Targets of Deception Read Online Free PDF

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.
    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