Trojan Horse by David Lender

Author:David Lender [Lender, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781612182285
Publisher: AmazonEncore
Published: 2011-11-22T05:00:00+00:00

BOOK 4

CHAPTER 23

AUGUST, TWENTY-ONE YEARS AGO. NICE, France. Tom Goddard had invented himself, years earlier, Jay Gatsby style, on a Greyhound bus from Troy, Michigan, to New York City. Thinking that made Tom smile. He supposed that made him the ultimate spook: even his own past was made up. He went back further into his bio, killing time, thinking he was good at it, because that’s what he did. Lots of time to kill. Cops on stakeout ate donuts; Tom thought about things. Smoked cigars. Thought about politics, like why the al-Mujari kooks he was working in Nice did what they did. He’d tracked Abdul and Waleed here, and now watched their involvement with Ibrahim, but still didn’t have much more than what he knew when he arrived two months earlier: Muslim fundamentalist group with terrorist ties fomenting Saudi dissent, all stewed in the pressure-cooker of the increasing gap between the royals and the average Saudi shlub. He thought about things like that and smoked cigars, and watched.

He was watching for his mark, the black-haired girl. He figured she’d see him if she came out, realize he was looking for her. He knew from his conversations with Nigel, and those he’d overheard the other night, she wasn’t stupid. And she was pretty well primed. All he needed to do was see if he could get her to open up. He sat on the patio of the Sea Wall Cafe and Lounge at the Baron David de Duval Hotel. It was a typically gorgeous day in Nice. The air smelled of sweet flowers, the pungent Mediterranean dirt and dried vegetation. A cool breeze on the hill where the Baron David sat offset the sweltering midsummer Mediterranean heat. A few guests populated some of the tables. He could hear the clinking of glasses and the rattle of silverware as the waiters prepared the tables for lunch.

He saw a midfiftiesh man wearing a silk Hawaiian shirt, tan slacks that drooped in the ass, and cheesy-looking perforated shoes walk out to a table with a leggy brunette on his arm. He thought for a half second it was the black-haired girl. Girl was maybe twenty-five, with pushed-up breasts and a great ass but it wasn’t her. She also wasn’t this guy’s daughter. Guy kind of slithering into the tan canvas seat like he had a herniated disk. Probably Miss Boobs-in-Your-Face worked him over. You knew the only reason she was with an old fart like that—ugly, too—had to do with his solid gold Rolex.

He’d need to kill more time, so he went back further in his bio to where he was born Terrance Godchaux, in Flint, Michigan, the son of a plumber and a cocktail waitress. His own undistinguished high school career, playing second-string tight end in football, no chance of a scholarship to college. His mother constantly having “friends” over, then him realizing it’s for money, his father not doing anything about it and—Jesus, enough already, I’m out of here—and off to the

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