by Vince Flynn
A fifth man walked into the circle. Rapp recognized him as the one who had been leaning against the building. He was a senior member of Fatah. “Why are you doing this? I have been authorized by my government to negotiate with you.”
Radih squatted on his haunches. He held out Rapp’s Beretta. “Why do you need this to negotiate?”
Rapp shrugged. “This is a dangerous town … I don’t know.”
Radih slapped him hard across the face. “I think you are a liar.”
“Sorry.”
“Shut up!”
“But the money…”
Radih slapped him again and Rapp started to whimper.
“I’m just a messenger.”
“And what do you have to offer?”
“Money. Lots of it.”
“How much?”
“A million dollars.”
Radih roared with laughter. “I think it will cost you a lot more than that.”
“Maybe I can get more money?” Rapp said hopefully.
“And maybe we will sell you to the Russians with the others.”
“I can get you the money.”
“I don’t care about the money. And besides, you do not seem like you would fetch a very good price.” The other men nodded and laughed. Radih was suddenly curious about this man. He had to be very low-level. “Why were you chosen to negotiate their release?”
Rapp shrugged and didn’t answer.
Radih slapped him and one of the other men kicked his legs and screamed, “Answer him.”
“I volunteered. Please don’t hit me.”
“And why would anyone volunteer for something like this?”
Rapp spoke softly into the floor.
“Speak up!”
“I said I am related to one of the men.”
“Related? To who?”
“Stan Hurley.”
“We don’t have a hostage named Stan Hurley.”
“Yes, you do. Hurley is his real name. You probably know him as Bill Sherman. That’s why I volunteered. Please don’t hurt me,” Rapp pleaded. “I mean you no harm, I just want to get these men released. I promise we will not bother you again—”
“How are you related to this Stan Hurley?”
“He’s my dad.”
Radih could hardly believe his luck. He might not be able to kill Bill Sherman, but Sayyed had said nothing about his son. Radih stood. “Let’s go,” he announced to his men. “Tape his wrists and toss him in the trunk.”
Rapp was as passive as he could be while they wound the duct tape quickly around his wrists. He counted ten times and noted that they didn’t bother to tape his ankles.
“I can make you guys rich,” Rapp pleaded as they tossed him in the trunk of a different car. The trunk was slammed shut and then they were off. He had no idea where they were to begin with, so the twenty-odd-minute drive that they went on through the city was unecessary. Just before they stopped, however, things became noticeably quieter. Almost as if they were in the country. When the trunk popped again, Rapp was hit with a blast of sunlight. He glimpsed a building that looked like it was slated for demolition. Two big men yanked him roughly from the trunk. Rapp’s bare feet hit the rough ground and he realized they were in an alley. The buildings on each side were riddled with pockmarks, and not one of them had a window. Two blocks away he caught a glimpse of blue. Before he could take in anything else he was rushed into the building and down a flight of stairs. He was immediately hit by the smell of raw sewage. He almost gagged, and this time it wasn’t for effect.
The hallway was ten feet wide with rooms on each side. They were all missing doors except three rooms at the midpoint on the right. He noted the two guards with bandannas tied around their faces. They were the first men who had tried to conceal their faces, and then Rapp realized it was the smell. The men who had him by the arms yelled ahead to the guards to open the first door. They removed the padlock from the latch and swung the door open. With a good enough head start Rapp thought he might be able to bust the latch off.
“Please,” Rapp pleaded with the men. “I’m only an analyst. I can’t do this. Please give me my clothes back and let me call Washington. I’ll get you your money.”
They tossed Rapp into the room like a rag doll. He tumbled to the floor, begging them to listen to him. Then the door was closed, and he was again enveloped in darkness. Rapp began to whimper, softly at first and then a little louder. For some strange reason, this room smelled better than the hallway, almost as if it had been cleaned with bleach. He recalled the landscape in the alley and remembered the thin strip of blue on the horizon only a few blocks away. It was the sea for certain, and with all of the bombed-out buildings it fit the general description of Martyrs’ Square. The merchant must have been right. Rapp rolled onto his side and started digging through his thick hair. The fact that they hadn’t covered his head with a hood worried him. He found the small blade and placed one end in his teeth. He set the blade against the top edge of the tape and began slowly moving his hands back and forth.
