Rogue Mission: A Jordan Sandor Thriller (The Jordan Sandor TARGETS Series Book 5) Read online

Sandor pulled his Rover to a stop in the first space he saw, ignored the parking meter as he jumped out and, with the phone to his ear, began running toward the building, “Almost at the front door,” he reported as he raced across the empty plaza.

  O’Hara began chuckling softly into the phone. “They’re telling me they want to get this clambake fired up, but I didn’t want to start without you. Had to be sure you were on your way.”

  “Almost there, just across the street now.”

  “All right,” O’Hara said. “Get your ass up here.” Then he signed off.

  There were three Marshals on duty at the entrance, one manning the body scanner, one handling the search of bags and briefcases, the third added to the detail because of the VIPs in attendance.

  Sandor already had pulled out his credentials—he was using his standard State Department cover—and, as held them up, he said, “I’m here for Judge O’Hara. Running a little late.”

  “Empty your pockets,” the Marshal sitting at the desk told him.

  Sandor quickly complied, then reached under his suit jacket and withdrew the Walther PPK from its holster at the small of his back. “My carry license is in there,” he said, pointing to the billfold he had placed in the small tray on the table.

  “Not any good in here,” the marshal said. “Not today.”

  “You want to check my papers again?”

  “I looked, don’t need to check it again,” the man said. “Since when does a State Department attaché need to carry?”

  “It’s a dangerous world out there,” he said.

  “Not in here,” the marshal told him. “You want to go upstairs, you leave the gun with us.”

  Sandor didn’t have time for a pointless debate. “Your rules pal.”

  The marshal took his time filling out a receipt, then had Sandor pass through the metal detector.

  Shoving his billfold back in his pocket, Sandor asked, “Want to tell me where O’Hara’s courtroom is, or is that a state secret?”

  The guard at the desk didn’t respond, but the man standing behind him said, “Second floor. If you take those stairs to your left it’ll be faster than the elevator.”

  “Thanks,” Sandor said, then raced for the stairway, taking them two at a time till he reached the landing where he saw the sign for the courtroom of James J. O’Hara, District Judge.

  Sandor took a deep breath as he approached the oak door. It had a small window and, looking inside, he could see O’Hara standing behind the bench, talking to the large group assembled before him. Sandor smiled and began to pull the door open.

  Later, he would not remember the sound of the explosion, the flash of lights, or being knocked backward across the corridor. All he would remember is looking through that small window and seeing the Old Man.

  CHAPTER 2

  Hartford, Connecticut

  The celebratory scene inside the courtroom instantly turned to chaos. Fire engulfed parts of the room as shards of broken wood and chunks of plaster rained down on the attendees. The sprinkler system went on, but the main damage had already been done. Some people managed to scramble for the door. Others screamed in agony, rolling on the floor, their clothing and hair alight with the fiery napalm. The concussive force of the three blasts had injured some, knocked others unconscious and left most of the group dazed and disoriented.

  Four people were already dead, including James J. O’Hara and his law clerk, who were both standing behind the judge’s bench when the first explosion ripped them to shreds. Marshals and federal agents on duty in other parts of the building came running when they heard the blasts. Emergency calls were immediately made for armed backup and to Hartford Hospital for as much mobile help as they could arrange.

  The hallway outside the courtroom became the staging area for improvised triage, looking more like a medical response after an attack in Afghanistan than a government facility in Connecticut. Blood and smoke were everywhere as the fires were brought under control by a combination of the sprinklers, extinguishers and every available blanket, coat and tarp that could be found.

  All the while, cries of intense pain echoed along the marble corridor.

  Ambulances and EMT vans arrived, pulling onto the sidewalk and into the plaza outside the front entrance. Stretchers were carried up to the second floor where victims were being removed in order of the severity of their injuries.

  One of the first responders pointed to the inert form lying off to the side of the corridor, unconscious and bleeding from his head and left leg. They hurried over, lifted Jordan Sandor onto a stretcher, and carried him out.

  The top floors of the building, several flights above Judge O’Hara’s courtroom, housed various local federal offices, including Homeland Security and the FBI. Their local assistant directors were already tied into Washington on a teleconference. The questions from their superiors were coming faster than information could be assembled.

  Where did the explosives come from and how had they been hidden inside the courtroom?

  What sort of devices had been used?

  Was this the work of a terrorist group or a lone madman?

  What was being done to scour the area for a possible second assault?

  Had they locked down the building, preventing anyone but the injured from leaving?

  What sort of perimeter was being established outside the building?

  Who was dealing with the media already gathering on Main Street?

  Did anyone have a list of those present for the ceremony?

  Could they put together a list of everyone who had been in and out of the building in the past three days?

  How many hurt, how many dead?

  While those exchanges were taking place between Hartford and Washington, an agent at CIA headquarters in Langley received a Code Red on her computer screen. She printed the notification and hurried upstairs, where she was immediately shown into the office of Deputy Director Mark Byrnes.

  The notice indicated that one of the victims of the Hartford attack had been identified in the hospital emergency room by his State Department credentials. His I.D. carried a special number that routed the alert away from Foggy Bottom and to Langley.

