The interview with Prescott and Covington had been more informative than he had expected. Using the ballpoint pen and note paper provided by the hotel, Jordan wrote the names Prescott had asked him about:
Zayn
Mahmoud Rahmad
Suaramar
Mustafa Tagliev
Talal Abdullah Driann
Ibraiam Abass
Most of them meant nothing to him. Not yet. But it was a start.
He went over to the bed and lay down, studying his list, trying to connect the names with any of the research he had done during the past several months. Mahmoud Rahmad, Saudi diplomat, as Jordan recalled, was the only familiar name. The only name, that is, except for the one he had not written down.
Vincent R. Traiman. Sandor’s former field supervisor in the Agency, who had disappeared four years ago, only to emerge as a paid al-Qaeda operative who was allegedly behind a string of terrorist strikes in Israel and Europe. Traiman had reportedly engineered the illegal arms deals that facilitated those attacks, all the while living under the protection of Qadaffi in Libya.
After the invasion of Iraq and removal of Saddam Hussein, Qadaffi claimed to have seen the light and made a show of laying down his arms and abandoning his anti-Western rhetoric. Whether his conversion was real or just a convenient pose based on self-preservation, his regime made no admission that Traiman had ever been holed up in Tripoli. Traiman’s whereabouts were currently listed as unknown, but rumor had it that Traiman had overstayed his welcome in Libya. Sooner, rather than later, he would be on the move.
Now, as Jordan watched a television news report on the explosion at the Loubar Corporation in Washington, he remembered a covert investigation, a couple of years back, into shipments of electronic matériel from Loubar that the Agency believed were connected to Traiman’s mercenary operations. Nothing was ever proved, but the suspicion persisted. And now, the day after McHugh was murdered, someone took out the headquarters of Loubar, and an al-Qaeda cell in the Capitol was exposed.
Jordan knew that these three events must somehow be related, and he knew Traiman well enough to know that they had his fingerprints all over them. All he had to do was connect the dots.
EIGHTEEN
The evening had begun to grow dark, late autumn breezes blowing a chill through the angular ravines that define the sharp contours of space between the buildings of Manhattan. Tafallai noticed neither the weather nor the passers-by. As people hurried along, he casually finished another cigarette, dropped the butt to the sidewalk and sauntered slowly into the human stream as it moved up the avenue.
Beth Sharrow joined the flow of pedestrians as she began her walk uptown. Pulling her coat closed around her neck, she kept a brisk pace as she tried to make the lights at each corner. She had not heard from Jordan all afternoon and was anxious to get home. Perhaps she would find a message there.
Tafallai had the appearance of another young man who had come to the States to make his future. He looked like an academic, perhaps a graduate student in his mid-twenties, which was in fact the basis for his visa. His skin was olive-toned, his hair curly, long and unkempt. He was not physically imposing, standing only five foot six, slight of build, fine featured. He wore a crew neck sweater and jeans, and a tweed sport coat that hid the 9mm automatic slung in a holster pulled tight against the left side of his chest.
Such a large city, New York. So congested, particularly at this time of day, that the relentless rhythm and nearly frantic movement of the people furnished him cover and provided opportunities to observe. It was just a few years after the attack on Nine Eleven, but his swarthy complexion and Arab features aroused no special notice in New York. Americans have short memories and very little sense of history, he told himself.
He kept a safe distance, watching as Beth stopped only once, in a small grocery store. She walked the entire way to East Sixty-Fifth Street, making it that much easier to follow her. Perhaps he would be doubly lucky and find Sandor waiting at her apartment. That would be too much to ask. He would be satisfied with the answers she would provide. That should be enough.
As Beth approached the entrance to the apartment building, he suddenly quickened his pace, reaching her just as she got to the front door. She felt him coming up from behind and turned to face him.
“Jordan sent me,” he said before she could speak. “I’ve been waiting across the street for you.”
“Jordan?”
“Yes. He told me you could get him a message if he and I lost contact.” His voice was filled with the urgency of the imaginary message. “I haven’t been able to reach him since noon.”
Beth eyed him with obvious suspicion. “What exactly did Jordan say?”
Tafallai recognized the look, knowing he could not chance further discussion out in the open. In a deft move, he pulled his automatic from inside his jacket and pressed the point of the silencer hard against her ribs before she could react. “What he said, was that if you don’t open the door right now, I’ll kill you where you stand.” As they stood face to face, a passerby might have thought them a young couple in love.
Beth froze, her left arm clutching the small plastic bag of groceries, her right hand holding the front door key. The training she had received was no match for the 9mm. She stared down at the weapon, her face a mask of fear.
Tafallai grabbed the key ring from her. “Stay very close to me, you understand? And don’t try anything heroic.”
Beth looked into his dark, lifeless eyes, neither moving nor speaking.
“Go,” he said.
Beth forced herself to speak. “I’ll scream.”
“I doubt it. Believe me, you’re not important enough for me to worry about. Now move or I’ll kill you where you stand.” He unlocked the front door and shoved her into the small vestibule. “Where’s your apartment?”
“Fourth floor,” she said hoarsely.
