by Vince Flynn
“Two diplomats and two KGB guys get snatched by one of the Palestinian factions. One of them happens to be the KGB’s station chief here in Beirut. The Russians know what happened to the CIA’s station chief when he got kidnapped, because they paid for the information that the Iranians sucked out of him. They don’t want to see all of their operations exposed, so they send in a joint force of Spetsnaz and KGB goons and they start whacking people.”
Ridley was shaking his head. “That’s not the answer.”
“Really … since you appear to know the story, tell me how it ended.”
Ridley shook his head. “Nope.”
“One was killed and the three were released,” Rapp said. “And how many Russians were kidnapped after that?”
“Zero,” Ridley reluctantly admitted.
“That’s right, and how many Americans?”
Ridley shrugged. “Not zero.”
“So what’s the lesson to be learned?”
“We’re not the Russians.”
“That’s your answer.”
“Listen … I know you’re frustrated. I’m frustrated, but I am telling you this is way above both of us. There are a lot of really important people who want this cease-fire to last. They will never allow us to go around shooting people like the Russians did.”
“But the Palestinians can keep kidnapping our people?” Rapp waited for Ridley to give him an answer that wasn’t coming anytime soon. “Like I said … this is bullshit.”
That had been more than three hours ago. Rapp and Ridley had not exchanged words since then. Rapp had dumped his anger into studying maps of West Beirut, reading the intelligence reports, and trying to come up with some way to prevent this disaster from following the course of the previous hostage negotiations. Anyone who didn’t understand where this was headed was either deluding himself by ignoring history or just too stupid to connect the dots. Out of this frustration came the realization of what it would all mean to his own future.
He’d spent years thinking of little more than how he would make the other side hurt, and now after all of his training, right when he was getting started, it would be derailed. Hurley and Richards would end up telling them everything they knew about him. His career would be over. The anger welled up inside him, and as he looked out across the city, he could feel himself drifting further and further away from the people pulling the strings in D.C. Their half measures and dithering disgusted him. It was like Hurley had told them on the drive down from Hamburg: “We got soft in the eighties and let these assholes get away with way too much shit.” Apparently Washington still hadn’t learned its lesson.
Ridley joined him on the veranda. He was holding two beers. He set one in front of Rapp and took a swig out of the other.
Rapp eyed the beer and then said, “I’m not in the mood.”
“Shut up and drink. And listen for a change. I’ve been doing some thinking. This thing isn’t going to end well. Cummins was bad enough … Stan … the shit that guy has in his brain … the stuff he’s seen over the years.” Ridley shuddered at the thought of the enemy getting their hands on all that information. “I can’t even begin to calculate the damage.” He paused, took a swig of beer, and shook his head. “Someone needs to do something and you seem like just the kind of crazy asshole that would volunteer for a mission like this, although it’s actually not a mission. There’s nothing official about it. In fact, I’m going to get so pissed tonight that I pass out. And then when I wake up in the morning, and you’re not here, I’ll call Langley and tell them you’ve gone AWOL.”
“And where will I be?” Rapp asked.
“Petrosian will be here in one hour. He has arranged to take you over to the other side. The police chief, no less, is taking you.”
Rapp was surprised. “The same asshole who snatched Stan?”
“One and the same.”
“Can I trust him?”
“Absolutely.”
“How?”
“Because this time he has given Petrosian his word that nothing will happen to you.”
“And I should be impressed by that?”
“Yes, you should. The chief will drop you off at a small hotel a few blocks west of Nijmeh Square, and then you’re on your own. My advice is you spread some cash around, telling the hotel manager and the vendors that you would like to meet with Colonel Assef Sayyed. They will claim they’ve never heard of him, but they all know who he is. They will tell him you are looking for him and he will have someone collect you before the day is out. Then it will go one of two ways.” Ridley took another drink and organized his thoughts. “He will either sit down and negotiate with you, in which case Petrosian has agreed to bankroll you to the tune of one million dollars.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No, he is a man who likes to show his gratitude, and besides, you just eliminated one of his top competitors. He’s bound to pick up a few more contracts.”
“Will a million do it?”
“Doubtful, but it will let them know we are serious, and they all know Petrosian is not a man to be fucked with.”
“So if it’s not enough money…”
Ridley waved him off. “I’m going to be working on getting more.”
“Langley?”
“Maybe, but we have some other options. I just need to see if I can pull it off.”
Rapp thought about the money that Hurley had taken from the Swiss bank accounts. He almost told Ridley but decided to keep it to himself for now. “That’s option one. What’s option two?”
“They throw you in the dungeon and they torture you and eventually kill you.”
“But I’m a rookie, so how much harm can I really do.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Something like that. A pawn for a bishop.” Ridley shrugged. “Maybe you even get lucky and take a few of them down with you.” Ridley drained his beer and looked to the west. “There’s one last thing. The story about the Russians.”
“Yeah.”
“Stan didn’t tell you the whole thing. The Russians … they wiped out a couple of families … women and children included. Fucking butchers.” Ridley shook his head, trying to get rid of the bad memories. “We’re not the Russians. We don’t kill women and children. At least not intentionally. Never forget that.”
