Vince Flynn: American Assassin

Sayyed tossed his cigarette in the gutter and entered the office building. Extension cords ran along the floor and the wall to bring power to various levels. The place had been functional for just two weeks, and Sayyed did not plan to use it for more than another few days at the most. The greatest vulnerability for his side was a complete lack of air power. If some dog in Israel found out where he was, he could have jets scrambled and dropping bombs on him in less than twenty minutes.

He took the stairs down to the basement level. The smell of raw sewage was an instant reminder that the city was still suffering the ills of almost fifteen years of fighting. Two men were in the hallway-standing next to a kerosene lamp. They were still without power in the basement. Without having to be told, the men moved away from the door. The older of the two snapped off a distinctly British salute.

“Colonel, it is good to see you.”

Sayyed ignored the greeting. “Where is Colonel Jalil?”

The man jerked his head toward the door. “He is inside with the prisoner.”

Sayyed motioned for him to open the door.

The guard extended his hand. In it was a black hood. “To hide your identity.”

Sayyed gave him a disdainful look, and the man put the hood away and opened the door. A man sat naked in the middle of the room tied to metal chair. One man was standing beside him, another in front. Both were wearing black hoods. Sayyed entered the room and walked directly to the prisoner. He grabbed him by his hair and yanked his head up so he could see his face. Sayyed stood there searching the man’s features for half a minute. So far he only had a trickle of dried blood on his upper lip. Other than that he looked untouched.

“Who are you?” Sayyed asked.

“My name is Nihad Wassouf.”

Sayyed stared at him for a long time and finally said, “I think you are a liar. In fact I think you are a Jew.”

“No!” the man protested vehemently. “I am a Syrian.”

“I doubt that.”

“I would not lie about such a thing. Check with the names I have given you.”

Sayyed was already doing just that, but this man seemed like a rat to him, and those lazy fools back in Damascus could be tricked. Without warning, Sayyed walked over to a small cart. A variety of tools were lying on the surface. His hands danced from one to the next. He did not want to do anything that would require medical attention at this point. Finally, he settled on a pair of pliers. Sayyed walked back to the man and held the pliers in front of him. “I am not as nice, nor am I as patient as these two men. I will ask you only one more time… what is your real name?”

The man stammered for a second and then said, “Nihad Wassouf.”

Sayyed reached out and straightened the prisoner’s forefinger on his left hand. He clamped the pliers down on the quarter inch of nail that extended beyond the tip of the finger and rocked it back and forth a few times. The prisoner began to squirm. A line of crimson blood appeared at the edge of the nail bed. “Tell me your real name.”

“I already have… I swear.”

“Why are you looking for the American?”

“I was sent here to negotiate his release.”

“By who?”

“His company.”

“I think you are lying.”

“No… I am not. Call my friends in Damascus. They will vouch for me.”

“I do not believe you.”

“Please. I am only a messenger. They are willing to pay a great sum of money.”

“What if you are a spy?”

“I am not.”

“Liar!” And with that Sayyed tore the man’s fingernail completely out of its bed.

THE doctor peeled off his leather riding gear and stood on the porch listening to Hurley recount the afternoon’s events. He did so as passively as possible, even though his concern grew on several fronts. Interrupting, he’d learned with Hurley, was a bad approach. It was best to let him get it all out. Questions or comments could be perceived as a personal attack, which in turn would elicit a spirited counterattack, all of which the doctor knew was very counterproductive.

Lewis had met the spook five years earlier. The Department of Defense had shipped his ODA team off to Pakistan to help the black ops boys from Langley who were trying to train and equip the mujahedeen in the treacherous border region between Pakistan and Afghanistan. Hurley, in his typical gruff manner, had expressed his amusement that the vaunted Green Berets were now attaching shrinks to their units. He wondered if Lewis was similar to the political commissars who were attached to Red Army units, which was not exactly a compliment, since the communist officers were political appointees and in charge of Communist Party morale among the troops. They were also known to ship off to Siberia anyone who did not show absolute devotion to the party. They were feared and despised by their own men.

Lewis had read clean through the rough bravado of Hurley, and rather than take offense, he laughed along. As the weeks passed, however, Hurley began to consult the shrink with increasing frequency. Hurley soon learned the good doctor was a valuable asset to have around. Lewis, he found out, had a gift. He could read people. The doctor was a walking, talking polygraph.

When Hurley was finished giving the afternoon’s play-by-play he did not stop to hear the doctor’s opinion or let him ask questions. He moved headlong into what he thought needed to be done. “I want you to sit down with him and run him through the wringer. Clear your calendar for the rest of the week if you have to. I want to know what the deal is with this kid. He’s hiding something and I want to know what it is.”

As was his habit, Lewis pursed his lips and stared off into the distance while he thought about other possibilities. He respected, liked, and felt a sense of loyalty to Hurley, but he was not exactly a well-balanced, mentally healthy adult male. Kennedy, on the other hand, was possibly one of the most measured and thoughtful humans he’d ever had the pleasure of working with. Before he did anything he wanted to hear her side of the story.

“I’ll clear my schedule for tomorrow,” Lewis said, agreeing without really agreeing. “Let’s head inside. I’m starving and I need to use the bathroom.”

After Lewis had relieved himself and washed his face, they found Kennedy at the kitchen table reading a file and picking at a plate of noodles. Lewis looked at the uninspired pasta and frowned. One of his passions was cuisine, and it pained him to watch his colleagues put so little effort into something so important. Without saying a word he began searching the cupboards for something, anything that he could use to create a passable meal. Kennedy and Hurley shared a brief smile.

Lewis stuck his nose into the refrigerator, and without bothering to turn around, said, “Stan, would you be so kind as to fetch a bottle of wine from the basement? A Chateau Dominique would be fine.” He took out a package of chicken and closed the door. Moving to the sink he paused for a brief moment and then said, “You might as well grab two.” When Hurley was gone, Lewis looked over his shoulder at Kennedy and motioned for her to join him at the sink.

“So,” he said, “Stan’s not exactly thrilled with your new recruit.”

“He’s not the easiest man to please.”

Lewis turned on the water and began to rinse the chicken. With a wry smile he said, “He thinks you set him up.”

Kennedy rolled her eyes.

“This is the one you told me about? The kid from Syracuse?”

“Yes.”

Lewis splayed the chicken open and let the water run through the crevices. “You never said anything about his fighting abilities.”