American Assassin (23 page)

CHAPTER
43
BEIRUT, LEBANON

T
HEY
were to meet two hours after sunrise. Sayyed asked Mughniyah why two hours, and he told him it was because the cowardly Americans only attacked with the cover of darkness and the Jewish dogs with the rising sun at their backs. Sayyed had seen the Jews attack at all hours of the day but he wasn’t going to argue with Mughniyah, at least not considering his current mood.

Sayyed looked down at his little CIA guinea pig. The man was not doing well. None of the nails had grown back enough to use the pliers, so he’d been forced to drill a hole through one of the agent’s nail beds to try to get him to respond to his questions. Instead the man had passed out. There were parameters in these situations, but they were only parameters. You could never tell when you had an outlier. On that note, Sayyed still wasn’t sure about Cummins. Given the less than sanitary conditions, it was entirely possible that he was seriously ill. Aziz al-Abub had taught him how a subject could become sick to the point of the nervous system shutting down. Once that happened, the only thing you could do was nurse the subject back to health and then start over.

Unfortunately, Mughniyah and the others wanted answers that were simply not here. At least not in Cummins’s head. They were distrustful of Ivanov and his constant plotting, but there was still a deep-seated hatred of the Americans and Jews, and they wanted to know if this man knew anything about their missing money. Beyond that there was a fundamental problem that they had overlooked, which was not unusual for the collective group. They were far too one-dimensional and always looked at a situation as if it were a street battle in Beirut. Attack, retreat, dig, and fight—this was the extent of their military repertoire. In the espionage business Sayyed had to analyze in three dimensions and project possible outcomes. This John Cummins was going to eventually end up in the hands of Ivanov, if for no other reason than that Ivanov was used to getting his way. Sayyed had to be very careful what type of questions he asked, with an eye to the fact that the subject would eventually inform Ivanov of what he’d been asked.

Sayyed would have to start the subject on a cycle of antibiotics. The others could talk all they wanted about not handing Cummins over, but Sayyed was done with him. There was nothing more to learn and he did not wish to be put in the middle of this fight. He wiped the small splotch of blood on the front of the white butcher’s apron and wondered what he should tell Damascus. They would want to be fully briefed on the situation, but they did not have to deal with all of these crazy Palestinians.

That was the paradox of Lebanon in general and Beirut specifically. The Palestinians were supposed to be in Palestine, not Lebanon. The Palestinians had upset the balance that the Turks had kept for centuries. Their displacement by the Jews shattered the fragile peace and plunged the country into civil war. And now more than fifteen years later, that civil war was over and the Palestinians were growing cocksure. With relative peace, Damascus was losing its sway over how all these vying factions conducted themselves. Damascus, for its part, was slow to realize what was plain to see. The child was now an adult and did not appreciate, much less need, the consent of the parent. Fortunately for Sayyed, he was more like an uncle—a very nonjudgmental uncle. Especially this morning.

Sayyed knocked on the metal door and waited for it to be opened by the guard. He stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him. Looking at the two guards, he said, “He will need medical attention. Pass the word to the others. I want him treated like a baby. No more kicking or punching.”

The two men nodded and Sayyed moved off down the hallway, still struggling with what he should tell Damascus. He could hardly share the details of the past few days. The Swiss accounts that had been so carefully set up were now empty. Damascus had contributed zero to the accounts, but they were aware of their existence. They did not know, however, that Sayyed had set up an account for himself with the aid of Sharif and Ivanov. He took a cut of every arms shipment that came into the country by helping assure that the various Syrian factions would leave the merchants be. Damascus needed to be kept in the dark as long as possible.

He stopped in the small sandbagged lobby on the first floor. The door was completely blocked and the floor-to-ceiling windows on each side were now nothing but small portholes, just enough to allow a man to take up a rifle position. Oh, how he wished those pesky Maronites would go away. He climbed to the second story and followed the extension cords and phone lines to the makeshift command post. Once again the hallway was filled with armed men, but this time they did not upset Sayyed. He needed them to deter the Christians from doing anything stupid.

They were living in abject squalor. There was no running water, electricity, or phone service. The men were relieving themselves in the basement in random rooms and corners. No wonder Cummins was sick. Electricity and phone service would have to be brought in from three blocks away, via a series of patched cords and lines that had been spliced into the service of an apartment building.

The guards stepped aside so he could pass, and he entered the command post. The men were standing around a sheet of plywood that had been placed on top of two fifty-gallon oil drums—Mughniyah and Badredeen from Islamic Jihad; Jalil, who was Sayyed’s Iranian counterpart; and Radih from Fatah. Each man had benefited handsomely from his association with the Turkish arms dealer and now they were once again paupers.

