The building itself would have to eventually be destroyed. It listed at a five-degree angle toward the square and looked as if a strong wind might topple all seven stories into the street, but it was built out of sturdy concrete and would have to be blown up before it would fall. Of all the buildings that bordered the square it was perhaps the second-strongest position. Unfortunately, the Maronites had the best position, no more than three hundred feet directly across from them.
Radih had already made one mistake, and Sayyed blamed himself for it. The self-promoter had left his sprawling slums near the airport in a ten-vehicle convoy and arranged for the peasants to send him and his men off as if they were valiant Muslims on a mission to evict the Crusaders. Instead of a quiet arrival, they had pulled into the square flying the bright yellow Fatah flag. The chances for escalation were now ripe.
That was not Sayyed's preference. The last thing he needed with Shvets coming to pick up the CIA man was open conflict. The prisoners had arrived the previous evening, transferred in just two cars. The proper way. Very low key. And then for the next few hours, men and supplies were slowly transferred over from the office on Hamra Street. They had successfully moved the bulk of their stuff without tipping their hand, and then in one fell swoop, with a gesture of egotistical grandeur, Radih had announced to the entire city that they were staking out their turf. While that might accomplish the short-term goals of Damascus, it also might plunge the city back into chaos.
As Sayyed reached the roof, he realized that it also might get him killed. He peered around the corner with his left eye and looked across the street. The Maronite building was one story taller, and with a glance he counted no fewer than five heads and three muzzles along the roof line. It had just been reported to him that they were filling sandbags and barricading the windows and doors on the first floor. Of course they were. That's what he would do, and was in fact doing. It would be really nice if they could get through this little standoff without a shot being fired, because if just one shot was fired, the entire square would erupt in a fusillade of lead projectiles. He'd seen it happen before. Literally thousands of rounds would be exchanged in minutes. He would have to remember to tell the men to keep their weapons on safe.
Sayyed found Samir around the other side of the blockhouse at the top of the building. It was the place most shielded from the position across the street. Samir handed Sayyed the satellite phone that Ivanov's effeminate deputy had given him before Sayyed left Moscow. "Hello," he said as he placed it to his ear.
"My friend, how are things?"
Sayyed frowned. It was Ivanov, and he sounded as if he was drunk. It was only midafternoon. "Fine," Sayyed said, as he stole a quick look around the corner. The sun had reflected off something across the street, and he got the horrible feeling it was the front end of a sniper's scope.
"How are things in your fine city?"
Sayyed pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it with skepticism. Something was wrong with Ivanov. The man hated Beirut. He sighed and put the phone back to his ear. "A little tense at the moment, but nothing I can't handle."
"What is wrong?"
"Just a land grab by one of the other militias. It has created a bit of a standoff."
"Fellow Muslims?"
"No," Sayyed said, irritated by the implication. Ivanov liked to get drunk and lecture him on history. Specifically, that Muslims loved nothing more than to kill each other, and the only time they stopped killing each other was when they decided to kill Jews, Hindus, or Christians. "Maronites."
"Ah ... the wood ticks of the Middle East. Haven't you been trying to exterminate them for a thousand years?"
"What do you want?"
"My package," Ivanov said, slurring the words. "Is it ready? You haven't decided to negotiate with the Persians, have you?"
"I am standing by our deal. When can I expect it to be retrieved? I assume you are still sending someone."
"Yes ... although I am considering coming myself." There was a long pause and then, "You did offer ... didn't you?"
"Oh," Sayyed said, surprised that Ivanov was taking him up on his insincere offer. "Absolutely."
"Good. I will be there in three days. Maybe sooner."
"Fantastic," Sayyed lied. "I will have everything prepared. I must go now. There is something urgent I need to attend to. Please call if you need anything else." Sayyed punched the red button and disconnected the call. He looked around the desolate landscape, with its pancaked and shelled-out buildings, and wondered how he could ever play host to Ivanov in this pile of rubble.
