American Assassin: A Thriller

by Vince Flynn

  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.

  Rapp swung the gun around on the other man, who was caught between the door and Hurley. He was never going to make it, so he stopped and put his hands up in the air.

  "Shoot him," Hurley ordered in a raspy voice.

  Rapp squeezed the trigger and buried a bullet in the man's forehead.

  "Get me down ... quick," Hurley hissed.

  "What about him?" Rapp asked, pointing the gun at Radih, who was showing signs of life.

  "Get me down first."

  Rapp ripped through the last bit of tape while he ran over to the wall and untied the makeshift pulley. Hurley dropped the short distance to the floor, landing on his feet. He wavered for a second and then caught his balance.

  "Give me that gun," Hurley ordered, "and check the right thigh pocket of that second one you shot. He should have a knife."

  Rapp placed the gun in Hurley's hands and went off to search for the knife.

  Hurley walked over to Radih, whose arms were starting to flop around as if he was waking up from a deep sleep. Hurley stomped on his stomach, and the Palestinian's eyes popped open. Hurley bent over and pressed the suppressor against Radih's chest. Looking into his eyes, he said, "You should have killed me when you had the chance, you piece of shit." Hurley pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER 65

  TWO of the sedans pulled into the hangar and three more stopped just outside. All of the doors opened at roughly the same time and a dozen well-armed men fanned out, creating a barrier at the door, effectively sealing Ivanov off from his Spetsnaz escort.

  Ivanov looked at the commander with extreme disappointment.

  Mughniyah approached with a confident grin on his face. Four of his bodyguards trailed a few paces back. "Mikhail, welcome to Beirut."

  "I would hardly call this a welcome."

  "You will have to excuse all of this, but I am not in a good mood today."

  "And why is that?"

  "Because I just found out that you have been scheming behind my back yet again."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You will notice that our Iraqi and Iranian
friends are not here."

  "Why?" Sayyed asked, alarmed by the news.

  "Because I found out that Mikhail had made a deal with them. Didn't you, Mikhail?"

  Ivanov tried to laugh the question away as if it was a harmless maneuver.

  Mughniyah turned his attention back to Sayyed and said, "He set the ceiling at five million. The others were going to bow out and let him win."

  "What did you do with them?" Sayyed asked.

  "For the moment they are my guests. I will decide if I am going to kill them later."

  Ivanov clasped his hands together and laughed. Mughniyah was proving to be much smarter than he had given him credit for. "You have outsmarted me, Imad. That does not happen very often. Would you like me to leave, or would you like to discuss business? Negotiate some terms, perhaps?"

  "I will negotiate nothing with you. I am going to name a price and you are going to pay it."

  "Really?" Ivanov said. "And what if I decide I don't like your price?"

  "Then we will have a big problem."

  Ivanov nodded as if he found the game amusing.

  "Before we get to that, though, I need you to return all of the money you took from our Swiss bank accounts."

  "Money that I took!" Ivanov's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. "I did no such thing."

  "I think you did."

  "As a matter of fact I want my money back from you."

  "Your money?"

  "Yes, my money." Ivanov's face was blazing red. "The money that you took. You don't think I suspected you at once? You never liked Sharif. You did nothing but complain about his prices. You called him a rat and a traitor to the cause for charging his inflated prices."

  "I did not kill Sharif," Mughniyah denied flatly.

  "And why should I believe you?"

  "Because I am a man of honor. Someone who fights for what he believes in ... not a thief like you."

  "Honor! This is beautiful. You, of all people, speak of honor. Imad Mughniyah, the hijacker of civilian airliners, the kidnapper of professors, the man who shells entire neighborhoods filled with women and children. You speak of honor. That is laughable." Ivanov literally spat the last word at his accuser.

  Mughniyah reached for his gun, but the Spetsnaz commander beat him to the draw and pointed the barrel of his Markov pistol at the side of Mughniyah's head. All of a sudden it appeared as if everyone had a gun. Slides were being racked and hammers cocked.

  "Enough," Sayyed shouted. "Your disdain for each other has blinded your judgment."

  "And you are a fool," Mughniyah yelled.

  Sayyed approached him, and in a voice loud enough for only Mughniyah to hear said, "And you are broke. How are you going to pay all of your men next week and the week after that? Get control of your hot temper and let me handle this." Speaking to the group, he then said, "Everyone, lower your weapons." He motioned with his hands and repeated himself two more times until finally all of the weapons were either holstered or pointed in a safe direction.

  "I know that Imad did not steal the money, and I do not think that Mikhail did so either."

  "How can you know?" Mughniyah angrily asked.

  "Tell me. Why would he come here today if he had stolen our money?"

  While Mughniyah pondered that question, Shvets stepped forward. "I can assure you that my boss had nothing to do with the stolen funds. I visited Herr Dorfman's boss in Hamburg last week. More than fifty million dollars was stolen. It appears we were not the only targets." Shvets wanted to get out here with his life, so he quickly added, "We are following several leads, including one that the money was stolen by an organized crime element out of Prague."

  "And I can promise you," Ivanov added quickly, "that when we find these people, we will get our money back, and we will punish the people who took it."