“Close the door,” Mughniyah commanded.

Sayyed did so, and joined the men at the makeshift table.

“Well?” Mughniyah asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Radih asked, obviously dubious.

Sayyed looked at the little toad from Fatah and said, “I have been informed that some of your men have taken certain liberties with my prisoner over the past few days.”

“Your prisoner?” Radih shouted. “He is my prisoner!”

“The prisoner,” Sayyed said, “has been kicked and brutalized by your men and due to the lack of sanitary conditions from your men defecating all over the basement like a pack of wild dogs, it appears
the
prisoner is now ill.”

Badredeen made a foul face and said, “Really … you should institute some basic hygiene. At least have the men go on the roof. The sun will take care of it for you.”

“Do want to walk up seven flights of stairs to go to the bathroom?” Radih asked.

“Enough,” yelled an impatient Mughniyah. He looked from one end of the table to the other, making it clear to all that he was not in the mood for petty arguments. “Someone has stolen millions of dollars from us and you want to argue about where the men should shit?”

“I was only—”

“Silence!” Mughniyah screeched. With his fists clenched he turned on Radih. “I am sick of it … all of the complaining and fighting, the bickering, and for what … it gets us nowhere. Millions are gone, Sharif is dead, our banker is dead, and that vulture Ivanov is now talking about coming to Beirut for the first time in years. Am I the only one who finds this a bit disconcerting?”

“He told me he had nothing to do with Sharif’s murder,” Sayyed offered.

“And since when do you believe anything that comes out of a Russian’s mouth?”

“I have no trust in the man, but on this point, he did seem to be upset that someone had killed Sharif.”

“Maybe someone else did kill Sharif, and that was when Ivanov decided that with our Turkish friend gone it was the perfect time to take all of the money.”

Sayyed considered that one for a moment. It was possible. Ivanov had proven many times that he could be ruthless.

“Add to that these damn Christians deciding to make a show of strength.” Mughniyah gave a swift shake of his head. “I like none of it. Something is very wrong and we know far too little.”

“Why would Ivanov want to visit Beirut?” Badredeen asked.

“Land.”

All eyes fell on Colonel Jalil of the Iranian Quds Force. “Explain,” Mughniyah ordered.

“There is a great deal of valuable land here in Beirut, and many are saying that with war finally behind us, there are huge sums of money to be made.”

“Why can’t these people leave us alone?” Mughniyah asked no one in particular.

“What about the Americans?” Radih asked. “We have one of their agents in this very building.”

“Who was sent here to negotiate the release of the businessman you kidnapped.” Sayyed’s tone suggested what he thought of the idea.

“That is the story he has given you.”

Sayyed turned his head to look at Radih. “You doubt my ability to get the truth out of people?”

“None of us are perfect.”

“So you think the American is holding back on us? That his coming here is all part of a master plan by the Americans to take over Beirut?”

“I did not say that.”

“You did, in so many words.” Looking back toward the leaders of Islamic Jihad, he said, “We do not have enough information to know what is actually happening. It could be anyone at this point, but based on what we do know, we have to assume that Ivanov is the front runner.”

“So what should we do?” Badredeen asked.

Sayyed thought about it for a moment and then said, “Let him come to Beirut. Keep our eyes and ears open and see what we can find out.”

Mughniyah was scratching his beard thinking about what had been said. “Beirut is our fortress. Spread the word to our people at the docks and the airport. I want to know of anything that looks suspicious. Americans, Russians, Jews … I don’t care.”

“And we should alert our allies,” the Iranian said. “Everyone should be extra careful until we know exactly what is going on.”

“I agree,” Mughniyah said. “Quietly spread the word to our people in Europe. Especially anyone who has a connection to Sharif. Let them know of our concerns … that someone might be targeting us.”

It was the right decision, but Sayyed needed to add something. “No mention of the money, though. At least not yet.” One by one they all nodded as he knew they would. To a man, they were too proud to admit that they had been duped out of such a large sum of money.

CHAPTER
44
ZURICH, SWITZERLAND

T
HE
Gulfstream 450 landed at Zurich International Airport and proceeded to the fueling pad rather than Customs. The flight plan stated that the plane was stopping for fuel before continuing to Kuwait. The truck was waiting, and while one of the men began to unwind the hose, a second man in blue coveralls approached the plane’s fuselage, opened his hand, and slapped the side of the plane three times. A second later the hatch opened and the stairs lowered. The man bounded up the steps and hit the button to pull the stairs back up and close the hatch. He checked to make sure the cockpit door was closed and proceeded into the cabin.

