“Whatever,” Koppel replied, proud of the acting job he was doing. “It’s none of my business, anyway? I just don’t like all these guns. Let’s wrap up the details so I can get the hell out of here.”
“Of course.” Traiman held up his glass again. “We are going to be very wealthy men, you and I, and very soon.”
Jordan and Christine were sitting side by side in the library. The walls of the cabin were lined with oiled walnut bookshelves, many of the volumes bound in leather. There was a campaign-style captain’s table in the center of the room, several club chairs set around the table and a settee against the wall that Jordan and Christine occupied. Directly across from them, Nelson was comfortably seated in one of the armchairs, his weapon resting in his lap. The security guard had stepped outside, waiting on deck near the door.
“Hey Nelson,” Jordan said. “That’s your name, right? Nelson?”
He did not answer.
“All right if I have a cigarette?”
“You move your hand and I’ll shoot your arm off.”
Sandor nodded. “That’s okay, I don’t really smoke.”
Nelson glared at him. “Traiman said he wants you alive for now, but he didn’t say anything about what condition you need to be in. Don’t press your luck.”
Jordan nodded again, studying the man, taking the measure of his options and gauging the eight feet or so that separated them.
The first mate, noticing something on the radar screen in the wheelhouse of the Halaby, was the first to see them. The speedboat was just a blip on the screen, but it was moving quickly. He radioed the man on the foredeck and asked him to have a look through his night-vision binoculars. The man obliged, scanning the dark sea to the west. The boat was not yet in view.
The lookout on the port side of the stern deck heard the radio communication from the wheelhouse and signaled back that a cruiser was moving slowly south from the Portofino harbor, still a long way off.
Neither activity was unusual in this area, but with Traiman aboard the yacht, the security detail was on high alert. When the cabin cruiser began to circle on a course slightly to the east, the man on the port side of the ship hurried to the dining salon. He knocked and then entered at Traiman’s bidding.
“Yes?”
“Sir, may I speak with you, please? Privately.”
Traiman was annoyed by the interruption, but his team was well trained and would not have intruded if it was not important. “I’m sorry, Mr. Koppel. I’ll be right back.”
Traiman followed the guard onto the deck, closing the door behind him.
“I’m sorry sir, but there seems to be movement. It may be nothing, but—”
“Details,” Traiman demanded.
The man explained what they had noticed to the west and the north.
“Stay here,” Traiman told him, then hurried forward along the teak deck.
John Covington was enjoying a drink in a guest cabin with one of Traiman’s men, the man who sometimes called himself Groat. His real name was Richard Dombroski.
Covington was having a scotch. Dombroski was having mineral water. The two men knew each other, but they were not friends. Theirs was an association forced upon them by circumstances.
“That was a rather dramatic exit you arranged for David Fryar at Loubar, wouldn’t you say?”
“We needed to make a point,” Dombroski replied in his monotone.
“You certainly accomplished that.” Covington took a sip of the fine, aged single malt scotch. “So, who is this Koppel character? Isn’t he that financier, lost his shirt a few years back?”
Dombroski looked at Covington, his hooded gaze giving the impression that he might be falling asleep. “I don’t ask questions,” he replied in his flat affect.
Once he arrived on the yacht, Covington was looking forward to abandoning his role as a double agent, anticipating a warm greeting from Traiman. He expected to be the true guest of honor, the completion of the mission in Portofino his coming out party. Covington’s days as a mole within the CIA were over, and he was disappointed to have his reunion with Traiman upstaged by Jordan Sandor and a broken-down Wall Street investor.
He was obliged to continue playing his part a little while longer.
He took another drink of the smooth, oaky-tasting scotch, left to bide his time with the man he knew to be Traiman’s number one enforcer, wondering why Vincent had chosen Richard Dombroski as his chaperone.
Deputy Director Byrnes arrived in Portofino to coordinate the mission himself. He already had word from the men on the water that they would be circling near the Halaby within a few minutes. They would be approaching the yacht from two directions.
Byrnes warned them again that the Halaby was likely to be well armed and staffed with experienced military personnel.
The crew on the attack helicopter was standing by, but the DD wanted to hold them off as long as possible. If there was any chance at all that Sandor could get the information they needed, Byrnes was going to wait.
SIXTY
Traiman threw open the door to the cabin where Covington and Dombroski were waiting. If Covington was expecting this to be the moment for an appreciative greeting, he was wrong.
“What goes on here, John?”
Covington was too dumbstruck by the anger in Traiman’s voice to frame a suitable reply.
“There are two boats approaching.”
“What?”
“You told me your detail was the only one trailing Sandor, that it was clean behind you.”
Covington nodded. “Of course.”
“Then who the hell is out there?”
“Out where?” He stood as if to go see for himself.
Traiman shook his head. “No. It’s better if you continue to pretend you’re our prisoner. We may still get some mileage out of that.” Traiman was thinking now, calculating the probabilities of his situation. “Koppel. You never met him before?”
“Never.”
“Never saw a file on him at the Agency, no mention of him?”
“Nothing.”
Traiman nodded to himself. “Fine,” he said. “You wait here. Richard, you come with me.”
Dombroski followed Traiman out onto the deck, pulling the door closed behind him.
“We may be going seaside,” Traiman said to Dombroski. It was all the man needed to know. Traiman had an emergency escape plan that was arranged for only two. Below decks were scuba gear and two motorized underwater props fitted with lights and a range of more than an hour. In the event all other options were foreclosed, he and Dombroski would enter the water through the transom hatch and head for safety.
Dombroski nodded his thick head in understanding.
“Hopefully it won’t be necessary, but get it ready all the same.”
As Dombroski went below to make the preparations, Traiman hurried aft along the teak catwalk. When he passed the guard and burst into the library, his entrance was so abrupt that Nelson quickly came to his feet, his automatic aimed at the door.
“Sorry sir,” he said.
Traiman waved at him with the back of his hand and Nelson sat down. “What the hell is going on here, Jordan?”
“Not much. We were just in the middle of a staring contest.”
Traiman turned to Nelson. “The next wisecrack he makes, shoot the girl’s knee. Shatter it completely. One shot, you understand?”
Nelson responded with a satisfied smile as Christine took hold of Jordan’s wrist, digging her nails into his flesh.
“Now,” Traiman said, turning back to Sandor, “let’s have it. What are you doing here?”
Jordan looked from Traiman to Nelson and then back again. “I told you my reasons for being here. What else do you want to know?”
“There are two boats approaching. Your friend Covington knows nothing about them. What do you know?”