American Assassin

by Vince Flynn

  “Here you are,” she said in near perfect English. “I have been looking all over for you.”

  Rapp could hardly conceal his surprise. Here, standing before him, was possibly the most attractive woman he’d ever laid eyes on, and she was looking for him. Still out of breath, he started to speak but stopped. The nausea came back and he decided rather quickly that he needed to open one of the windows or he really was going to vomit in front of this beauty. He held up a single finger and said, “Excuse me.”

  Rapp cranked one of the windows open and took in the fresh cold air. A couple of deep breaths later the nausea began to pass. “Sorry,” he said as he turned back around. “I’m a little out of shape.”

  The blond beauty placed a hand on her hip and gave him an appraising look. “I don’t see anything wrong with your shape.”

  Rapp laughed nervously and, not knowing how to respond, said, “You look great … too, I mean, you don’t look like you need to work out … is what I mean.” That’s what came out of his mouth. Inside his brain he was screaming at himself. You’re a moron.

  “Thank you.” She flashed him a perfect set of white teeth.

  That was when Rapp noticed the dimple on her chin. Her overall looks had knocked him so off-kilter that he was just now getting around to categorizing her individual features: blue eyes, platinum blond hair pulled back in a high ponytail, prominent cheekbones, like some Nordic goddess. Weren’t these people all related somehow? A tiny little upturned nose. The dimple on the chin, though, that had caught his attention for some reason.

  “My grandfather sent me to find you.”

  That was where he had seen it. Herr Ohlmeyer had that same dimple, or cleft, or whatever it was that they called it. Somehow it looked much better on her. Rapp smiled and offered his hand, “I’m Mitch … I mean Mike.” Get hold of yourself, his brain screamed at him.

  “Greta. Pleased to meet you.”

  The smile made him a bit wobbly in the knees. Of course you are, Rapp thought to himself. The image of Greta in pigtails and lederhosen with a white blouse and ample cleavage, holding a couple of beer steins, flashed across his mind. What the hell is wrong with me? He noticed her face muscles tighten a bit and then she looked down at their still-clasped hands. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Rapp said as he released her hand. He hustled over to the shelf where the towels were and grabbed her one. Instead of giving it to her, he began mopping her hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  She laughed nervously and took the towel from him. “My grandfather wanted me to tell you, drinks are being served at six sharp in the library. Jacket and tie are required. His rules, not mine.”

  “Okay,” Rapp replied, and then, feeling some irrational need to keep talking, he asked, “What are you wearing?”

  She crinkled up her nose and said, “You are funny.”

  And then she was gone. In stunned silence Rapp watched her leave. He didn’t know how it was possible, but she looked every bit as good from behind. She was in a pair of jeans that were tucked into brown leather riding boots. The door closed with a click that snapped Rapp out of his trance. He slapped himself in the head twice. “What are you, fifteen, you moron?”

  He tried to finish the workout, but his mind wasn’t in it, so he went back to his room, took a cold shower, and thought about Greta. Romance, companionship, call it whatever you want, it was not something he had put a lot of thought into since losing Mary. He’d had a few flings here and there, but they were purely physical. They all wanted to fix him. That was the problem. They knew who he was, and that he’d lost his high-school sweetheart in the attack that had so devastated Syracuse. Being the captain of a national championship lacrosse team, at a school that was crazy about the sport, virtually guaranteed that a certain number of women would end up in his lap. Unfortunately, they eventually wanted to talk about his feelings, about how he was coping with the loss and heartache. Nothing could have been more unappealing to him. His feelings, his personal agony, were no one else’s business.

  It had been almost four years now. Maybe that was what was going on. Time really was healing the wound. Or maybe it was Sharif and Dorfman. Maybe tossing their bodies down that big hollow pit in the back of his mind had helped stay the pain. Or maybe it was simply the fact that Greta was so stunning, she’d blinded him into forgetting his past for a moment. No, that couldn’t have been it. At least not all of it. He’d met plenty of gorgeous women the past few years, and none of them had hit him with this kind of lightning bolt.

  Rapp knotted his tie in the mirror and decided to leave the question there. It was a riddle. An unsolved problem, more than likely all the above, or some of the above. And what did it really matter? He’d felt something he hadn’t felt in years and wasn’t sure he would ever feel again. The spark of a crush, or love at first sight, he had no idea. He had a hard time buying the latter. More than likely it was simple lust. Two young, attractive people, their pheromones in overdrive. Was there a chance she felt the same thing? He recalled the look she’d given him as she gave him the once-over.

  Staring at his reflection, he asked, “What does any of it matter? I’m leaving in the morning. Going on safari.” Rapp cinched the Windsor knot just so and decided to enjoy the evening. He would forget about yesterday and tomorrow, the pain and the obligations, and just try to live like a normal person for one night.

  CHAPTER 38

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA

  IVANOV placed the handset back in the cradle and reached for the glass of vodka. It was snatched from his grasp a split second before his hand got there. His fingers closed and found air. He blinked several times before looking up and seeing Shvets holding the glass. “Mine,” was all he could manage to say.