The car came, and it was empty. He shoved her in, pressed 4, then spun her back around to face him. “Anyone in your place?”
Beth shook her head.
“Don’t lie to me,” he said, showing her the automatic at eye level.
She shook her head again, and they waited in silence until they reached the fourth floor, Beth staring at the barrel of his gun.
As the elevator door slid open, he grabbed her roughly by the arm and forced her to walk to her door, the automatic again pressed into her side. She fumbled through her keys, finding the one that fit the lock.
They entered the apartment, a large studio with a small foyer that widened into a space that served as both sitting area and bedroom. He closed the door behind them, setting the latch in place. The lamp she always left on in the entry was the only light. It appeared to him they were alone.
He shoved her into a chair, the grocery bag falling to the floor, a tomato rolling across the carpet. He had a quick look around the small apartment, all the while training the gun on her as he moved swiftly in and out of the entryways to the kitchen and bathroom. “Let’s keep this simple,” he said. “Where is Jordan Sandor?”
“I don’t know,” she replied in a voice that was so choked with fright it was barely audible.
Tafallai responded by stepping quickly towards her then lashed out, smacking her hard across her cheek with the back of his left hand. Her head snapped back and she grabbed her face with both hands.
He leaned over her, roughly jabbing the barrel of the Glock into her sternum. “You were with him today. Where is he?”
Beth began to cry, her sobs of helplessness nearly strangling the words she tried to speak. “I . . . don’t know. I swear it. I . . . I don’t know.”
He reached down, grabbed her by the collar of her coat and pulled her to her feet. He snarled into her terrified face, then struck her again, this time sending her reeling backwards. She spun, fell face down, sprawled on the edge of her bed.
“This can’t be worth it. He can’t be worth it.” Tafallai came at her from behind. “Now tell me what you kno
w, and we’ll have an end to this.”
Beth did not respond. She was incapable of uttering a reply, sobbing hysterically as she crawled onto the bed, struggling desperately to get away from him.
But he was right behind her. He pulled her by the shoulder, turning her around. She stared up, her eyes transfixed on the gun. In a violent sweep he crashed the barrel of the automatic against the side of her jaw, the sickening sound of her bone fracturing beneath the blow. She screamed out in anguish, and he reached for a pillow and shoved it over her face.
Beth clutched at the pillow, gasping for air, pain reverberating through her skull in a deafening mix of panic and agony.
“Is it worth it?” he demanded, his voice angrier now. He yanked her coat open, then ripped at her blouse and bra as she struggled to push him away. “Is it worth it?”
Beth writhed convulsively. All that mattered now was getting him away from him, but this small man was much stronger than he appeared. He pulled the pillow away from her—it was stained with blood from her swollen mouth and jaw—and threw it to the floor.
She shrank from him, curling up, fetus-like against the carved mahogany headboard.
Tafallai leaned forward, his eyes meeting hers in the dim light. “Tell me,” he hissed at her through clenched teeth.
She could not focus, her body cold with shock. “Woodstock,” she muttered. “It’s all I know.” She spoke slowly and with difficulty. “Woodstock,” she mumbled again.
“When?”
“Today.”
“You’re lying,” he said, raising his hand above her shattered jaw.
“Leave me alone.” She was whimpering uncontrollably, her entire body trembling.
Tafallai shook her by the arm, pointing the gun at her face. He realized he would get nothing more from her. “This is the last time I’m going to ask you. Where is he?”
Beth’s hazel eyes widened, perhaps sensing she had come to the end. She stared at him, only for an instant, then screamed, “Leave me alone,” collapsing under the pain of the effort.
When she heard the sound of wood shattering and metal twisting from her doorway, it seemed a distant event to Beth, a surreal moment of violent action she was witnessing from afar. The door had come crashing open, two men bursting through. Tafallai turned to fire at them, but he was too late. The small apartment erupted in a barrage of gunfire and bloodshed. Not hers, Beth was beginning to understand, but his. The spray of blood was his—his blood.
The first man through was already standing over Tafallai as the second pulled the blanket from the bed and covered Beth.
As he leaned forward she shrank away in terror. “Miss Sharrow,” the man said, “we’re here to help you. Are you all right?”
She reached up and wrapped her arms around the man’s neck, then wept as he lifted her from the bed.
“It’s okay,” the agent told her. “It’s going to be all right.”
“She’s in shock,” a third man said as he came in. “Get her the hell out of here.”
“They call an ambulance yet?”
“Yeah.”
The two men looked to the first agent, who was now kneeling over Tafallai’s body. He was shaking his head.
“No good,” he said. “He’s dead.”
“Damnit,” said the third man. “Covington isn’t going to like it.”
NINETEEN
Jordan had not eaten since he munched on peanuts and cashews at the Algonquin. He considered room service, calling for a rare steak and a bottle of whatever they claimed to be their most expensive red wine. But, deciding he didn’t feel like sitting alone in the room, he dialed the operator to see what sort of restaurant was available downstairs. He was not surprised to find that his call went directly to an FBI hookup.
“Well,” he said, “do you think you can at least get me a decent table?”
