American Assassin: A Thriller

by Vince Flynn

  That snapped him out of it a bit. That and the lesson that he might be Ismael some day. He told himself to slow down and stop rushing things. He checked his watch. It was two-eleven in the afternoon. He hadn't slept in more than a day, and the day before that only a few hours. He opened the door and closed and locked it behind him. He could barely keep his eyes open, but he still dug out the doorstop and wedged it under the door. Not bothering to check the rest of the place, he went into the bedroom and opened the closet. There on the floor was a suitcase that looked a lot like the one from Istanbul. Rapp placed it on the bed, opened it, and found three Beretta 92Fs with silencers and extra magazines. It was the same suitcase.

  Rapp loaded one of the guns and put the suitcase away. With his last bit of strength, he stripped down to his boxers and climbed under the covers of the twin bed. He shoved the pistol under the pillow and wondered who the person was who went from city to city dropping off their tools of the trade. Would he ever get the chance to meet this mystery man or woman? Probably not. As Hurley liked to say, they were on a need-to-know basis and there wasn't a lot they needed to know. Rapp began to drift off to sleep even though he knew that Hurley and Richards would probably be there in a minute. He figured any sleep was better than none.

  CHAPTER 50

  THE bag they'd placed over his head offered a mix of putrid smells--feces, vomit, snot, and blood all mixed together with the sweat of all the men who had worn it before him. And it wasn't the perspiration of exertion, it was the ripe sweat of fear, an all-out assault on his olfactory system, designed to make him pliable to whoever it was who would walk through the door and begin asking questions. Hurley had no idea where he was, other than the fact that he was in a basement. He'd felt the stairs as they'd dragged him from the trunk of a car and into the building.

  It was the second car he'd been in that morning. In the midst of his pummeling by the police he blurted out the only name that he thought might help. "Levon Petrosian! I am a friend of Petrosian!"

  The clubbing and kicking stopped almost immediately, and then one of the men asked him what he'd said. Hurley could tell it was the portly one in the three-piece suit, even though he couldn't see him. The man ordered him cuffed and placed in the backseat of one of the cars. They were not gentle, but Hurley did not expect them to be, so it wasn't too bad. That was when they placed the first hood on his head. It wasn't too bad, really. It could have used a good cleaning, but at least it didn't smell like a bowl of shit.

  He marked the time in the back of the car, counting the seconds and trying to make sense of the noises beyond the glass windows. The metal cuffs were biting into his skin. He twisted his wrists around and tried to see if he could get out of them, but it was no use. Twenty-seven seconds later, the car doors opened. Hurley couldn't be sure, but he thought two men got in the front seat and one man joined him in the back. He felt something hard jabbed into his ribs.

  "Don't move, or I will kill you."

  Hurley couldn't be sure if the object at his side was a gun or a truncheon. "Fuck you." The object was jabbed even harder into his side.

  "You shouldn't talk to a policeman like that."

  The voice came from the front seat. It was the older pudgeball. "Policeman," Hurley said with open disdain. "If you're cops, what am I being arrested for?"

  "For striking a police officer. One of my men has a broken nose."

  "You mean the one who was going to crack me over the back of the head with his stick? I have a great idea. Don't bullshit me, and I won't bullshit you."

  "Striking a police officer is a very serious matter."

  "Yeah ... so is kidnapping, so why don't you just pull over and let me go and I'll make sure no one puts a price on your head."

  "Are you threatening us?"

  "Just telling you the truth. I make it a habit not to kill cops ... that is, unless they are corrupt."

  Hurley doubled over as the man next to him delivered a stinging blow with whatever it was that he was holding. Hurley recovered and said, "I can't wait to tell Petrosian about this ... the first thing I'm going to do"--Hurley turned to his right as if he could actually see the man next to him--"is take that stick of yours and shove it up your ass. Although you'd probably like that, wouldn't you?" Hurley expected it this time and folded his arms up quickly, locking the object between his right biceps and forearm. Then he reeled his head back and smashed it in the general direction of the other man's head. They hit forehead to forehead, like two pool balls. A loud, resounding crack. Despite the pain that Hurley felt he started laughing wildly and kicking and thrashing.

