Enemy Among Us-A Jordan Wright Thriller (4 page)

As more food was served, the louder and more involved the debate became. Jordan enjoyed playing the role of the observer, as he was thoroughly entertained by the back and forth discussions, everyone having his opinion and, more importantly, the opinions on others’ opinions. Jordan wasn’t sure if any strategy were emerging that all would agree upon, but he’d come to discover there was a pecking order among the citizenry and, while everyone got their say, it was actually a few well-respected individuals who would decide the approach to be taken the following day. Jordan had also discovered that, regardless of what they advocated tonight, tomorrow each individual would be telling everyone his strategy had been the one adopted.

Around midnight, Jordan finally made his way back to the hotel. The city was still bustling, but his stomach was stuffed and he needed sleep. Opening the door to his room, he noticed the blinking red light on the phone. “Damn,” he thought. Only one person would have known to look for him here. Max Bogle was just too good. Max, Jordan’s boss, would only call if there were something brewing.

After he retrieved the message, Jordan decided to call back when he woke in the morning, prior to the beginning of the festivities. He stripped off his clothes and headed toward the shower. Steam enveloped the bathroom, relaxing him. He came out of shower dried off, and hit the bed. No sooner had he put his head on the pillow than he was sound asleep.

Chapter Six

Startled, Jordan woke up to his phone ringing. He took a quick moment to compose himself and then picked it up.

“Who is it?” Jordan demanded.

“Jordan. It’s me, Max. Did you get my message last night?”

“Max, what’s going on? I was going to call you back this morning, after I woke up.”

“Sorry, Jordan. It can’t wait. I need to see you right away. I’m coming to Italy. We need to meet tomorrow.”

“What’s going on, Max?”

“Jordan, we can’t discuss this over the phone. Where will you be tomorrow?”

“At my usual place. Can we say ten o’clock? It’s Il Palio today, in Siena”

“Oh, my gosh! Are you kidding? Well, lucky you that you can have fun today, because it won’t be fun tomorrow, when we talk.”

“Great, Max. I’ll see you then.”

“Have fun, Jordan.” Max hung up.

He took his shower and went down to have breakfast. The hotel lobby was a bustle of activity. Excitement was everywhere with people loud and the lobby jammed, which made it a challenge for Jordan to maneuver himself across it to the lounge, where they served breakfast. He grabbed the last table by a window. It seemed he was the only one that was just now getting up, so he quickly filled his plate at the buffet and asked for a pot of coffee. People were everywhere in the street, wearing the colors and symbols of their respective contrade. He could pick out those that were from Tortoise and Wave, others from Owl, Snail and Giraffe. As he returned to his table, he found that Gerhardt had joined him.

He found himself quickly forgetting about the phone call from Max and seeing her tomorrow.

“Good morning, Gerhardt. Thank you again for dinner last night.” Acting unsurprised by Gerhardt’s appearance, Jordan sat down.

“Jordan, you are more than welcome. I was happy to be your host. Marco told me you were in need of some information. How can I help?

Jordan brought Gerhardt up to speed on the Pakistan operation and Tahir’s comments. “Marco felt you might be able to fill in some of the blanks.”

“I’ll try my best. Marco may have told you I’m former Stasi. I was the number two in their clandestine operation when the wall came down and the Russians sold us out. Fortunately, I had friends in the Kremlin who gave me a heads up and I was able to be in Switzerland at the time. My wife was Swiss, but when she passed away, I wanted to be somewhere else. I came here on vacation and never left.”

“Not a bad spot to live your life.” They both laughed. “How did you connect with Marco?”

“Marco and I spent thirty years trying to recruit the same people, carrying out similar missions. We had seen each other many times. We knew who the other was and what we did. Spying is like any other business. You’re competitors but, you know and respect one another. Sometimes, we won; other times, Marco did. But, we were always professional to one another. One day, I was walking down this street.” Gerhardt pointed out the window. “Just a few blocks from here. And, I see this Priest approaching in his brown robes. The face is so familiar and then I recognize Marco. I thought he was retired, like me, but I assumed he must be on an assignment, to be dressed in that fashion. So I followed him. As I turned a corner where he’d gone, he grabbed me and pulled me into an alley. He’d seen me and thought maybe I was freelancing and was there to kill him. Once we got it all straightened out, we had a great laugh. We spent the rest of the day drinking and reminiscing. Two old colleagues, talking about people we had worked with over the years and wondering where they were now. No different than any two people. We’re dear friends, now.”

“That’s a great story. I’m not sure I ever see myself sitting down with some of the folks on the other side, these days.”

“It’s a different world, today, Jordan. I don’t envy you at all. Going up against men like you do, you have my blessings. I’m not sure I could do it. They are rotten. Men like Amadi play by no rules, like so many of his comrades. Elimination seems the only option.”

“What about cells in the United States? I don’t mean ones put in for the short term. I mean ones that might have been in place for years, just waiting to be activated.”

“I think it is possible,” Gerhardt responded after a moment. “I remember hearing about and seeing some documents out of Iran. They were disappointed they didn’t get more out of holding the American hostages. It didn’t cripple America, like they had hoped. They developed plans for a long term project and it was going to cost them a lot of money and more than ten years; but, I think they were moving ahead. It had to do with families and getting families into the States. I never saw the details or any status reports.”

“So, you’re not sure if they actually did it.”

“No, but, I’m sure they started it. I’m just not sure they got people into the States. I think you’re better off to assume they got some element in that could be activated.”

“I agree Gerhardt.”

There was much commotion on the streets.

“Jordan, we must go. It looks like Mass has let out and the race will be starting soon. Here are my contact numbers. I’ll help in any way.”

