Vince Flynn - American Assassin

Back in training, if someone had asked him to lay down his life to save Stan Hurley, he would have laughed at him, but now he wasn’t so sure. “Any idea where they are?”

Ridley pointed east. “The other side of the big ugly scar. Indian country.”

“You ever go over there?”

Ridley gave him a nervous laugh. “I try not to.”

“So you’ve been?”

“Occasionally. It’s nowhere near as bad as it was back when the shit was really flying.” He searched Rapp’s face, wondering what he was thinking. “It’s still a nasty place for a stranger like you, kid.”

Rapp nodded even though he really wasn’t listening. “So it wouldn’t be such a good idea to wander over there and start asking questions.”

“That would be about the dumbest thing you could do, kid.” Ridley could see the upstart wasn’t listening to him. He reached out and grabbed his arm. “I’ve been to that little lake house down in southern Virginia. I’ve seen the way Stan takes badasses and grinds them up and spits out little pussies, so I’m guessing if you made it through his selection process you’ve got some serious skills. Am I right?”

Rapp looked at Ridley’s grip until he released his arm. “What’s your point?”

“I don’t care how good you are. Going over to Indian country on your own is a suicide mission. We’ll end up looking for three of you instead of two.”

“Well… I’m not good at sitting around, so somebody better come up with a plan and come up with it quick.”

The triple beep, beep, beep of a car horn caught their attention and they both looked to the base of the hill, where a three-car convoy had just pulled up to the roadblock.

“Finally,” Ridley said.

“Who is it?”

“A local who knows more about this hellhole than anyone.”

SHVETS anxiously checked his watch. They’d been in there for more than an hour, and each passing tick of the clock only added to his apprehension. For starters, he didn’t like sitting in the waiting room of Director Primakov’s office on the top floor of SVR headquarters. Any trip to these lofty heights would test a man’s nerves, but considering the events of the past few days, Shvets worried that he might be leaving the building in shackles. He doubted that Primakov knew about the missing money, or the other mistakes that were piling up. The SVR was an entrenched organization with thousands of operations, and Ivanov was regarded as a daring man who knew when to be ruthless and when to smile, and in the years between Stalin’s violent mood swings and the collapse of the CCCP, that would have been more than enough. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

This was a brave new world. The money grab was in full swing. Oligarchs were popping up and riding the wave of decentralization, but not without problems. The peasants were growing dissatisfied with what they saw as unbridled greed and corruption, and the one thing every Muscovite feared more than even a tyrant like Stalin was the rage of the mob. The mob was like some ancient god who needed regular sacrifices. The men in charge knew that, and in order to satisfy that mob and keep it from bubbling over into the streets, they would look for a few bodies to throw them. One or two public executions would go a long way toward calming the hordes.

It was Shvets’s plan. After he’d forced some real food into Ivanov’s gullet the previous afternoon, he began to sketch out their strategy. It would be centered on Primakov’s distrust of Islamic Jihad and its sister organizations. The missing funds would be laid at their feet, along with the assassination of the banker. As Ivanov’s devious brain began to work, he hit upon the idea of blaming them for Hamdi Sharif’s murder as well. Shvets wasn’t so sure. He was from the new generation. Ivanov was from the old, whose motto was, If you are going to lie, lie big.

The tricky part was this agent they were offering up. They had confirmed through one of their sources inside the CIA that Mark Cummins did in fact exist and that he had worked in Moscow before being stationed in Damascus. If Ivanov could deliver someone like that, Primakov might be willing to forget the missing funds. The only problem was coming up with the money to pay off the Palestinians. Ivanov would have to convince Primakov to give him the funds necessary to complete the transaction.

And then this morning Sayyed called and things became infinitely more interesting. He explained that he was now in possession of two more Americans, who had been sent to try to buy the release of Agent Cummins. One of the men was nothing more than an underling, but the other was the catch of a lifetime. When pressed, Sayyed refused to give details, saying he would only discuss the matter in person, when they arrived in Beirut. Still, there was no mention of Dorfman and the missing money.

Sayyed’s continued silence over the missing funds had caused Ivanov to rethink the issue. What if Islamic Jihad and Fatah no longer feared him? What if they thought Russia too disorganized to care? There had been plenty of heated feuds between the various Palestinian factions over the years, and Sayyed was the man who had profited the most by peddling arms to all sides. What if that thug Mughniyah had decided to take what he wanted? Kill Dorfman, take all the money, solidify his position, and thumb his nose at Ivanov?

That thought had caused Ivanov to reach for the vodka, but Shvets had stopped him. He was scheduled to meet with Primakov in less than an hour, and he needed to be sober. The problem had become clear to Shvets as well. Why else would Sayyed stay quiet over the missing funds? If his money was gone as well, he would be demanding answers. The only logical reason for his silence was that they had taken the money and they were daring Ivanov to bring it up.

Ivanov had to assume they had every last shred of damning information that Dorfman had kept. All of the various accounts, and how Ivanov had bilked his own government out of millions on the arms shipments by playing the middleman with Sayyed. That information alone could sink him. Ivanov’s hands were tied, at least for now. That was how Shvets had counseled him. Go along with this ruse. Go to Beirut and look the liars in their eyes, and then ask them where the money had gone. Bring a show of force that will make them think twice about stealing from you.

Ivanov liked the idea. As he walked into Primakov’s office he turned and told Shvets to wait outside. Shvets knew his boss too well to think he was anything other than a duplicitous snake. As he nervously checked his watch, the minutes ticking by, he figured out what Ivanov was up to. He was in there right now, blaming him for the missing funds. He’d probably already ordered someone to begin creating a false trail between him and Dorfman. That way, when it really did blow up, Ivanov could step back and blame his inept deputy Shvets. Shvets didn’t know if he was more upset with Ivanov or with himself for not seeing it sooner. He should have left him in bed and gone to Primakov and taken his chances.

When the door finally opened, Ivanov appeared with a stoic look on his face. He never broke stride as he headed for the elevator. As he walked past his deputy he snapped his fingers for him to follow. Shvets hopped to his feet and buttoned his jacket, hustling to catch up.

Once in the elevator, Shvets asked, “Well?”

“It was good. He understands what must be done.”

Shvets started to ask another question, but Ivanov shook his head in a very curt way that told him this was not the place to talk. When they entered Ivanov’s office less than a minute later, the director of Directorate S went straight for the vodka. Shvets did not try to stop him this time. It was approaching midafternoon, and he took it as a victory that he’d kept him sober this long. He waited for his boss to consume a few ounces.