by Vince Flynn
Rapp couldn't help but smile at the thought of doing the same thing to these assholes. This was either going to be the most spectacular success of his life, or the end of it. Fear and debate no longer had a place in his thoughts. There was no turning back. No more hand-wringing. This was all about deception and action. The game had started. He was descending into the belly of the beast. The only question was, would he be able to eat his way out?
CHAPTER 61
THE Aeroflot Tupolev Tu-154 was cleared for landing on Beirut International Airport's only operating runway. Ivanov's bullish attitude was back. Primakov was backing him all the way on this little excursion. These Palestinian dogs thought they had everything figured out, but as usual Ivanov was three steps ahead of them. Ivanov blamed himself for just one mistake during this entire mess. Why hadn't he thought of killing Dorfman first? All of that money could have been his. How could he have missed such an opportunity? Ivanov supposed he had been blind out of necessity. In his world a talented banker who knew how to skirt laws and hide money was absolutely essential. That was another problem he now had to deal with. Where was he going to find another man with those capabilities? He would have to fly to Hamburg soon after he delivered the Americans to Primakov. He would sit down with Dorfman's boss, Herr Koenig, and make him see that certain reparations were in order.
Shvets had come up with that idea. Get Koenig to authorize a few loans to shell companies that were in Ivanov's name and were run out of Switzerland. Loans that would never be repaid. Shvets explained that a bank of this size wrote off more than a hundred million dollars a year in bad loans. If handled the right way, he could bleed Herr Koenig out of several million dollars a year. This opened up a whole new avenue of possibilities for Ivanov. He could apply the same principle with a few of the new bankers in Moscow. In only a few years he could have all his money back and then some. That Shvets was a smart boy. Maybe too smart.
Ivanov watched Shvets exit the cockpit and close the door. As his deputy sat in the aisle seat next to him, he noted the way Shvets glanced at his glass of vodka, barely able to hide his contempt.
"We will be on the ground in less than a minute," Shvets announced while he fastened his seatbelt.
"Good. I am eager to get this over with and get back to Moscow."
Shvets wondered what kind of man wished to be gone from a place before he'd arrived.
Glancing out the window, Ivanov asked, "Do you think we could persuade Herr Koenig to visit us in Moscow early next week?"
"Doubtful," Shvets said with a shake of his head.
"Well try, and if he won't come to us then I will go to him. As always, though, I would like to try to do this the civilized way first. Two businessmen exploring an opportunity."
"In some countries they call it a shakedown."
Ivanov drained his glass and gave Shvets an unhappy frown.
Shvets realized the sulking Ivanov was gone and the ruthless one was back. "Sorry."
Ivanov did not reply at first. He had picked up on the man's growing insolence over the past year, but it seemed to have grown exponentially over the past week. Maybe it was time to replace him. The question was with whom. The private sector was exploding with opportunity, and the SVR no longer had the pick of the litter. He decided he shouldn't give up on him so easily. A good lesson or two might restore the proper attitude, and if that didn't work, he'd think about having him shot. Cutting him free would be foolish. Shvets knew too many of his secrets.
The plane landed on the relatively short runway and braked hard. While they taxied to the designated area, Shvets leaned over and asked, "What is our plan if the bidding goes over five million dollars?"
Ivanov laughed. "It won't."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I am smarter than these dogs."
Shvets was intrigued. "What have you been up to, sir?"
"Let's just say I made a few calls to my friends in Tehran and Baghdad."
"And?"
"They have agreed that it would be foolish to pay for something that I am willing to give them for free."
Shvets was dubious. "Are you sure you can trust them?
The plane stopped in front of an old, rusty hangar. The doors were open and light streamed into the interior from the holes in the roof. Sayyed stepped from the shadows and waved at the plane. Ivanov laughed at the sight of him. "There are two things you need to know to understand the Middle East. The first is that they all hate the Jews. The second is that they have nothing but contempt for the Palestinians."
CHAPTER 62
IT couldn't have been more than five minutes. The trunk opened and they were on him. Rapp couldn't tell how many, but it was more than two and fewer than five. The punched, grabbed, and pulled, finally yanking him from the space and throwing him to the floor. Rapp tried to block the blows as best he could, but they were coming from too many directions, and besides, the goal was not to show them how skilled he was at fighting, it was to play possum. To that end, Rapp started screaming and begging them to stop. The ass-kicking did stop, but only because they began stripping him.
When they were done, Rapp lay on the hard, dusty floor, whimpering. As best he could tell, they were in some type of bombed-out building. All of his clothes and possessions were thrown into the trunk of the car that he had just been yanked from. The vehicle started up again, and then the driver floored the gas and sprayed Rapp with loose gravel. The four men who were standing around him all started laughing.
A fifth man walked into the circle. Rapp recognized him as the one who had been leaning against the building. He was a senior member of Fatah. "Why are you doing this? I have been authorized by my government to negotiate with you."
Radih squatted on his haunches. He held out Rapp's Beretta. "Why do you need this to negotiate?"