  Jordan Sandor was down, and Byrnes acted swiftly, putting a team in motion.

  CHAPTER 3

  Hartford, Connecticut

  Hartford Hospital was overwhelmed with incoming casualties, EMT’s and accompanying law enforcement personnel. The frenetic pace of the ensuing activity was being organized by a simple principle known to anyone who has ever worked in an emergency room—treat the most seriously injured first.

  Today, that assessment was difficult to make. Several victims were still unconscious. Many were bleeding. Others had suffered third degree burns, and had to be prepared for transport to the nearest burn facilities. Those with concussions and broken bones were still being evaluated.

  Dr. Robert Jamieson, an elegant looking man with silver hair and a demeanor that retained its calm even in the middle of this melee, was the senior physician on duty in the E.R. He was soon joined by department chiefs from a variety of disciplines. Head trauma, cardiac arrest, orthopedic issues and all types of organ damage needed to be appraised post haste.

  This had become a war zone, and no one on staff was prepared for it.

  “Who’s attending this patient?” Dr. Jamieson called out as he approached the gurney holding the still insensible Jordan Sandor.

  An intern hustled across the room. “Dr. Yang assigned me to watch him,” the young man explained, “but I was called away for a moment.”

  Jamieson read the chart, then had a look at the damage. A surface wound to Sandor’s head bore a large bandage, the bleeding from his left leg had been stopped, and x-rays had been ordered for his leg and shoulder. Right now, however, Jamieson’s concern was that the patient was still unconscious,
and the blow to his skull might be causing him to slip into a coma.

  “Anyone see how his injuries were sustained?”

  The intern shook his head. “Not sure. One of the guards who responded to the scene recognized him. Said he arrived late, had enough time to get upstairs and reach the courtroom when the first explosion went off. Based on where he was found, they think the door might have blown open and knocked him clear across the hallway.”

  Jamieson nodded as he took out his small flashlight, pulled back Sandor’s right eyelid and had a look, then repeated the examination of his other eye. “This man may have internal cranial bleeding, could be putting pressure on his brain. Get Dr. Yang over here, we need to get him into the O.R., stat.”

  The intern, too overwhelmed by the circumstances to be worried about decorum in dealing with a senior staff physician, bluntly told him, “There are no O.R.’s available. We’ve got patients lined up in the hallways waiting for one.”

  A voice from behind them said, “Well then, find a place to do what you need to do, and get it done now.”

  As Jamieson turned, he found himself facing a tall, uniformed U.S. Marshal.

  “I understand this is a difficult time for everyone,” Jamieson responded politely, “but I don’t think you should be involving yourself in medical procedures.”

  The marshal shook his head, as if the doctor was having trouble with the English language. “We just received notification from Washington to find a patient. Name is Jordan Sandor. This is him, right?”

  Jamieson nodded.

  “We have orders to get him treated immediately and keep him in protective custody. Incommunicado.”

  Jamieson’s eyes widened. “Are you telling me this man is a suspect in the . . .”

  “Exactly the opposite,” the marshal interrupted. “I’m telling you we’ve been ordered to give this man the V.I.P. treatment until a team arrives from D.C.”

  Jamieson rocked back as if he had been hit with a short left jab. “V.I.P. treatment? Do you see who we’ve got here? Judges. State senators. A United States Congressman.”

  “And this guy Sandor,” the marshal said, as if completing a list. “So please, do whatever you’ve got to do for him, and do it right now.”

  There were any number of reasons that DD Byrnes of the CIA acted with such dispatch to ensure that Jordan Sandor was sequestered, treated and kept under wraps. Not the least of these was the need to preserve state secrets. A covert operative rendered unconscious, who is then revived in strange surroundings under heavy medication, is not someone the Agency wants engaging in idle conversation with anyone not cleared at the proper levels. Sandor had not been knocked out in a fist fight, he had been badly injured in a massive explosion, and he needed to be treated with special care.

  The irony of the situation was not lost on Byrnes as he reviewed an email with a preliminary report on his agent’s condition. If Sandor had died in the blast, the Agency would not even acknowledge they knew him. Dead, Sandor posed no risk. Alive and injured, his recovery needed to be managed.

  Less than four hours after the explosions had been ignited, three men in suits, flashing federal credentials, arrived in the emergency room and asked who was in charge. They were pointed in the direction of Dr. Jamieson.

  The tallest of the three men strode across the room and introduced himself. Craig Raabe was in his late thirties. He was tall, his face and scalp clean-shaven, his gait athletic. He was one of Sandor’s closest friends, the agent he trusted more than any other when the shooting started. When Raabe gave his name to Dr Jamieson, it was in a voice so quiet it was almost a whisper.

  Then he said, “You have a patient here, Jordan Sandor. We’re here to take him to Washington.”

  Jamieson already had enough of this man Sandor to last him a lifetime, and shipping him off to D.C. sounded like a good idea. Still, he was obliged to say, “He’s only been out of surgery for an hour.”