  "Thank you," Sayyed said. "Right now, we have something very important to negotiate. We have three Americans. John Cummins, who served four years in Moscow and the last four in Damascus, another relatively young man by the name of Robert Richards, and the infamous Bill Sherman." Sayyed grabbed the file off the table and handed it to Ivanov, giving him a second to study the photo again. "Now, how much would your government be willing to pay for these three men?"

  Ivanov unconsciously licked his lips. A prize like Stan Hurley would virtually guarantee him the directorship. Primakov was getting old and lacked the ruthless animal instinct that it took to run the SVR. He could control the interrogation and filter what information he passed on. The thought of keeping that asshole Hurley in the basement of one of his secure sites like some exotic animal was almost too much to take. He reminded himself that this was still a negotiation and his funds were not unlimited. "I am confident that my government would pay five million dollars for these three."

  "That is not enough," Mughniyah complained before anyone had had a chance to absorb the offer.

  Thus started the back and forth, with Ivanov coming up three million in his price. They were stuck there for a few minutes while Mughniyah kept saying that he would only accept an offer of sixteen million. Ivanov, as well as Sayyed, tried to explain to him that the issues of the stolen money and the value of the American spies had nothing to do with each other. Ivanov raised his offer to ten and was prepared to walk away when Mughniyah finally countered at fourteen. Thirty seconds later they had agreed on twelve, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief, no one more so than Sayyed.

  They were only halfway done, though. Mughniyah wanted all the money in their possession before they would turn the men over, and Ivanov wasn't going to release a red cent until he laid eyes on Stan Hurley.

  Sayyed broke the stalemate by saying, "You need to call Moscow, correct?"

  "Yes."

  "Why don't I retrieve the prisoners? They are not far from here. You can make the arrangements to have the money transfered, and when we get back we can complete the transaction."

  Ivanov, who wanted to get as far away from this horrible place and these horrible people as quickly as possible, leaped at the chance to expedite his departure. "That is a wonderful idea." Turning to Shvets, he said, "Nikolai, go with Assef and bring the prisoners back here."

  The last thing Shvets wanted to do was leave the relative security of this hangar and drive into downtown Beirut. He considered asking if he could bring a few of the Spetsnaz with him, but he knew the request would be denied. As he followed Sayyed and his men to their car, he wondered how much longer he could continue to work for Ivanov.

  CHAPTER 66

  RAPP found the knife, dug it out of the man's pants, and crossed the room. He took his gun back from Hurley and stuck it under his armpit while he cut the tape from Hurley's wrists.

  The tape peeled free and Hurley said, "Give me the gun."

  Rapp held out the knife. "Get your own."

  Hurley grumbled and took the knife.

  "There are two guys in the hallway." Rapp started dragging one of the bodies across the room and placed it by the wall with the door. "I'll open the door, you try to sound like Radih. Yell for them to get in here and I'll pop 'em."

  When the bodies were piled out of sight, Rapp placed his hand on the door handle. Hurley stood behind him. Rapp nodded and yanked the door open. Hurley muttered something about a mess and ordered the two guards to get in there. Unfortunately, only one appeared. Rapp shot him in the back of the head while pulling the door open farther and swinging his left arm around, searching for the second man. The tip of the suppressor ended up less than a foot from the man's face. Rapp squeezed the trigger and shot him in the nose, pink mist exploding out into the hallway. Stepping over the body, he looked left and right. The hallway was empty.

  Rapp dragged the guard into the room. Hurley was already stripping the first guard of his pants, shirt, and boots. Rapp did the same with the second guard and told Hurley to grab the man's bandanna. When Rapp found the radio he asked Hurley, "Do you know where we are?"

  "No."

  "I think I might. What about Bobby
and Cummins?"

  "Bobby should be here, but I think they took Cummins to the airport. They're trying to auction off our asses."

  "We'll get Bobby in a second, but I need to call Ridley first." Rapp dialed in the right frequency and hit the transmit button. All he got was static.

  "Bad reception down here," Hurley told him. "We'll have to get out of the basement."

  "All right..." Rapp looked around the room. "I assume Bobby is naked, too."

  "Yeah ... Let's grab him some clothes."

  Rapp scavenged up a set while Hurley collected two ammo pouches with eight extra AK-47 magazines. When they had everything, they tied the bandannas around their faces and Rapp checked the hallway. It was still empty, so they ducked out, closing the door behind them and locking it. The next door over was padlocked, so Rapp shot the lock off with his Beretta. Hurley opened the door and froze. There, dangling from the hook in the middle of the room, with a rope wrapped around his neck, was Richards.

  "Motherfuckers," was all Hurley could manage to say.

  Rapp considered checking for a pulse, but Richards's skin was chalk white. He'd been dead for hours. "Should we bring him with us?"

  "No." Hurley shook his head.

  Rapp closed the door to Richards's cell and told himself he would process it later. They ran down the back hallway, but when they got near the stairs they heard some voices. Hurley started making hand gestures, but Rapp waved him off, pulling him back away from the stairs.

  Whispering in his ear, Rapp said, "I have an idea." Rapp handed him the two-way radio. "Try Ridley again. Tell him I think we're at Martyrs' Square. I'm gonna run down to the front of the building and see if I can start a little something." Rapp started to move, but Hurley grabbed him.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Just wait here. If I'm right, you're gonna hear a shitload of gunfire in about a half minute. Then we'll make our break." Rapp pointed at the radio. "Just try to raise Ridley. I'll be right back."