  That was when they decided to pull over and put him in the trunk. Not long after that, maybe ten minutes, they stopped, pulled him out of the trunk, and stripped him down to his birthday suit. Hurley endured this part without comment. He had a sinking feeling where this was all headed, and it was bleak, to say the least. He held out hope, though, that Richards had been able to get away. They wasted no time tossing him into the trunk of a second car and speeding off. It was a bumpy ride, and it must have been an older car, because the fumes grew so strong that Hurley started to think he would suffocate. It occurred to him that that might be the best possible outcome. Fall asleep and die from carbon monoxide poisoning. He could skip all of the degradation and take his secrets with him.

  Unfortunately, he had survived, and they had dragged him into this dank basement that smelled like an outhouse. They'd switched out the hood that the police had used and put this disgusting burlap bag on his head. Hurley took in shallow breaths through his mouth and focused his mind. Throwing up under this thing would be extremely unpleasant, but then again there was a really good chance that he was about to endure the most repugnant degradation the mind could imagine, so why worry?

  The mind, Hurley knew, could only take so much before it simply opened up and let the secrets spill out. They said everyone eventually broke, but Hurley didn't think of himself as everyone. He was a mean, nasty man who might have lost a step, but he was still very much in control of his mind. Under the smelly hood he smiled at the challenge ahead of him. He went through the long, nasty list of the things they would do to him. He committed himself to fighting them every step of the way, and if he was lucky they'd either intentionally or accidentally kill him. And that was a victory he would take in a heart-beat.

  Hurley sat there for at least an hour. He was bored, because he knew what they were doing, and he'd just as soon get on with it. Isolation was a standard interrogation/torture technique, and while it worked on most people it was useless on Hurley because of the simple fact that he really didn't like people all that much. There were a few here and there that he'd met over the years who could hold his interest, but most others were either boring or irritating.

  There were noises on the other side of the door. Footsteps, some talking, but nothing he could make out, and then the door opened. Hurley tried to count the different steps. His best guess was three or four men. They spread out around him. Someone approached him from behind and Hurley resisted the impulse to flinch. The man grabbed the burlap bag and yanked it from his head. Hurley blinked several times and took a look around the room. An industrial lamp hung from the ceiling, a brown extension cord snaking its way to the door. Hurley looked at the three men he could see. Two were familiar.

  "Gentlemen, there must be some misunderstanding here," Hurley announced in an easy tone. "I thought hostilities in Beirut were over."

  The two men in front of Hurley shared a brief smile. The older one said, "Mr. Sherman, I have been looking forward to this for some time."

  "So have I, Sayyed."

  "So you know who I am?" Sayyed asked with a raised eyebrow.

  "I sure do. You're the GSD goon here in Beirut."

  "And you, Mr. Sherman, are a CIA assassin."

  Hurley looked as if he had to think about that for a second, and then he nodded and said, "That would be correct. I kill people like you for a living. In fact, I killed your boss, Hisham."
>
  Sayyed nodded. This was going to be very interesting. "It really was a shame that you weren't at the embassy that afternoon. We planned the entire operation with the hope that you would be there."

  "Yeah ... it was a real shame. Although I've tried to make up for it over the years by killing as many of you assholes as I can."

  Sayyed gave him an affable smile. "It looks like your killing days have come to an end."

  "Possibly." Hurley surveyed the dank room. "Things don't look so good, but I'm always up for a challenge."

  "This is a challenge you will not win, and you know that."

  "I'm afraid I don't. You see I'm a fucked-up guy. I'm not okay in the head, and I pretty much hate you limp dicks more than I love life, so this is gonna be a tough one."

  "Really, Mr. Sherman, your false bravado is so American ... so Hollywood."

