slipping over the railing, his weapon pointed at the back of the man’s head.

“
Buona sera
,” Sandor said.

Traiman’s scout turned, his hand about to drawn his weapon.

“Uh uh uh,” Jordan said. “Stay right there.”

The Syrian did not move.

“I’m going to need your help,” Jordan said, “but first I’m going to need your gun.”

The man smiled, his white teeth in stark contrast to his swarthy complexion. “I don’t think so,” he said, motioning with his head at what he had been watching when Jordan appeared.

Sandor glanced down the length of the pier. Coming towards them were four men and a woman.

The Syrian said, “I think you better give me your gun instead.”

Jordan had another look at the approaching group. Two men he did not recognize were walking close behind Christine, John Covington and a man Jordan imagined to be Martin Koppel.

He bowed his head at the sight and exhaled slowly as he released the butt of his automatic, the pistol now hanging from his index finger by the trigger guard. He extended his hand, and the Syrian stepped forward and took the gun.

“Now you will get in the boat,” the man ordered.

“Not without her,” he said, “and him,” gesturing to Covington.

“Don’t be concerned, Mr. Sandor. Everyone is invited.”

The party of five had almost reached them. The only one speaking was Martin Koppel.

“What is this with guns?” he demanded nervously. “I’m a businessman. I’m here for a business meeting.”

No one was paying any attention to Koppel. When they were only a few paces from Jordan, one of Traiman’s men told the group they had gone far enough.

“Who are you?” Koppel asked Sandor.

Jordan ignored him. “Hello, Covington,” Jordan said. “I see you’re also having a bad night.”

“Extremely,” he replied grimly. “Lost both of my agents. And Andrioli.”

“I heard,” Jordan said. “Where?”

“At your hotel, where you should have been.”

“I’m not sure how to take that, John.”

Zayn barked at them, “Enough. No more talking.” He turned to the Syrian, who was now holding out his Glock as well as Jordan’s Colt. “Any sign of Kerrigan and Fraser?’

The man shook his head.

Jordan said, “I’m afraid they won’t be joining us, if that’s what you’re waiting for.”

Everyone looked at Sandor.