Vince Flynn - American Assassin

When Ivanov looked relaxed enough, Shvets asked, “What did he say?”

Ivanov yanked at his tie. “He sees things our way. He knows the true character of those Palestinian carpet monkeys.”

Shvets was used to his boss uttering racist slurs, so he paid them little attention. He also knew that his boss was paranoid enough in general, but especially today. He was worried his office was bugged. “So what is the plan?”

“We leave in the morning.”

“Alone?” Shvets asked, honestly scared.

“No.” Ivanov had a huge grin. “The director has been quite generous. He is sending along some Spetsnaz. One of the crack Vympel units.”

Shvets wasn’t sure if that was good or bad news. The Vympel units specialized in assassination and sabotage, among other things. “Why a Vympel unit?”

“Because he’s sending us with cash.”

“How much?”

Ivanov smiled and held up five fingers.

“Really?” Shvets’s surprise was evident on his face.

“Don’t be so shocked. I have no doubt it will be counterfeit. Probably being printed as we speak.”

Shvets had heard rumors about the old KGB printing presses that could turn out francs, deutsche marks, pounds, and dollars on demand. “Will they be able to tell?”

“If the Americans can’t tell, how will the Palestinians be able to tell?”

Shvets wasn’t so sure but he went along with it.

“Don’t look so nervous.” Ivanov came over and put an arm around Shvets’s shoulders. “I told him how useful you have been to me. I have no doubt that when we return with these mystery Americans you will be given a nice promotion.”

Shvets smiled, even though he didn’t feel like it. The truth was, there was probably a better than even chance that he’d be given a dirty, dank cell.

ACCORDING to Ridley, it was very poor spycraft to meet a source at a safe house, but for this particular source they made exceptions. The reason was fairly straightforward. The source owned the house. Levon Petrosian had the complexion of someone who was born further north, but had lived long enough in the sun-baked city that his skin was deeply lined and had taken on the appearance of a permanent sunburn. His white hair had receded almost to the midpoint of his head, and he was a good fifty pounds overweight. He entered the house out of breath, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his four bodyguards moving in tandem, two in front and two behind. The bodyguards were young, big, and fit. Two looked like locals and two had Petrosian’s northern complexion.

Petrosian walked over to Ridley, grabbed him by the shoulders, and kissed the American on both cheeks, and then, refusing to let go, he stared into Ridley’s eyes and spoke to him. His face didn’t so much as twitch. His eyes didn’t blink. Only his lips moved. After the intense one-sided exchange, the Armenian gave Ridley one more hug and then his eyes lifted and settled on Rapp. He released Ridley and asked, “is this the one?”

Ridley nodded.

Petrosian sized Rapp up and then announced, “I must shake your hand.”

The man spoke perfect English, but with one of those clipped heavy Russian accents. Rapp couldn’t come up with a single good reason why this man would want to shake his hand, but he stuck his right hand out as a polite reflex.

In a voice only the two of them could hear he said, “I have hated that Turkish pig Hamdi Sharif for almost twenty years. I want to thank you for putting a bullet in his black heart. When I heard he was dead I wept tears of joy.”

Rapp’s own heart began to beat a little faster. How in hell did this man know he had killed Sharif? Rapp tilted his head to the left to so he could get a look at Ridley. The man shrugged his shoulders as if to say he was sorry. So much for secrecy.

“I am very sorry about Bill.”

Rapp had to remind himself that to these people, Stan Hurley was Bill Sherman. “Thank you. Have you found any information that may help us?”

He winced as if disappointed in himself. “I’m not sure if it will help, but maybe. I confirmed that it was the police that picked our friend up in front of his hotel this morning. In fact it was the police chief, that pig Gabir Haddad.”

“Haddad is not a bad man,” Ridley said for Rapp’s benefit. “Just extremely corrupt. He works with us sometimes.”

“He works with anyone if they have enough money,” Petrosian said.

“Levon, anything to drink?”

“No, thank you. My stomach is upset today.”

“So this Haddad,” Rapp said, “who gave him the order?”

“I am fairly certain it was your friends from Islamic Jihad, but I will know more later. I am having dinner with Haddad this evening.”

“His idea or yours?” Ridley asked.

“His… He is afraid he has offended me, which he has, of course. He knows he cannot simply come into my neighborhood and grab my friends. It would have been nice if you had told me Bill was coming. All of this could have been avoided.”

“I know… I already told you I was sorry. He was planning on seeing you today. He didn’t want word getting out that he was back.”

“And how did that work out for him?”

“I know… but just be careful with Haddad. We can’t afford to lose you.”

“I am always careful. It will be at a restaurant of my choosing, and I will make sure the street is blocked off. Trust me… he’s the one who needs to be nervous.”

“That’s what worries me. What if he’s desperate?”

“He has always been a desperate little man. He knows what he did this morning was wrong. He will be full of fear, and I will play on that fear to get every last piece of information from him.”

“Any idea where they took him?” Rapp asked.

“That is the question, isn’t it? Where did they take him?” Petrosian shuffled across the stone floor and out onto the veranda. “Beirut is not a small city. It is not like your New York or Chicago, but it is not small. Have you figured out how they found him?”

“No,” Ridley said. “He flew in last night shortly after nine. That’s all we know.”

“I have talked to the people at the hotel, and I am satisfied that they did not know who he was. Somebody must have spotted him at the airport. From the old days. He made a big enough impression in certain circles, and those little Palestinian rats do all the dirty work at the airport. Baggage and fueling… cleaning the planes and the terminal. They treat it like their own little syndicate,” Petrosian said with contempt. “I have heard rumors that some of the cab drivers are involved in a kidnapping ring.”

“Would they have any pull with Haddad?” Ridley asked, thinking of the police chief.

“No,” Petrosian answered as he flicked a long ash over the edge and onto the cars below. “That would have to be someone much higher up. My guess is the same people who grabbed your other man… the Schnoz… Isn’t that what you call him?”

“Yes. You mean Islamic Jihad?”

“Correct… with the help of a few others.”

“Anything else?”

“Little things here and there.” Petrosian paused and chewed on his lip for a moment. “Have you heard about this standoff at Martys’ Square?”

“I heard a little something yesterday, but not much.”

“It is a funny thing,” Petrosian said while looking off into the distance.

“What you talking about?” Rapp asked.

Ridley pointed to the north. “Follow the scar to the sea… one block short, you can see an open area. That’s Martyrs’ Square.”

“Before the war it was a beautiful place. Full of life,” Petrosian said in a sad voice.

“It was the scene of some of the heaviest fighting during the war,” Ridley added. “The buildings are all empty shells now.”