American Assassin: A Thriller

by Vince Flynn

  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.

  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 h
is 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.