American Assassin: A Thriller

by Vince Flynn

  "Mr. Sherman, what is your real name?"

  "Come on, cut his finger off. Cut his wrist off ... that would be really awesome."

  Richards was awake now, a panicked look in his eyes. "What the hell?"

  Sayyed said, "He has already told us your name, but I want to hear you say it."

  "Fine ... William Tecumseh Sherman. Are you happy now? Can we go home?"

  "No. That is not the name he gave us."

  "I think I'd know my own name."

  "Last chance." Sayyed placed the tin snips around the first knuckle on Richards's left hand.

  "William Tecumseh Sherman."

  "Wrong answer." Sayyed pushed the two red handles together and there was a quick snip and the pinky fell to the dirty floor. Richards started screaming, and Sayyed quickly moved the snips over to Hurley's pinky. "Your turn," he yelled. "Name?"

  Hurley had already turned his head away, as if he couldn't bear to watch what was going on. He started to move his lips and mumbled a name.

  "Louder ... I can't hear you."

  Hurley slowly turned his head, made eye contact with Sayyed, and then looked down at his pinky. The distance was about right. He pretended he was starting to cry while again mumbling, and when Sayyed moved just a touch closer, offering up his good ear so he could hear better, Hurley lunged forward, tilting his head to the right. He caught the top third of the man's left ear between his teeth and clamped down with all of his strength, grinding and chewing and growling and then yanking his head back.

  Sayyed screamed and broke free, his hand clamped around his bloody ear. He stumbled away and then turned to look at his subject. What he saw horrified him. Bill Sherman had a chunk of his ear hanging half out of his mouth. The insane American smiled at him and then started chewing on the ear, crunching it like a potato chip.

  CHAPTER 58

  RAPP looked out across the city. Night had fallen and that scar known as the Green Line now looked like a wide, formidable river, a black swath of darkness that cut the city in half. But travel two blocks in either direction and there were signs of life. Buildings lit up with inhabitants, traffic moving about the city, horns blaring, and underpowered engines revving--all the normal sights and sounds of a city. But not in that desolate corridor. Only twice in the last hour had he seen a car dare cross no-man's-land. It appeared the cease-fire was activated as they usually are, by segregating the various factions. He could not see the east-west streets to the north, and it was likely that more cars had crossed in that sector, but not enough to change what was obvious. This was a literally a city torn asunder.

  The problem as Rapp saw it was fundamental geography. He was on this side and they were on the other side--the they being Hurley and Richards. The only way to save them was to go over there, but Ridley had explained to him that going over there was a very bad idea. Going over there would result in his being captured, tortured, and then killed, in that order.

  Rapp's response to Ridley was, "So you're pretty much admitting that Stan and Bob are going to be tortured and killed."

  "I'm admitting no such thing."

  "The hell you're not," Rapp said, his frustration finally boiling over.

  Ridley shot back, "I know you're the new wonder boy, so this might be hard for you to understand, but there are things that are going on that you have not been read in on."

  "Like what?"

  "Things that are way above your pay grade, rookie." Ridley caught his mistake and tried to temper his words by adding, "Listen, I don't make the rules. There are certain protocols that I have to follow. Langley tells me who I can share things with. If you're not on that list my hands are tied."

  "Like Petrosian, for instance. I'm sure you cleared that with Langley. You telling a foreign national that I was the man who killed Sharif." Rapp watched as Ridley looked away. "Are you fucking kidding me? There's no way in hell you got approval from Irene to give him that information."

  Ridley sighed. "We need Petrosian on this one, and the man does not trust strangers, so I gave him a little piece of information that I knew would please him. He hated Hamdi Sharif more than any person on the planet. It goes back to the beginning of the civil war here. They were both arms dealers and they agreed not to sell weapons to Fatah. Petrosian lived here, and he felt that a militarized Fatah would only prolong the fighting. About six months into the war he found out that Sharif had broken their agreement and was selling weapons to the radical Palestinians. Petrosian was right. It prolonged the war, destroyed the city, killed thousands more, and Sharif became a very wealthy man. Petrosian vowed to kill him, but Sharif never set foot in the city again."

