American Assassin

by Vince Flynn

  Rapp did fall asleep. He had no idea when he had dozed off, or for how long, but it was enough to recharge his battery. He checked in with Ridley at the appointed hour, and then, not wanting to lose his nerve, he left the hotel and proceeded directly to Maarad Street a few blocks away. The vendors were manning their tents, selling all kinds of produce and food. Rapp worked his way up and down both sides of the street, speaking English and playing down his French when he had to speak it. He continued to play the role of the dolt. Almost to a man, people shunned him as soon as he asked about Colonel Sayyed. There was one man, though, who had opened up. He was selling electronics, small radios, tape players, and two-way radios like Rapp’s Motorola.

  Rapp stepped into his small tent and said hello. There was a polite exchange and then Rapp asked him, “Do you know anything about the two Americans who were picked up a few days ago?”

  The man pointed to two radios and loudly asked Rapp, “Which one do you like better?” And then in a much quieter voice he said, “Yes, I know of the Americans.” He then stuck out his hand for cash.

  Rapp peeled off seven one-hundred-dollar bills. The man pocketed the bills and picked up a small alarm clock radio. He began to explain its various features. In between lauding the various components he lowered his voice and said, “There is a rumor that the Americans are being held in the basement of an old building on the west side of Martyrs’ Square.”

  Before Rapp could ask another question the man was stuffing the alarm clock in a bag and sending him off. That was when Rapp noticed the two guys with stern faces and distinctive bulges under their jackets. He went straight back to the hotel. He wanted to pass on this nugget of information before he was picked up. As he reached the street that the hotel was on, he turned left, which was the wrong way. He took two steps, and then, acting as if he’d just realized his mistake, he turned left again and saw the two men halfway down the block just standing there, staring at him. Rapp kept moving so as to not let them know that he was onto them. It was not lost on him that the two men following him had made no effort to conceal their interest.

  Rapp hustled up the next block, and when he entered the hotel he noticed a new manager behind the desk, who gave him a very unpleasant look. Rapp supposed the man thought someone might blow up the hotel just because of his presence. As he climbed the stairs to the fourth floor he realized you could hardly blame the guy. He was like some saloonkeeper in one of those old western movies where the troublemakers were all gunning for the new sheriff.

  When got up to the room he sat on the edge of the bed and collected his thoughts, trying to prioritize the various bits and pieces. The vendor was the only real highlight, and even that might be worthless. Was it a wild rumor or was it fact? Rapp knew that unless he had a chance to talk to the man he would never be able to figure it out. The two men trailing him had him worried. Were they on their way up to his room right now, preparing to kick his door down and drag him off?

  Rapp thumbed the transmit button and said, “Curly, this is Moe, over.” The Three Stooges monikers was Ridley’s idea.

  “I’m here, Moe, what’s up?”

  “I just got back from the market. Two guys tailed me back to the hotel.”

  “Not a surprise. How was the market?”

  “Pretty much treated me like a leper … just like you said.”

  “Yeah … bad part of town. They haven’t seen a gringo around there in some time. I’m sure you were a big hit.”

  “I did pick up one piece of information.” Rapp paused, trying to figure out the best way to pass it along without giving too much away on an open channel. “Remember last night … when our Armenian friend talked to us about the manpower issue.”

  There was a slight delay and then, “Yep … I remember.”

  “He referenced a local standoff … a land grab … kind of a standoff at the OK Corral.”

  “I’m with you.”

  “There was one vendor … cagey fellow. Told me on one side of the corral, the guys are keeping some things in the basement.”

  “I think I copy. Can you give me more on the source?”

  “He sold electronics. Boom boxes, small radios, clocks, that kind of stuff.”

  Ridley asked for a description of the man and his stall and Rapp gave it to him. Then Ridley said. “I’ll pass this on to the American and see what he’s heard. Anything else?”

  “No,” Rapp said as he crossed over to the window and pulled back the curtain. The two men who had followed him had taken up positions directly across the street. “Those guys I mentioned have decided to camp out in front of the hotel.”

  “Not a surprise. You sure you still want to do this?”

  Rapp had just been asking himself the same question. But like his high-school lacrosse coach used to say, you can’t score unless you shoot. “I’m fine,” Rapp said into the small radio. “If I don’t check in at noon, you’ll know I’m either dead or in the middle of negotiations.”

  “Let’s hope it’s the latter.”

  “Roger that. Over and out.” Rapp took off his khaki sport coat and went into the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face. He patted the drops of water with a towel and looked at himself in the dusty, cracked mirror. Rapp eyed his fractured reflection; his thick head of black hair, the beginnings of a beard, his bronzed olive skin and his eyes so dark that they were almost black. He could walk among the enemy without getting so much as a suspicious glance, but that would all change if he didn’t do something. Very carefully he patted his hair and then, using his index finger, he probed little deeper. He could barely feel the small section of metal. Ridley had taken a flexible fourteen-inch bandsaw blade and cut it down to a neat little three-inch piece. An eighth of an inch thick and only a half inch wide, the black metal section was then threaded into his dark head of black hair.

  Rapp played Ridley’s words over again in his head. “We know from debriefings that these things follow a certain pattern. It usually starts with a whack across the back of the head, but not always. You’re then tossed in either the backseat or the trunk, taken somewhere and stripped naked, and then moved one or two more times. There’s a good chance you’ll never be in the same building as them. Then again … they might be two doors down and you’ll never know they’re there unless you get free.”