Then as he turned to go down the stairs he came face-to-face with Imad Mughniyah, the coleader of Islamic Jihad. Mughniyah, not known for levity, looked as if he was ready to kill someone. "Imad," Sayyed said, "what is wrong?"
Mughniyah looked back into the stairwell and motioned for his two bodyguards to give him some privacy. "Who was that?" he said, looking at the phone. "I heard you talking."
"Ivanov."
"What did he want?"
"To insult me, I think, but I did not take the bait."
"Anything else?"
"He was going to send one of his men to pick up the spy. Now he's changed his mind and he's going to come himself."
"He just changed his mind ... right now?"
"Yes," Sayyed said, wondering what all the questions were about. "What is wrong?"
Mughniyah again looked over his shoulder to make sure no one would hear him. In a raspy voice he said, "My bank accounts ... in Switzerland ... they are empty."
"What do you mean empty?"
"Empty ... gone ... nothing."
Sayyed knew there must have been a mistake. "Impossible."
"I have checked three times already. And it is not only the two Islamic Jihad accounts. My personal account you helped me set up is also empty." There was a hint of accusation in his words.
"This can't be. There has to be a mistake. Have you called Hamburg?"
Mughniyah nodded. "My cousin tried six different times today."
"Did he get hold of Dorfman?"
He shook his head. "Herr Dorfman is dead."
"Dead!"
"Killed in his own home last night."
Sayyed's knees felt week. He was the one who had suggested Dorfman to Mughniyah and the others.
"You are the only one of us who knew this banker. You specifically said we would never regret investing our money with him."
Sayyed could see where this was going. They would need to blame someone, and he was the easiest target. "Are you sure he's dead?"
"As sure as I can be from here."
Sayyed didn't like the way the Islamic Jihad's heavy was looking at him. "We will get to the bottom of this. I promise you I had nothing to do with this. Come with me," Sayyed said, wanting to get off the roof lest Mughniyah decide to throw him off. "We'll go to my bank here in town. I'm sure there has been a mistake. I had money with him as well."
"Tell me again ... what is the connection with Dorfman?"
Sayyed had already reached the first landing. He stopped dead in his tracks and looked at Mughniyah. "Ivanov introduced me to him six years ago."
"And he just called you and mentioned none of this?"
"Not a word."
"Fucking Russians ... always scheming."
CHAPTER 37
ZURICH, SWITZERLAND
RAPP and Richards missed most of the excitement. With the time change and lack of sleep over the past few days, both of them took Ohlmeyer up on his offer of a room. Rapp had just enough energy in him to slip out of his suit and pull back the covers, but not enough to brush his teeth or anything else. He didn't even bother to close the curtains. He did a face plant on the big king-size bed and was out cold. He could do that sometimes. Just lie down on his stomach, close his eyes, and it was good night, Irene. The only problem came when he woke up. Lying on his face like that caused his sinuses to drain and blood to pool around his eyes.
His arms were pinned beneath
him. He cracked one eye and thought of the ultimate yin and yang--life and death. He wondered if it was normal to think about it so much or if he should bring it up to Lewis when he made it back stateside. That was if he made it back. That thought brought a smile to his face. He had no idea why he found it amusing that someone might kill him, but he did. Probably because there was a better-than-even chance that whoever the man was, he had no idea the kind of fight he was in for. Rapp didn't discuss it with anyone, not even Lewis or Kennedy, but he was good at this kind of work and he was getting better.
At twenty-three he was already intimately familiar with death. There was his father and then Mary, and now less than a week ago he'd stared into the eyes of a man and pulled the trigger. And as life drained from the man's face, he had felt nothing. At least not guilt, or sorrow, or nerves. It was as if a calm had passed over him. And then last night, the bizarre home invasion of Herr Dorfman. When he'd signed on with Kennedy, he hadn't had that type of thing in mind. Killing a man in the manner that he'd killed Sharif, he'd dreamed of at least a thousand times. Dorfman, never. Never once had his fertile imagination predicted that he would see a man shot in the head while he clutched his prized poodle.
