by Vince Flynn
Hurley looked far from enthused over his friend’s talkativeness.
“You will have to excuse my old confidant,” Ohlmeyer said, putting a hand on Hurley’s shoulder. “He finds it extremely difficult to express feelings of admiration and warmth. That way he doesn’t feel as bad when he beats you over the head.”
Rapp and Richards started laughing. Hurley didn’t.
“Please make yourself comfortable. There is coffee and tea and juice over there on the table and fresh rolls. If you require anything else, do not hesitate to ask. Stan and I have some work to do, but it shouldn’t take too long, then I suggest all of you get some sleep. You will be staying for dinner tonight … no?” Ohlmeyer turned to Hurley for the answer.
“I hope.”
“Nonsense. You are staying.”
Hurley hated to commit to things. “I’d like to, but who knows what might pop up after this morning?”
“True, and I will have my plane ready take you wherever you need to go tomorrow morning. You are staying for dinner. That is final. There is much we need to catch up on, and besides, I need to tell these two young men of our exploits.”
“That might not be such a good idea.”
“Nonsense.” Ohlmeyer dismissed Hurley’s concern as completely inconsequential. He looked down at the briefcase in Hurley’s hand. With a devilish look he asked, “Did you bring the codes?”
“No … I drove all the way from Hamburg just so I could stare at your ugly mug. Of course I brought them.”
Ohlmeyer started laughing heartily before turning to Rapp and Richards. “Have you ever met a grumpier man in your entire life?”
“Nope,” Rapp said without hesitation, while Richards simply shook his head.
While Rapp and Richards retired to the other end of the forty-foot-long study to get some food, Ohlmeyer and Hurley were joined by two men whom Rapp guessed to be in their midforties. They looked like businessmen. Probably bankers. The four of them huddled around Ohlmeyer’s massive desk while the silver-haired German issued explicit instructions in German. Forty minutes later the two men left, each carrying several pages of instructions.
At nine-oh-five they received the anticlimactic call that the seventeen accounts had been drained of all funds, but that was just the beginning. Over the next three hours the computers continued to execute transfers. Each account was divided into three new accounts and then split again by three, until there were 153 new accounts. The money had been flung far and wide, from offshore accounts in Cyprus, Malaysia, and Hong Kong, and across the Caribbean. Each transfer ate away at the balance as the various banks charged their fees, but Hurley didn’t care. He was playing with someone else’s money. The important thing was to leave a trail that would be impossible to untangle. With all the different jurisdictions and separate privacy laws, it would take an army of lawyers a lifetime to slash through the mess. By noon the number of accounts had shrunk to five with a net balance of $38 million.
CHAPTER 36
BEIRUT, LEBANON
SAYYED’S lungs and thighs ached as he climbed the crumbling concrete stairs. His week had gone from miserable to intolerable, starting with his trip to Moscow and ending with his superiors in Damascus issuing one of the most idiotic orders he had received in all of his professional career. With the cease-fire finally looking as if it was going to take hold, the cursed Maronites had decided to accelerate their land grab. Their focus, it appeared, was the historically important area known as Martyrs’ Square in Beirut’s Central District. Damascus ordered Sayyed to get to the square, plant his flag, and plant it as quickly as possible. Like some battlefield general who had been ordered to hold a piece of land at all costs and then given no support, Sayyed was left to sort out the how.
Fifteen years in this city had taught him the importance of keeping a healthy distance between himself and the other factions. Rifles and machine guns were nasty things, and placed in the hands of teenage boys they were extremely unpredictable. The idea of taking up one side of the square while the Maronites grabbed the other made his skin crawl. One errant shot, one young, crazy Eastern Catholic, who wanted to avenge the death of a brother or the rape of a sister, could plunge the entire city back into war. Orders, unfortunately, were orders, and as much as he would have liked to, he could not ignore them. So Sayyed sent Samir and Ali to choose an adequate building. And while he was contemplating how to fill it with enough men to deter the Maronites, he was struck with an ingenious solution.
