Jeffrey Stephens
Targets of Deception
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A mere “thank you” does not seem enough of an acknowledgment for those who have stood by me for so long as supporters, critics, ersatz editors and eternally optimistic friends — Chris Beakey, Maureen Benic, Randi Conway, Carol Garinger, Larry Garinger, Rick Gould, Linda Kaye, Jennifer Korona, Nicky Lewis, Steve Marks, Andy Moszynski, Dr. Bart Pasternak, Ginny Peluso, Carl Portale, Ron Rosa, Dennis Rowan, Ed Scannapieco, Dr. Robert Stark, Caroline Sumner, Scott Sumner, Laura Sutton, Eric Thorkilsen, Melissa Thorkilsen, Frank Wilson — I cherish each of you.
My sincerest appreciation to a very dear friend, necessarily unnamed, who told me the truth about covert operations and explained how the world is a safer place because of the many heroic deeds that can only be told in the guise of fiction.
My gratitude to Tim Schulte at Variance for his vision, Stanley Tremblay for his creativity, Rick Kutka for his expertise and my editor Shane Thomson for his insight and stubborn determination.
Special thanks to my relentless agent Bob Diforio, and to the world’s absolute greatest media guru, promoter and support system, Trish Stevens.
And in the end, of course, there are Trevor and Graham and Nancy, without whom the curious passages of life would have no real meaning.
Grazie.
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
VX is a substance developed in Great Britain in 1952 and remains the deadliest nerve gas ever created. VX — known by its United States Army codename — is a clear, colorless liquid with the consistency of motor oil. A fraction of a drop of VX, absorbed through the skin or inhaled through aeration, can kill by severely disrupting the nervous system. Although a cocktail of drugs can serve as an antidote, VX acts so quickly that victims would have to be injected with the antidote almost immediately to have a chance at survival. VX is the only significant nerve agent created since World War II. VX is a weapon of mass destruction that spreads from impact point killing all in its path …
Foxnews.com
cfrterrorism.org
chem.ox.ac.uk
ONE
Jordan Sandor had no reason to expect this quiet autumn morning to erupt with the familiar sounds of his violent past.
It was nearly ten. The air felt crisp and cool, the calm sky bright and clear and blue. The two-lane blacktop in upstate New York was deserted, except for Dan Peters’ old station wagon where Sandor slouched in the passenger seat, a casual observer of the passing countryside. He and Peters had been riding in silence when a pickup truck came into view then turned across their path.
“That’s practically a traffic jam around here.”
Sandor nodded. “Doesn’t seem to be much doing.”
“Nope, not this time of year. Summer you get the tourists, hiking, camping, and all that. Winter, they come up to ski.” Peters eased the wagon along a wide curve. “Fall, some people drive up on the weekends to see the leaves turn color. Other than that you get nothing.”
They passed a makeshift billboard that boasted authentic home cooking at some nearby restaurant. The poster looked so old Sandor wondered whether the restaurant even existed anymore. “You don’t miss the city at all?”
Peters thought it over, surveying the barren road. “Sometimes. The places, you know. Not the people. The food, mostly. When I get a taste for good Chinese or Thai, and especially Japanese, that’s when I really miss New York. No Sushi Yasuda up here.”
Sandor smiled at the road ahead. “Still need your sushi fix.”
“Old habits die hard.”
“You were the one convinced me to try it, remember? Raw fish! Man, how many years ago was that?”
Peters didn’t answer.
“Well,” Jordan said after another mile or so, “I give you high marks. Looks like you’ve done a good job of making the transition to the quiet life.”
“Quiet everywhere, except up here,” Peters said, pointing to his head. Embarrassed by the confession, he fell silent again.
“You’re entitled to some peace,” Jordan told him.
“What I saw over there…” Dan paused, “it never gets peaceful for me. Sometimes I manage to ignore the noise, that’s all.”
The two men had fought together in the Gulf War, the first one, when they drove the Iraqis out of Kuwait, leaving behind a mess that needed to be cleaned up a dozen years later. Before that, Peters saw duty in Vietnam. He had been a career soldier, and although he was nearly fifteen years older than Sandor, Jordan outranked him when they served in the Persian Gulf.
“Well,” Sandor said, “maybe peace and quiet are overrated.”
“Yeah, tranquility is a bitch,” Peters said, then uttered a short laugh. “So what about you? How do you like your new gig? What are you supposed to be, a reporter or something?”
“I’m a journalist, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh yeah, a journalist, beautiful. You talk about transition, man. I suppose you don’t miss the good fight, eh?”
Sandor faced forward again. He had an uneven nose, earned in too many close-order scuffles, and a jaw etched in a strong, firm line. His complexion was tanned and a bit weathered for a man not yet forty. His hair was brown and cut just long enough to allow him to run his fingers through the waves, front to back, which he habitually did when he took time to consider a question or reflect on something that troubled him. He was doing that now, his dark, intense eyes visualizing something beyond his actual line of sight. “I gave up the good fight the day they left my men for dead in Bahrain.”
“Yeah,” Peters said as shook his head. “Bastards.”
After his tour in the Middle East, Dan returned home to finish his military career stateside, take his pension and disappear. Jordan remained abroad, working on special assignments until an undercover team he was assigned to in Manama was betrayed. It had been more than a year since that incident in Bahrain. The day after they pulled him out and left the others behind to die, Sandor submitted his resignation from government service.
“Not everyone comes home.”
Jordan nodded.
“Strange how things never work out the way you figure.”
Jordan let that go too. “So what about this Ryan guy we’re going to see?”
“What about him?”
“What does he think of the quiet life, now that he’s back?”
“You’re the journalist, you ask him.”
“I will,” Sandor said.
Peters rolled down his window, letting a cold breeze whip through the car.
“If this guy was really a mercenary,” Jordan said, “he’s got some explaining to do before I’ll believe a thing he tells me.”
Peters turned to his old friend and showed him a crooked grin. “Good old Jordan, Mr. Black and White. The mercenary business is immoral because you play for money. But if you put the same guy in a uniform, underpay him, and send him out to shoot someone, that makes it okay.”
Sandor shook his head.
“You sure know how to wave the flag, buddy.”
“Yeah, I suppose so,” Jordan said. “Flag’s not the problem.”
Morning sunlight sparkled on the trees, an October spectacle of colors lining the road as they continued on Route 32 towards Jimmy Ryan’s house.
“Close your window, will you, Dan?”
Peters chuckled as he put it up half way. He was a burly man with wide shoulders and thick arms. “Blood a little thin these days, Sandor? Winter’s coming, you know. Time to bulk up.” He patted his ample stomach, evidence that he no longer bothered with the physique he maintained while he was in military service.
Sandor, who was still trim and fit, eyed his friend’s gut. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll pass on the donuts and put on my jacket instead.” He grabbed his sport coat from the back seat, pulled it on, and rubbed his hands together.