by Vince Flynn
And now, almost ten years later, here he was full circle. Right back in this stew of religious fascists who all fervently believed they, and they alone, knew what God wanted. Hurley had been trying to warn Langley for years that these Islamic wack jobs were the next big problem. He’d seen both fronts up close. Beirut and Afghanistan and the Afghanis made these guys look like pikers. Any culture that swaddles its women from head to toe and refuses a drop of booze while exporting opium around the globe is seriously screwed-up. Another of Hurley’s rules was to be extremely distrustful of anyone who didn’t drink. Afghanistan was an entire society that didn’t drink, and it scared the piss out of him.
Hurley took a pull from the bottle and shook out another cigarette. He lit it, blew the smoke up into the ocean breeze, and thought about tomorrow. The safe house should be set up and equipped by then, and the backup would be ready by early afternoon. He’d have to see what kind of info the Agency guy had, and if it wasn’t enough, he’d go pay Petrosian a call. Hurley had heard he owned more than two thousand apartment units in the neighborhood. That would generate a lot of income, but a guy like Petrosian could always use more money, and that was one thing that Hurley finally had a lot of.
What he didn’t have was time. If they were going to save the Schnoz they would have to work fast. Sometimes working fast could be used to your advantage, but you had to mix it up, and they’d been moving at a pretty good clip for about a week. Sharif, Dorfman, and by now Ismael. They might as well stay on the attack for a few more days.
Hurley looked at the bottle of Tennessee whisky and wondered if he’d come back to Beirut to die. All the times he’d cheated death, all the men he’d killed over the years, all the gods, real or imagined, that he’d pissed off. If it was anyone’s time it should be his. Looking skyward, he said, “Don’t piss off the gods.” He poured some of the whisky down his gullet and smiled. If it was his time, so be it.
CHAPTER 47
MARTYRS’ SQUARE, BEIRUT
SUNDOWN was shortly after five in the evening and sunrise shortly after six in the morning. With limited power in the building, and no curtains on the windows, there wasn’t much to do after sundown, so Sayyed had gone to bed early. Loyal Samir had scrounged up a mattress and a lantern and set up a room for him on the fifth floor away from all of the men and most of the noise. He’d checked on the two prisoners briefly to make sure they were following his orders. The businessman was faring much better than the spy. Sayyed had brought a doctor in to take a look at Cummins and the prognosis wasn’t good. Due to the beatings, poor diet, and unsanitary conditions, the doctor feared he was suffering from liver failure.
The news upset Sayyed. He had been warning the guards for several weeks to lay off the prisoners. But they somehow couldn’t get it through their thick heads that the two men were worthless to them if they were dead. Add to that the stress of the missing money and Ivanov coming to town and it was enough to make Sayyed’s temper flare out of control. He gathered the men in the basement and told them he would execute the next man who dared lay a hand on either prisoner. He caught one of the men rolling his eyes at the order, and before the imbecile knew it Sayyed had the muzzle of his Markov pistol pressed firmly against his forehead. The others finally got the point.
Sayyed went to bed wondering if they would rebel or follow his orders. It was just another thing to add to his general discomfort. He did not sleep well. His dreams, vivid and bizarre, taunted and tortured him. He was running. He must have been on the beach, because no matter how fast he told himself to run, his legs plodded along as if they were stuck in deep sand. There was a dense fog, so thick that he could see no farther than the end of his hand. Jets were overhead, screeching and dropping deafening bombs in the distance. Bright flashes erupted through the marine layer, the noises of the big bombs muted by the moisture in the air. Why was he running toward the bombs? What was he running from? He woke up with a start, his heart pounding out of his chest, covered in sweat.
Sayyed looked around the office where he’d decided to spend the night. A soft moonlight spilled in from the blown-out window. There was a pile of garbage in the corner where Samir had swept the glass and debris. Scavengers had taken everything. The furniture, even the carpeting, had been pulled up, leaving only the bare concrete floor and the dried glue that had been used to hold the carpeting down. The whole thing was depressing. The geniuses in Damascus should all be forced to live like this for a night.
Sayyed decided to get some air. He pulled on his shirt but didn’t bother to button it up. He climbed two flights to the roof and with a murmur greeted the two men standing watch. All was quiet across the street. He lit a cigarette and wondered what Ivanov was up to. The man was always plotting. Given the choice between making a fortune the honest way and stealing it from someone, he was convinced, Ivanov would prefer to steal it. He was a thief at heart. It was in no way a stretch to think of him plotting to kill Sharif, and then with the Turk out of the way, killing Dorfman and taking everything for himself.
Sayyed sighed. He wished he could skip ahead a day or two. Be done with this mess and go back to Damascus for a few weeks. His two girls were grown and married and had very little to do with him, and that was fine. He didn’t particularly care for their husbands. Beyond that, he had never been around when they were growing up, so there was no real connection. His wife—they barely spoke. The women in life weren’t the draw. Civilization was the draw. Running water, and functioning toilets, and sleeping in a clean bed without fear of two thousand pounds of steel and high explosives being dropped on your head. That’s what he needed. A VCR and a stack of movies and some sleep. He needed to recharge.
