Vince Flynn - American Assassin

“The man is a curse on all of us,” Radih proclaimed. “I am telling you we should rid ourselves of lies and kill him tonight.”

Thinking it would be a good idea to change the subject, Sayyed asked, “Where is Colonel Jalil?”

“He will not be joining us.” Mughniyah turned and shared a knowing glance with Badredeen.

They had been conspiring. That was plain enough to Sayyed, and if it meant leaving the Iranian out, that was fine with him. Sayyed watched as Mughniyah’s mood turned dark. He’d seen it before, and when he was sour like this he could be prone to violence. Like some fifteenth-century sultan, he could on a whim ask for someone’s offensive head to be separated from the rest of his body. No hierarchy had ever been established for the group, but there was nonetheless a natural order to things. Mughniyah sat atop the food chain for the simple reason that he was the most ruthless among a group of men who were no strangers to violence.

The key, Sayyed had learned, was to think very carefully before answering him when he was in one of his exceptionally surly moods. “What do you have in mind, Mustapha?”

Before he could answer, Radih said for the third time, “I think we should kill him.” He did not bother to look at the others. His voice was eerily devoid of his normal youthful passion. “I think the man is the Shaitan himself. We should take him out to the statue tonight and disembowel him. Leave him to a slow death. He can howl his lies at the moon. Let him be an example to the Americans and anyone else who wants to send their assassins to Beirut.”

Sayyed held his breath. His eyes darted back and forth between the upstart and the lion. Radih was not a deeply religious man, and his proclamation that the prisoner was the devil was likely to give the duo from Islamic Jihad pause, but then again Mughniyah did not like being interrupted.

“Assef?” Mughniyah asked Sayyed.

Sayyed pulled in a quick breath and said, “I’m not sure I would go as far as to call the man Satan, but on the other hand there is undeniably something very wrong with Mr. Bill Sherman.” Glancing at Radih he added, “I can appreciate why Abu might think that would be a good idea, but I’m afraid we would be destroying a very valuable commodity.”

Mughniyah grinned knowingly. They were of the same mind.

“Before we decide on something so brash,” Badredeen said in his easy tone, “we need to assess a few things. Such as our finances.”

Mughniyah held out his hand and said, “We will get to that in a second, but first, I want to talk about Sherman… Why is he back after all these years?”

Sayyed straightened up. “He says he is here to kill us, but it is unwise to listen to much of anything that comes out of his mouth.” He glanced at Radih and gave him a reassuring nod. What Sherman had said about the young man’s mother did not have to be repeated. “His associate, though, is far more truthful, and he says they are here to negotiate the release of Agent Cummins.”

Radih was rubbing his swollen knuckles. “I do not believe either of them.”

“You don’t think they are here to negotiate the release of Agent Cummins?” Mughniyah asked.

“I don’t believe anything that comes out of their mouths.”

Sayyed could see Mughniyah’s legendary temper begin to simmer. “Do you understand the term unintended consequences ?”

The young leader of Fatah shrugged as if he couldn’t care less.

“How about luck… as in good or bad luck?”

Radih nodded this time.

“Well, let me explain to you why your mood is starting to upset me. Six months ago, you decided to kidnap an American businessman, who, as it turns out, is just that. He is not a spy. You kidnapped him without coming to us for approval. For that reason alone I could have you shot. That single kidnapping has set in motion a series of events. Agent Cummins was then sent to try to negotiate the release of this businessman. You decided to then grab Cummins rather than negotiate a fee and end it. Fortunately, or unfortunately, we found out that Mr. Cummins is a CIA spy.”

“How could that be unfortunate?” Radih proclaimed more than asked.

Mughniyah sat back and gripped the armrests of his chair, almost as if he were trying to hold himself back. “I am in a rather bad mood tonight, so I suggest you keep your interruptions to a minimum, Abu, or I might lose control and snap your scrawny little neck.” He let a moment pass, and when he was sure that he had the younger man’s attention, he continued. “Where was I? Yes, as it turned out, Mr. Cummins was not who he said he was. He is in fact an American spy. Now, when we are a few days away from handing Cummins over to the Russian, the notorious Bill Sherman and another CIA lackey show up. Are you following me so far?”

Radih nodded.

“All of this was set in motion by one event. Your kidnapping of the businessman. These are what we would call unintended consequences. How many more unintended consequences are going to pop up? Are there any more Americans in the city, or on their way to the city? Will the four of us survive the week? These are the questions that we will not know the answers to until this thing plays itself out. Your heart is in the right place and you are eager, but you need to understand that your actions have consequences. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes.”

“Now the unfortunate thing is that the Americans appear to have learned their lesson after they let us ship their old station chief off to Tehran, so we could thoroughly interrogate him and then dismantle their network of spies. This time it appears they are going to try to get one of their own back. The only surprise is that they didn’t try to do it sooner, but now that we have the legendary Mr. Sherman, I think the stakes have been raised considerably.”

“How so?” Radih asked, trying not to sound confrontational.

“Mr. Sherman is a particularly nasty man, who no doubt has many nasty secrets bottled up in his sick little head. The CIA will not want those secrets to get out, so I am afraid they will try to get him back as well.”

“So,” Badredeen said, picking up the conversation, “we must move quickly and carefully to rid ourselves of all these Americans.”

“And that is where the Russian comes in.” Mughniyah stared at Sayyed. “Assef, when was the last time you you heard from the Russian?”

Sayyed wiped the corners of his mouth. “Yesterday. I was not able to get hold of him today.”

“Has he mentioned anything about Dorfman and the empty accounts?”

“No.”

Mughniyah and Badredeen looked at each other and nodded in agreement. Badredeen spoke. “Don’t you find his silence on the subject a bit strange?”

“I do.”

“There are three possibilities.” Badredeen held up one finger. “The first, the Russian has no idea our banker was murdered in his home on Sunday and that the very next morning, millions of dollars were emptied out of accounts that he himself helped us set up. Does anyone believe for a second that the Russian is that clueless?” When they were all done agreeing, Badredeen moved on to his second point. “The Russian, being the greedy man that he is, killed Dorfman and took all of the money for himself.”

Mughniyah held up two fingers and said, “I am going with option two.”

“What about option three?” Sayyed asked.

“Someone unknown to us killed Dorfman and stole the money. The only problem with this theory is that Dorfman was very secretive about his clients. The man had no social skill. He cared only for his dogs.”

“Still… someone… an enemy could have found out.” Sayyed tried to keep the options open.

“Let me ask you,” Mughniyah said, leaning forward, “can you think of anyone you know who has a reputation for cheating people out of their money?”