Without warning, or any real conscious decision, he jumped out of bed, assumed the position, and started doing push-ups. He thought of the old saying. If you're not busy living, you're dying. It felt good to be living. He ripped through fifty push-ups, flipped over, and did fifty sit-ups, and then decided he needed to take a run. He dug out his gear. It was four-thirty-seven in the afternoon. His running shoes were virtually brand-new, as the last pair had been stuffed in a garbage can in Istanbul. With a house this big, Rapp assumed they had to have a workout room. He was right. A staff member must have heard him coming down the stairs and met him in the foyer. He escorted Rapp back upstairs, down the hallway past his room to the far wing of the house. The room had windows on three sides, a treadmill, a bike, and a rowing machine, as well as a universal machine and some dumbbells.
Rapp got on the treadmill, picked the mountain course, and hit start. For the next thirty minutes the ramp rose and fell, and all the while he kept a six-minute pace. When the digital readout told him he'd run five miles, he punched the red stop button and jumped off, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his face. He didn't even have enough left for a cool-down. As he stood hunched over, his hands on his knees, he wondered for a brief moment if he might vomit. And that was when she walked into the room. Rapp stood up straight, a pained look on his face, and tried to take in a full breath.
"Here you are," she said in near perfect English. "I have been looking all over for you."
Rapp could hardly conceal his surprise. Here, standing before him, was possibly the most attractive woman he'd ever laid eyes on, and she was looking for him. Still out of breath, he started to speak but stopped. The nausea came back and he decided rather quickly that he needed to open one of the windows or he really was going to vomit in front of this beauty. He held up a single finger and said, "Excuse me."
Rapp cranked one of the windows open and took in the fresh cold air. A couple of deep breaths later the nausea began to pass. "Sorry," he said as he turned back around. "I'm a little out of shape."
The blond beauty placed a hand on her hip and gave him an appraising look. "I don't see anything wrong with your shape."
Rapp laughed nervously and, not knowing how to respond, said, "You look great ... too, I mean, you don't look like you need to work out ... is what I mean." That's what came out of his mouth. Inside his brain he was screaming at himself. You're a moron.
"Thank you." She flashed him a perfect set of white teeth.
That was when Rapp noticed the dimple on her chin. Her overall looks had knocked him so off-kilter that he was just now getting around to categorizing her individual features: blue eyes, platinum blond hair pulled back in a high ponytail, prominent cheekbones, like some Nordic goddess. Weren't these people all related somehow? A tiny little upturned nose. The dimple on the chin, though, that had caught his attention for some reason.
"My grandfather sent me to find you."
That was where he had seen it. Herr Ohlmeyer had that same dimple, or cleft, or whatever it was that they called it. Somehow it looked much better on her. Rapp smiled and offered his hand, "I'm Mitch ... I mean Mike." Get hold of yourself, his brain screamed at him.
"Greta. Pleased to meet you."
The smile made him a bit wobbly in the knees. Of course you are, Rapp thought to himself. The image of Greta in pigtails and lederhosen with a white blouse and ample cleavage, holding a couple of beer steins, flashed across his mind. What the hell is wrong with me? He noticed her face muscles tighten a bit and then she looked down at their still-clasped hands. "Oh, I'm sorry," Rapp said as he released her hand. He hustled over to the shelf where the towels were and grabbed her one. Instead of giving it to her, he began mopping her hand. "I'm so sorry."
She laughed nervously and took the towel from him. "My grandfather wanted me to tell you, drinks are being served at six sharp in the library. Jacket and tie are required. His rules, not mine."
"Okay," Rapp replied, and then, feeling some irrational need to keep talking, he asked, "What are you wearing?"