  Shvets wanted to tell him he spoke like a toddler when he was drunk, but it would do no good at this point. “What did he say?”

  “He has no idea.”

  “Your sure?” Shvets should have listened on the extension. When his boss got like this he was extremely unreliable.

  “What’s there to be sure about?” He pushed himself away from his desk and leaned back in his high-back leather chair. “The man is a camel jockey. He is not smart enough to steal this money from us.”

  Shvets would have loved nothing more at this exact moment than to tell his alcoholic boss that Sayyed was smarter than him, but he’d seen him shoot people for such insolence. “I should go to Hamburg?”

  “No. I need you here. Send Pavel.”

  Now there was an idiot, Shvets thought. Pavel Sokoll was fine with numbers and balance sheets, but borderline retarded when it came to everything else in life. Sending him to Hamburg would get them nowhere. “We need answers, and I’m afraid sitting here will not get us any. Sending Pavel will only add to the confusion. You won’t allow me to discuss this with anyone other than you or Pavel, so getting those answers is going to be very difficult.”

  “But I need you here.”

  “There will be no ‘here’ in a few days,” he said with some force. “Once word gets out that the money is missing the phone will start ringing and sooner or later it will be kicked upstairs, or worse across town, and once that happens, they will pull you in.”

  “Us! You mean us!” he half screamed. “Your wagon is hitched to mine.”

  “Trust me, a minute doesn’t pass that I don’t think of it.”

  “And I have been good to you.”

  “Yes, you have,” Shvets said halfheartedly.

  “And I will continue to take care of you. We just need some answers.”

  “What we need is money,” he said, trying to get Ivanov to see the fundamental problem. “Answers might lead us to the money, but we will not get those answers sitting here in Moscow.”

  “Stop speaking in riddles.”

  “Just let me go to Hamburg and see what I can find out. I will fly out tonight, and if all goes well, I’ll be back on the first flight in the morning.”

  “And what am I going to do?”

  Shvets’s solution was s
uddenly very clear. “Go out and get drunk. Order up some women and go to Hotel Baltschug.”

  Ivanov frowned. He was in no mood to socialize.

  “You must keep up appearances. You know how this town is. If rumors start that you are in trouble and no one sees you in public they will believe the rumors. If they see you out acting as if everything is normal they won’t believe the rumors.” Shvets was willing to say almost anything to convince him. Sitting here in this office was getting them nowhere. He’d seen his boss in these funks before. Usually only for a day or two. Always a pity party, but somehow the heaps of despair and recrimination eventually focused him, and he came out of it like a bear ready to charge. And when that happened, Shvets had better have a better understanding of what had happened, or he could end up being the casualty.

  He suggested, “Bring Alexei and Ivan. They will make sure you are taken care of.”

  Yes, Ivanov thought. My two Luca Brasis. No one would dare challenge me with them as my companions. Ivanov felt better just thinking of his two loyal soldiers, and besides, some flesh might be the remedy for his dismal attitude. And he wanted a drink. “Fine,” he relented, “but I want you to call me as soon as you hear something.”

  Shvets turned tentative. They’d done enough talking on the phones today, and in this new era of electronic surveillance, there was no telling who was listening. “I promise,” he lied as he started for the door. “And remember … act like nothing has changed tonight.”

  CHAPTER 39

  ZURICH, SWITZERLAND

  RAPP entered the study a few minutes before six and found Hurley alone, a phone in his left hand and a drink in his right, staring out the French doors at the snow-capped mountains in the distance. Hurley glanced casually over his shoulder, the phone pressed against his left ear, to see who it was, and then went back to what he was doing. Rapp glided across the room, stepping from the hardwood floor onto a large Persian rug. The library was on two levels. The second floor consisted of a catwalk that accessed the stacks of books lining the four walls. There wasn’t a dust jacket on a single book.

  A large wood-paneled door to Rapp’s left opened with a click. Herr Ohlmeyer appeared, a warm smile on his face. He held up one of his long fingers and silently motioned for Rapp to join him. Rapp glanced at Hurley to see if the man wanted to discuss anything, but he was still on the phone, so he followed Ohlmeyer into a much smaller windowless office.

  Something about the room felt different. Off in some way. When Ohlmeyer closed the door, there was a click of finality and then near total silence. Only the faint hum of a CPU. Rapp became aware of his own breathing and then realized the room was soundproof. The floor was elevated a few inches, and the walls and ceiling were built-in and covered in fabric. Behind the desk with the triple screens was a bank of black-and-white security monitors three high and five across. In front of the desk was a small conference table maybe forty-eight inches across. It had four bland wood chairs. The room was such a stark contrast to the rest of the house that Rapp couldn’t help but take notice.

  Ohlmeyer could see the younger man’s interest and said, “In my business one must take certain precautions.” He pulled out one of the chairs, told Rapp to sit, and then grabbed a file from his desk. Placing it on the conference table, he said, “I admire what you are doing. This is not an easy life you have chosen.”

  Rapp nodded in a noncommittal way, but other than that did not respond.

  “Do you have any regrets so far?”

  Without hesitation, Rapp said, “No.”

  “No problems sleeping … no second thoughts?”

  “I’m not a big sleeper.”