CHAPTER 63
THE stairs at the tail of the Russian plane were lowered and Sayyed watched the soldiers in black fatigues file down the steps. He counted thirty. All heavily armed. All Russian special forces. Sayyed had no doubt they were intended as both a show of force and an insult.
Sayyed raised the radio to his lips and said, “You were right.”
Mughniyah’s voice came back, “How many men?”
“Thirty Spetsnaz. Heavily armed.”
There was a long pause and then, “I will be there in five minutes.”
Sayyed attached the radio to his belt and watched as the elite Russian soldiers spread out to cover the area. Finally, Shvets appeared and then Ivanov. Both men were in suits and wearing sunglasses to protect their delicate Moscow eyes. As they approached, Ivanov yelled at Sayyed from across the tarmac. The big Russian threw out his arms and walked the final ten paces as if it had been far too long since they had last seen each other.
Sayyed was not going to be a rude host, so he held out his arms as well, and despite his misgivings, he greeted Ivanov with a smile. As much as he distrusted the man, there was something likable about him.
“Assef, my friend, how are you?” Ivanov practically picked the Syrian up in his arms.
“I am well. Thank you for coming.”
Ivanov pushed the Syrian intelligence officer away and held him at arm’s length. “What happened to your ear?”
Sayyed gently touched the bandage and said, “Oh, nothing. Just a little accident.”
“Other than that you are well?”
“Yes.”
Ivanov peered over the top of his sunglasses at the hangar and the surrounding landscape—the bombed-out hangar, an airliner with only one wing, and another with no engines. “I see Beirut hasn’t changed much.”
“Things are getting better.” Sayyed pointed back toward the construction equipment at the main terminal. “We thought privacy would be best for this meeting.” He motioned toward the hangar, saying, “I promise it will be worth your effort.”
“Yes, but what is this nonsense? I have to compete for my information like some rancher bidding on heads of cattle?”
They started walking toward the shade of the hangar. Sayyed followed the script that Mughniyah had given him. “Yes … well, if it was up to me it would only be you. But I am not the only one with a voice in this.”
“Mughniyah?” Ivanov asked.
“Yes.”
“I have warned you. He is in love with the religious zealots in Iran, and we both know they will never be the answer to a lasting peace in Beirut.”
“I know … I know,” Sayyed said, patting Ivanov’s arm as they entered the hangar, “but there is only so much I can do.”
“And you have been a staunch supporter. Do not think that has gone unnoticed.” Ivanov took off his sunglasses. “Now, where are these Americans that we are all so interested in?”
Sayyed pointed to
their left. In the shadowy recesses of the hangar next to a rusty, broken-down truck, a man wearing a black hood sat in a single chair.
“But I thought there would be three?”
“There are,” Sayyed said. “Think of this one as a sample.”
Ivanov was not happy. “I have flown all this way and you play games with me. I do not like this, Assef.”
“No games,” Sayyed lied. “Security is very important. One of these Americans is such a big fish that we must be extra careful.”
“What is his name?”
“I cannot say just yet.”
“Why?”
“We must wait for the others.”
Ivanov looked around the empty space. Shvets and the Spetsnaz commander had wisely stopped twenty feet away to give them some privacy. Where were the representatives from Iran and Iraq? Turning back to Sayyed, he asked that exact question.
“They will be here any minute.”
Ivanov checked his watch and huffed. His instincts told him something else was going on here. “I do not like this. I do not like this one bit. I am on time. I have important business to attend to back in Moscow.”
“I am sorry, Mikhail.”
“Sorry will not work.” Ivanov leaned in close so he was eye to eye with Sayyed. “When you come to Moscow, I treat you like a prince. I come here, and we meet in this.” He waved his hand around the dilapidated space.