  Hurley winced at the word Hollywood, as if it pained him to be associated with the town. "No false bravado here, Sayyed. I am going to fuck with you until I take my last breath. I'm going to feed you so much disinformation, you won't know what to believe. You'll be killing your own people before it's all over. You won't sleep at night, and when you do you'll be dreaming of traitors around every corner. Spies in your own camp. This is going to be a blast."

  "Really?"

  "Yep." Hurley gave him a nod to confirm his conviction. "The two of us are going to take a little trip into the bowels of my sick mind, and trust me, you won't make it out unscathed."

  "Ha," Sayyed laughed. This was a first. "Fine. I think we should begin our journey. Don't you?"

  "Absolutely! The sooner the better ... that's my motto."

  "Why have you decided to come back to Beirut after all these years?"

  "You know why I'm here."

  "Let's not assume I know your motives."

  Hurley smiled. "You have something I want."

  "And what would that be?"

  Hurley had thought about this while he had sat under the putrid hood. Ivanov was due to show up the day after tomorrow and he would be desperate. They were all desperate because Hurley himself had drained their little secret bank accounts. He just hoped they hadn't gotten their hands on Richards, and if they had, that he would be smart enough to leave Hamburg out of his interrogation. He needed to make this seem to be about exactly what it was without the money coming up. "I am here to negotiate the release of John Cummins."

  "And why would I give him to you?"

  Hurley tilted his head back and looked up at the ceiling. "Well, let's think about that. If you give him back to me, I won't kill you."

  This elicited laughter from all, including Hurley.

  Sayyed stopped laughing abruptly and snapped his fingers. He looked at one of his men and pointed at the door. The men left and came back a few seconds later wheeling the small stainless-steel cart. Sayyed took it from him and positioned it next to the subject. He smiled at Hurley and picked up the pliers, opening and closing them.

  "Manicure?" Hurley asked.

  "I like to call it Twenty Questions."

  "You're so clever, Sayyed," Hurley said, his voice dripping with mock admiration. "Kind of like a game show. I can't wait to get started."

  "Good. Let's start with your real name."

  "Jack Mehoff," Hurley offered, straight-faced.

  "Jack Mehoff," Sayyed repeated. "That is your real name?"

  "Of course it isn't, you fucking moron. Jack Mehoff ... jack me off. Come on, let's go. Off with the first fingernail. You win. I lose. Let's go."

  Sayyed searched the subject's face for a sign of stress. He had never had a prisoner ask to have his fingernail torn off. His demeanor would change in a second, though. Sayyed chose the forefinger on the left hand and wedged the grip of the pliers in under the nail bed. "Last chance. Your first name?"

  "Don't change the rules on me. Very confusing for your subjects. You said Twenty Questions. I blew the first one, come on, let's go," Hurley said with a smile.

  Sayyed clamped down hard on the pliers and began to rock the nail back and forth.

  "Oh, yeah," Hurley announced. "Let's get this party started."

  Sayyed gave it one good yank and ripped the entire nail off.

  "Holy Mary mother..." Hurley unleashed a string of swear words and then started laughing. "Damn, that stings. If that doesn't wake you up nothing will. This is great!" His laughing grew to the point where he couldn't control it. He was shaking so hard his eyes started to tear up. "Oh ... I can't wait for the next one. This is fucking great."

  Sayyed remained undeterred. "Your name?"

  "Bill Donovan."

  "Really?"

  "Nope."

  "Really, Mr. Sherman, what is the harm in your telling us your first name?"

  "Probably nothing at this point, but it's my nature to fuck with guys like you."

  "I will ask the question again." Sayyed stayed steady. "What is your real name?"

  "Ulysses S. Grant."

  "You are lying?"

  "Of course, you fucking idiot. Don't you read history?"

  Sayyed moved in for the second fingernail. He wedged the pliers under the nail bed, wiggled it again to make sure he had a good enough grip, and then looked into Hurley's eyes. He didn't like what he saw. It was the wild-eyed look of a crazy man.

  "Do it. Come on," Hurley egged him on. "What are you waiting for? You're not turning into a pussy on me, are you?"

