Covington said nothing.
“You gave them McHugh. That’s how Traiman’s men found Tony in Florida.”
“We didn’t count on you becoming such a problem.”
“You didn’t count on me still working for the Company,” Sandor said.
“No,” he admitted grimly, “I didn’t.”
“What about Andrioli? Was it a fair fight, or did you give it to him in the back?”
“Collateral damage.”
“Right, like my team in Bahrain. That was you and Traiman too, right?”
“Yes. And you’ll be joining them shortly.”
“Humor me, then. You came here to meet Traiman, get rid of Andrioli and me, tell the Agency that Traiman got away, and then you were going to take the information back to the States to set his Operation VX teams in motion. How am I doing?”
Covington said nothing.
“Come on, John, how long did you and Vincent think it could last?”
Covington said, “A lot longer than this.” Then he spun quickly to his left, reaching for a pistol holstered at the small of his back.
Jordan reacted instantly, lashing out a vicious backhand with the automatic he had taken from Nelson, smashing the right side of Covington’s jaw. Covington fell sideways, still trying to pull out his weapon as Jordan kicked him in the throat with the heel of his shoe.
He knelt down, took Covington’s gun, and tossed it on a chair across the cabin. Covington was gagging. “Oh no, John, I didn’t crack your windpipe, did I? Not with one kick.”
Covington made an effort to lunge at him, but Jordan responded with another swift blow from the butt of the automatic, striking him squarely on the forehead. Covington fell backwards, gasping and moaning, still struggling to breathe.
“Don’t be throwing up all over the place now, John. We don’t have much time, and I need some answers.”
Covington panted, panic in his bulging eyes. “You’re going to kill me anyway,” he wheezed.
“Not me, John. I’m one of the good guys, remember? You tell me what I need to know, and I’m gone. I’ll leave you to Vincent and his merry men.”
Covington’s mouth was bloody, his jaw broken, and he was still having trouble getting a breath. He stared at Jordan’s face. “I’m dead either way.”
“Maybe,” Jordan said with a nod, “but I can tell you, you don’t answer me right now, you’re dead for sure.”
Covington stared at him without moving.
Christine said, “I think I hear someone.”
“Keep that thing pointed at the door,” he told her without taking his eyes off Covington. “So John, what are you trying to protect? Traiman’s plans? He didn’t even tell you about Koppel. Come on, I saw it on your face. You had no idea. You thought this was only about Andrioli and me.”
Covington tried to look away, but Sandor grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back.
“That’s why Byrnes never let you in on the Koppel play. This way Traiman would buy the whole show and come out to make his plans.”
Covington stared up at him, realizing the truth. He was just another Vincent Traiman casualty.
“So let’s have it, John. When and where is Vincent making his move?”
Covington did not answer.
“John.” Sandor pushed the barrel of the automatic against Covington’s bloodied forehead. “I keep telling you, bench jocks shouldn’t play field games. When and where?”
Covington looked up at him. “I’m not sure.”
Sandor figured it was true. And now he had Traiman’s papers. Hopefully, the answers were there. “Then who’s been your go-between up to now?”
When Covington hesitated, Sandor pressed the metal a little harder against his head. “You and Traiman never would have risked direct contact. Who was it?”
“Figueroa,” he growled, giving Jordan the name of the other traitor inside the Agency.
“Thanks pal,” Sandor said.
“Drop dead.”
Jordan nodded. “Not yet, John.” He pulled the gun back and stood up. “You hear anything else?” he asked Christine.
“Yes,” she said, giving her head a nervous shake, still watching the door. “I think someone just ran past.”
Sandor stood there for a moment, listening. The intermittent sound of gunfire outside had not relented. He turned back to Covington. “Just so you know, we had you in our sights the whole time I was on the move. The DD figured you were the leak. You iced it when you got the call, that anonymous message exposing Traiman’s team in DC. Typical Vincent, that move, giving up his own men. The old Queen’s sacrifice. I played too much chess with him to miss it.”
“And he usually won, didn’t he?” Covington voice was raspy with pain. “What makes you think you’ll beat him this time? Traiman has every option covered. You’ll never get off this boat.”
“Maybe not, John. Maybe not.”
A loud noise from outside caused Sandor to turn toward the door and Covington made his move, lunging for the gun Jordan had tossed aside.
Sandor did not hesitate, spinning and firing two shots. Then he watched as Covington struggled to draw his last breath before he fell over, dead.
SIXTY-TWO
Jordan led Christine out of the cabin and down the steps, below decks. The bleeding from his side had increased again after grappling with Covington, but he felt clear-headed enough and quickly found his way to an aft compartment. Most of the crew were above, so he moved swiftly to place the plastique against the bulkhead and set the makeshift fuses he had taken from Andrioli’s attaché case.
“This is going to blow,” he said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Traiman was on the bridge, directing the captain on their course, as well as handling the radio, monitoring the flow of the action. He ordered his men to keep the smaller craft at bay while they made way out to sea. Thus far, neither had come close enough to attempt boarding. Heavy fire had kept them away.
He picked up the intercom and called Nelson in the main salon but received no answer. “Damn,” he said, returning to the walkie-talkie.
“Dombroski, this is Traiman. Where the hell is Nelson? Come back.”
Dombroski replied immediately. “Main salon with Sandor and the girl.”
“I’m getting no answer. Check it out.”
“Right away. Over,” Dombroski said.
At that moment, the yacht was rocked by the explosion Jordan had set below.
Traiman grabbed a handrail and steadied himself as the captain was thrown against the control panel.
“What the hell was that?” Traiman hollered into his radio.
“We’re not sure,” his man on the foredeck responded. “Explosion below.”
“Send two men down there to find out. And protect your flank. It could be a diversion.”
“Yes sir,” the man said. “Over.”
Traiman stared out at the dark sea ahead.
“Stay the course?” the captain asked.
“Yes yes. Push it,” he said. Then he slammed his fist down. “Damnit,” he said. “Push it.”
Byrnes’ lead agent radioed back to shore. “We just heard an explosion on the Halaby, sir. How much longer?”
The DD knew that it would become more dangerous as the yacht led them further out to sea. He also knew that Sandor should be given as much time as possible to complete his mission.
“All right,” Byrnes said reluctantly. “Call in the chopper. Give it three minutes, then get on the bullhorn.”
Jordan and Christine were hiding in the companionway, just outside the entrance to the steps leading down to the engine room. They listened as Traiman’s men scurried towards the site of the first blast.
“I’m going below one more level,” he whispered. “Alone.”
She began to say something, but he put his finger to his lips.
“I need you here. Anyone comes this way, you shoot them. I’ll be right back.”