Mitch Rapp 11 - American Assassin

by Vince Flynn

  Ivanov had a long list of enemies that he ran through. There was a Cuban general he’d screwed over in an information swap five years earlier. How that man could possibly fit into this scenario was beyond Shvets, but he’d asked for the list of possible suspects so he simply listened and let Ivanov purge the information from his vodka-soaked brain. There was a German industrialist whom he’d fleeced a year earlier, a Spanish tycoon as well, and then there were a host of Jews and Bolsheviks who had been out to get him for years. None of it appeared to be useful, but then again maybe it was.

  Shvets took the information and boarded a Lufthansa flight to Hamburg. Before leaving he’d called their man at the consulate and told him to work his contacts with the local police and get him a copy of the crime scene report. When he arrived at five-thirty-six that evening, Petrov Sergeyevich was waiting for him, the report in hand. Shvets had met Petrov briefly a few years earlier. After a polite exchange, Shvets told him to drive him to the bank. He sat in the passenger seat and read the report. Herr Dorfman had been stabbed in the thigh and shot once in the head. His wife was found bound and gagged and locked in the basement. She reported two men wearing masks entering the house at approximately ten in the evening. She did not hear them speak and could not give police a description other than the fact that they were roughly the same size.

  The dogs, strangely enough, were unharmed. One was locked in the basement with the wife and the other was found wandering around the first floor. At some point the latter dog stepped in the pool of blood by Dorfman’s head and then tracked it around the first floor. There was no sign of forced entry and none of the neighbors had seen a thing. Shvets found it interesting that the wife and dogs were unharmed. That more than likely ruled out the vying factions in Moscow, although if Shvets was advising them, he would have tried just this thing to throw off a man like Ivanov. Whoever they were dealing with was very professional.

  Shvets finished the report, closed it, and decided it was nearly useless. Anything was possible. Dorfman could have told someone about the money and that someone could have gotten the idea in his head to steal it. Twenty-six million dollars could do that to certain people. Shvets had thought about it himself. He had the skill set to make it work. It would have been so much easier if Dorfman had stolen the money and tried to disappear. They would have tracked him down. They always did. The fools habitually ran off to some beachside resort where they naively thought they would blend in with the locals and tourists.

  They reached the bank shortly after six-thirty and Shvets weighed the benefits of having Sergeyevich accompany him into the building. He decided against it. There was no need for muscle. At least not yet, he hoped, and besides, the fewer who knew about Ivanov’s vulnerable position the better. The bank was typical. Tall, covered in glass, and imposing, all meant to give the impression of stability and security. It was one of many things Shvets was counting on.

  The armed guard who tried to stop him in the lobby told him the bank was closed, but Shvets assured him that he did not wish to make a financial transaction. He was tempted to add that that was, of course, unless the guard could somehow refund the $26 million that had been stolen from Shvets’s employer and associates, but Shvets was fairly certain that this man was incapable of making that happen, so he instead asked to see the head of security.

  When the security guard hesitated, Shvets said, “Of course this has something to do with Herr Dorfman’s death.”

  That changed things significantly, and in less than a minute Shvets had been escorted to the top floor, where he came face-to-face with another, much older security guard. Same white shirt with black epaulets and black pants. Shvets flashed his SVR credentials and told the man secrecy was of the utmost importance. He was then told that the bank president was extremely busy.

  “No doubt meeting with the board of directors.” The uncomfortable look on the man’s face gave him the answer he was looking for. “I will wait no more than two minutes. Tell him now, and tell him that it involves Herr Dorfman. There are some very influential people in Russia who require some immediate answers.”

  Shvets sent the man off to deliver the message. Less than a minute later, the guard came back down the hall with a well-dressed man who looked as if he had been through a difficult day. The guard stood awkwardly nearby while the bank president said, “I am Herr Koenig. How may I help you?”

  “I am Nikolai Shvets. I am with the Russian government.” He again flashed his gilded badge and then, nodding toward the receptionist, said, “Is there a place where we can have a word in private?”

  “Yes,” the banker offered, nodding enthusiastically. “Please follow me.”

  Shvets was disappointed when they ducked into a glass-walled conference room instead of the man’s office. There was nothing to learn from this bland space. No photos of loved ones. Not a single hint of personal information. He would have to ask Sergeyevich to look into the man’s life for some leverage.

  Koenig remained standing, obviously impatient to get back to the board. “What is it you wish to discuss?”

  “I understand,” Shvets said, “that Herr Dorfman had a very unfortunate evening last night.”

  The man nervously cleared his throat. “The police have advised me not to discuss matters surrounding the murder of Herr Dorfman.”

  “Would you like me to inform the police that $26 million of Mother Russia’s money went missing this morning, or would you like me to go straight to the press with that announcement?” Shvets was well aware of his lie, but he could hardly tell the man the money belonged to various terrorist groups and the head of the SVR’s feared Directorate S.

  The banker’s gray pallor deepened, and he steadied himself against the back of a nearby chair while he mouthed the number.

  “I do not wish to go to either the police or the press, but that is up to you, Herr Koenig.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “How much money is missing?”