“Mikhail, I am sorry. We do not have your resources.”
“And that is something you would be wise to remember. I do not deserve to be treated like this.”
“I am sorry,” Sayyed could only say again.
“If you are so sorry, you will stop playing games with me and tell me who this big fish is. And if you do not want to stop playing games, then I will be forced to start playing them as well. Maybe I will get on my plane and fly back to Moscow. You can conduct your little auction without me.”
“Mikhail, I am—”
“Don’t say it again. If you are truly sorry you will tell me who the mystery American is. If not, I am done playing games and I will leave.”
Mughniyah had specifically told him not to divulge that information until he was there, but Sayyed was growing weary of the man’s paranoia. He did not trust Ivanov, but he couldn’t see what harm could be caused by telling him about Bill Sherman. “I will give you a sneak peak, but you have to play dumb when Mughniyah gets here.” Turning, Sayyed said, “Follow me.” As they walked over to a folding table, he said, “This American is rumored to have been heavily involved in some of the CIA’s most sensitive operations. Including operations directed at your country.” There were three files on the table. Sayyed picked up one and handed it to Ivanov.
Ivanov had been preparing himself for this for the past twenty-four hours. He had expected to see the man in person, but in a way it would be easier for him to downplay his reaction this way. He opened the file, looked at the Polaroid photo of the American spy, and nearly gasped. Ivanov hid his emotions and tilted his head as if he were trying to place the face, even though he knew with absolute certainty who the man was. He and Stan Hurley had tangled back in Berlin a long time ago. Hurley had become such a problem that he had sent two of his best men to kill him one night. Neither came back. Their bodies were found floating in the Spree River the next day. The day after that, Hurley marched into Ivanov’s office in broad daylight and put a gun to his head. Hurley explained the rules to him that morning, rules that Ivanov already knew, but had nonetheless ignored. The Americans and Russians were not supposed to kill each other. It was all part of the new détente of the Cold War, the easing of tensions in the early seventies brought about by Nixon and Brezhnev. The American then gagged him, blindfolded him, tied him up, and pilfered his files.
When Hurley was done, he loosened the ropes on Ivanov’s wrists a bit and whispered in his ear, “You should be able to wiggle your way out of these in a few minutes. By then I’ll be gone, and you’ll be faced with two options. You can scream your head off and try to chase me. If you do that your bosses and everyone else back in Moscow will know that you let an American waltz into your office in the middle of the day, tie you up, and steal your files. You will be an embarrassment to the KGB, and we both know how much the KGB likes to be embarrassed. Your other option … well, let’s just say I hope you’re smart enough to figure it out.”
Ivanov was smart enough, and he had never told a soul about that day. He coughed into his hand and turned to Sayyed. “I have heard of this man. What else can you tell me about him?”
Sayyed thought it best to not be too forthright on this point. Telling him that the American was the toughest, craziest man he’d ever encountered would not be good for the negotiations. Fortunately, he was saved by the sounds of approaching vehicles.
CHAPTER 64
HURLEY dangled in the air from a hook that was tied to his wrists. His toes hovered only a few inches from the floor. His shoulders ached like nothing he had ever experienced. This had been his punishment for taking a bite out of Sayyed. They also decided to tape his mouth shut, but he thought that had more to do with silencing his insults than with their fear of being bitten. The only nice thing to come of it was that they’d left him alone. Not that hanging by your wrists a few inches off the ground was a nice thing, but it was certainly preferable to having your fingernails ripped out and being electrocuted.
There was a noise at the door. A second later it opened and the light turned on. Hurley blinked a few times before he could see it was Radih. The Fatah leader crossed over and exhaled cigarette smoke into Hurley’s face. Hurley inhaled the smoke and thought he might apologize for all the nasty things he’d said about Radih’s mother if only the man would offer him a heater.
Radih reached up and tore the tape off the American’s mouth. “I have a surprise for you.”
“We gonna try the rubber hose today?”
“No, something much better.”
