Ivanov would of course try to save his vodka-soaked hide. That was his nature. He would blame anyone but himself, and since Shvets was the person most directly in the line of fire, the only person other than Ivanov who had actually met Herr Dorfman, he would be the scapegoat. Gripped with an unusual fear, Shvets had a sudden urge to flee. He paced from one end of the parlor and back, trying to calm himself, but he couldn't. The idea of running was suddenly in front of him, like a big flashing road signing warning the bridge is out. Turn now or crash.
But he had a wife and two boys--not that he saw them very much, or really loved them, or more precisely her. The boys were too young to judge. His wife, on the other hand, had been a mistake. She'd gotten fat and lazy, and Shvets spent as little time with her as possible. He could certainly live without them, but could he live with himself if anything happened to them? He wasn't sure about that one, so he set it aside. Starting over was the other problem. As Ivanov's top deputy, he was poised for lofty heights within the SVR, and like his boss, he could leverage that for personal gain in the not-so-distant future.
That was something he did not want to give up without a fight, but the rumors were starting, and by next week they would be undeniable. He had either to run or turn on Ivanov, go to SVR headquarters and ask for a face-to-face with Director Primakov. Even as he thought about it, he knew it would be far riskier than running. It was easy to trick himself into thinking they would reward him for doing the right thing, but the SVR was not all that different from the old KGB. You were rewarded for plotting, conspiring, and crushing your political and professional opponents, not for doing the right thing. If he turned on Ivanov in such a manner he would not be rewarded, he would be punished. Not right away, but eventually. They would send him away. No one would want to look at him, because he would be a reminder of their failures.
He didn't even consider going to the federal counterintelligence service. The FSK would jump at the chance to embarrass their flashy sister agency, especially if it meant taking down someone as big as Ivanov, but Shvets had no desire to be branded a traitor for the rest of his days. The men who turned against the security service had an extremely high occurrence of suicide.
Shvets was pragmatic to the core, but this sitting around could only spell disaster. Some type of action had to be taken. He turned away from the window and looked at Alexei, the thick-necked bodyguard. "Alexei, do you trust me?"
The bodyguard lifted his heavy head and looked at Shvets. He shrugged in the way a man shrugs when he finds a question not worth answering.
"Do you know what is going on with our boss?"
Another shrug.
"You know he's in trouble, yes?"
This time big Alexei nodded.
"He's in a great deal of trouble, and he doesn't want to admit it. He would prefer to drink himself silly and shut himself in with the hope that the problem will simply go away. The problem isn't going to go away. In fact, it is only going to get worse." Shvets was tempted to tell him what was going on, but wasn't prepared to go that far. "I need your help, Alexei. I need to get him out of bed and sober him up enough so that he can defend himself. Do you understand that?"
"Yes."
"Good," Shvets said, satisfied that he had gotten somewhere with the man. "Now don't shoot me or break my neck, but I'm going in there to wake him up."
Alexei pursed his big lips while he thought about that one. "He told me. No one. Including you."
"Your job is to protect him, right? Well, if he put a gun to his own head, would you try to stop him?"
"Yes."
"That's what he's doing right now. By getting drunk and sleeping the day away he's killing himself as surely as if he put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. You need to help me save him."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Nothing. Just sit here ... and don't hurt me." Shvets didn't wait for an answer. He went to the bedroom door, knocked twice, and then opened. The bed was huge, and with all the pillows and blankets and two prostitutes and poor light he couldn't tell what was what, so he went to the window and yanked open the heavy velvet drapes. Gray light poured into the room and Shvets heard Ivanov moan. He searched the tangled mess and still couldn't find the man's head.
"Sir," Shvets announced, "Director Primakov is here to see you."
A flurry of activity erupted from under the blankets. One or both of the girls screamed as Ivanov dug his way out, all elbows and knees. His red face appeared midway down the length of the bed. "What?" he asked, a mask of horror on his face. "You can't be serious."
"No, I am not, but if you don't get out of bed and do something about this situation, he will show up sooner than you think. Or maybe you would prefer Director Barannikov to show up with the FSK boys and drag you downtown."
Ivanov pulled his head back under the covers. "Go away."
"No, I will not. You have been pouting for three days now. We need to come up with a plan of action, or we are doomed."
"We are worse than doomed ... We are fucked."
"Stop being such a baby."
"Be careful what you say to me, Nikolai, or I will get out of this bed and throw you out the window."
"Not a bad way to go when compared to what the FSK will do to me. Unfortunately, you have neither the strength nor the courage to throw me out the window, so it looks like I will be tortured in the basement of Lubyanka." He looked over at the bed, but there was no movement or reply. "Please, boss! I beg you do to do something ... anything. Defend yourself. Tell Director Primakov the money is gone."
"You are a fool. I will be put under an examination that I won't be able to withstand."
"Then place the blame on the dirty Palestinians. You know how Primakov hates them. Tell him they killed Sharif over a bad business deal and took all of the money. Blame the Americans, the Brits, the French, the Germans ... I don't care. Just blame someone and start investigating. What you are doing..."
"What was that?" Ivanov snapped as he popped his head back out.
"Blame someone and start investigating."
"Before that ... at the beginning."
"Blame the Arabs."
"You are right ... Primakov does hate them. But my money ... what about that?"
Shvets was pleased with his small victory. Now he needed to bait the hook. "I have some ideas about that as well." He started walking toward the double doors. "I suggest you get out of bed and shower. I will order an extremely late breakfast. We can discuss your finances over coffee and eggs."