  “Counting your twenty-six million … forty-seven. But none of the money was actually in our bank,” Koenig said defensively. “In fact, we are trying to sort out what Hans has been up to for all these years.”

  “What do you mean the money was not in your bank?”

  “The deposits were all in Swiss banks or offshore accounts in the Caribbean and Far East.”

  “But Herr Dorfman managed the accounts in his official capacity as a vice president of this bank.”

  Koenig raised a cautionary finger. “We are not sure on that point. So far we have found no official records of any of these accounts in our system.”

  Shvets wasn’t so sure he believed the man. “Up until a minute ago you were thinking your exposure was roughly twenty million. It has now more than doubled. What makes you think it won’t double again before tomorrow?”

  “I disagree with your use of the phrase ‘your exposure.’ As best we can tell, Herr Dorfman was in no way acting as an officer of this bank while he managed these various accounts.”

  “Herr Koenig,” Shvets said with a sad laugh, “you and I both know that will not stand up. Those deposits may not have sat in your vault, but you had an officer of this bank who was managing on a daily basis a minimum of forty-seven million, and quite possibly more. This bank earned fees off that money…”

  “But—”

  “Please let me finish, Herr Koenig. I am not here to assign guilt. I am here to catch whoever took this money so we can get it back to its rightful owners.”

  Probably for the first time since midmorning, a touch of color returned to Koenig’s face. “As there always is in these situations … a financial forensic investigation is under way.”

  “How long will it take to complete?”

  “It could take some time.”

  “Please be honest with me. I am going to head back to Moscow tomorrow and the men I work for … they are not nice. They could never have a conversation like this. They would much prefer to strap you to a chair and attach th
ings to your testicles, so I suggest you tell me what you know.” Switching to a friendly tone, he added, “Then I can go back to them and tell them you are a reasonable man. Someone we can trust.”

  Koenig struggled with what he was about to say and then blurted it out. “I’m afraid we will never find that money.”

  “Why?”

  The banker threw his arms out. “It has been spread to the wind. I have never seen anything like it in all my years. The initial round of transfers was executed via fax in three waves. They came from all over the world.”

  “Where?”

  “Hong Kong, San Francisco, New York, London, Berlin, Paris, Istanbul, Moscow, New Delhi…”

  “Moscow?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would like to see the faxes.”

  The banker shook his head.

  Shvets sighed, “Ohhhh … why must we do this the hard way? Herr Koenig, I know where the accounts were held. Your branch in Geneva. You are not as innocent as you would like me to believe. You will show me those faxes, and if you don’t, some people will come visit you in the middle of the night and do to you what was done to Herr Dorfman.”

  Koenig swallowed hard. “I think I can make that concession.”

  “Good. Now why do you say we will never find the money?”

  “My legal counsel has informed me that not a single bank that we transferred the money to today has consented to our request for information.”

  “Certainly there’s a way.”

  “It would involve years of lawsuits, and even then you would be lucky to track down a fraction of the funds.”

  “Well, maybe you need to turn up the pressure.” Koenig watched as his words seemed to have the opposite effect from the one he’d intended.

  Koenig stiffened. “I should warn you that a faction of the board feels very strongly that this is dirty money.”

  “Dirty money?” Shvets asked, as if the accusation were an insult.

  “There are rumors that Herr Dorfman was an agent for the East German Stasi before the wall fell.”

  “Rumors are bad things.”

  “And there is another rumor that he worked for your GRU as well. That he helped certain people launder money.”

  Shvets gave him a wicked grin. Dorfman had, in fact, been a spy for the KGB, not the GRU. “Where have you heard such things?”

  “From people who know such things,” Koenig answered cagily. “Would you like to talk to them?”

  Shvets suddenly got the feeling that he’d lost the upper hand. He needed to say something to fluster Koenig. “Back to these banking laws for a moment. I assume these very same laws could be used to conceal gross incompetence of your branch in Geneva … or better yet, that one of Herr Dorfman’s colleagues at the bank helped himself to millions of dollars that did not belong to him. Don’t they say that most bank heists are inside jobs?”

  “That is pure, unfounded speculation.”

  “As is your gossip about Herr Dorfman being a GRU spy.” Checkmate.

  Koenig squirmed for a moment and then offered, “Would you be willing to talk to the people who have sworn that Herr Dorfman was a spy?”

  “Absolutely,” he said, even though he had no such intention, “but I would like to see those faxes first. Especially the one that originated in Moscow.”

  Koenig studied him cautiously for a moment and then said, “I will have copies of the faxes made for you. Give me a minute.” He left the room, glancing back over his shoulder with a frown.

  Shvets paced while he waited. This was starting to look like a big mess. Once these thieves in suits confirmed that Dorfman had worked for the KGB, they would not be the slightest bit inclined to repay a single dollar. The Germans hated the Russians almost as much as the Russians hated the Germans. Koenig came back a few minutes later. He had two other men with him this time, and Shvets knew the jig was up. Koenig handed over the stack of faxes. They were blank, except for the sending and receiving fax numbers. The man might as well have written “Fuck you” in large letters across the top sheet. Still, it was better than nothing.