If he could run, he would. Walk out of this hellhole of a city and leave it all behind. He’d considered it many times as his pot of money grew with Herr Dorfman. Another year or two and he would have made it. He could have gone back to Damascus, retired, and used the money he had stashed away in Switzerland to invest in opportunities as Beirut stabilized. He could have lived like a wealthy sheik. All of those years of hard work gone in an instant. It was almost impossible to bear.
He finished his cigarette and looked at the stars. He did not like having to stay in one place like this, especially a place so primitive. The food was horrid and infrequent, the conditions ripe for illness, and he couldn’t sleep, and if he couldn’t sleep he would make mistakes. Mistakes were not something he could afford these next few days. He did not want to go back to the depressing room with the soiled mattress, but he had to, at least to close his eyes and rest.
Sayyed plodded down the steps and into the dark room. He took his shirt off, setting it on the floor, and then lay back down on the dirty mattress, trying to ignore the stench. The crux of the problem was the money, and it was a bigger problem than any of them realized. They were all lamenting their loss of personal wealth, but the dire situation lay in their inability to pay their people.
There were a few mentally unstable militants who would work for free, but the bulk of the foot soldiers would walk away. They were paid in cash every week, and payday was Thursday. They would be able to scrape together enough to get through this week, but then they would be bankrupt. The following week they had to pay their monthly bribes to the police, politicians, bureaucrats, and spies in the other camps. There would be hundreds if not thousands of hands extended, waiting for the money, and behind them families, waiting to put food on the table. If they did not rectify this situation quickly it could be a major disaster. The Maronites and the other factions would swoop in and pick up territory it had taken them years and thousands of men to gain.
Everything they had worked for would unravel. He would have to tell Damascus, and of course leave his personal loss out of it. They were likely to punish him by banishing him to Yamouk, the bleak Palestinian refugee camp on the outskirts of Damascus that was teeming with the pushy tribe in search of a permanent home. He heard footsteps down the hall and then some voices. They sounded as if they were goi
ng from room to room. Looking toward the open doorway, he saw the beam of a flashlight. Sayyed grabbed his pistol and sat up.
“He’s up here somewhere,” he heard a voice in the hallway say.
“Who is it?” Sayyed asked.
“It’s me. I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Sayyed recognized Radih’s voice and lowered his gun. “I’m in here.”
Radih appeared in the doorway. Three other men were behind him. “Assef, you are not going to believe the news I bring you.” Radih clapped his hands together.
Sayyed looked for his watch, but couldn’t find it. “What time is it?”
“Nearly two in the morning. You must get up. I have amazing news.”
Sayyed sighed. He half rolled off the mattress, looking for his watch. He found it, strapped it on, and then grabbed his shirt. “It better be good. I need some sleep.”
“You will not be disappointed.”
Sayyed felt like crap. He needed water and then coffee and then some food, in that order, and then maybe he could think clearly. He motioned for Radih to get on with the story.
Radih told his men to leave and in a hushed voice said, “Do you remember an American who went by the name Bill Sherman?”
Did he remember him? The man had purportedly killed Sayyed’s predecessor while he was enjoying his breakfast one spring morning. “Of course.”
“My spies at the airport … one of them says he saw Sherman tonight.”
“At the airport?”
“Yes. He came in on a flight from Paris, along with another man.”
Sayyed was dubious. There had been rumors here and there that Sherman had been back to the city. In fact, anytime someone met his end at the hands of an assassin, Sherman’s name somehow became attached. “How can you be so sure? It has been many years since anyone has seen him.”
“My man says he has aged. His hair has gone gray, but the eyes”—Radih pointed to his own—“he said they are those same eyes. Eyes of the Devil. He said he remembers him as a very nasty man with many vices.”
Sayyed’s lips felt unusually parched. He found the jug of water that Samir had left in the corner and took a drink. Why would the Americans send Sherman to Beirut after all these years? The most obvious answer was in the basement of this very building. They wanted their agent back. But why send an assassin like Sherman? The man was a harbinger of death, not a negotiator. Turning back to Radih, he asked, “Did your spy happen to know where he was headed?”
With a self-satisfied grin, Radih said, “I put out the word yesterday, after our meeting. I told everyone to be on the lookout for anything suspicious. My people know how to do their jobs. They followed him and the other man to the Intercontinental.”
“And?”
“They had a drink at the bar, and he bought a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the bartender and then got into a cab, one of ours. He had the cabble drop him off in front of a hotel on Daoura. After the cabbie was gone, they walked three blocks to a different hotel.”
“Which one?”
“The Mar Yousif Inn.”
“And he is there right now?”
“Yes. They got two rooms for one night. I just spoke to the manager. They are still there.”
“Are you sure?” Sayyed asked skeptically. “The Bill Sherman I remember would never allow himself to be followed.”
“My men are good. We have trained them to use radios. They have a system set up the airport. When they see someone who might be a fat target they follow him and pass the word to me. We then swoop in and grab them. I have men heading to the area now. There’s only one problem.”
“What?”
“The hotel is in Bourj Hammoud.”