  "Fine ... so you used what I did for your own benefit, which means you owe me. I deserve to know what in hell is going on." Rapp could see Ridley was at least thinking about it, so he pressed him a little harder. "That could have just as easily been me that got picked up. I deserve to know what Langley is doing to try to get them back."

  "They're working on different levels. Signal intercepts, applying pressure where they can, calling in favors..."

  "What in hell does all that mean?"

  "It's complicated, is what it's supposed to mean, and on top of that Stan, your friend Bobby, and you aren't even supposed to exist. How the fuck do you expect them to go to the State Department with that one ... Excuse me," he said in a falsetto, "two of our black ops guys, who don't actually exist, were kidnapped in Beirut. Could you help us get them back?"

  "Bullshit."

  "Bullshit ... what in hell is that supposed to mean?"

  "It means it's bullshit. If you think the State Department is the answer to our problems, if Langley thinks they're our solution, we're fucked."

  "I didn't say they were the only game. I told you it's complicated. And what the hell would you know? You're a damn rookie."

  "A rookie who's smart enough to know this is bullshit," Rapp yelled. "You know what the solution is ... you just don't want to say it because you"--Rapp pointed at him--"and all of the other pussies back at Langley don't have the balls to follow through on it."

  "Please, enlighten me, boy wonder. What's the solution?"

  "We do what the Russians did."

  "What the Russians did?" Ridley mocked him.

  "Yeah ... back in the mideighties ... after four of their diplomats were kidnapped."

  Ridley's gaze narrowed. "Where'd you hear that story?"

  "Stan."

  "For Christ's sake," Ridley muttered, obviously not happy that Hurley had told Rapp the story.

  "Two diplomats and two KGB guys get snatched by one of the Palestinian factions. One of them happens to be the KGB's station chief here in Beirut. The Russians know what happened to the CIA's station chief when he got kidnapped, because they paid for the information that the Iranians sucked out of him. They don't want to see all of their operations exposed, so they send in a joint force of Spetsnaz and KGB goons and they start whacking people."

  Ridley was shaking his head. "That's not the answer."

  "Really ... since you appear to know the story, tell me how it ended."

  Ridley shook his head. "Nope."

  "One was killed and the three were released," Rapp said. "And how many Russians were kidnapped after that?"

  "Zero," Ridley reluctantly admitted.

  "That's right, and how many Americans?"

  Ridley shrugged. "Not zero."

  "So what's the lesson to be learned?"

  "We're not the Russians."

  "That's your answer."

  "Listen ... I know you're frustrated. I'm frustrated, but I am telling you this is way above both of us. There are a lot of really important people who want this cease-fire to last. They will never allow us to go around shooting people like the Russians did."

  "But the Palestinians can keep kidnapping our people?" Rapp waited for Ridley to give him an answer that wasn't coming anytime soon. "Like I said ... this is bullshit."

  That had been more than three hours ago. Rapp and Ridley had n
ot exchanged words since then. Rapp had dumped his anger into studying maps of West Beirut, reading the intelligence reports, and trying to come up with some way to prevent this disaster from following the course of the previous hostage negotiations. Anyone who didn't understand where this was headed was either deluding himself by ignoring history or just too stupid to connect the dots. Out of this frustration came the realization of what it would all mean to his own future.

  He'd spent years thinking of little more than how he would make the other side hurt, and now after all of his training, right when he was getting started, it would be derailed. Hurley and Richards would end up telling them everything they knew about him. His career would be over. The anger welled up inside him, and as he looked out across the city, he could feel himself drifting further and further away from the people pulling the strings in D.C. Their half measures and dithering disgusted him. It was like Hurley had told them on the drive down from Hamburg: "We got soft in the eighties and let these assholes get away with way too much shit." Apparently Washington still hadn't learned its lesson.

  Ridley joined him on the veranda. He was holding two beers. He set one in front of Rapp and took a swig out of the other.