“Great,” Hurley said with feigned enthusiasm. “I can’t wait. Hey … about that stuff I said about your mom—”
Before Hurley could get the rest of it out, Radih smashed his fist into Hurley’s stomach. “I have had enough of your lies. I am going to make you feel more pain than you have ever imagined.”
“Good,” Hurley coughed. “I hope you kill me, because Mughniyah will kill you for it. Nothing could make me happier than making sure you went down with me.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to kill you,” Radih said, smiling. “But I am going to kill your son.”
Hurley laughed. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Radih turned to his men. “Get him.”
“My son?” Hurley asked. “You must be off your rocker, unless you mean one of your bastard brothers I fathered with your mother.”
“Yes … keep talking. We will see how tough you are in a moment.”
The two men returned, each with one arm looped under Rapp’s armpits. Rapp was shuffling along trying to keep up and blabbing incessantly about the money he could get them.
Rapp saw Hurley and yelled, “Dad. Don’t worry, we’re going to get out of this. Washington is going to pay for your release.”
Hurley looked at Rapp and said, “What the fuck are you talking about? Have you lost your mind?”
Radih was finally having some fun. “This is beautiful. You are right. I can’t kill you, but I can kill your son. A big American fuck-you.” Radih snapped his fingers and pointed at the floor. “Bring him here.” The men dumped Rapp on the ground at Radih’s feet. “I will handle him,” he said as he drew the American’s silenced Beretta from his waistband. “Hold the father’s head and make sure his eyes are open.”
The two men left Rapp and took up positions on the right and left side of Hurley. They grabbed his head and dug their thumbs into the skin just under his eyebrows and pulled up.
“Make him look,” Radih commanded as he grabbed a fistful of Rapp’s hair. “Over here.”
“Why are you
doing this?” Rapp wailed in a panicked voice. “Our government will pay you.”
Radih bent over and said, “They will pay for him, you idiot. You are worthless.” He straightened and looked at Hurley. “Are there any other lies you’d like to spew about my mother?”
Hurley didn’t offer a reply.
“How does a man of your considerable though twisted talents sire such a stupid child?”
Rapp looked up, only half listening to the insults. His focus was on a beautiful 9mm suppressed Beretta. Radih kept waving the gun back and forth, sticking it in Hurley’s face and then pointing it at Rapp’s head. Rapp followed it like a tennis volley. Radih’s finger was on the trigger and the red dot above his thumb told Rapp that the safety was off and the gun was hot. The man settled into a rhythm with his insults. He was now saying something about Rapp’s mother, the woman he presumed to have slept with Hurley. The Palestinian stuck the tip of the suppressor under Hurley’s nose and ordered him to beg for his son’s life. As Hurley started to speak, the gun began its slow-motion arc back to Rapp.
Rapp made his move. He’d sawed most of the way through the tape around his wrists while he was back in the holding cell. Now, not sure the tape would break, he went for a two-handed grab around the barrel of the gun. His hands clamped down on the steel while the gun was still swinging Rapp’s way. Rapp stood, driving the gun straight up so a misfire wouldn’t bury itself in Hurley’s chest. At the top, he pivoted to his left, bringing the gun up and over the top of his head, before pulling it back down on the other side, effectively putting Radih in an arm bar. In this position the Palestinian couldn’t move unless he let go of the gun. Rapp delivered a quick knee strike to Radih’s face, and a bullet spat harmlessly into the cinderblock wall.
Having dazed him, Rapp ripped the gun free. He swung the pistol back, cracking Radih across the forehead with the heavy metal grip. The blow sent him to the floor. Rapp tried to wrench his wrists free of the remaining duct tape but it caught. The other two men were finally starting to move. Hurley, realizing that one of the men might yell for help, started screaming at the top of his lungs as if he were being beaten. Rapp took a step back to get a better angle and yanked again, but the last bit of tape held, so he flipped the gun up in the air and caught the grip with both hands. The man on his left was no more than four feet away when he fired the gun twice, hitting him both times in the chest. The man collapsed at Rapp’s feet.