CHAPTER 59
SAYYED held the small mirror in his hand, turned his head to the right and checked his bandage, carefully fingering the edges. The morning sunlight came through the window of his room, providing ample light. There was no hope of reattaching the jagged hunk of cartilage and skin—at least that’s what the doctor had told him, although Sayyed suspected that the man was not well versed on the most recent medical advances. When all of this was over, which he hoped would be very soon, he would have to go to Paris and see if there was a plastic surgeon who could do something about the nub that was now his ear.
Growing his hair out would help, but Sayyed did not want to live the rest of his years with such a permanent reminder of his time spent with Bill Sherman. That was still the only name he had to go on. The other man, Mr. Richards, had told them he did not know his boss’s real name. As to whether he was telling the truth, Sayyed would only know that after a few more sessions, and depending on how the bidding went, he might not get that opportunity.
One thing was certain: Mr. Sherman’s sanity was no longer up for discussion. In the nearly twenty years that Sayyed had been doing this, he had never encountered anyone close to this animal. The man was clearly insane. How else could you explain biting off someone’s ear and then chewing it? The all-too-fresh memory caused Sayyed to shudder. He’d never experienced anything so strange in his life. The pain had been bad, excruciating at the time, but it had faded. The image, though, of another person chewing on his ear had only grown stronger. He did not like it one bit, and it made him all the more anxious to get through this day and be done with this Bill Sherman or whatever his real name was.
Sayyed finished butto
ning the fresh white shirt that Ali had fetched for him and then put on his suit coat. He heard footsteps coming down the hall and turned to see Radih standing in the open doorway.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Yes. How are our neighbors across the street?”
“Nothing new. We estimate they have between thirty and fifty men.”
“And us?”
“Thirty-two.”
Sayyed nodded, and thought the number enough to handle a problem should one arise. Changing subjects, he said, “You have heard about this new American? The one who is staying at the Shady Cedar?”
Radih nodded. “Two of my men have been following him this morning.” He held up a two-way radio. “They have sent me regular updates. They say the man is a fool.”
“A fool?” Sayyed said, finding the word an interesting choice.
“He is wandering around the streets, asking merchants for information about kidnapped Americans and mentioning your name. He’s handing out money and telling people where he is staying. Telling them he is here to negotiate their release.”
Sayyed was not surprised that his name was being mentioned. Chief Haddad had told him everything. The fact that Petrosian was sticking his nose into their business did not surprise him. He had known when he sent the chief into the Bourj to grab the two Americans that there would be repercussions. That was why he had to pay Haddad such an outrageous sum.
Sayyed could tell something was bothering Radih, so he asked, “What is wrong?”
“I am worried that some other faction will grab him. In fact, I will be amazed if he makes it to lunch, and if someone else gets him…” He made a pained expression and a clicking noise.
“It could complicate our negotiations.”
“Yes.”
Haddad had told Sayyed that the new American was young, inexperienced, and very nervous. Radih was right. If one of the other factions grabbed him, they would try to ransom him, which would make things more complicated, especially if he wanted to complete the entire transaction today. There was another angle that he had just considered, but could not share with the others. If the Americans were serious about bidding, they were likely to drive the price far beyond what he was hoping to get. In the end it was unlikely that Mughniyah and Badredeen would agree to hand them back to the U.S. government, but it was worth a try. The smart thing to do was to take this new variable out of play and see what the Americans were willing to offer. “Why don’t you pick him up, but be very careful. You know how sneaky the Americans can be. Take him someplace first and strip him down. Make sure he isn’t carrying any tracking devices. Then bring him here and show him the rabid dog in the basement … find out how serious they are about making an offer.”
“You are not seriously considering handing them back to the Americans?”
Maybe not, but Sayyed was at a minimum willing to consider his options. America was a very wealthy country. Maybe they could make up all of their lost funds and then some. Sayyed could put himself back on the road to a life of opulence. Knowing how unhinged Radih was about the American, Sayyed knew he would have to keep these thoughts to himself. “No, I am not, but I would like to see if the Americans can help drive the price up a bit.”
Radih stared at him for a moment and said, “You should let me kill him. Remove all temptation.”
Can I trust Radih with these prisoners today? was the question Sayyed asked himself yet again. It would be nice if he could convince Mughniyah to come keep an eye on things, but he wanted to be part of the negotiations at the airport. Sayyed understood his colleague’s anger, but he could not understand his persistence. The man simply did not understand what was at stake here today. He supposed a great deal of it was due to his youth. He could crawl back to Sabra and Shatila and rely on his black market trades and the payoffs he received from all of the impoverished refugees. He had many years ahead of him and many opportunities to rebuild his wealth and he did not have to answer to Damascus for missing funds. Still, none of these points would matter to him. His judgment was clouded by his hatred. Normally, he would chastise Radih or humiliate him, but not this time. They just needed to get through today and then things would return to normal. He decided on a more mature approach. Not wanting to argue with him, he said, “I understand your anger, but you are better than this, Abu.”