Yes, the agent told him humorlessly, he was free to go down to dinner. Then hung up.
When Jordan left his room, he was greeted by a brief nod from an agent stationed in the hallway. Whatever Prescott and Covington were up to, they were serious about keeping tabs on him.
He rode down in the elevator and then strolled through the lobby, keeping an eye out for familiar faces, friendly or otherwise. He entered the restaurant and went straight for the bar. It was a dark room with reflective ceilings, sparkling walls, and black lacquer cocktail tables—all about as cozy as stainless steel. Still, Jordan was happier here than sitting upstairs.
He ordered a Jack Daniels Single Barrel on the rocks and had a seat.
He knew he was being watched. He also knew that any attempt to leave the hotel would create havoc. Even so, he longed for one of the comfortable armchairs at the Algonquin.
His drink came and he took a sip, the first burning taste cutting through a long day’s thirst. Maybe I should skip dinner altogether, he thought. Maybe I should just get good and drunk.
He was turning that idea over when he noticed a woman approach. She stopped a few barstools away, standing there, staring at him. She looked to be in her thirties, her trim figure clad in tight jeans and a fitted black v-neck. Her arms at her sides. Her hands empty. She had sandy colored hair and unhappy eyes. In the dimly lit bar he made her for a working girl. He gave her a little frown then looked straight ahead, hoping she would get the idea that he wasn’t the type.
She approached him, and he was about to suggest that she peddle her story elsewhere. Before he had the chance, however, she asked quietly, “Are you Mr. Sandor?”
He looked her up and down now. She had a nice shape, an extremely pretty face, and pale blue eyes that seemed even sadder than they had from a distance. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m Christine Frank,” she said. “Jimmy McHugh’s sister.”
The telephone rang . Covington was in his room on the concierge level, hanging up the few things he had brought from Washington. It was Nealon. He explained that Beth Sharrow had been attacked but was in stable condition.
“How the hell did that happen?”
“They had just arrived,” Nealon told him. “Two men were being positioned inside, one at the front. As soon as they heard her scream, they went through her door.”
“And the man?”
“He’s dead, sir. He was armed. We had no choice but to fire.”
Covington sat down on the edge of the bed. Holding the phone in one hand, he rubbed his face with the other. “Any ID on him?”
“Not yet.”
“Check all sources. Find out what you can about him. See if we can connect some dots here.”
“Yes sir.”
Covington put down the hotel phone, reached for his cell and placed a call.
Jordan had turned on the barstool to face the young woman. “You mind spinning around once? Slowly.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve been kind of unpopular lately,” he said. “I don’t need another stranger making an unfriendly visit. Not up close and personal like this.”
She blinked, not moving.
“The way those jeans fit, I don’t think I need to frisk you, but just to be sure . . . if you don’t mind.”
Christine responded with a confused look. “Are you asking me if I have a gun or something?”
“Or something, yes.” Jordan was holding his drink, watching her. “A gun, a bomb, a blackjack, a hidden microphone. Anything at all. Yes, that’s what I’m asking.”
She forced a smile and, although it took an effort, he thought it was a very good smile. It managed to light up her entire face just for an instant. Even her doleful eyes.
She did a pirouette for him, even lifting her sweater just enough to expose some of her midriff which, as far as he could tell, was also pretty good. There were no wires, and there was no gun.
“All right?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Sit down.”
She took the seat beside him.
Her features were cleanly drawn, her lips full, her tousled blond hair worn to shoulder
length, a natural color for her fair complexion. Her pale blue eyes were tinged with red and a bit swollen. There was a slight scar over the left brow that gave a hint of character. She rested her hand on the bar, her fingers moving up and down to some beat that had nothing to do with the piped-in music playing in the background.
“Relax,” he said. “Can I get you something?”
“No.”
“I was going to have dinner. Thought I’d eat at the bar, if you’re interested.”
“No, thank you.”
“A drink?”
She thought it over. “All right.”
The bartender came over to see what was going on, especially after Christine did her little one-step rumba.
“New jeans,” Jordan said to the man. “She wanted me to see how well they fit.”
The bartender appeared unconvinced. “Can I get you something?” he asked her.
“Yes, please. Uh, whiskey sour. Straight up. And sweet.”
“Right,” the man said, took another look at the two of them before shoving off to mix the drink.
“Whiskey sour, sweet and straight up. You’re a real boozer, I can tell.”
“Not really, no,” she said.
“So you’re McHugh’s sister?”
“Half sister.”
“I’m sorry about what happened.”
She looked down at her hands, and he thought she might start crying.
“Sit down,” he said, and so she perched on the stool beside him.
“I heard you were here for questioning,” she said, almost in a whisper. “Like me.”
“How did you hear that?”
“The state trooper from Woodstock, the one in charge there.”
“Uh huh.”
“Then the officers who brought me here. They said you were staying here too.”
“They told you I was here?”
“Yes. I mean, they didn’t say it was you. They said there was someone else they were ‘helping,’ but I knew it was you from the uh . . .”
“I know, the trooper upstate.”
“Right.”
“So how did you know who I was?”
“The trooper described you.”
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