CHAPTER 52
BEIRUT, LEBANON
RAPP was in his boxers, pistol at his side, staring at the door of the apartment and trying to decide what to do. It was dark and he had no idea how long he had slept. Whoever was trying to get into the apartment had picked the lock. Rapp raised the pistol and took aim. Either that or he had a key. He eased his finger off the trigger. Maybe it was a nosy landlady, or Hurley was testing him. No, it wouldn't be that. If they were still in training it would be something he'd gladly try, but not in the thick of it like this. For all he knew, Rapp might use it as an excuse to shoot him.
Rapp stayed in the hallway that led to the bedrooms so he could use the wall as cover. The door started to move and then stopped. The rubber stop he'd placed underneath it was doing its job. The door opened a crack and Rapp heard someone saying something, whispering as if they were talking to someone else. But then Rapp heard, "Hey ... Open up," in English.
Part of the problem was that he had no idea how long he'd slept and consequently what time it was. He had awakened with a start as he heard some soft knocking on the door, followed by the sound of metal on metal, and now whoever was out there was talking to him and getting louder.
"Hey, shithead ... Open the damn door. We've got big problems."
The contraction of we have was what caught his attention. It was not Hurley or Richards so the we thing threw another level of mystery into the equation.
"I know you're in there. Open this fuck
ing door, so I don't have to break it down."
Rapp quietly crossed the room on the balls of his feet. The door was cracked about an inch. "Who is it?"
"Fucking Goldilocks. We've been compromised. Open the door. I need to get you the hell out of here."
Rapp's heart started trotting. Goldilocks ... compromised ... What the hell was going on? "What's the password?" Rapp heard the word shit followed by a heavy sigh.
"I'm not part of your merry little band. I don't know the password." There was a pause and then, "There's a leather case in the bedroom closet with a few handy things in it. You're probably holding one of the silenced Berettas right now. I'm the guy who put it there."
Rapp frowned. "Were you in Istanbul a week ago?"
There was a pause and then, "Yeah ... was that you?"
"Nice little garden flat with alley access."
"Case was in an armoire."
"With a pillow and blanket on top," Rapp said.
"Bingo."
"Let me close the door first and then I'll let you in."
"Roger."
Rapp pushed the door closed and kicked the doorstop out of the way. With his pistol in his right hand he opened the door and then stepped back, holding the gun in a two-handed grip. The guy entered the room and closed the door behind him. He was wearing brown pants, brown shirt, and brown baseball hat. Where had Rapp seen that outfit before?
The visitor dropped the box he was carrying and raised his hands. "Kid, could you lower the gun. If I was a terrorist I would have blown the damn building up."
Looking over the iron sights of the Beretta, Rapp said, "A few more questions. What's going on?"
"You've been compromised. I was ordered by Washington to come get you."
"Who?"
"Irene."
Rapp lowered the gun. "Why?"
"Follow me," the man said as he picked up his box and started for the bedroom. "Stan and your other buddy were picked up at their hotel this morning."
"This morning?" Rapp asked, dumbfounded. "What time is it?"
"Almost six-thirty. They were grabbed by the cops and then handed over to those assholes from Islamic Jihad."
Rapp stopped moving. "Say that again."
"Don't stop moving, kid. They could be on their way here right now, and I don't think we want to be standing around talking when they show up." He opened the box and pulled out clothes that matched his. "Here ... put these on. I'll grab your shit." He tossed the clothes on the bed and went to the closet, retrieving Rapp's suitcase as well as the beat-up leather case.
Rapp's mind was swimming upstream trying to process what he'd just learned. "But..."
The man turned on him, a frightened, wild look in his eyes. "No buts," he hissed. "No questions, no nothing. We need to get the fuck out of here, and I mean now."
Rapp nodded and began putting on his clothes. This stranger was right, of course. He quickly put on the brown uniform and stuffed his clothes in his suitcase, while the stranger wiped down the doorknobs. In just under two minutes they were out the door and on their way to the street. The stranger went out first and after casually looking up and down the street motioned for Rapp to follow. They threw the suitcase and empty box in the back of a simple white minivan, then left. Rapp glanced at his rental car and almost said something, but thought better of it. They had bigger problems.
CHAPTER 53
MUGHNIYAH refused to come to Martyrs' Square, so they had to go to him. Sayyed could hardly blame him. He couldn't wait for the standoff to end, and the hostages to be out of his care. He was tied to them like a mother to her breast-feeding brood. Still, there was something very exciting about the work that lay ahead. Bill Sherman was a once-in-a-lifetime experiment. The American intrigued and horrified him at the same time. Sayyed had participated in close to a hundred interrogations, and he'd never seen anything even close to what he'd witnessed today. The other man, the younger one, was fairly straightforward. A few threats, some punches and kicks, and one fingernail was all it took to get him talking. He'd gotten a name out of him. Several, actually. It was possible that they were both fake, but he didn't really care at this point.
The important thing was that the great and powerful America had once again failed. They had tried to interfere in the affairs of tiny Beirut and he had beaten them at their game yet again. And this one would hurt. Cummins was one thing, but Bill Sherman would have secrets to tell. Secrets that Moscow would have to pay for.
They were in the cellar of a bistro on General de Gaulle Boulevard--the west end of town, just a block from the ocean. The civil war followed the same patterns as any war, but on a much smaller scale. