Targets of Deception by Jeffrey Stephens Read Free Book Online

Budweiser, he telephoned his best friend, Bill Sternlich, in New York.
    Sternlich was an articles editor for the Times . He and Sandor had met over a decade ago, when Bill was on assignment to the Washington bureau, and Jordan was working for the government. Now they were both in New York, their friendship having stood the test of years, not to mention their philosophic differences.
    Professional considerations sometimes made it an uneasy alliance. Jordan could never reveal much about his work and what little he shared with Bill could not be printed. That was the first irony of their friendship. The second was the disparity between Sternlich’s liberal beliefs, engendered so relentlessly by the editorial leanings of his newspaper, and Sandor’s own individualistic views, which would better be expressed by Ayn Rand than anything on the Times Op-Ed pages. The final irony was Jordan’s abrupt departure from the Agency and his subsequent decision to enlist in the Fourth Estate, albeit on a freelance basis. Sternlich had given him help, even getting a couple of Sandor’s pieces published in the Times’ Sunday Magazine section.
    The main point for Jordan and Bill was that they were friends, which meant something special to each of them.
    “You really okay?”
    “I’m fine,” Jordan said. “Friend of mine, Dan Peters, took a bullet in the side. The trooper was hit pretty hard too. We were lucky to get out.”
    Neither man said anything for a moment.
    “I need a favor, Bill.”
    “Hey, I’m totally shocked,” Sternlich said with one of his short, asthmatic laughs. Their recent history was a bit lopsided in the area of favors given and received. “For a minute there I was afraid you called to ask me to lunch. Or just to say hello. I wouldn’t want to die from the shock.”
    Jordan ignored the sarcasm. “I need some information on a James McHugh. Likely to be classified. You’ll probably need to go through one of your government sources.”
    “Will I?”
    “You’ll have to move fast, though, before it comes out that the Jimmy Ryan that was murdered up here today was actually one James McHugh.”
    “That right?”
    “Yes. You’ve got the scoop. Print it right after you get me the dope on this guy.”
    “And why, may I be so bold to ask, don’t you just call one of your old cronies in Langley to get this whatever , this deep background information?”
    “Even guys I still trust there will balk. I was involved in the shooting.”
    “Mind if I ask, then, why I would I want to do this?”
    “Who knows? Full-length article?”
    “My by-line or yours?”
    “I’ll flip you for it.” Sternlich forced a derisive laugh. “Come on Bill, I need your help. I have a feeling there’s something big going on here.”
    Sternlich issued a long, theatrical sigh into the phone. “I don’t know what I can do, but I’ll take a run at it.”
    “You’re a pal.”
    “And what am I supposed to be looking for?”
    “I’m not sure. Not exactly. See if you can find out where he’s been the past couple of years. Check out his government service. Get addresses, prior contacts, phone numbers, identification numbers, the usual tap dance.”
    “Uh huh.”
    Jordan could tell that Sternlich was writing things down, a good sign. “And Bill, see what connection he had to Paris.”
    “Paris?”
    “I’m coming back tomorrow. Call you in the morning.”
    “I may have to trade favors to get this. You understand that?”
    “Of course.”
    “You’ll owe me for this one.”
    “No problem.”
    “I mean it, Jordan.”
    “I need this Billy. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”
    Jordan left Woodstock early the next day and drove south, the bright October sun rising to his left as he headed towards New York City. He guided his aging Land Rover along the sweeping curves and extended straightaways.
    Jordan’s mind raced as he drove in silence, the radio and his cell phone turned off. He gazed out at the road ahead, realizing that the