Shvets would be coming from Moscow to collect the CIA agent in just a few days. That would leave him with the American businessman Zachary Austin. He was not an agent of any sort, Sayyed was sure of that. The only question that remained was how much they could get for him, and how that money would be split with that fool Abu Radih. The Fatah gunman had been crying like a little girl over the fact that he’d been forced to surrender the telecommunications executive. If Sayyed brought him in, it would be seen as a great gesture of maturity and goodwill by the others. And maybe he could negotiate it in such a way that he could get the Fatah rats to come hold the entire western end of the square.
The two had sat down over tea the previous afternoon. Radih had brought no fewer than twelve men—a ridiculous number for the current level of tension. Sayyed first explained the situation with the Maronites moving into Martyrs’ Square. He was hoping that the emotionally charged piece of land would spur Radih to action, and he was not disappointed. The man was so eager to show his passion for the cause that he leaped at the chance to hold the western half of the square. Without so much as seeking a concession in return, he pledged fifty men to the operation.
The number surprised even Sayyed, and he was tempted to hold back his offer to hand over the American. Radih was an emotional fool to commit so much without gaining a single concession, but Sayyed had a problem. He couldn’t very well hold the west side of the square and leave the two Americans in the basement of the office over on Hamra Street with only a few men guarding them. He had served three years in the army before joining the General Security Directorate, and he recalled something they’d told him in infantry school about consolidating your forces. It would only be for a few days, until the Russians could pick up the CIA spy. After that, Sayyed didn’t really care what happened to the businessman, just so long as he got his share of the ransom.
Sayyed looked across the small bistro table and said, “I have finished interrogating the businessman from Texas.”
“So is he a spy?” Radih asked.
“No. I am certain he is in fact a businessman.”
“Good. Then I can commence negotiations for his release.”
Sayyed did not speak. He waited for Radih to make him an offer—the same arrangement they’d had in the past.
“I will guarantee you 20 percent of the ransom.”
Sayyed was tempted to ask for fifty. The others would likely back him, but he needed Radih’s help with the Maronite problem. “I think thirty would be fair … considering everything else.” Before Radih could counter, Sayyed said, “I will bring him to the new building tonight along with the other American. It can be your new command post for a few weeks.” It was an honor Radih would never be able to refuse. He would be considered the vanguard in the struggle to reclaim the city from the Christians.
The building itself would have to eventually be destroyed. It listed at a five-degree angle toward the square and looked as if a strong wind might topple all seven stories into the street, but it was built out of sturdy concrete and would have to be blown up before it would fall. Of all the buildings that bordered the square it was perhaps the second-strongest position. Unfortunately, the Maronites had the best position, no more than three hundred feet directly across from them.
Radih had already made one mistake, and Sayyed blamed himself for it. The self-promoter had left his sprawling slums near the airport in a ten-vehicle convoy and arranged for the peasants to send him and his men off as if they were valiant Muslims on a mission to evi
ct the Crusaders. Instead of a quiet arrival, they had pulled into the square flying the bright yellow Fatah flag. The chances for escalation were now ripe.
That was not Sayyed’s preference. The last thing he needed with Shvets coming to pick up the CIA man was open conflict. The prisoners had arrived the previous evening, transferred in just two cars. The proper way. Very low key. And then for the next few hours, men and supplies were slowly transferred over from the office on Hamra Street. They had successfully moved the bulk of their stuff without tipping their hand, and then in one fell swoop, with a gesture of egotistical grandeur, Radih had announced to the entire city that they were staking out their turf. While that might accomplish the short-term goals of Damascus, it also might plunge the city back into chaos.