  Raabe called for the other two men to join them. The place was still jammed with patients, nurses and doctors, many of whom were now interested to learn if these three men had anything to do with the mystery patient that had been receiving such special care. Raabe, as if he owned the hospital, led his two colleagues and Dr. Jamieson to a small consulting room he spotted in a corner to his left. One of them, Raabe explained, was a doctor who had come to oversee Sandor’s transfer.

  The physician told Jamieson, “I’ve been briefed on the surgery. Any reason you feel a move would be dangerous?”

  “Dangerous?” Jamieson asked. “We’ve only just been able to stop a cranial bleed that was about to mimic a stroke. His vital signs are stable, but the next few hours will be critical to his recovery. How do you plan to get him to Washington?”

  Craig Raabe told him, “A medivac chopper on the roof will take us back to Bradley. We have a plane waiting for us there.”

  Jamieson treated them each to a look of incredulity. Then he said, “Gentlemen, I don’t know who the hell this Sandor is, but I’ve got an E.R. that’s filled with patients who have yet to receive any treatment beyond bandages and pain-killers.” Then he turned to the doctor who would be taking charge of the case. “If you’re willing to sign the release forms, and you think it makes sense to put this man on a helicopter and an airplane, then good luck to all of you.”

  Jamieson was about to walk away when Raabe held up his hand to stop him. “Doctor, I know you’re doing your job here. We appreciate that. It’s a tough day for all of us. But if Sandor’s vital signs are stable, a chopper ride and a flight to Washington are not going to be an issue for him.”

  Jamieson responded with a deadly serious look. “He’s still unconscious, you understand that?”

  “I do.”

  “All right,” Jamieson said. “Sign the papers and we’ll release him.”

  “We’ll sign,” Raabe said. “Then you’ll need to give us his chart and any other paperwork you have with his name on it.”

  The way he said it, Jamieson knew it was more than a request. He also knew this conversation was over.

  CHAPTER 4

  Hamilton, Bermuda

  Corinne Stansbury was a bright young woman on the fast track to success in the world of international finance, but not every such path is without detours. Several months ago her superiors at Randolph Securities suggested she move from their headquarters in Great Britain to “cover the desk in Hamilton,” as they phrased it.

  She agreed.

  Corinne knew that she was being shipped off to one of the firm’s secondary locations, but there were reasons she was willing to put some time in there. The upgrade in lifestyle was undeniable, as she traded the cold gray skies and urban tensions of London for warm pink sand and the relaxed attitude of Bermuda. Her apartment, in a luxury building, was twice the size of her flat in Knightsbridge, and had a sensational view of the ocean. And there was the all-important increase in authority, at least locally, which in the long term should enhance an already impressive résumé.

  Then, of course, there was the opportunity to escape the rumors of those extra-curricular activities her detractors claimed had helped advance her career back home.

  It was not surprising that a single woman with Corinne’s charms and intellect would become involved with men in her profession. Nearing her thirty-fifth birthday, she possessed assets beyond an extensive knowledge of global markets, currency trading and arbitrage. Her lovely face was framed by brunette hair that contrasted beautifully with an alabaster complexion she maintained even under the brilliant island sun. Her eyes were a rich brown, and she could adjust her gaze from cool intensity to tender vulnerability, as the situation required. Then there was her shapely figure, which one of her colleagues had judged “built for pleasure.”

  In many ways it was not easy being an attractive woman in a business dominated by alpha males. When the assignment in Hamilton was sugges
ted, Corinne understood that the man at the top of Randolph Securities was doing her a favor, and she knew that declining the offer was out of the question. She accepted, even though it temporarily removed her from the center of the firm’s operations. Her plan was to excel at this new post and then be welcomed back to London at a higher level of responsibility.

  After just a few boring weeks living and working in the tranquil environs of Bermuda, she hoped her return to the U.K. came sooner rather than later.

  Tonight, however, she was looking forward to dinner with a highly placed fund trader who was in town for a few days to compare off-shore investment opportunities in the Cayman Islands, the Jersey Islands and elsewhere. Both he and Corinne saw the possibility of an alliance of one sort or another.

  In preparation for the evening ahead she chose an appropriate outfit. This was not an occasion for a corporate pants suit.

  She started with a black thong, then selected a matching bra that comfortably augmented her ample cleavage. She slipped into a slinky, navy blue dress, the décolletage working well with the bra, the fabric clinging to her ass as if it was painted on, the hem short enough to show off most of her long legs. Then she sat at the dressing table in her bedroom to apply her makeup as she caught up with the headlines from CNN.

  Corinne was absently listening to the report of an explosion at a courthouse in Hartford, Connecticut when they began to name some of the V.I.P.’s who were in attendance. One of those injured was being identified as a Saudi diplomat believed to be a Director of Finance for the World Health Institute. She put her mascara brush down and turned to the television, waiting for a name, until the reporter announced that officials were not prepared to release any further information about the man at this time.

  She picked up her cell phone, punched in the speed-dial number, and listened as the call went directly into voicemail. She decided not to leave a message, rang off, and sat there staring at the television screen when she was surprised by the doorbell. She glanced at the clock—if it was her date, he was early.