She crinkled up her nose and said, "You are funny."
And then she was gone. In stunned silence Rapp watched her leave. He didn't know how it was possible, but she looked every bit as good from behind. She was in a pair of jeans that were tucked into brown leather riding boots. The door closed with a click that snapped Rapp out of his trance. He slapped himself in the head twice. "What are you, fifteen, you moron?"
He tried to finish the workout, but his mind wasn't in it, so he went back to his room, took a cold shower, and thought about Greta. Romance, companionship, call it whatever you want, it was not something he had put a lot of thought into since losing Mary. He'd had a few flings here and there, but they were purely physical. They all wanted to fix him. That was the problem. They knew who he was, and that he'd lost his high-school sweetheart in the attack that had so devastated Syracuse. Being the captain of a national championship lacrosse team, at a school that was crazy about the sport, virtually guaranteed that a certain number of women would end up in his lap. Unfortunately, they eventually wanted to talk about his feelings, about how he was coping with the loss and heartache. Nothing could have been more unappealing to him. His feelings, his personal agony, were no one else's business.
It had been almost four years now. Maybe that was what was going on. Time really was healing the wound. Or maybe it was Sharif and Dorfman. Maybe tossing their bodies down that big hollow pit in the back of his mind had helped stay the pain. Or maybe it was simply the fact that Greta was so stunning, she'd blinded him into forgetting his past for a moment. No, that couldn't have been it. At least not all of it. He'd met plenty of gorgeous women the past few years, and none of them had hit him with this kind of lightning bolt.
Rapp knotted his tie in the mirror and decided to leave the question there. It was a riddle. An unsolved problem, more than likely all the above, or some of the above. And what did it really matter? He'd felt something he hadn't felt in years and wasn't sure he would ever feel again. The spark of a crush, or love at first sight, he had no idea. He had a hard time buying the latter. More than likely it was simple lust. Two young, attractive people, their pheromones in overdrive. Was there a chance she felt the same thing? He recalled the look she'd given him as she gave him the once-over.
Staring at his reflection, he asked, "What does any of it matter? I'm leaving in the morning. Going on safari." Rapp cinched the Windsor knot just so and decided to enjoy the evening. He would forget about yesterday and tomorrow, the pain and the obligations, and just try to live like a normal person for one night.
CHAPTER 38
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
IVANOV placed the handset back in the cradle and reached for the glass of vodka. It was snatched from his grasp a split second before his hand got
there. His fingers closed and found air. He blinked several times before looking up and seeing Shvets holding the glass. "Mine," was all he could manage to say.
Shvets wanted to tell him he spoke like a toddler when he was drunk, but it would do no good at this point. "What did he say?"
"He has no idea."
"Your sure?" Shvets should have listened on the extension. When his boss got like this he was extremely unreliable.
"What's there to be sure about?" He pushed himself away from his desk and leaned back in his high-back leather chair. "The man is a camel jockey. He is not smart enough to steal this money from us."
Shvets would have loved nothing more at this exact moment than to tell his alcoholic boss that Sayyed was smarter than him, but he'd seen him shoot people for such insolence. "I should go to Hamburg?"
"No. I need you here. Send Pavel."
Now there was an idiot, Shvets thought. Pavel Sokoll was fine with numbers and balance sheets, but borderline retarded when it came to everything else in life. Sending him to Hamburg would get them nowhere. "We need answers, and I'm afraid sitting here will not get us any. Sending Pavel will only add to the confusion. You won't allow me to discuss this with anyone other than you or Pavel, so getting those answers is going to be very difficult."
"But I need you here."
"There will be no 'here' in a few days," he said with some force. "Once word gets out that the money is missing the phone will start ringing and sooner or later it will be kicked upstairs, or worse across town, and once that happens, they will pull you in."
"Us! You mean us!" he half screamed. "Your wagon is hitched to mine."
"Trust me, a minute doesn't pass that I don't think of it."