As Sayyed reached the roof, he realized that it also might get him killed. He peered around the corner with his left eye and looked across the street. The Maronite building was one story taller, and with a glance he counted no fewer than five heads and three muzzles along the roof line. It had just been reported to him that they were filling sandbags and barricading the windows and doors on the first floor. Of course they were. That’s what he would do, and was in fact doing. It would be really nice if they could get through this little standoff without a shot being fired, because if just one shot was fired, the entire square would erupt in a fusillade of lead projectiles. He’d seen it happen before. Literally thousands of rounds would be exchanged in minutes. He would have to remember to tell the men to keep their weapons on safe.
Sayyed found Samir around the other side of the blockhouse at the top of the building. It was the place most shielded from the position across the street. Samir handed Sayyed the satellite phone that Ivanov’s effeminate deputy had given him before Sayyed left Moscow. “Hello,” he said as he placed it to his ear.
“My friend, how are things?”
Sayyed frowned. It was Ivanov, and he sounded as if he was drunk. It was only midafternoon. “Fine,” Sayyed said, as he stole a quick look around the corner. The sun had reflected off something across the street, and he got the horrible feeling it was the front end of a sniper’s scope.
“How are things in your fine city?”
Sayyed pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it with skepticism. Something was wrong with Ivanov. The man hated Beirut. He sighed and put the phone back to his ear. “A little tense at the moment, but nothing I can’t handle.”
“What is wrong?”
“Just a land grab by one of the other militias. It has created a bit of a standoff.”
“Fellow Muslims?”
“No,” Sayyed said, irritated by the implication. Ivanov liked to get drunk and lecture him on history. Specifically, that Muslims loved nothing more than to kill each other, and the only time they stopped killing each other was when they decided to kill Jews, Hindus, or Christians. “Maronites.”
“Ah … the wood ticks of the Middle East. Haven’t you been trying to exterminate them for a thousand years?”
“What do you want?”
“My package,” Ivanov said, slurring the words. “Is it ready? You haven’t decided to negotiate with the Persians, have you?”
“I am standing by our deal. When can I expect it to be retrieved? I assume you are still sending someone.”
“Yes … although I am considering coming myself.” There was a long pause and then, “You did offer … didn’t you?”
“Oh,” Sayyed said, surprised that Ivanov was taking him up on his insincere offer. “Absolutely.”
“Good. I will be there in three days. Maybe sooner.”
“Fantastic,” Sayyed lied. “I will have everything prepared. I must go now. There is something urgent I need to attend to. Please call if you need anything else.” Sayyed punched the red button and disconnected the call. He looked around the desolate landscape, with its pancaked and shelled-out buildings, and wondered how he could ever play host to Ivanov in this pile of rubble.
Then as he turned to go down the stairs he came face-to-face with Imad Mughniyah, the coleader of Islamic Jihad. Mughniyah, not known for levity, looked as if he was ready to kill someone. “Imad,” Sayyed said, “what is wrong?”
Mughniyah looked back into the stairwell and motioned for his two bodyguards to give him some privacy. “Who was that?” he said, looking at the phone. “I heard you talking.”
“Ivanov.”
“What did he want?”
“To insult me, I think, but I did not take the bait.”
“Anything else?”
“He was going to send one of his men to pick up the spy. Now he’s changed his mind and he’s going to come himself.”
“He just changed his mind … right now?”
“Yes,” Sayyed said, wondering what all the questions were about. “What is wrong?”
Mughniyah again looked over his shoulder to make sure no one would hear him. In a raspy voice he said, “My bank accounts … in Switzerland … they are empty.”
“What do you mean empty?”
“Empty … gone … nothing.”
Sayyed knew there must have been a mistake. “Impossible.”
“I have checked three times already. And it is not only the two Islamic Jihad accounts. My personal account you helped me set up is also empty.” There was a hint of accusation in his words.
“This can’t be. There has to be a mistake. Have you called Hamburg?”
Mughniyah nodded. “My cousin tried six different times today.”
“Did he get hold of Dorfman?”
He shook his head. “Herr Dorfman is dead.”
“Dead!”
“Killed in his own home last night.”
