Vince Flynn - American Assassin

“That is pure, unfounded speculation.”

“As is your gossip about Herr Dorfman being a GRU spy.” Checkmate.

Koenig squirmed for a moment and then offered, “Would you be willing to talk to the people who have sworn that Herr Dorfman was a spy?”

“Absolutely,” he said, even though he had no such intention, “but I would like to see those faxes first. Especially the one that originated in Moscow.”

Koenig studied him cautiously for a moment and then said, “I will have copies of the faxes made for you. Give me a minute.” He left the room, glancing back over his shoulder with a frown.

Shvets paced while he waited. This was starting to look like a big mess. Once these thieves in suits confirmed that Dorfman had worked for the KGB, they would not be the slightest bit inclined to repay a single dollar. The Germans hated the Russians almost as much as the Russians hated the Germans. Koenig came back a few minutes later. He had two other men with him this time, and Shvets knew the jig was up. Koenig handed over the stack of faxes. They were blank, except for the sending and receiving fax numbers. The man might as well have written “Fuck you” in large letters across the top sheet. Still, it was better than nothing.

THEY had drinks in the library, although Rapp thought of it more as shots like he had done back in college, except instead of a smelly bar in upstate New York he was in a mansion on the outskirts of one of the most refined cities in the world. Herr Ohlmeyer did not believe in ruining fine spirits with anything other than ice, so the liquor was served either up, on the rocks, or neat, which Rapp learned was basically naked, meaning nothing but the booze. Rapp chose a glass of sixteen-year-old Lagavulin single malt scotch and asked for it on the rocks. Ohlmeyer liked playing host and told Rapp it was a fine choice. Rapp took the glass, smiled, and said, “Thank you.”

Greta had not made her entrance yet, so Rapp took the opportunity to corner Hurley, who was standing by the massive granite fireplace speaking with one of Ohlmeyer’s two sons. He approached Hurley from behind and tapped him on the shoulder. “We need to talk.”

Hurley said something to Ohlmeyer’s son in German that Rapp did not understand, and after he had walked away, Hurley turned to Rapp and asked, “What’s up?”

Rapp jerked his head in the direction of the small soundproof office. “What was that all about?”

Hurley’s jaw clenched as was his habit when he didn’t want to talk about something. Reluctantly he said, “It’s part of the deal. Don’t worry. Just listen to Carl, he knows what he’s doing.”

“Does Irene know about it, or Spencer Tracy, that guy who I’m not supposed to know?” That was how Rapp referred to the man he had met briefly at the offices of International Software Logistics, the man who, he assumed, was running the show. The question caused the veins on Hurley’s neck to bulge, which in turn caused Rapp to take a step back. That particular physical cue was often a precursor to Hurley’s blowing his top.

Hurley felt the older Ohlmeyer’s eyes on him and told himself to take a deep breath through his nose and exhale through his mouth. It was a trick Lewis had taught him. It helped him center himself. Ohlmeyer despised public outbursts. “Listen, kid… this is a tough business. There’s certain things they don’t need to know about, and quite frankly, don’t want to know about.”

Rapp considered that for a second before asking, “Can it get me in trouble?”

“Pretty much everything we do can get in you in trouble with someone. This is about taking care of yourself. No one else needs to know about this other than Carl and his two boys.”

Rapp took a sip of his scotch and was about to ask another question, but thought better of it. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

Hurley wished he could say more, but the kid would have to figure it out the hard way, as he himself had had to do back in the day. He took a big gulp of bourbon and thought about how much easier it would have been if someone had just pointed a few things out to him. Hurley changed his mind and decided to let it fly. “Kid… you’re good, and that’s no small thing coming from me. My job is to find faults and try to beat them out of you. At some point in this line of work… I don’t care how good you are… I don’t care how just your cause… sooner or later you’re going to land yourself in a big pile of shit. It might be your fault, although more than likely, it’ll be some asshole back stateside out to make a name for himself so he can advance his career. He’ll put a target on your back, and trust me on this one, even though you’re going to want to stand and fight, you need to run. Run and hide… lie low… wait for things to blow over.”

“And then what?”

“You live to fight another day, or maybe you just disappear for good.” Rapp frowned, and Hurley knew exactly what he was thinking. “We’re not that different, kid. The idea of running away for good isn’t in our veins, but it’s nice to have options. You bide your time, you find out who it is who’s out to get you, and then you go after them.”

Rapp absorbed the advice and looked around the courtly library. “When are we shipping out?”

“Tomorrow morning. I was going to tell you guys later.”

“Where to?”

“Back to the scene of the crime.”

“Beirut?” Rapp whispered.

“Yep.” Hurley held up his glass. “Although I might have a small job for you first.”

“What kind of job?”

“We might have a lead on someone.”

“Who?”

“I don’t want to say yet.”

“Come on!”

“Nope… no sense in getting your hopes up. Irene is flying over in the morning to brief us. If she’s verified it, I will send you on a quick one-day detour, and then you can join up with us in Beirut.”

“And the intel on Beirut?”

“It’s good… really good. These guys have been singing like birds all day.”

The men spent another thirty minutes in the library. Ohlmeyer took the time to introduce both of his sons to Rapp and Richards. The older one was August and the younger was Robert, and both were vice presidents at the bank and held positions on the board. The patriarch of the family assured the two young men that they could trust his sons, and Hurley seconded the opinion. Ohimeyer knew that they would be leaving in the morning and suggested that they reconvene at the earliest possible time to work out the protocols and to make sure that each man understood the details of his various legends.

SHORTLY before seven they moved from the library to a sitting room that was decorated in the French Baroque style. The white, carved flowers, leaves, and shells on the furniture and molding were in stark contrast to the deep natural woods of the library. Sitting on one of the room’s four sofas was Greta. Next to her was an older woman whom Rapp took to be her grandmother, and thus Carl Ohlmeyer’s wife.

Greta smiled at him from across the room. Rapp, in control of his faculties this time, flashed her a crooked grin and walked over, shaking his head. “Good evening, ladies.” Rapp offered his hand again. This time it was dry. “Greta, you look lovely.”

“Thank you, Mitch… I mean Mike.”

Rapp laughed, “You’re good.”

“I’d like you to meet my grandmother, Elsa.”

Rapp offered his hand. “Very nice to meet you, Frau Ohlmeyer. You have a lovely home.” Rapp thought he noticed something wrong with her eyes when she smiled. A certain disconnect. Her grip was also a bit weak, and he wondered if she might be ill.