Rapp shrugged. "This is a dangerous town ... I don't know."
Radih slapped him hard across the face. "I think you are a liar."
"Sorry."
"Shut up!"
"But the money..."
Radih slapped him again and Rapp started to whimper.
"I'm just a messenger."
"And what do you have to offer?"
"Money. Lots of it."
"How much?"
"A million dollars."
Radih roared with laughter. "I think it will cost you a lot more than that."
"Maybe I can get more money?" Rapp said hopefully.
"And maybe we will sell you to the Russians with the others."
"I can get you the money."
"I don't care about the money. And besides, you do not seem like you would fetch a very good price." The other men nodded and laughed. Radih was suddenly curious about this man. He had to be very low-level. "Why were you chosen to negotiate their release?"
Rapp shrugged and didn't answer.
Radih slapped him and one of the other men kicked his legs and screamed, "Answer him."
"I volunteered. Please don't hit me."
"And why would anyone volunteer for something like this?"
Rapp spoke softly into the floor.
"Speak up!"
"I said I am related to one of the men."
"Related? To who?"
"Stan Hurley."
"We don't have a hostage named Stan Hurley."
"Yes, you do. Hurley is his real name. You probably know him as Bill Sherman. That's why I volunteered. Please don't hurt me," Rapp pleaded. "I mean you no harm, I just want to get these men released. I promise we will not bother you again--"
"How are you related to this Stan Hurley?"
"He's my dad."
Radih could hardly believe his luck. He might not be able to kill Bill Sherman, but Sayyed had said nothing about his son. Radih stood. "Let's go," he announced to his men. "Tape his wrists and toss him in the trunk."
Rapp was as passive as he could be while they wound the duct tape quickly around his wrists. He counted ten times and noted that they didn't bother to tape his ankles.
"I can make you guys rich," Rapp pleaded as they tossed him in the trunk of a different car. The trunk was slammed shut and then they were off. He had no idea where they were to begin with, so the twenty-odd-minute drive that they went on through the city was unecessary. Just before they stopped, however, things became noticeably quieter. Almost as if they were in the country. When the trunk popped again, Rapp was hit with a blast of sunlight. He glimpsed a building that looked like it was slated for demolition. Two big men yanked him roughly from the trunk. Rapp's bare feet hit the rough ground and he realized they were in an alley. The buildings on each side were riddled with pockmarks, and not one of them had a window. Two blocks away he caught a glimpse of blue. Before he could take in anything else he was rushed into the building and down a flight of stairs. He was immediately hit by the smell of raw sewage. He almost gagged, and this time it wasn't for effect.
The hallway was ten feet wide with rooms on each side. They were all missing doors except three rooms at the midpoint on the right. He noted the two guards with bandannas tied around their faces. They were the first men who had tried to conceal their faces, and then Rapp realized it was the smell. The men who had him by the arms yelled ahead to the guards to open the first door. They removed the padlock from the latch and swung the door open. With a good enough head start Rapp thought he might be able to bust the latch off.
"Please," Rapp pleaded with the men. "I'm only an analyst. I can't do this. Please give me my clothes back and let me call Washington. I'll get you your money."
They tossed Rapp into the room like a rag doll. He tumbled to the floor, begging them to listen to him. Then the door was closed, and he was again enveloped in darkness. Rapp began to whimper, softly at first and then a little louder. For some strange reason, this room smelled better than the hallway, almost as if it had been cleaned with bleach. He recalled the landscape in the alley and remembered the thin strip of blue on the horizon only a few blocks away. It was the sea for certain, and with all of the bombed-out buildings it fit the general description of Martyrs' Square. The merchant must have been right. Rapp rolled onto his side and started digging through his thick hair. The fact that they hadn't covered his head with a hood worried him. He found the small blade and placed one end in his teeth. He set the blade against the top edge of the tape and began slowly moving his hands back and forth.
CHAPTER 63
THE stairs at the tail of the Russian plane were lowered and Sayyed watched the soldiers in black fatigues file down the steps. He counted thirty. All heavily armed. All Russian special forces. Sayyed had no doubt they were intended as both a show of force and an insult.
Sayyed raised the radio to his lips and said, "You were right."
Mughniyah's voice came back, "How many men?"
"Thirty Spetsnaz. Heavily armed."
There was a long pause and then, "I will be there in five minutes."
Sayyed attached the radio to his belt and watched as the elite Russian soldiers spread out to cover the area. Finally, Shvets appeared and then Ivanov. Both men were in suits and wearing sunglasses to protect their delicate Moscow eyes. As they approached, Ivanov yelled at Sayyed from across the tarmac. The big Russian threw out his arms and walked the final ten paces as if it had been far too long since they had last seen each other.
Sayyed was not going to be a rude host, so he held out his arms as well, and despite his misgivings, he greeted Ivanov with a smile. As much as he distrusted the man, there was something likable about him.
"Assef, my friend, how are you?" Ivanov practically picked the Syrian up in his arms.
"I am well. Thank you for coming."