  Ohlmeyer smiled and scratched the dimple on his chin. “Your type rarely is.”

  “My type?”

  “Yes. The hunter. It is imprinted in your genetic code. Almost everyone has it, dormant for thousands of years. In many there isn’t enough of it left to do them any good. They spend their days in sedentary jobs that challenge them neither physically or mentally. They do not have your abilities and your drive, of course.”

  Rapp supposed there was a good deal of truth in his words; he simply had not put a lot of time into thinking about it.

  “I have some documents here,” Ohlmeyer said as he tapped the file. “Stan knows about this, but he does not want to know the details.”

  “Details?” Rapp asked, wondering what Hurley was up to now.

  “You are in a very dangerous line of work. You are but a small vessel in a harbor packed with giant supertankers. Those supertankers bump up against each other sometimes, causing little harm to themselves, but to you it is the end.” He clapped his hands together, signifying the destruction of Rapp’s boat. “In your work, you need a special kind of insurance, and do you know why?”

  Rapp could hazard a guess but he got the idea Ohlmeyer would prefer to do the talking. “Not really.”

  “Because those supertankers don’t really care about you. They may lament your misfortune, but only briefly. The tanker, the ego of the captain, all comes before you. Think of it as the ship of state, if you will. You are young, and if you are lucky your career will last for another four decades. During that time your handlers will come and go and the political winds of change will reverse directions more times than you will be able to count, and sooner or later it is likely that someone within your own government will begin to think of you as a problem. Ships of state do not like to be embarrassed, and if that means sinking a small vessel every once in a while … well, that is a price they are willing to pay.”

  Rapp had a bad feeling. He looked at the file and said, “What’s that all about?”

  “It is your insurance policy.” Ohlmeyer opened the file and clipped to the first sheaf of documents was a Swiss passport. “Stan has assured me that your French is perfect.”

  Rapp nodded.

  “And your Italian, German, and Arabic?”

  “My Italian is good, my German is weak, and my Arabic is pretty good.”

  Ohlmeyer nodded. That matched with what Hurley had told him. “I have prepared three separate legends for you. Swiss”—he slid the set of documents out of the file, followed by two more. “French, and Italian. You will need to memorize everything in these files and, most important, you will need to visit Paris and Milan in the coming weeks.”

  “Why?”

  “You now own a safety deposit box in each city, and one in Zurich, but I will take care of that one for you. You will want to place certain things in these safety deposit boxes. Things that will help you survive should you need to go underground, as they say.”

  Rapp frowned. “Does Stan know about this?”

  “It was his idea. Mine as well, but we did the same thing for him years ago.” He slid over a blank sheet of paper with three names on it. The first two were French and the third was Italian. “Please practice signing each of these a few times before I have you sign the signature cards.”

  Rapp took the pen and began practicing the name Paul Girard. “Why isn’t Stan handling this?”

  “He does not want to know the details.”

  “Why?”

  “Because every man in your profession needs a few secrets.”

  “Even from his own boss and government?”

  “Especially from your boss and your government.”

  Rapp was wondering how he was going to keep all of these different aliases straight. Hurley had already given him two, and here were three more. He practiced a few times on the other names and then signed the cards.

  “In each box,” Ohlmeyer said, “will be twenty thousand dollars in cash, various documents, such as birth certificates, in case you lose the passport, and a matching set of credit cards and driver’s license. As I said, you will want to add certain things to each box, but you should talk to Stan about that. There is also a numbered account here in Switzerland that I will be administering.”

  “A numbered account,” Rapp said, barely able to conceal his surprise.

>   “Yes, Stan has requested that as well, and told me that it is up to my discretion to release the funds.”

  Rapp was tempted to ask the size of the account, but instead said, “May I ask you a personal question?”

  Ohlmeyer nodded, with a smile, as if he already knew the question.

  “Why are you doing this … helping us?”

  “We will discuss it over dinner tonight, but the short answer is that I believe in freedom.”

  “Freedom,” Rapp said as he turned the word over in his mind for a second. “That’s a pretty vague term.”

  “Not really, but if it helps you understand my motivation, you’ll need to understand that I grew up in East Germany. I saw what the Soviets were really like.”

  Rapp’s mind was filled with a menagerie of black-and-white atrocities, courtesy of the World at War shows he saw as a kid. “So you hate the Russians.”

  Ohlmeyer gave a little laugh and said, “Let’s just say I believe in good guys and bad guys.”

  CHAPTER 40

  HAMBURG, GERMANY

  BY early afternoon they learned that Dorfman was dead. The news sent Ivanov into a fit of rage. He went on for a good five minutes, ranting that he had never trusted the man, which caused Shvets to silently ask himself why the fool had let a man he didn’t trust handle such a large sum of money. After that, Ivanov, whose job and nature was to be paranoid, spewed out no fewer than a dozen conspiracy theories in as many minutes. He was convinced that Dorfman had gotten drunk and whispered secrets in the wrong person’s ear. That this person had then decided to bump Dorfman off and take the money for himself. But then again, there were supposed to have been safeguards in place, so the criminals had to have had a certain level of sophistication.