  Rapp eyed the beer and then said, "I'm not in the mood."

  "Shut up and drink. And listen for a change. I've been doing some thinking. This thing isn't going to end well. Cummins was bad enough ... Stan ... the shit that guy has in his brain ... the stuff he's seen over the years." Ridley shuddered at the thought of the enemy getting their hands on all that information. "I can't even begin to calculate the damage." He paused, took a swig of beer, and shook his head. "Someone needs to do something and you seem like just the kind of crazy asshole that would volunteer for a mission like this, although it's actually not a mission. There's nothing official about it. In fact, I'm going to get so pissed tonight that I pass out. And then when I wake up in the morning, and you're not here, I'll call Langley and tell them you've gone AWOL."

  "And where will I be?" Rapp asked.

  "Petrosian will be here in one hour. He has arranged to take you over to the other side. The police chief, no less, is taking you."

  Rapp was surprised. "The same asshole who snatched Stan?"

  "One and the same."

  "Can I trust him?"

  "Absolutely."

  "How?"

  "Because this time he has given Petrosian his word that nothing will happen to you."

  "And I should be impressed by that?"

  "Yes, you should. The chief will drop you off at a small hotel a few blocks west of Nijmeh Square, and then you're on your own. My advice is you spread some cash around, telling the hotel manager and the vendors that you would like to meet with Colonel Assef Sayyed. They will claim they've never heard of him, but they all know who he is. They will tell him you are looking for him and he will have someone collect you before the day is out. Then it will go one of two ways." Ridley took another drink and organized his thoughts. "He will either sit down and negotiate with you, in which case Petrosian has agreed to bankroll you to the tune of one million dollars."

  "You're kidding me."

  "No, he is a man who likes to show his gratitude, and besides, you just eliminated one of his top competitors. He's bound to pick up a few more contracts."

  "Will a million do it?"

  "Doubtful, but it will let them know we are serious, and they all know Petrosian is not a man to be fucked with."

  "So if it's not enough money..."

  Ridley waved him off. "I'm going to be working on getting more."

  "Langley?"

  "Maybe, but we have some other options. I just need to see if I can pull it off."

  Rapp thought about the money that Hurley had taken from the Swiss bank accounts. He almost told Ridley but decided to keep it to himself for now. "That's option one. What's option two?"

  "They throw you in the dungeon and they torture you and eventually kill you."

  "But I'm a rookie, so how much harm can I really do." It was a statement, not a question.

  "Something like that. A pawn for a bishop." Ridley shrugged. "Maybe you even get lucky and take a few of them down with you." Ridley drained his beer and looked to the west. "There's one last thing. The story about the Russians."

  "Yeah."

  "Stan didn't tell you the whole thing. The Russians ... they wiped out a couple of families ... women and children included. Fucking butchers." Ridley shook his head, trying to get rid of the bad memories. "We're not the Russians. We don't kill women and children. At least not intentionally. Never forget that."

  CHAPTER 59

  SAYYED held the small mirror in his hand, turned his head to the right and checked his bandage, carefully fingering the edges. The morning sunlight came through the window of his room, providing ample light. There was no hope of reattaching the jagged hunk of cartilage and skin--at least that's what the doctor had told him, although Sayyed suspected that the man was not well versed on the most recent medical advances. When all of this was over, which he hoped would be very soon, he would have to go to Paris and see if there was a plastic surgeon who could do something about the nub that was now his ear.

  Growing his hair out would help, but Sayyed did not want to live the rest of his years with such a permanent reminder of his time spent with Bill Sherman. That was still the only name he had to go on. The other man, Mr. Richards, had told them he did not know his boss's real name. As to whether he was telling the truth, Sayyed would only know that after a few more sessions, and depending on how the bidding went, he might not get that opportunity.