Hurley took off the baseball cap and sat in one of the two open chairs across from Irene Kennedy. They were separated by a table. “Good morning.” Hurley tapped the thick file that was sitting in front of the young counterterrorism analyst. “I assume that’s for me.”

Kennedy pulled the file closer to herself and said, “Before we get to this, there are a few things we need to discuss.”

“Well, let’s make it quick, because I have a schedule to keep, and we need to get you back up in the air before Customs comes poking around.”

She nodded as if to say fine and then asked, “What was the final dollar amount?”

“For?”

“You know damn well what for.”

“Oh … the thing.” Hurley looked around the cabin as if he was trying to add it all up in his head. “I suppose somewhere in the neighborhood of…” Hurley flashed her a four with one hand and a five with the other. “Roughly, of course. A lot of it gets siphoned off along the way. Fees and whatnot.”

“You’re sure?” Kennedy asked, fairly confident that he was lying to her.

“Irene, to be frank, it’s really none of your business. This is between Tom and me.”

“Well, Thomas wanted me to ask you face-to-face, since you’re so paranoid about using phones.”

“He knows damn well why I don’t use phones. The same reason he doesn’t.”

“True … but he still wants to know.”

“Why?” Hurley asked.

“Because he thinks you’re holding back on him.”

Hurley laughed. Stansfield knew damn well Hurley would never give him an official accounting. To handle all the black-bag stuff they threw his way, he had to have access to piles of cash. “Darling niece, I think you are either bending the truth or trying to bluff me. Which one is it?”

Kennedy studied him with a crooked frown, none too happy that he had figured out what she was up to. “A little of both, I suppose.”

“And why are you trying to stick your pretty little nose where it doesn’t belong?”

“Because some day, not too soon, I hope, you and Thomas are going to die and somebody will need to make sense of the tangled web you’ve left behind.”

“If anything happens to me in the next few days, tell Thomas I said to visit our old friend from Berlin who now lives in Zurich. He’ll have the answers you need.”

Her bluff called, Kennedy grabbed a file sitting in the seat next to her. Unlike the bland manila one on the table, this one was gray. Kennedy placed it in front of Hurley and opened it to reveal a black-and-white photograph of a man exiting a car on an unknown city street. “Look familiar?”

Hurley glanced at the photo and lied. “Not really.”

“This is Nikolai Shvets … Name ring a bell?”

“A soft bell. I have a lot of Russian names floating around in my head. It’s hard to keep them all straight. Kind of like reading
War and Peace
.”

“Sure,” Kennedy replied, not buying a word of it. “Care to guess where this photo was taken?”

Hurley glanced at his watch. “We don’t have time to play Twenty Questions, young lady, so let’s get on with it.”

“Hamburg. A certain bank that drew a lot of interest yesterday. Any idea why one of Mikhail Ivanov’s top deputies would show up yesterday, of all days?”

Hurley shook his head.

“He threatened the bank’s president about some missing funds.” Kennedy searched his face for some recognition. “And if your answer is still no, I won’t bother playing you the tape of your old friend Ivanov talking to a certain terrorist that we’ve been looking for.”

Hurley frowned. He didn’t like being forced to answer this kind of question by someone so junior.

“Thomas told me,” Kennedy said, “that you would be reluctant to talk about this, but nonetheless, I have been ordered to get an answer from you.”

“What kind of answer?”

“How many people did you piss off yesterday, other than the ones we know about?”

“It was a thick file.” Hurley shrugged. “Some accounts had names attached to them … others were just numbers.”

“So your earlier estimate might be a little light?”

“Get to your point.”

“It looks like you’ve pissed off some people in Moscow, and you know how they can be when they’re upset. The don’t play nice. If they get so much as an inkling that we were behind any of this…” She shook her head. “We’ll be in serious trouble.”

“So you want me to confirm what you don’t want to hear?”

“I just want to know the facts so I can go back and brief Thomas. He needs to tell our embassy people, if they are in danger of reprisals, and anyone else who might get stuck in Ivanov’s crosshairs.”

Hurley swore under his breath and finally said, “Yes, I took some of the bastard’s money, and with any luck it’ll be the beginning of the end of him.”

Kennedy took the news without comment and placed a small tape player between them. “Now … you will be very interested to hear this brief conversation.”

Kennedy pressed play and the slurred voice of Mikhail Ivanov could be heard asking,
“My package … Is it ready? You haven’t decided to negotiate with the Persians, have you?”

“I am standing by our deal.”

