American Assassin (29 page)

CHAPTER
55
MOSCOW, RUSSIA

S
HVETS
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.

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.

CHAPTER
56
BEIRUT, LEBANON

A
CCORDING
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.”

“Now that the cease-fire has held, certain groups have gotten the idea that it is time to grab land while they still can. The Maronites started earlier in the week and they began occupying the buildings along the east side of the square. The Muslims got word and started moving their people into a building on the west side.”

Rapp looked at the spit of land. He guessed it was around two miles away. “Does that mean a fight is brewing?”

“Part of me wishes they would all just kill each other so the rest of us can pick up the pieces and get back to where we were before this mess started, but I know that this is not the answer. We need the peace to hold.”

“And how does this Martyrs’ Square situation figure into our other problem?”

“It might not, but then again manpower is an issue.”

“Manpower?” Rapp asked, not understanding.

“These groups are like any organization. They have limited resources. They have to collect garbage, collect taxes, man their roadblocks, punish those who aren’t behaving … the list goes on and on. The point is, if they are forced to hold the west end of Martyrs’ Square they will be weak in other places.”

Rapp wondered how he could use that to his advantage. As the sun moved across the afternoon sky he got the sinking feeling that they were losing an opportunity. That if they didn’t act, didn’t do something bold and do it soon, Richards and Hurley would share the same fate of Bill Buckley.