Ivanov pushed the Syrian intelligence officer away and held him at arm's length. "What happened to your ear?"
Sayyed gently touched the bandage and said, "Oh, nothing. Just a little accident."
"Other than that you are well?"
"Yes."
Ivanov peered over the top of his sunglasses at the hangar and the surrounding landscape--the bombed-out hangar, an airliner with only one wing, and another with no engines. "I see Beirut hasn't changed much."
"Things are getting better." Sayyed pointed back toward the construction equipment at the main terminal. "We thought privacy would be best for this meeting." He motioned toward the hangar, saying, "I promise it will be worth your effort."
"Yes, but what is this nonsense? I have to compete for my information like some rancher bidding on heads of cattle?"
They started walking toward the shade of the hangar. Sayyed followed the script that Mughniyah had given him. "Yes ... well, if it was up to me it would only be you. But I am not the only one with a voice in this."
"Mughniyah?" Ivanov asked.
"Yes."
"I have warned you. He is in love with the religious zealots in Iran, and we both know they will never be the answer to a lasting peace in Beirut."
"I know ... I know," Sayyed said, patting Ivanov's arm as they entered the hangar, "but there is only so much I can do."
"And you have been a staunch supporter. Do not think that has gone unnoticed." Ivanov took off his sunglasses. "Now, where are these Americans that we are all so interested in?"
Sayyed pointed to their left. In the shadowy recesses of the hangar next to a rusty, broken-down truck, a man wearing a black hood sat in a single chair.
"But I thought there would be three?"
"There are," Sayyed said. "Think of this one as a sample."
Ivanov was not happy. "I have flown all this way and you play games with me. I do not like this, Assef."
"No games," Sayyed lied. "Security is very important. One of these Americans is such a big fish that we must be extra careful."
"What is his name?"
"I cannot say just yet."
"Why?"
"We must wait for the others."
Ivanov looked around the empty space. Shvets and the Spetsnaz commander had wisely stopped twenty feet away to give them some privacy. Where were the representatives from Iran and Iraq? Turning back to Sayyed, he asked that exact question.
"They will be here any minute."
Ivanov checked his watch and huffed. His instincts told him something else was going on here. "I do not like this. I do not like this one bit. I am on time. I have important business to attend to back in Moscow."
"I am sorry, Mikhail."
"Sorry will not work." Ivanov leaned in close so he was eye to eye with Sayyed. "When you come to Moscow, I treat you like a prince. I come here, and we meet in this." He waved his hand around the dilapidated space.
"Mikhail, I am sorry. We do not have your resources."
"And that is something you would be wise to remember. I do not deserve to be treated like this."
"I am sorry," Sayyed could only say again.
"If you are so sorry, you will stop playing games with me and tell me who this big fish is. And if you do not want to stop playing games, then I will be forced to start playing them as well. Maybe I will get on my plane and fly back to Moscow. You can conduct your little auction without me."
"Mikhail, I am--"
"Don't say it again. If you are truly sorry you will tell me who the mystery American is. If not, I am done playing games and I will leave."
Mughniyah had specifically told him not to divulge that information until he was there, but Sayyed was growing weary of the man's paranoia. He did not trust Ivanov, but he couldn't see what harm could be caused by telling him about Bill Sherman. "I will give you a sneak peak, but you have to play dumb when Mughniyah gets here." Turning, Sayyed said, "Follow me." As they walked over to a folding table, he said, "This American is rumored to have been heavily involved in some of the CIA's most sensitive operations. Including operations directed at your country." There were three files on the table. Sayyed picked up one and handed it to Ivanov.
Ivanov had been preparing himself for this for the past twenty-four hours. He had expected to see the man in person, but in a way it would b
e easier for him to downplay his reaction this way. He opened the file, looked at the Polaroid photo of the American spy, and nearly gasped. Ivanov hid his emotions and tilted his head as if he were trying to place the face, even though he knew with absolute certainty who the man was. He and Stan Hurley had tangled back in Berlin a long time ago. Hurley had become such a problem that he had sent two of his best men to kill him one night. Neither came back. Their bodies were found floating in the Spree River the next day. The day after that, Hurley marched into Ivanov's office in broad daylight and put a gun to his head. Hurley explained the rules to him that morning, rules that Ivanov already knew, but had nonetheless ignored. The Americans and Russians were not supposed to kill each other. It was all part of the new detente of the Cold War, the easing of tensions in the early seventies brought about by Nixon and Brezhnev. The American then gagged him, blindfolded him, tied him up, and pilfered his files.
When Hurley was done, he loosened the ropes on Ivanov's wrists a bit and whispered in his ear, "You should be able to wiggle your way out of these in a few minutes. By then I'll be gone, and you'll be faced with two options. You can scream your head off and try to chase me. If you do that your bosses and everyone else back in Moscow will know that you let an American waltz into your office in the middle of the day, tie you up, and steal your files. You will be an embarrassment to the KGB, and we both know how much the KGB likes to be embarrassed. Your other option ... well, let's just say I hope you're smart enough to figure it out."