“Thank you. You’ve already been a great help.”

They left the hotel and joined in with the throngs of people on the street.

Everyone was headed to the center of Siena. Unlike any horse race Jordan had seen, there was not a dedicated horse track in Siena, but rather the main Piazza del Campo in the town was transformed into the track. When Jordan had first walked into the Piazza for his first race, he thought his friends were pulling a fast one on him. No way could they race horses in this small area. On top of it all, over fifty thousand people were going to pack into the area to watch.

Jordan followed Gerhardt. “So, tell me what is our strategy for the race, to win or to make sure our enemy loses?”

“Ah, that is the question isn’t it and, I’m not sure we know just yet. We will need to pay attention to our horse and jockey and see how the line up for the start of the race.”

They started to climb up to their seats on one of the many balconies that surrounded the Piazza del Campo. Bleachers were placed on the balconies for the day, so as to accommodate as many people as possible for the race.

The attention went to the starting line. The Il Palio is run clockwise, versus counter clockwise, unlike most horse races Jordan had seen in the United States. Because of the small size of the venue and the quickness of the race — about ninety seconds — there was much bumping and jostling amongst the jockeys. The rules were such that the winner was the first horse that crossed the finish line, whether it had its rider or not. The course was narrow and more of a tri-oval than a circular course. Several of the turns were so tight that it would almost be impossible for every jockey to stay on his mount if most of the horses were running in a bunch as they entered the turn.

Jordan could hear the commotion of the crowd reach a crescendo as the horses began to arrive. Each contrade cheered as their horse entered the Piazza. As the horses moved closer to the starting rope, it looked, to the untrained eye, like a catastrophe waiting to happen. This race didn’t have the organization of a Kentucky Derby, with marshals on horseback leading the racehorses from the paddock to the starting gate. There was no gate structure attached to a tractor, giving each horse a slot from which to start. At this race, there was a rope across the starting line and the horses moved up against the rope. To the virgin eye, it looked like utter chaos; but, as Jordan had come to learn, there was a great deal of tactical interplay underway, with the jockey and the horse. Depending on one’s strategy, it was critical to be in the right position for the start of the race. The starting judge could delay the start for as long as the positioning was entertaining the crowds, for there was no countdown, or signal that the rope was going to be dropped. At a certain point, the judge decided to start the race. He would just let the rope go.

Switching between watching the horses and their jockeys’ maneuver, and the judge holding the rope, Jordan tried to determine when the race would begin. The judge gave no indication of his intentions, as each jockey continued to attempt to put his horse in the best position, while at the same time trying to put enemies in a poorer position. Talking to one another, attempting to form alliances, the jockey would create partnerships for the race. Sometimes, they would bluff and make an arrangement they had no intention of keeping once the race began. Not only were the horses used as weapons, but so also were flying elbows, legs kicking and even the occasional whip lashing from one jockey against another. Several times, Jordan found himself flinching and moving backward, to avoid a blow he saw coming a jockey’s way.

As the rope dropped, pandemonium erupted in the Piazza. Horses bolted onto the course like they had been shocked by prods. There was no announcer, not that anyone could hear one anyway, as the Piazza was walled in on every side by a 15
^th
Century palazzo, becoming an echo chamber of disjointed sound, of cheers and screams. As they tore around the course, the horses showed none of the beauty of a thoroughbred race; but, in its own right, it was a sight to see.

As they moved into the turns, there was considerable bumping, as horses and jockeys collided with one another. Quickly, one jockey was off of his horse and rolling in the dirt of the track, while his horse continued with the race and was still a contender to win.

The horse from the contrade for which Jordan and Gerhardt cheered was in third place and part of a group of three that had distanced itself somewhat from the pack. This gave the trio some room to move and position themselves. As they moved into the second lap and the tightest turn, their contrade’s jockey maneuvered his horse on the inside of the second horse, taking the turn intentionally wide, which forced the number two horse against the wall and gave that jockey no choice but to pull up and slow down, which allowed Jordan’s and Gerhardt’s contrade horse to move into second place. An erupting cheer thundered from those around Jordan and they pounded their feet on the bleachers and the whole balcony began to shake. For a moment, Jordan became somewhat concerned but, as his friends slapped him on the back, he joined in the cheers and decided not to worry about the stress loads on a 15
^th
Century balcony holding ten times the amount of people for which it was intended.

Their horse closed in on the leaders as they entered the last lap. As they passed by, people leaped over the barriers and started running after the horses on the track. It was total mayhem. The horses were neck and neck, with no real space between them and two turns which remained before the finish. The noise in the piazza was thunderous. Jordan couldn’t even hear the people next to him, albeit they were obviously shouting at the top of their lungs.

They barreled through the next to last turn, both horses were headed to the final turn and the finish line. What would the final strategy be? Jordan could not guess. Both jockeys would have to make their move, as their horses seemed equal in speed and agility.

The horses entered the turn, the lead horse attempted to jam Jordan’s contrades horse against the inside barrier, with the hope the crowd would spook the horse but, just as the opposing horse and rider closed in, the jockey on the horse from Jordan’s adopted contrade quickly pulled back and to the left, sling shoting his horse around the leader and kept him reigned in tight, so the other horse found itself off balance and had to take short steps to regain its stride.

The horse of the contrade Jordan stood with rocketed across the finish line. Leaving the bleachers, Jordan and Gerhardt climbed down to the Piazza, to join the pressing throngs. Marching with the rest of the citizens of the contrade and their winning horse to the Church of Santa Maria in Provenzano, they proudly waved their banner and would spend the rest of the evening parading through Siena, while at the same time hosting the victory dinner for all citizens of Siena.