  CHAPTER 41

  ZURICH, SWITZERLAND

  THEY had drinks in the library, although Rapp thought of it more as shots like he had done back in college, except instead of a smelly bar in upstate New York he was in a mansion on the outskirts of one of the most refined cities in the world. Herr Ohlmeyer did not believe in ruining fine spirits with anything other than ice, so the liquor was served either up, on the rocks, or neat, which Rapp learned was basically naked, meaning nothing but the booze. Rapp chose a glass of sixteen-year-old Lagavulin single malt scotch and asked for it on the rocks. Ohlmeyer liked playing host and told Rapp it was a fine choice. Rapp took the glass, smiled, and said, “Thank you.”

  Greta had not made her entrance yet, so Rapp took the opportunity to corner Hurley, who was standing by the massive granite fireplace speaking with one of Ohlmeyer’s two sons. He approached Hurley from behind and tapped him on the shoulder. “We need to talk.”

  Hurley said something to Ohlmeyer’s son in German that Rapp did not understand, and after he had walked away, Hurley turned to Rapp and asked, “What’s up?”

  Rapp jerked his head in the direction of the small soundproof office. “What was that all about?”

  Hurley’s jaw clenched as was his habit when he didn’t want to talk about something. Reluctantly he said, “It’s part of the deal. Don’t worry. Just listen to Carl, he knows what he’s doing.”

  “Does Irene know about it, or Spencer Tracy, that guy who I’m not supposed to know?” That was how Rapp referred to the man he had met briefly at the offices of International Software Logistics, the man who, he assumed, was running the show. The question caused the veins on Hurley’s neck to bulge, which in turn caused Rapp to take a step back. That particular physical cue was often a precursor to Hurley’s blowing his top.

  Hurley felt the older Ohlmeyer’s eyes on him and told himself to take a deep breath through his nose and exhale through his mouth. It was a trick Lewis had taught him. It helped him center himself. Ohlmeyer despised public outbursts. “Listen, kid … this is a tough business. There’s certain things they don’t need to know about, and quite frankly, don’t want to know about.”

  Rapp considered that for a second before asking, “Can it get me in trouble?”

  “Pretty much everything we do can get in you in trouble with someone. This is about taking care of yourself. No one else needs to know about this other than Carl and his two boys.”

  Rapp took a sip of his scotch and was about to ask another question, but thought better of it. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

  Hurley wished he could say more, but the kid would have to figure it out the hard way, as he himself had had to do back in the day. He took a big gulp of bourbon and thought about how much easier it would have been if someone had just pointed a few things out to him. Hurley changed his mind and decided to let it fly. “Kid … you’re good, and that’s no small thing coming from me. My job is to find faults and try to beat them out of you. At some point in this line of work … I don’t care how good you are … I don’t care how just your cause … sooner or later you’re going to land yourself in a big pile of shit. It might be your fault, although more than likely, it’ll be some asshole back stateside out to make a name for himself so he can advance his career. He’ll put a target on your back, and trust me on this one, even though you’re going to want to stand and fight, you need to run. Run and hide … lie low … wait for things to blow over.”

  “And then what?”

  “You live to fight another day, or maybe you just disappear for good.” Rapp frowned, and Hurley knew exactly what he was thinking. “We’re not that different, kid. The idea of running away for good isn’t in our veins, but it’s nice to have options. You bide your time, you find out who it is who’s out to get you, and then you go after them.”

  Rapp absorbed the advice and looked around the courtly library. “Wh
en are we shipping out?”

  “Tomorrow morning. I was going to tell you guys later.”

  “Where to?”

  “Back to the scene of the crime.”

  “Beirut?” Rapp whispered.

  “Yep.” Hurley held up his glass. “Although I might have a small job for you first.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “We might have a lead on someone.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t want to say yet.”

  “Come on!”

  “Nope … no sense in getting your hopes up. Irene is flying over in the morning to brief us. If she’s verified it, I will send you on a quick one-day detour, and then you can join up with us in Beirut.”

  “And the intel on Beirut?”

  “It’s good … really good. These guys have been singing like birds all day.”

  The men spent another thirty minutes in the library. Ohlmeyer took the time to introduce both of his sons to Rapp and Richards. The older one was August and the younger was Robert, and both were vice presidents at the bank and held positions on the board. The patriarch of the family assured the two young men that they could trust his sons, and Hurley seconded the opinion. Ohimeyer knew that they would be leaving in the morning and suggested that they reconvene at the earliest possible time to work out the protocols and to make sure that each man understood the details of his various legends.

  CHAPTER 42

  SHORTLY before seven they moved from the library to a sitting room that was decorated in the French Baroque style. The white, carved flowers, leaves, and shells on the furniture and molding were in stark contrast to the deep natural woods of the library. Sitting on one of the room’s four sofas was Greta. Next to her was an older woman whom Rapp took to be her grandmother, and thus Carl Ohlmeyer’s wife.

  Greta smiled at him from across the room. Rapp, in control of his faculties this time, flashed her a crooked grin and walked over, shaking his head. “Good evening, ladies.” Rapp offered his hand again. This time it was dry. “Greta, you look lovely.”