Vince Flynn - American Assassin

After five minutes Chief Haddad appeared, stroking his mustache and assuring Rapp that everything was taken care of. The little kiss-ass hotel manager joined in, telling Rapp that all would be fine. Rapp got the distinct impression that all would not be fine, and that both of these men would look to make money by turning him in to Islamic Jihad, but that was the point of the whole crazy exercise. So Rapp anxiously shuffled his feet and kept rubbing his neck as if he was a wreck.

Pointing toward the door, Rapp asked, “Can’t one of your men stay the night?”

“I’m afraid that is not possible. Besides, you will be safe here.”

Rapp acted even more worried, but truth he told, he didn’t have a worry in the world. He could sleep in peace and then in the morning he could begin to ask around for information. The idea that the chief wouldn’t tell the very people who had asked him to grab Hurley was ludicrous, but Rapp played dumb.

The elevator was out of order, so he took the stairs to the fourth floor. He closed and locked the door to the room and wedged the rubber doorstop into the small gap at the bottom. Next he opened the curtains to see what kind of exit the window might provide. It was a good twenty-five feet to the street. Ridley had sent him off with a grab bag of things, including a thirty-foot coil of rope. Rapp tied one end to the foot of the bed and left the rest of it coiled by the window. Then he took out his silenced Beretta and Motorola radio. He set the gun on the night stand and keyed the transmit button on the radio.

Ridley’s voice came over the radio a few seconds later. Rapp told him he’d made it to the hotel and was in his room. The radios weren’t secure, so they kept the conversation vague and short. Rapp confirmed that he would check in at eight and then every two hours after that. If he missed any of the check-ins, Ridley should assume Rapp had made contact. After that, it was anyone’s guess how things would turn out. Rapp brushed his teeth and lay down on the bed with his clothes on. He didn’t expect to sleep, but if he did, all the better.

He lay there in the dark with his eyes closed, going over all of his options. In his mind’s eye he could see how things were going to proceed, and if he had any chance at all of making it back alive, he would have to stay calm and seize the opportunity if and when it presented itself. When it presented itself, he amended. Petrosian had said it himself. The Fatah and Islamic Jihad factions had grown thin during the cease-fire. Men were leaving their ranks and finding jobs. It was very possible that they would make a mistake. It was simply up to Rapp to see it coming and make his daring move.

Rapp did fall asleep. He had no idea when he had dozed off, or for how long, but it was enough to recharge his battery. He checked in with Ridley at the appointed hour, and then, not wanting to lose his nerve, he left the hotel and proceeded directly to Maarad Street a few blocks away. The vendors were manning their tents, selling all kinds of produce and food. Rapp worked his way up and down both sides of the street, speaking English and playing down his French when he had to speak it. He continued to play the role of the dolt. Almost to a man, people shunned him as soon as he asked about Colonel Sayyed. There was one man, though, who had opened up. He was selling electronics, small radios, tape players, and two-way radios like Rapp’s Motorola.

Rapp stepped into his small tent and said hello. There was a polite exchange and then Rapp asked him, “Do you know anything about the two Americans who were picked up a few days ago?”

The man pointed to two radios and loudly asked Rapp, “Which one do you like better?” And then in a much quieter voice he said, “Yes, I know of the Americans.” He then stuck out his hand for cash.

Rapp peeled off seven one-hundred-dollar bills. The man pocketed the bills and picked up a small alarm clock radio. He began to explain its various features. In between lauding the various components he lowered his voice and said, “There is a rumor that the Americans are being held in the basement of an old building on the west side of Martyrs’ Square.”

Before Rapp could ask another question the man was stuffing the alarm clock in a bag and sending him off. That was when Rapp noticed the two guys with stern faces and distinctive bulges under their jackets. He went straight back to the hotel. He wanted to pass on this nugget of information before he was picked up. As he reached the street that the hotel was on, he turned left, which was the wrong way. He took two steps, and then, acting as if he’d just realized his mistake, he turned left again and saw the two men halfway down the block just standing there, staring at him. Rapp kept moving so as to not let them know that he was onto them. It was not lost on him that the two men following him had made no effort to conceal their interest.

Rapp hustled up the next block, and when he entered the hotel he noticed a new manager behind the desk, who gave him a very unpleasant look. Rapp supposed the man thought someone might blow up the hotel just because of his presence. As he climbed the stairs to the fourth floor he realized you could hardly blame the guy. He was like some saloonkeeper in one of those old western movies where the troublemakers were all gunning for the new sheriff.

When got up to the room he sat on the edge of the bed and collected his thoughts, trying to prioritize the various bits and pieces. The vendor was the only real highlight, and even that might be worthless. Was it a wild rumor or was it fact? Rapp knew that unless he had a chance to talk to the man he would never be able to figure it out. The two men trailing him had him worried. Were they on their way up to his room right now, preparing to kick his door down and drag him off?

Rapp thumbed the transmit button and said, “Curly, this is Moe, over.” The Three Stooges monikers was Ridley’s idea.

“I’m here, Moe, what’s up?”

“I just got back from the market. Two guys tailed me back to the hotel.”

“Not a surprise. How was the market?”

“Pretty much treated me like a leper… just like you said.”

“Yeah… bad part of town. They haven’t seen a gringo around there in some time. I’m sure you were a big hit.”

“I did pick up one piece of information.” Rapp paused, trying to figure out the best way to pass it along without giving too much away on an open channel. “Remember last night… when our Armenian friend talked to us about the manpower issue.”

There was a slight delay and then, “Yep… I remember.”

“He referenced a local standoff… a land grab… kind of a standoff at the OK Corral.”

“I’m with you.”

“There was one vendor… cagey fellow. Told me on one side of the corral, the guys are keeping some things in the basement.”

“I think I copy. Can you give me more on the source?”

“He sold electronics. Boom boxes, small radios, clocks, that kind of stuff.”

Ridley asked for a description of the man and his stall and Rapp gave it to him. Then Ridley said. “I’ll pass this on to the American and see what he’s heard. Anything else?”

“No,” Rapp said as he crossed over to the window and pulled back the curtain. The two men who had followed him had taken up positions directly across the street. “Those guys I mentioned have decided to camp out in front of the hotel.”

“Not a surprise. You sure you still want to do this?”

Rapp had just been asking himself the same question. But like his high-school lacrosse coach used to say, you can’t score unless you shoot. “I’m fine,” Rapp said into the small radio. “If I don’t check in at noon, you’ll know I’m either dead or in the middle of negotiations.”