Kennedy pressed the stop button. “You recognize the first voice?”

Hurley nodded. “Ivanov.”

“Correct. The second voice?”

“No.”

“Colonel Assef Sayyed.”

Hurley was impressed. “What the hell are they doing talking on an open line?”

“They weren’t, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

“Then how’d you get it?”

“I can’t say.” Kennedy pressed play again.

“When can I expect it to be retrieved? I assume you are still sending someone.”

“Yes … although I am considering coming myself. … You did offer … didn’t you.”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. I will be there in three days. Maybe sooner.”

Kennedy hit stop. “There’s more. Tapes of Ivanov and Sayyed and others as well. You’ll want to listen to all of them, but Thomas does not want you bringing the tapes into Beirut.”

“Understood. Did you happen to pick up Badredeen or Mughniyah?”

“Unfortunately, no, but we have a few others that I think will please you.” Kennedy retrieved another folder from her briefcase and laid it before Hurley. “Tarik al Ismael.”

“Music to my fucking ears. Please tell me you IDed the prick.”

“Hiding right under our noses a few kilometers down the road.”

“Where?”

“He’s been working at the UN office in Geneva. Attached to the Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs, if you can believe it. He lost a few pounds, cut his hair and beard, and ditched his contacts for eyeglasses. You have to admire his tradecraft.” Kennedy fingered the old photo from his days when he was running operations for the Libyan intelligence service, and then the new photo. “It’s a pretty good effort.”

“You sure it’s him?”

“Ninety percent on the photo and ninety-nine point nine on the voice ID. And he was calling about money missing from his account. If we hadn’t had the big ears focused on these banks, I don’t think we would have ever caught him.”

Hurley thought of their conversation last night and frowned. “So you want to send Rapp after him?”

“Not just me. Ismael is near the top of Thomas’s list.”

“I don’t know, Irene,” Hurley said with obvious reluctance. “Ismael could bite back. He’s not some fat arms dealer. He’s a real killer.”

“In a perfect world, Thomas would send all three of you after him, but we don’t have that luxury right now.”

“Why? Let’s put Beirut off for a few days.”

Like a Vegas dealer, Kennedy slid the gray file off to the side and moved the manila file front and center. “In the transcript, you heard Ivanov ask if his package was ready?”

“Yeah.”

“He asked Sayyed if he was going to negotiate with the Persians instead…”

“Yeah.”

“Remember what they did to Buckley?”

“Remember—I think about it all the time. I was just telling Mitch and Bobby Richards about him.”

“Well, Thomas thinks the Schnoz is the package they are referring to.”

Everything stopped. Hurley didn’t so much as twitch for a good ten seconds. He’d known the Schnoz for close to twenty years and there was a running shopping list in his head of all the operations he’d been involved in. After a quick assessment of the potential damage, he leaned back and dropped the F bomb. Cummins had worked in Moscow before Damascus. If the Russians got their hands on him, they would be screwed in some of their most sensitive operations. He shook his head to get over the shock and said, “We can’t let that happen.”

“Thomas agrees. He has a source that says Schnoz is still alive. Emaciated and battered, but still alive.”

“Shit.”

“That’s why he wants you and Richards to get to Beirut ASAP. As we discussed last night, Rapp will join up with you tomorrow or the next day. In the meantime, you two start poking around. If you can’t find anything in forty-eight hours, Thomas wants you to use some of the new funds to negotiate for the Schnoz’s release. Very quietly, though.”

“Of course.” Hurley was still trying to calculate the damage. “What about backup?”

“He’s agreed to send a SOG team, but doesn’t want to put them in-country until you have something solid.”

“Understood.” SOG stood for Special Operations Group. There was a good chance Hurley would know the men. “Air cover?”

“If you need it he’ll get it. Last resort, though.”

Before Hurley could comment, there was a banging on the side of the plane and he realized it was time to go. Kennedy passed him two files. “Those are for you. This one,” she said as she handed him a third, “is for Mitch. Make sure he knows to destroy it before he makes contact with Ismael.”

“Will do.” Hurley stood. “Anything else?”

Kennedy joined him in the aisle. She didn’t want him to go, but he was a good soldier, so there was no stopping him. So much of their shared sorrow revolved around that once-beautiful city on the eastern shore of the Mediterranean.

Hurley could see that she was concerned, and he knew why. He gave her a hug and said, “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”

“Yeah,” she said, not really believing it herself and holding back the tears. “Beirut’s still a nasty place.” She stayed strong for him. There was no turning back now that he knew. The only thing to do was support him. She kissed him on the cheek and said, “Be careful.”