He picked up the phone. “Fryar.”
The man on the other end did not waste time with a polite greeting. The caller, instantly recognizable to Fryar, demanded, “What the hell happened to those shipments yesterday?”
Fryar fumbled for the right words as he began to explain the customs issues the company faced in getting the shipments out, but the man stopped him.
“Our friend is extremely upset.”
David Fryar was president of Loubar Technical Assistance Corporation, a rapidly expanding manufacturer of specialized electronics, with offices recently opened in Paris and Hong Kong. That expansion, and most of its success, was due to the patronage of Fryar’s “friend,” Vincent Traiman.
They met a few years before, when Fryar was a vice president at Loubar, which was then a struggling electronics firm. Traiman was an operative at Central Intelligence who possessed considerable knowledge of technology, an understanding of foreign markets, and numerous contacts in the Middle East. They had been introduced at a promotional party being hosted by Loubar in Paris, then traveled together to Jiddah when Traiman suggested he might have some valuable contacts there.
Fryar quickly learned that Traiman was already familiar with Loubar products. The company was on the cutting edge and Traiman believed the company could have a bright future, especially in countries where he enjoyed some influence. He told Fryar that only three ingredients were needed to ensure success. First, increased sophistication in the area of surveillance and quasi-military appliances, such as those used in the deployment of chemical weapons, with which the company had been recently experimenting. Second, an aggressive sales force that could provide an appropriate presence throughout Europe, Asia, and the Middle East. Third, and most interesting to David Fryar, his new friend believed the company needed a change in leadership.
Traiman was both a clear thinker and capable of bringing his plans to fruition. Within a year the former president of the company, a decidedly uncooperative man with limited global vision, met with an unfortunate automobile accident. After some corporate in-fighting, Fryar became head of the company. Under his stewardship the sales force amassed an impressive record of increasing revenues, and Fryar had remained at the helm since, with the Loubar Corporation continuing to grow rapidly in income and international stature.
Along with that success, however, came certain risks. Traiman left government service and became involved with indeterminate principals who were developed into lucrative customers of Loubar. Since the products being sold were often on a proscribed list for shipment to certain unfriendly foreign countries, great pains had to be taken to route these goods through acceptable ports, to describe the contents with special care, and to otherwise cover tracks.
A recent order had proved especially troublesome. So much so, in fact, that before it could be released for shipment to Marseilles, Fryar had interceded and held up the transit papers. He feared that this time Traiman had stepped too far over the line, even for Fryar, and he knew there would be hell to pay for his decision.
“I know he must be disappointed,” Fryar said to the caller. “Please tell him that it was a difficult decision, but the matter deserves special attention.”
“A difficult decision,” the man replied in a mocking tone. “I don’t think so.”
“We need to review the matter.”
“We need the shipment.”
Fryar was silent.
“Mr. Groat will be contacting you. You can review it with him.” And with that, the line went dead.
Mark Byrnes was waiting in his office when Covington arrived to make his report. Byrnes was a handsome man of about sixty with well-defined features, his graying hair cut short and combed close, his blue eyes shrewd in a way his subordinates often found unsettling. He was a product of Harvard and Oxford, the diplomatic corps and State Department, not to mention the breeding of a wealthy family that was as close as America comes to aristocracy. Byrnes had recently been rewarded for his hard work by a promotion from deputy director of operations stationed overseas to deputy director of operations in Washington. He was a man who always knew what he was about.
Covington entered the DD’s office and, after polite greetings, Byrnes asked a few questions. Covington’s answers were satisfactory.
“So then, you’re up to speed.”
“I am,” Covington agreed.
“This is the only thing I want you working on right now, John. And I want you there right away. McHugh’s death may give us the best lead we’ve had in weeks.”
“Yes sir,” Covington said.
The deputy director took a look around his large, warmly appointed office. The walls were covered with photographs of Byrnes and the President, Byrnes with various congressmen, and Byrnes with heads of state. He waited as Covington also had a look. It was a reminder of how far he had moved up the chain of command.
“What do we know about Andrioli?” the DD asked.
“We have no lead on his whereabouts. Not yet.”
“Even with McHugh dead we still have a chance to get to him”
“Yes sir.”
“We’re running out of time on this operation, John. We can’t announce to the media that there are new security threats without a single positive shred of information in hand.”
“I understand.”
“I hope you do. I truly hope you do. Now get to New York and find out what you can.”
Jordan spent the late afternoon at the state trooper barracks. A police artist had driven down from Albany and Sandor worked with him to refine the descriptions he had given earlier. They also reviewed a new series of mug shots on the computer, after being granted access to the federal database. They struck out there, but Jordan was not surprised. The more they searched, the more evident it became to him that the two shooters were men who flew below the radar.
For now, he kept those thoughts to himself and struggled to be as patient as he could manage. Matters for the local authorities were fairly chaotic, one of their own having been shot. That was their principal focus. There was also discussion about Ryan, about taking his body to Kingston for an autopsy, and Sandor listened as three junior officers debated the necessity of such action. After all, the youngest of the three argued, there was clear evidence that Ryan had been beaten before getting plugged with two shots from close range. They understood that an autopsy was standard procedure, the trooper said, but what was the point in tearing the corpse apart just to confirm what they already knew?
Sandor had answers he was not giving. The ballistics expert would be interested in the slugs they recovered. They would need to confirm that the shooters on the road had also taken out Ryan. There would also be questions about chemicals that might be found in the dead man’s system, and Sandor assumed they would find traces of so-called truth drugs.
While the local law enforcement team debated the possible reasons for the sadistic beating of Ryan prior to his murder, Jordan was certain that he and Dan Peters knew why. Whatever story Ryan had to tell, as Ryan himself had said to Peters, it was dynamite.
The rest of the available police force, including men and women borrowed from neighboring towns and the state, were scurrying around looking for clues, and surveying the roadside scene of the shooting. As far as Sandor reckoned, they were trying to close the barn door after the horses had galloped away.
“You ready, Sandor?” Reynolds came up from behind, all business in front of his men.
“Ready, sir,” Jordan said.
The place rented by Jimmy Ryan was a tiny house set back from an unpaved lane that shunted off an access road leading to Route 32. As Reynolds had explained, it was not far from the spot where Collins and Peters had been shot. Jordan simply nodded, realizing he and Dan had only been a few minutes and a couple of miles late.