“What a bore you can be, Jordan.” Traiman coughed.
“Every party has a pooper.”
“I hope you don’t expect me to answer any more of your endless questions.”
“No Vincent. As it turns out, I got everything else I needed from Covington.”
“That sniveling bureaucrat?”
“I never liked him.”
“Neither did I,” Traiman said with a slight laugh that became a throaty cough. When he caught his breath, he said, “Dead?”
“Very,” Jordan told him.
Traiman nodded slowly. “Probably deserved it.”
“That’s how I saw it.”
Traiman had a look at Jordan’s blood stained shirt and trousers. “My men will be here in a few moments, but it appears I may not need their help. You’re already done for.”
Sandor steadied himself, grabbing hold of a handrail. “Maybe. You’re not looking too swift yourself.”
“So then, we old comrades end up dying together.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Vincent. We’re not comrades, and we’re not going to die together.”
In that instant, Jordan saw the flicker in Traiman’s eyes, even before he heard the movement behind him. Sandor spun and slid to the side in one fluid step, firing a long burst at Dombroski. The man staggered backwards, down the steps to the wheelhouse, and over the railing. Given the moment, Traiman dove for the MAC 10 that had fallen to the deck. He looked up as he strained to reach the weapon, his gaze now met by Jordan’s.
“I can’t say I’ll miss you, Vincent.”
Traiman forced a grim smile. “I suppose not, old friend.” Then he lunged forward the last foot or so. Jordan did not hesitate. He fired a burst of shots that sent Traiman sprawling face first across the deck of the bridge.
Sandor leaned over to make certain he was dead. He kicked aside the SMG, stood up, and stared down at Traiman one last time. He shook his head sadly and then made his way to the foredeck.
The Halaby held its course, cruising slowly through the calm waters of the indifferent Mediterranean, the speed cut well back due to the damage Sandor had caused in the engine room. The sound of gunfire had subsided, the two crafts piloted by Byrnes’ men having moved out of range. The remaining force on the yacht heard the helicopter before they saw it approaching from the east.
Jordan also spotted the Black Hawk as it emerged through the darkness, realizing that if Traiman’s men refused to surrender in the next few moments, the Halaby would be pulverized, along with everyone on it.
Sandor had reached the foredeck and was kneeling in the cool night air in front of the enclosed bridge. He heard two men running fast along the starboard walkway. He was too weak now to chance another battle, especially if a second team followed them forward, along the port side, which was more than likely.
Jordan held the MP5 out, beyond the cover of the wheelhouse, and sent a barrage of shots at the two approaching gunman, holding them off for the moment. Then he hobbled to the railing and dropped himself overboard.
The Black Hawk attempted to radio the yacht, but the two men who had been on the bridge, Traiman and the captain, were both dead. The American agents aboard the helicopter watched as the yacht limped slowly through the calm sea, its course set, its engines damaged.
Their next option would have been to send a warning shot across the bow, a small charge that would explode in the sea, sending a huge spray of water high into the air.
Instead, Byrnes ordered the co-pilot to hold off, instructing him to train two large spotlights on the deck of the ship. Then, using the high-powered loudspeaker, he directed him to tell the men remaining on the Halaby that they had exactly ten seconds to kill the engines and come on deck with their arms raised. The Black Hawk had to be concerned about the launch of a shoulder-mounted rocket, so no further warning would be given.
By now, the men aboard had spread the word that Traiman was gone. They also knew the Black Hawk could fire a charge smack into the center of the ship that would end the debate in one shot. One of the men argued that they could use a Stinger to take out the chopper, but the others shut him up. Even if they got lucky and took out the chopper, there was more artillery where this Black Hawk came from. If they missed, they would be annihilated in seconds.
So, without further argument, they marched onto the main deck, threw down their weapons, and held up their hands.
“Into the spotlight,” the loudspeaker ordered them. “You will be boarded now. A hostile move by anyone on the ship will be an act of war by all.”
The co-pilot radioed the larger boat and told them to take the Halaby.
Meanwhile, the pilot of the smaller, faster boat had spotted Christine and Koppel when they went over the side and had circled back to pick them up. Now he was looking for Sandor as the larger cabin cruiser headed straight towards the Halaby.
Even with the aid of their night-vision glasses, it was Christine who saw him first. “Jordan,” she cried out, pointing at him.
The speedboat swung sharply to the port side and came around to where he was struggling to stay afloat. They motored swiftly to his position, reached over the side, and hauled Sandor to safety.
SIXTY-FOUR
Jordan Sandor, his left arm in a sling, a cane resting against his chair, sat at a small table in Doney’s on the Via Veneto in Rome. He was sipping a cup of espresso with anisette, looking out the window at the stream of pedestrians that crowded this famous boulevard on a sunny afternoon.
“Listen to this,” Christine said, reading from the International Herald Tribune. She recited another account of the capture of terrorists in New York and San Francisco. There were only a few details, including a reference to the interception of a shipment of potentially dangerous chemicals from Marseilles, but no mention of VX gas.
“Potentially dangerous,” Jordan repeated with a shake of his head.
The deputy director walked through the front door, spotted them, and came to their table. He held out his hand to Christine. “Hello, Miss Frank. I’m Mark Byrnes.”
“Excuse me, if I don’t get up,” Sandor said.
“Good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”
“Along with the blood, you mean?”
The DD sat down, taking a chair across from them, his back to the street. “It was a good job, Jordan.”
Sandor nodded. “Too bad about—” he began, but Byrnes cut in.
“We stopped them. You stopped them. It was important, and you got it done.”
“Yeah. Stopped them for now.”
“We can only fight one battle at a time,” the DD said. It was one of his favorite sayings.
“Koppel okay?”
“He’s fine, thanks to you. And he’ll wind up the hero, of course. Probably get someone to make a movie about him.”
“One of life’s sweet ironies.”
“So it would seem.”
“No glory for us though, right chief?”
The deputy director offered no response to Sandor’s wry look.
When their waiter came by Byrnes said he would not be staying. The man ambled away, muttering something in Italian.
“I just wanted to meet Miss Frank, to thank her personally. And to tell you to take as much time as you need.”
“And then?”
“And then you’re coming back, aren’t you?”
Jordan forced a smile. “Where else have I got to go?”
Byrnes looked at Christine now. “The world can be a pretty lousy place, young lady.” He stood up and extended his hand. “Thank you for your courage.”
Christine was not sure how to respond, so she shook his hand and said nothing at all.
“The name Covington gave me,” Jordan said. “Was he telling the truth?”