  One thing was certain: Mr. Sherman's sanity was no longer up for discussion. In the nearly twenty years that Sayyed had been doing this, he had never encountered anyone close to this animal. The man was clearly insane. How else could you explain biting off someone's ear and then chewing it? The all-too-fresh memory caused Sayyed to shudder. He'd never experienced anything so strange in his life. The pain had been bad, excruciating at the time, but it had faded. The image, though, of another person chewing on his ear had only grown stronger. He did not like it one bit, and it made him all the more anxious to get through this day and be done with this Bill Sherman or whatever his real name was.

  Sayyed finished buttoning the fresh white shirt that Ali had fetched for him and then put on his suit coat. He heard footsteps coming down the hall and turned to see Radih standing in the open doorway.

  "You wanted to see me?"

  "Yes. How are our neighbors across the street?"

  "Nothing new. We estimate they have between thirty and fifty men."

  "And us?"

  "Thirty-two."

  Sayyed nodded, and thought the number enough to handle a problem should one arise. Changing subjects, he said, "You have heard about this new American? The one who is staying at the Shady Cedar?"

  Radih nodded. "Two of my men have been following him this morning." He held up a two-way radio. "They have sent me regular updates. They say the man is a fool."

  "A fool?" Sayyed said, finding the word an interesting choice.

  "He is wandering around the streets, asking merchants for information about kidnapped Americans and mentioning your name. He's handing out money and telling people where he is staying. Telling them he is here to negotiate their release."

  Sayyed was not surprised that his name was being mentioned. Chief Haddad had told him everything. The fact that Petrosian was sticking his nose into their business did not surprise him. He had known when he sent the chief into the Bourj to grab the two Americans that there would be repercussions. That was why he had to pay Haddad such an outrageous sum.

  Sayyed could tell something was bothering Radih, so he asked, "What is wrong?"

  "I am worried that some other faction will grab him. In fact, I will be amazed if he makes it to lunch, and if someone else gets him..." He made a pained expression and a clicking noise.

  "It could complicate our negotiations."

  "Yes."


  Haddad had told Sayyed that the new American was young, inexperienced, and very nervous. Radih was right. If one of the other factions grabbed him, they would try to ransom him, which would make things more complicated, especially if he wanted to complete the entire transaction today. There was another angle that he had just considered, but could not share with the others. If the Americans were serious about bidding, they were likely to drive the price far beyond what he was hoping to get. In the end it was unlikely that Mughniyah and Badredeen would agree to hand them back to the U.S. government, but it was worth a try. The smart thing to do was to take this new variable out of play and see what the Americans were willing to offer. "Why don't you pick him up, but be very careful. You know how sneaky the Americans can be. Take him someplace first and strip him down. Make sure he isn't carrying any tracking devices. Then bring him here and show him the rabid dog in the basement ... find out how serious they are about making an offer."

  "You are not seriously considering handing them back to the Americans?"

  Maybe not, but Sayyed was at a minimum willing to consider his options. America was a very wealthy country. Maybe they could make up all of their lost funds and then some. Sayyed could put himself back on the road to a life of opulence. Knowing how unhinged Radih was about the American, Sayyed knew he would have to keep these thoughts to himself. "No, I am not, but I would like to see if the Americans can help drive the price up a bit."

  Radih stared at him for a moment and said, "You should let me kill him. Remove all temptation."

  Can I trust Radih with these prisoners today? was the question Sayyed asked himself yet again. It would be nice if he could convince Mughniyah to come keep an eye on things, but he wanted to be part of the negotiations at the airport. Sayyed understood his colleague's anger, but he could not understand his persistence. The man simply did not understand what was at stake here today. He supposed a great deal of it was due to his youth. He could crawl back to Sabra and Shatila and rely on his black market trades and the payoffs he received from all of the impoverished refugees. He had many years ahead of him and many opportunities to rebuild his wealth and he did not have to answer to Damascus for missing funds. Still, none of these points would matter to him. His judgment was clouded by his hatred. Normally, he would chastise Radih or humiliate him, but not this time. They just needed to get through today and then things would return to normal. He decided on a more mature approach. Not wanting to argue with him, he said, "I understand your anger, but you are better than this, Abu."