Radih shook his head. “I do not think so. My heart is filled with nothing but hatred for this man. I will not sleep until I have killed him.”
“And that is understandable, but you must take comfort in the fact he will die a thousand deaths at the hands of whoever buys him today. He will experience more pain than we can even begin to imagine.”
“None of that matters to me. I must kill him with my own hand.”
A compromise occurred to Sayyed, one that he would never have to honor, but one that might be enough to keep Radih from ruining their chances of refilling their coffers. “I promise you, Abu, that whoever buys him today, I will make the transaction contingent on the other party agreeing that when they are done with Mr. Sherman you will be given the honor of killing him.” Sayyed watched the Palestinian turn this idea over in his hate-filled mind. He could see that he was not quite convinced, so he said, “And I will allow you to spend some time with him today, so he can be taught a proper lesson before he leaves.”
A thin smile creased Radih’s lips and he said, “I would like that very much.”
“Good,” Sayyed said, placing his hand on his shoulder. “Now go get this other American, and make sure no one is following you. Bring him back here and we will see what he has to say, and then I will give you some time to take out your frustrations on Mr. Sherman.”
CHAPTER 60
RAPP sat on the edge of the hotel room’s bed, tapping his foot. It was ten-oh-nine in the morning, and he was having a hell of a time trying to calm his nerves. All he’d brought along was a small duffel bag that Ridley had helped him pack. Petrosian had come back to the safe house after his dinner with the police chief to go over the plan. He was not optimistic that Rapp would succeed, but agreed that doing nothing was a worse alternative. So, shortly before midnight, Rapp was shuttled from Petrosian’s armor-plated sedan to the Beirut police chief’s four-door Peugeot. Rapp was not thrilled about the idea at first, but when Petrosian explained that the chief was eager to make amends for his lack of judgment the day before, Rapp went along with it. Petrosian also knew that the chief would tell the right people that another CIA man had shown up and was looking to negotiate the release of his colleagues.
They made it through the checkpoint fine, but Rapp had to resist the urge to shoot the smug little turd of a police chief and both of his men. It would have sent a nice message, but ultimately the wrong one, considering his final objectives. And besides, he had a role to play, so as they neared the hotel Rapp fired off one anxious, paranoid question after another. The chief did his best to calm his guest, but Rapp played the inconsolable nervous wreck better than he could have hoped.
They reached the Shady Cedar Hotel at twenty minutes past midnight. Ridley had handpicked the hotel because it was smack dab in the middle of Indian country. All three men escorted Rapp into the lobby. The chief asked to have a private word with the manager, and the two men disappeared behind the closed door of the small office behind the reception desk. The other two policemen stood chain-smoking by the door, while Rapp stood at the front desk and did his best to look nervous as hell, which was no easy thing considering the fact that he really wanted to kick down the door and pistol-whip the double-dealing police chief.
After five minutes Chief Haddad appeared, stroking his mustache and assuring Rapp that everything was taken care of. The little kiss-ass hotel manager joined in, telling Rapp that all would be fine. Rapp got the distinct impression that all would not be fine, and that both of these men would look to make money by turning him in to Islamic Jihad, but that was the point of the whole crazy exercise. So Rapp anxiously shuffled his feet and kept rubbing his neck as
if he was a wreck.
Pointing toward the door, Rapp asked, “Can’t one of your men stay the night?”
“I’m afraid that is not possible. Besides, you will be safe here.”
Rapp acted even more worried, but truth he told, he didn’t have a worry in the world. He could sleep in peace and then in the morning he could begin to ask around for information. The idea that the chief wouldn’t tell the very people who had asked him to grab Hurley was ludicrous, but Rapp played dumb.
The elevator was out of order, so he took the stairs to the fourth floor. He closed and locked the door to the room and wedged the rubber doorstop into the small gap at the bottom. Next he opened the curtains to see what kind of exit the window might provide. It was a good twenty-five feet to the street. Ridley had sent him off with a grab bag of things, including a thirty-foot coil of rope. Rapp tied one end to the foot of the bed and left the rest of it coiled by the window. Then he took out his silenced Beretta and Motorola radio. He set the gun on the night stand and keyed the transmit button on the radio.
Ridley’s voice came over the radio a few seconds later. Rapp told him he’d made it to the hotel and was in his room. The radios weren’t secure, so they kept the conversation vague and short. Rapp confirmed that he would check in at eight and then every two hours after that. If he missed any of the check-ins, Ridley should assume Rapp had made contact. After that, it was anyone’s guess how things would turn out. Rapp brushed his teeth and lay down on the bed with his clothes on. He didn’t expect to sleep, but if he did, all the better.
He lay there in the dark with his eyes closed, going over all of his options. In his mind’s eye he could see how things were going to proceed, and if he had any chance at all of making it back alive, he would have to stay calm and seize the opportunity if and when it presented itself. When it presented itself, he amended. Petrosian had said it himself. The Fatah and Islamic Jihad factions had grown thin during the cease-fire. Men were leaving their ranks and finding jobs. It was very possible that they would make a mistake. It was simply up to Rapp to see it coming and make his daring move.