The captain fixed him with a hard stare. “You know, Sandor, I may be from a small town in upstate New York, but I’m no yokel. You follow me?”
“Yes sir,” Jordan said, stopping with his jacket half pulled on.
“Relax,” the captain said, giving him a slap on the shoulder. “I just want you to keep it in mind, is all.”
FOUR
At the same time Jordan was having coffee with Captain Reynolds, a uniformed waiter at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York was delivering a meal to a suite on the seventeenth floor. The young man wheeled in a large tray of fresh orange juice, poached eggs, several rashers of bacon, wheat toast, and a pot of espresso. Also at hand were the pleasant incidentals this grand hotel provides — fresh marmalade and preserves, poppy seed rolls with sweet butter, and a fine setting of flatware and china. The sitting room was decorated in a sedate yet affluent style, an elegant motif harmonizing with the cool blues and greens of the drapes, warm woods, and the rich brocades of the upholstery.
“Will that be all, sir?” the young man asked.
The well-dressed Saudi gentleman seated before his mid-afternoon breakfast did not look up. One of the two men attending him pressed a tip into the waiter’s hand and escorted him out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Mahmoud Rahmad removed the cloth napkin from the serving cart, then stared down at his decidedly American meal. He did not speak until his assistant returned to the room.
“The timing was truly unfortunate,” Rahmad said without looking up. His English was polished and formal, an accent produced by a British education. His features were smallish and soft, his complexion dusky, and his eyes were as dark as onyx. His black hair was combed straight back and kept neatly in place. A man in his fifties, he obviously took great care with his appearance. “However,” he continued, “it was a mistake to leave them behind.” He poured himself a cup of the dark coffee while his two subordinates watched in silence.
“But sir,” his younger assistant protested, “Kerrigan called him back to the car. Surely Mustafa could not risk being left there.”
Rahmad looked up for the first time, taking a moment before he spoke. “Mustafa was wrong not to have completed what he had begun.” The young aide grew uneasy under his superior’s critical gaze and lowered his eyes. Rahmad turned back to his meal. “How concerned you are for Mustafa. Do you really believe our American friend would have driven away without him?”
“I do not know Kerrigan, sir. I am sorry.”
“That is quite all right. Kerrigan is a skilled operative, and he will also be made to answer for his actions. Nevertheless, the problem created still remains.”
He poked at his eggs with a fork. “In England they serve kippers,” he observed with a smile, which amounted to a slight parting of his lips, revealing white teeth that gleamed in contrast to his brown, oily complexion. “I came to enjoy kippers. In many things I have become infected by occidental ways.” He laid down his fork, too perturbed by the notion to continue eating. “Here, for instance, we engage in thought and discussion when action is at a premium.”
Rahmad sat back in his chair. “Are we certain that the man they eliminated was McHugh?”
“Yes sir.”
“Very well. And they elicited everything they could from him?”
The senior aide assured him with no little satisfaction that James McHugh, who was hiding under the name of James Ryan, was made to talk before he died.
“Very well. Yet we are left with the problem of these other two men. And the policeman.”
His aides nodded.
“Mustafa is certain these men did not reach McHugh first?”
“McHugh was going to meet with them this morning. Our men arrived first.”
“Which is the reason, of course, they were on that road. Unfortunate timing,” he said again, then shook his head.
“No sir,” the senior aide disagreed. “It would only have been unfortunate if they had reached McHugh first.”
Rahmad raised his eyebrows as if considering that notion. “But these men might have had previous discussions with McHugh. Who knows how much he told to the intermediary… what was his name?”
“Peters,” the young man replied. “Dan Peters.”
“Yes, Peters.”
“Mustafa assures us that McHugh told Peters nothing. They were very persuasive in extracting answers.”
“I am sure. And this Peters, he was only the go-between. He was to introduce McHugh to the journalist?”
“Yes sir.”
Rahmad mulled it over. “Well, Kerrigan is on his way out of the country at this very moment. Mustafa is quite capable of providing for his own safety. Even so, it would be best if all witnesses were removed.”
“What of the policeman?” asked the younger assistant. “He is under guard.”
“Yes,” Rahmad agreed. “The officer may prove more difficult to reach while he remains under special care. Amazing how this country reveres its wounded policemen, as if they should be praised rather than held accountable for their incompetence.” He shook his head in disgust. “No, for now the risk would outweigh the benefit. The trooper, he knows nothing of us, or of McHugh. He has no information except the remote possibility he could identify Kerrigan or Mustafa. If he poses any such threat, we can deal with him later. Peters and his friend are the problem.” He turned to his younger aide and pointed at him. “You see, there are things that experience can teach you, the most important of which may well be patience.”
The young man frowned.
“For now, the other two men pose the real danger. They were to meet McHugh, which means they may know something of our operations. We must be rid of them.”
“Yes sir.”
“So, we must assign the situation in Woodstock to someone subtle. Peters is in the hospital. There are police everywhere, but they will not be paying any attention to him. Still, taking care of him will require finesse.” He uttered a short, hollow laugh. “Perhaps we should choose another blond, blue-eyed friend for the job,” he said. “No reason for our Arab brothers to receive all the bad press, should something go awry.”
Mahmoud Rahmad, unofficial charge d’affaires for al-Qaeda espionage activities in New York, returned to the business of his mid-afternoon breakfast.
“Sir,” the senior aide asked, “to whom should we refer the reporter?”
He considered that for a moment. “Find out where he lives and have his home and office searched before he gets back. Once we are sure he has nothing pertaining to our mission, we will eliminate him.”
His aides nodded at his obvious logic and made ready to leave when Rahmad spoke again.
“The matter will be handed by Tafallai. He will know what to do.”
FIVE
“You look positively beautiful,” Jordan said as he entered the room.
“Oh, yeah,” Dan Peters responded weakly, then shot a disgusted look at the intravenous tubes that stretched from his arm to the apparatus standing alongside his hospital bed. “I’d feel a lot better if I could borrow someone else’s chest for a while.”
“Don’t look at me,” Jordan said. “My chest isn’t broad enough to fill your clothes.” Peters was a raw-boned type, a few inches shorter but much broader than Jordan.
“Funny man,” Peters groaned.
“I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss. Doctor says it’s just a flesh wound.”
“Yeah. It’s my flesh, though. I feel like a pin cushion, all the needles they’re sticking me with.” The mild sedation left his speech slow and measured. “How’s the kid?”
“Trooper Collins? He’ll pull through just fine.”
“Good thing for all of us you didn’t get hit.”
Jordan nodded. “So much for your peaceful existence in upstate New York.”