Vince Flynn - American Assassin

They were living in abject squalor. There was no running water, electricity, or phone service. The men were relieving themselves in the basement in random rooms and corners. No wonder Cummins was sick. Electricity and phone service would have to be brought in from three blocks away, via a series of patched cords and lines that had been spliced into the service of an apartment building.

The guards stepped aside so he could pass, and he entered the command post. The men were standing around a sheet of plywood that had been placed on top of two fifty-gallon oil drums-Mughniyah and Badredeen from Islamic Jihad; Jalil, who was Sayyed’s Iranian counterpart; and Radih from Fatah. Each man had benefited handsomely from his association with the Turkish arms dealer and now they were once again paupers.

“Close the door,” Mughniyah commanded.

Sayyed did so, and joined the men at the makeshift table.

“Well?” Mughniyah asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Radih asked, obviously dubious.

Sayyed looked at the little toad from Fatah and said, “I have been informed that some of your men have taken certain liberties with my prisoner over the past few days.”

“Your prisoner?” Radih shouted. “He is my prisoner!”

“The prisoner,” Sayyed said, “has been kicked and brutalized by your men and due to the lack of sanitary conditions from your men defecating all over the basement like a pack of wild dogs, it appears the prisoner is now ill.”

Badredeen made a foul face and said, “Really… you should institute some basic hygiene. At least have the men go on the roof. The sun will take care of it for you.”

“Do want to walk up seven flights of stairs to go to the bathroom?” Radih asked.

“Enough,” yelled an impatient Mughniyah. He looked from one end of the table to the other, making it clear to all that he was not in the mood for petty arguments. “Someone has stolen millions of dollars from us and you want to argue about where the men should shit?”

“I was only-”

“Silence!” Mughniyah screeched. With his fists clenched he turned on Radih. “I am sick of it… all of the complaining and fighting, the bickering, and for what… it gets us nowhere. Millions are gone, Sharif is dead, our banker is dead, and that vulture Ivanov is now talking about coming to Beirut for the first time in years. Am I the only one who finds this a bit disconcerting?”

“He told me he had nothing to do with Sharif’s murder,” Sayyed offered.

“And since when do you believe anything that comes out of a Russian’s mouth?”

“I have no trust in the man, but on this point, he did seem to be upset that someone had killed Sharif.”

“Maybe someone else did kill Sharif, and that was when Ivanov decided that with our Turkish friend gone it was the perfect time to take all of the money.”

Sayyed considered that one for a moment. It was possible. Ivanov had proven many times that he could be ruthless.

“Add to that these damn Christians deciding to make a show of strength.” Mughniyah gave a swift shake of his head. “I like none of it. Something is very wrong and we know far too little.”

“Why would Ivanov want to visit Beirut?” Badredeen asked.

“Land.”

All eyes fell on Colonel Jalil of the Iranian Quds Force. “Explain,” Mughniyah ordered.

“There is a great deal of valuable land here in Beirut, and many are saying that with war finally behind us, there are huge sums of money to be made.”

“Why can’t these people leave us alone?” Mughniyah asked no one in particular.

“What about the Americans?” Radih asked. “We have one of their agents in this very building.”

“Who was sent here to negotiate the release of the businessman you kidnapped.” Sayyed’s tone suggested what he thought of the idea.

“That is the story he has given you.”

Sayyed turned his head to look at Radih. “You doubt my ability to get the truth out of people?”

“None of us are perfect.”

“So you think the American is holding back on us? That his coming here is all part of a master plan by the Americans to take over Beirut?”

“I did not say that.”

“You did, in so many words.” Looking back toward the leaders of Islamic Jihad, he said, “We do not have enough information to know what is actually happening. It could be anyone at this point, but based on what we do know, we have to assume that Ivanov is the front runner.”

“So what should we do?” Badredeen asked.

Sayyed thought about it for a moment and then said, “Let him come to Beirut. Keep our eyes and ears open and see what we can find out.”

Mughniyah was scratching his beard thinking about what had been said. “Beirut is our fortress. Spread the word to our people at the docks and the airport. I want to know of anything that looks suspicious. Americans, Russians, Jews… I don’t care.”

“And we should alert our allies,” the Iranian said. “Everyone should be extra careful until we know exactly what is going on.”

“I agree,” Mughniyah said. “Quietly spread the word to our people in Europe. Especially anyone who has a connection to Sharif. Let them know of our concerns… that someone might be targeting us.”

It was the right decision, but Sayyed needed to add something. “No mention of the money, though. At least not yet.” One by one they all nodded as he knew they would. To a man, they were too proud to admit that they had been duped out of such a large sum of money.

THE Gulfstream 450 landed at Zurich International Airport and proceeded to the fueling pad rather than Customs. The flight plan stated that the plane was stopping for fuel before continuing to Kuwait. The truck was waiting, and while one of the men began to unwind the hose, a second man in blue coveralls approached the plane’s fuselage, opened his hand, and slapped the side of the plane three times. A second later the hatch opened and the stairs lowered. The man bounded up the steps and hit the button to pull the stairs back up and close the hatch. He checked to make sure the cockpit door was closed and proceeded into the cabin.

Hurley took off the baseball cap and sat in one of the two open chairs across from Irene Kennedy. They were separated by a table. “Good morning.” Hurley tapped the thick file that was sitting in front of the young counterterrorism analyst. “I assume that’s for me.”

Kennedy pulled the file closer to herself and said, “Before we get to this, there are a few things we need to discuss.”

“Well, let’s make it quick, because I have a schedule to keep, and we need to get you back up in the air before Customs comes poking around.”

She nodded as if to say fine and then asked, “What was the final dollar amount?”

“For?”

“You know damn well what for.”

“Oh… the thing.” Hurley looked around the cabin as if he was trying to add it all up in his head. “I suppose somewhere in the neighborhood of…” Hurley flashed her a four with one hand and a five with the other. “Roughly, of course. A lot of it gets siphoned off along the way. Fees and whatnot.”

“You’re sure?” Kennedy asked, fairly confident that he was lying to her.

“Irene, to be frank, it’s really none of your business. This is between Tom and me.”

“Well, Thomas wanted me to ask you face-to-face, since you’re so paranoid about using phones.”

“He knows damn well why I don’t use phones. The same reason he doesn’t.”

“True… but he still wants to know.”

“Why?” Hurley asked.

“Because he thinks you’re holding back on him.”

Hurley laughed. Stansfield knew damn well Hurley would never give him an official accounting. To handle all the black-bag stuff they threw his way, he had to have access to piles of cash. “Darling niece, I think you are either bending the truth or trying to bluff me. Which one is it?”