  Part of Sayyed knew he should stop and come back later when he could control the situation. The men were here, however, so he needed to pull this second nail, and then let this lunatic sit and stew for a while. Probably come back and use electricity. He tightened his grip and yanked the second nail free.

  Hurley howled again with the laughter of a madman. The shrieking turned to cackles and then uncontrollable laughter. His eyes were filled with tears as he yelled, "Eighteen more to go! Heeee hawwww!"

  Sayyed dropped the pliers on the cart. "That's right. We'll give you a little rest before we start with the others." He started for the door.

  Hurley looked at the other man who was standing in front of him. "Is that you Abu ... Abu Radih? I haven't seen you in years. I heard you have your own little terrorist group now ... Fatah. Look at you ... all grown-up," Hurley said admiringly.

  Radih smiled and shook his head. He clearly thought the American insane.

  Hurley tilted his head to the side as if trying to recall some distant memory. "I bet you weren't more than four feet tall when I used to fuck your mother. Did you tell your friends that she was a prostitute?" Hurley craned his head to look at the other two men. "His mom could suck cock better than any whore I ever met, and trust me, I've been with a lot of whores."

  The smile left Radih's face in an instant. He lashed out with his right fist, hitting Hurley in the mouth. Hurley's head rocked back from the blow, and then, before Radih could throw another punch, Sayyed grabbed him from behind.

  "No," Sayyed ordered. "Do not let him get to you."

  Hurley shook the sting and fog from his head and came up smiling. One of his top middle teeth had been knocked out and his mouth was filling with blood. "Look!" Hurley yelled, showing them the gap in his top row. "Look, you knocked my tooth out." Radih and Sayyed stopped struggling for a second, and that was when Hurley unleashed a gob of blood and the one busted tooth from his mouth. The bulk of it hit Radih in the face. With his arms tied behind his back and his legs taped to the chair, Hurley started bouncing the chair an inch at a time toward the two men, snapping his teeth and barking like a dog.

  CHAPTER 51

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA

  IT was almost noon, and Ivanov was still in bed. He claimed he wasn't feeling well. Moaned something about the snow and the cold and the gray, depressing Moscow sky. Of course it had nothing to do with all of the vodka and wine and heavy foods he'd consumed until well past midnight. Shvets would have liked to throw him in a cold snowdrift and shock him back to the here and now. The young Russian didn't understand depression. H
e couldn't see how people allowed it to get so bad that they couldn't get out of bed, was unable to understand that the drinking and the sleeping were all intertwined like a big sheet wrapped around your body until you couldn't move. And then you started sinking. Stop the drinking, get out of bed, and work out. Have a purpose in life. It was not complicated.

  Shvets crossed from one end of the parlor to the other, glancing at Alexei, who was one-half of his boss's favorite bodyguard duo. They were in a corner suite on the top floor of Hotel Baltschug. He looked out the big window across the frozen Moscow River at the Kremlin, Red Square, and St. Basil's Cathedral. Shvets had never understood why the Bolsheviks had let the cathedral stand. They were so anticzar, so antireligion, why let this one church remain while they destroyed so many others? The answer probably lay in their own doubts about what they were doing. The people has risen up and helped them grab power, but the people were a tough beast to tame. Shvets thought they probably feared it would bring about another revolution.

  Frost had build up around the edges of the window. It was minus twenty degrees Celsius, and the wind was blowing, whipping up clouds of snow, but so what? That was February in Moscow. Only a weak man allows the weather to affect his mood. Shvets let out a long exhalation, his breath forming a fog on the window that froze within seconds. Ivanov was about to drag him down, take him under like some fool walking out onto the melting March ice of the Moscow River. These weren't the old days of deportation to a Siberian work camp, and executions against the back wall at Lubyanka, but the government was by no means just. The new regime was just more astute at PR. They could still be beaten senseless and be forced to sign false confessions of crimes against the state and whatever else they decided to trump up. Then they would be taken to the woods and shot, far away from the ears of the people and the new press.