Vince Flynn - American Assassin

Ridley’s gaze narrowed. “Where’d you hear that story?”

“Stan.”

“For Christ’s sake,” Ridley muttered, obviously not happy that Hurley had told Rapp the story.

“Two diplomats and two KGB guys get snatched by one of the Palestinian factions. One of them happens to be the KGB’s station chief here in Beirut. The Russians know what happened to the CIA’s station chief when he got kidnapped, because they paid for the information that the Iranians sucked out of him. They don’t want to see all of their operations exposed, so they send in a joint force of Spetsnaz and KGB goons and they start whacking people.”

Ridley was shaking his head. “That’s not the answer.”

“Really… since you appear to know the story, tell me how it ended.”

Ridley shook his head. “Nope.”

“One was killed and the three were released,” Rapp said. “And how many Russians were kidnapped after that?”

“Zero,” Ridley reluctantly admitted.

“That’s right, and how many Americans?”

Ridley shrugged. “Not zero.”

“So what’s the lesson to be learned?”

“We’re not the Russians.”

“That’s your answer.”

“Listen… I know you’re frustrated. I’m frustrated, but I am telling you this is way above both of us. There are a lot of really important people who want this cease-fire to last. They will never allow us to go around shooting people like the Russians did.”

“But the Palestinians can keep kidnapping our people?” Rapp waited for Ridley to give him an answer that wasn’t coming anytime soon. “Like I said… this is bullshit.”

That had been more than three hours ago. Rapp and Ridley had not exchanged words since then. Rapp had dumped his anger into studying maps of West Beirut, reading the intelligence reports, and trying to come up with some way to prevent this disaster from following the course of the previous hostage negotiations. Anyone who didn’t understand where this was headed was either deluding himself by ignoring history or just too stupid to connect the dots. Out of this frustration came the realization of what it would all mean to his own future.

He’d spent years thinking of little more than how he would make the other side hurt, and now after all of his training, right when he was getting started, it would be derailed. Hurley and Richards would end up telling them everything they knew about him. His career would be over. The anger welled up inside him, and as he looked out across the city, he could feel himself drifting further and further away from the people pulling the strings in D.C. Their half measures and dithering disgusted him. It was like Hurley had told them on the drive down from Hamburg: “We got soft in the eighties and let these assholes get away with way too much shit.” Apparently Washington still hadn’t learned its lesson.

Ridley joined him on the veranda. He was holding two beers. He set one in front of Rapp and took a swig out of the other.

Rapp eyed the beer and then said, “I’m not in the mood.”

“Shut up and drink. And listen for a change. I’ve been doing some thinking. This thing isn’t going to end well. Cummins was bad enough… Stan… the shit that guy has in his brain… the stuff he’s seen over the years.” Ridley shuddered at the thought of the enemy getting their hands on all that information. “I can’t even begin to calculate the damage.” He paused, took a swig of beer, and shook his head. “Someone needs to do something and you seem like just the kind of crazy asshole that would volunteer for a mission like this, although it’s actually not a mission. There’s nothing official about it. In fact, I’m going to get so pissed tonight that I pass out. And then when I wake up in the morning, and you’re not here, I’ll call Langley and tell them you’ve gone AWOL.”

“And where will I be?” Rapp asked.

“Petrosian will be here in one hour. He has arranged to take you over to the other side. The police chief, no less, is taking you.”

Rapp was surprised. “The same asshole who snatched Stan?”

“One and the same.”

“Can I trust him?”

“Absolutely.”

“How?”

“Because this time he has given Petrosian his word that nothing will happen to you.”

“And I should be impressed by that?”

“Yes, you should. The chief will drop you off at a small hotel a few blocks west of Nijmeh Square, and then you’re on your own. My advice is you spread some cash around, telling the hotel manager and the vendors that you would like to meet with Colonel Assef Sayyed. They will claim they’ve never heard of him, but they all know who he is. They will tell him you are looking for him and he will have someone collect you before the day is out. Then it will go one of two ways.” Ridley took another drink and organized his thoughts. “He will either sit down and negotiate with you, in which case Petrosian has agreed to bankroll you to the tune of one million dollars.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, he is a man who likes to show his gratitude, and besides, you just eliminated one of his top competitors. He’s bound to pick up a few more contracts.”

“Will a million do it?”

“Doubtful, but it will let them know we are serious, and they all know Petrosian is not a man to be fucked with.”

“So if it’s not enough money…”

Ridley waved him off. “I’m going to be working on getting more.”

“Langley?”

“Maybe, but we have some other options. I just need to see if I can pull it off.”

Rapp thought about the money that Hurley had taken from the Swiss bank accounts. He almost told Ridley but decided to keep it to himself for now. “That’s option one. What’s option two?”

“They throw you in the dungeon and they torture you and eventually kill you.”

“But I’m a rookie, so how much harm can I really do.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Something like that. A pawn for a bishop.” Ridley shrugged. “Maybe you even get lucky and take a few of them down with you.” Ridley drained his beer and looked to the west. “There’s one last thing. The story about the Russians.”

“Yeah.”

“Stan didn’t tell you the whole thing. The Russians… they wiped out a couple of families… women and children included. Fucking butchers.” Ridley shook his head, trying to get rid of the bad memories. “We’re not the Russians. We don’t kill women and children. At least not intentionally. Never forget that.”

SAYYED held the small mirror in his hand, turned his head to the right and checked his bandage, carefully fingering the edges. The morning sunlight came through the window of his room, providing ample light. There was no hope of reattaching the jagged hunk of cartilage and skin-at least that’s what the doctor had told him, although Sayyed suspected that the man was not well versed on the most recent medical advances. When all of this was over, which he hoped would be very soon, he would have to go to Paris and see if there was a plastic surgeon who could do something about the nub that was now his ear.

Growing his hair out would help, but Sayyed did not want to live the rest of his years with such a permanent reminder of his time spent with Bill Sherman. That was still the only name he had to go on. The other man, Mr. Richards, had told them he did not know his boss’s real name. As to whether he was telling the truth, Sayyed would only know that after a few more sessions, and depending on how the bidding went, he might not get that opportunity.

One thing was certain: Mr. Sherman’s sanity was no longer up for discussion. In the nearly twenty years that Sayyed had been doing this, he had never encountered anyone close to this animal. The man was clearly insane. How else could you explain biting off someone’s ear and then chewing it? The all-too-fresh memory caused Sayyed to shudder. He’d never experienced anything so strange in his life. The pain had been bad, excruciating at the time, but it had faded. The image, though, of another person chewing on his ear had only grown stronger. He did not like it one bit, and it made him all the more anxious to get through this day and be done with this Bill Sherman or whatever his real name was.