Sayyed’s knees felt week. He was the one who had suggested Dorfman to Mughniyah and the others.
“You are the only one of us who knew this banker. You specifically said we would never regret investing our money with him.”
Sayyed could see where this was going. They would need to blame someone, and he was the easiest target. “Are you sure he’s dead?”
“As sure as I can be from here.”
Sayyed didn’t like the way the Islamic Jihad’s heavy was looking at him. “We will get to the bottom of this. I promise you I had nothing to do with this. Come with me,” Sayyed said, wanting to get off the roof lest Mughniyah decide to throw him off. “We’ll go to my bank here in town. I’m sure there has been a mistake. I had money with him as well.”
“Tell me again … what is the connection with Dorfman?”
Sayyed had already reached the first landing. He stopped dead in his tracks and looked at Mughniyah. “Ivanov introduced me to him six years ago.”
“And he just called you and mentioned none of this?”
“Not a word.”
“Fucking Russians … always scheming.”
CHAPTER 37
ZURICH, SWITZERLAND
RAPP and Richards missed most of the excitement. With the time change and lack of sleep over the past few days, both of them took Ohlmeyer up on his offer of a room. Rapp had just enough energy in him to slip out of his suit and pull back the covers, but not enough to brush his teeth or anything else. He didn’t even bother to close the curtains. He did a face plant on the big king-size bed and was out cold. He could do that sometimes. Just lie down on his stomach, close his eyes, and it was good night, Irene. The only problem came when he woke up. Lying on his face like that caused his sinuses to drain and blood to pool around his eyes.
His arms were pinned beneath him. He cracked one eye and thought of the ultimate yin and yang—life and death. He wondered if it was normal to think about it so much or if he should bring it up to Lewis when he made it back stateside. That was if he made it back. That thought brought a smile to his face. He had no idea why he found it amusing that someone might kill him, but he did. Probably because there was a better-than-even chance that whoever the man was, he had no idea the kind of fight he was in for. Rapp didn’t discuss it with anyone, not even
Lewis or Kennedy, but he was good at this kind of work and he was getting better.
At twenty-three he was already intimately familiar with death. There was his father and then Mary, and now less than a week ago he’d stared into the eyes of a man and pulled the trigger. And as life drained from the man’s face, he had felt nothing. At least not guilt, or sorrow, or nerves. It was as if a calm had passed over him. And then last night, the bizarre home invasion of Herr Dorfman. When he’d signed on with Kennedy, he hadn’t had that type of thing in mind. Killing a man in the manner that he’d killed Sharif, he’d dreamed of at least a thousand times. Dorfman, never. Never once had his fertile imagination predicted that he would see a man shot in the head while he clutched his prized poodle.
Without warning, or any real conscious decision, he jumped out of bed, assumed the position, and started doing push-ups. He thought of the old saying. If you’re not busy living, you’re dying. It felt good to be living. He ripped through fifty push-ups, flipped over, and did fifty sit-ups, and then decided he needed to take a run. He dug out his gear. It was four-thirty-seven in the afternoon. His running shoes were virtually brand-new, as the last pair had been stuffed in a garbage can in Istanbul. With a house this big, Rapp assumed they had to have a workout room. He was right. A staff member must have heard him coming down the stairs and met him in the foyer. He escorted Rapp back upstairs, down the hallway past his room to the far wing of the house. The room had windows on three sides, a treadmill, a bike, and a rowing machine, as well as a universal machine and some dumbbells.
Rapp got on the treadmill, picked the mountain course, and hit start. For the next thirty minutes the ramp rose and fell, and all the while he kept a six-minute pace. When the digital readout told him he’d run five miles, he punched the red stop button and jumped off, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his face. He didn’t even have enough left for a cool-down. As he stood hunched over, his hands on his knees, he wondered for a brief moment if he might vomit. And that was when she walked into the room. Rapp stood up straight, a pained look on his face, and tried to take in a full breath.