  Rapp stared at his reflection and questioned his sanity. “Are you fucking nuts?” Rapp couldn’t remember if he’d ever talked to himself out loud like this in the mirror. Maybe drunk, but never sober. It all flashed before him in that moment. He could slip out the back door and find his way back to the other side of town. Like Ridley had told him last night, “If you get cold feet, no one will judge you.” Except for himself, of course. Rapp did not want to live the rest of his life that way. This wasn’t like making a mistake in the heat of battle. This would be making a conscious decision to run from the field of battle. And not just to run, but to desert two of his fellow soldiers and leave them for dead. Rapp knew himself well enough to understand that a failure of this magnitude would haunt him for the rest of his days.

  He pushed himself away from the mirror before he lost the courage. He checked the window again. They were still down there and had possibly been joined by another guy who was standing at the far end of the block. Rapp looked over at his gun, which was on the night table. It had been suggested that, to complete his performance, he should leave the gun in the room, but he didn’t like that idea. He’d rather walk out of the hotel buck-naked than leave the gun. He could explain it away as a precaution. Everyone else in this town walked around with a gun, so why shouldn’t he? The radio was the only other thing to decide on. He chose to bring it with him. If he didn’t get picked up right away, he might need to call Ridley with an update. As a precaution, he changed the channel and turned it off.

  Rapp quickly scrawled a note and left it on the small desk in the corner, then put his sport coat back on and checked all the pockets. Everything was where it should be. Lifting the back
of his jacket, he wedged the Beretta into his waistband and gathered his sunglasses, the map, and a large wad of cash and headed for the door. He hesitated for a split second, then told himself not to think.

  “I’d rather go down swinging,” he muttered as he shut the door. If he survived this little ordeal he’d have to ask Lewis if talking to yourself was a symptom of losing your mind.

  Rapp moved quickly down the four flights of stairs to the lobby. There was a new man behind the front desk and he looked nervous as all hell, which Rapp took as a sign that someone had talked to him. This was it. Showtime. Rapp continued out the front door into the blazing daylight and held his map above his head to block the sun while he looked up and down the street. Looking out from behind the sunglasses, he pretended not to notice the duo from Islamic Jihad. With his face buried in the map, he turned to the right and started heading east as if he was going back to the market.

  Within half a block, Rapp’s nervous system began sending his brain alarms, each more frantic than the previous one. Now he was talking to himself again, but this time it was in his brain. The conscious, here-and-now, higher-functioning part was talking to the ingrained lower-functioning part like a jockey talks to a thoroughbred as it’s being led into the starting gate. Easy, he repeated to himself over and over. It took every ounce of control to override his training and millions of years of basic survival instincts that were embedded like code into the human brain. Up ahead, Rapp recognized a black car that was parked across the street. Earlier in the morning the car had been empty. Rapp ignored the man behind the wheel and turned down a narrow side street. Just thirty paces ahead a rough-looking man was stationed in front of a shop. His left leg was straight and firmly planted on the pavement and the other bent up behind him and placed against the side of the building. His big frame was resting against the wall while he took a long drag off his cigarette. The man had dusty black pants and a white dress shirt with sweat-stained armpits, and there was something vaguely familiar about him. Rapp wondered if he had been in one of the photos Ridley had shown him.

  The street was otherwise empty. The survivors of the bloody civil war could smell trouble, and they had wisely decided to stay indoors until the morning’s sideshow was concluded. Rapp heard the men behind him, their thick shoes pounding out their progress and pace on the sidewalk. Suddenly a car engine revved, and the pace of his pursuers quickened. With every step Rapp could feel them closing in from behind. His brain ran through options and avenues of escape and he denied each one, willing himself to stay the course like a deranged ship’s captain headed for the shoals at full speed.

  They were close now. Rapp could feel them. The big fellow up ahead threw his cigarette to the ground and pushed himself away from the building. He smiled at Rapp and produced a leather truncheon from his back pocket. It was at that moment Rapp realized who the man was. Rapp dropped the map in feigned surprise and turned to flee. The two men were exactly where he expected them to be, guns drawn, one pointed at Rapp’s head, the other his chest.

  The sedan skidded to a stop just to his right, the trunk and front passenger door swinging open. Rapp knew what was next. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw as the truncheon cracked him across the back of the head. Rapp stumbled forward, his sunglasses clattering to the pavement. He fell into the arms of the two men with pistols. He let his legs go limp, and the men struggled with his weight. He felt the arms of the big man wrap around his chest and yank him upright. His 9mm Beretta was pulled from the back of his waistband and he was dragged the short distance to the car’s trunk. Rapp landed headfirst with a thud. The rest of his body was folded in on top of him, and then the trunk was slammed shut.

  The engine roared and the rear tires bit through a layer of sand and dirt until they found asphalt. Rapp was thrown back as the vehicle shot away. He slowly cracked open his eyes, and as expected, found himself enveloped in darkness. His head was throbbing a bit from the blow, but not too badly. There was no fear on his face or doubt in his mind, though. Just a smile on his lips as he thought of his childhood friend Cal Berkley and his pet snake. Cal’s pride and joy was his pet boa constrictor, Buckeye. When they were bored during the hot summer months they’d go over to Cal’s house and watch him feed rats to Buckeye. Well, one day Cal came home from school to find Buckeye dead, with a hole in the side of his body and a bloody white rat still alive in the tank. Apparently, Buckeye had gotten lazy and swallowed the rat before it was dead. Once inside, the rat had then chewed its way out.

  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. Shvet
s 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.