Peters attempted a deep breath, grimaced at the effort then asked, “What the hell is going on here?”
“Like what?”
“Like what happened to Jimmy Ryan?”
Jordan walked to the large window that overlooked a grassy courtyard in front of the hospital. The autumn afternoon had become unseasonably warm, and he watched two young men in shirtsleeves enter the building. “You need some rest.”
“I heard two nurses yapping out in the hallway.”
“And?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
Jordan came back, moved the metal armchair beside the bed and sat down. “I’m not sure yet. It seems the two shooters were on their way back from a visit with your friend Ryan when we ran into them.”
Peters worked that over for a moment, the narcotics muddling his ability to think in a straight line. “Maybe not just unlucky.”
“Meaning what?”
“Gimme some time, I might sort it out. I’m kinda slow today.” He shifted slightly with a grunt.
“You think Ryan told them we were coming?”
“Doesn’t look that way. Collins said he stopped them for speeding.”
“That so?” He took a moment to have a sip of water then settled back again. “What about Ryan?”
“What about him?”
“Come on, damnit.”
Jordan leaned forward in his chair and, speaking very softly, said, “Way I get it, they did a number on him… before they killed him.”
“Christ.”
“Listen, I haven’t told the police we were on our way to see him. Better not share that. Not yet. All right?”
“Why?”
“It could mean more trouble for us than we need right now.”
“More trouble than getting shot?”
Jordan smiled. “I’m going out to see Ryan’s place with Reynolds, the trooper in charge.”
“He asks you something, you gonna lie?”
Jordan sighed then sat back. “I won’t be volunteering anything.”
“Yeah, I guess not,” Peters agreed. “So what about me?”
“What about you?”
“You going to keep lying to me?”
“I guess that depends.”
“On what?”
Sandor pushed his hair back with the palm of his hand. “You go first.”
“What the hell do I know—”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
Danny’s pallid complexion seemed to flush for a moment. “You figure someone found out we were going to see Ryan?”
“That’s what I figure.”
“Look, I admit our timing was lousy. You think it’s more than that?”
“That depends on what else you have to tell me.”
Peters struggled to keep his focus. “I told you already. I met Ryan after he got back from Europe. Real quiet guy at first. Met him in the local saloon drinking beers. Got to talking about the service… you know how it goes. What branch of the service are you in? What division? Where did you tour?”
“Go on.”
Peters’ words came a little more easily now. “He was like a lot of the guys who did time overseas, except more so. Always looking over his shoulder, like an old gunfighter.”
“And how old was this old gunfighter?”
“Not sure. Somewhere between you and me. Anyway, we got friendlier, talked about Nam and the Gulf. He told me he did a tour in the Orient before doing a stretch in the Middle East. He said he saw a lot, wanted to put some of it on paper but couldn’t write a lick. He was thinking about contacting some reporters. That’s when I told him about you. A week or so later, he says he wants to meet you.”
“Just like that? He was going to dictate his memoirs to me?”
“I told him you were the best.”
“At what?”
Dan answered with a frown. “When he got back to me, he said he’d been to the library, looked up a couple of pieces you’d written. He thought you might be the right guy to help him.”
Jordan nodded. “I guess I should be flattered.”
“Hey, I’m already in pain here, all right. Cut me some slack. Anyway, he said he had some dynamite you could put a match to. Worked with people who knew about al-Qaeda, Qadaffi, Iraq, illegal arms trade, biological and chemical weapons, you name it. Told me he also knew a lot about former GIs who sold out.”
“And you figured he was one of them.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured.”
“And now you figure that these two hit men found out Ryan was talking to you?”
“If they didn’t know before, they must know now, right?”
Jordan nodded. “I would assume so. They worked him over pretty good, according to Reynolds.”
“Reynolds?”
“I told you, the captain heading up the investigation.” Jordan had a look at his friend. “You’re out of steam, pal. Get some rest.” He stood and placed his hand on Dan’s arm.
“Okay, but you gotta know this includes you too now. I mean, if Ryan spilled his guts, he wasn’t just talking about me.”
“I realize that”
“Whatever Ryan told them, he knew I was bringing you there today, right?”
“I understand.”
“You’ve got to be careful.”
“All right, all right.”
Peters opened his eyes a bit wider. “So when do you tell me the truth?”
“Later. Take a nap.”
“Screw a nap, I want some answers.”
“I’m working on it, believe me.”
“Give me a break. This guy didn’t want to see you because you could write an article for him. He wanted to see you because of your old connections in Washington.”
Jordan offered no response.
“When Ryan said he checked you out, he found more than the articles you wrote. Am I right?”
“Maybe.”
“So… what’s going on?” Peters asked.
Jordan reached out and pinched his cheek. “When I figure it out, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Come on, Jordan. You owe me.”
“Owe you? You owe me, pal. I saved your life.”
“Bullshit!” Dan bit his lip, catching his breath, then forced a weak smile through a surge of pain. “Nothing but a flesh wound. You said so yourself.”
SIX
Operations Officer John Covington received a call in his Langley office about the shootings near Woodstock, New York. He was apprised of the inquiries being made by local authorities, his own sources having already concluded that the dead man was indeed James McHugh. But that identification came too late, both for McHugh and for the Central Intelligence Agency. Covington’s team had been searching for him, and under the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act they might have learned something sooner through wiretaps and other covert technology. Unfortunately, since the media was all over the government for using FISA to justify domestic spying, intelligence-gathering efforts were severely curtailed on all fronts. So now McHugh was dead and the best the CIA could hope for was that his death would somehow provide them the next lead they desperately needed.
Covington was a slightly built man of fifty with thinning hair, thin lips, and a slender nose that caused Jordan Sandor to once wonder aloud whether those stingy nostrils allowed in enough air to prevent brain damage. He was wearing his customary white button-down shirt and conservative tie to go with a conservative suit and his conservative manner. Whatever romantic image the public had of the typical CIA agent, Covington provided an accurate picture of the men who actually operated inside the Agency, his appearance and demeanor more like an accountant ready for a tough audit than a man poised for dangerous, physical action. He was part of the large corps of administrative personnel who supported the activities of the men and women in the field who risked their lives in anonymous endeavors that sometimes succeeded, but often failed.
When the call came through on his private line, David Fryar knew it had to be trouble. Only a handful of people had the number, and its use was intended only for emergencies. Emergencies were never good news.