Sayyed needed to wake up. Normally he would never ask such a stupid question. The Sherman he remembered was tight with the Armenians. This would have to be handled delicately. “If we get in a gun battle in Bourj Hammoud, we might not make it out alive.”
Radih did not disagree. “We can wait and follow him. If he leaves the Bourj we can grab him.”
They had been lucky enough to stumble across him. That luck would not hold with a man like Sherman. He would see them sooner rather than later, and then he would kill whoever it was who was watching him and disappear. “Tell your men to hold.”
Radih seemed relieved. “And then what?”
“The chief of police owes me a favor. They can operate in Bourj Hammoud without too much trouble.”
This time Radih shook his head. “I’m not so sure.”
“Normally you would be correct, but there are some things that you are unaware of. Some influential Armenians owe the chief a few favors. As long as we aren’t going in to take one of their own, we will be fine.”
“If a single shot is fired…” Radih winced at the thought.
Sayyed finished it for him. “The entire neighborhood could erupt.” Such was the reality of Beirut. The city was always one gun battle away from plunging back into chaos and civil war.
CHAPTER 48
WHEN he hit the midway point of the last run of stairs that led to the small lobby, Hurley noticed the man sitting in the chair with his back to the door. It was probably nothing, but then again Hurley had survived all these years by noticing the little things. If enough of them piled up, they usually led to trouble. There was a couch and three chairs. The man was in the chair the farthest to Hurley’s left—the same seat he would have chosen if he was to keep an eye on any guests coming down. Hurley watched him intently as he crossed the red-tiled floor. The man slowly closed his eyes and went back to dozing. Rather than head straight out, Hurley stopped at the desk. No one was there. He looked through the open door of the small office and couldn’t see anyone, but could hear a TV. Looking back over his shoulder, he checked to make sure the fat man in the chair was still in his position. He had his eyes closed again and appeared to be dozing. Hurley checked him off his list.
The pay phone was behind the man in a quaint, claustrophobic alcove. Rather than use it, Hurley decided to head outside and take in the lay of the land. When he reached the front door he paused to see if there were any goons loitering. If there were, he would head back up to the room, grab Richards, and they would head to the roof. They could make it two buildings in either direction by hopping from one roof to the next, and then use any of the adjoining apartment buildings to make their escape. The sidewalk in front of the hotel was empty, so he stepped outside, tapped out a Camel, and fired it up. He casually looked up and down the block. He counted eight cars that he had seen the night before and one new one, and it was only a small two-door hatchback. Nothing to be alarmed about.
Right or left? It was funny how often that’s what it came down to—a flip of the coin. He chose left. It was slightly uphill, not that it mattered, but he remembered seeing a small market in that direction the night before and it had a pay phone out front. He flipped the butt of his heater into the street to join the menagerie of discarded brands and started moving. It was before eight and the street wasn’t busy. It was empty, in fact. He saw two cars drive through the next intersection, moving from right to left, and then a man with a briefcase hustled across the street. Hurley couldn’t remember if it was normal or abnormal for a city like Beirut to be so slow at this time. Every city had a different pulse. Some were bustling by seven, but most Mediterranean cities were a little slower-paced. Especially one that had endured as much trauma as this one.
There was a boy standing in front of the market. Hurley guessed him to be about eight. As Hurley approached, the boy held out a paper and started giving him his pitch. Hurley smiled at him. He didn’t care where he was; you had to admire a kid who got his ass out of bed to sell something. He reached into his pocket to grab some money, and right about the time he had a firm grip on his wallet alarm bells started going off. There was movement to his left, from the market, two or three car engines turned over, and then there were footfalls. Hurley looked left, then right, and then noticed that the cute little
kid was backpedaling to get out of the way.
Two men came out of the supermarket—big, burly guys in uniforms who stopped just out of his reach. Car tires were now squealing and engines were roaring as vehicles closed in from three directions. Hurley turned, with the idea of running back toward the hotel, but there were two more men hoofing it up the sidewalk. One of them had a big German shepherd on a leash. That’s new, he thought, never having seen a police dog in the city. In less than five seconds he was surrounded by ten men and three sedans. Six of the men were wearing police uniforms and four were in civilian attire. The civilians had pistols drawn. They could be either part of a militia or detectives, or worse, Syrian intelligence officers. The uniformed police were wielding wooden truncheons.
Interesting, Hurley thought to himself. Not a single one of them attempted to lay a hand on him. Hurley calculated the odds while he slowly reached for his cigarettes. Even if he had had a gun, he wasn’t sure he could have gotten himself out of this jam. They all looked nervous, which in itself told him something. Someone had prepped these guys. Told them to keep their distance, which was not standard operating procedure in this part of the world. Normally it was club first and ask questions later.
Hurley lit his cigarette with the steady hand of a brain surgeon. He greeted the men in Arabic and asked, “What seems to be the problem?”
“Good morning,” announced a smiling man in a three-piece suit who appeared just beyond the phalanx of men. “We have been waiting for you, Mr. Sherman.” He glanced ever so slightly at the two men behind Hurley and gave a them a nod.
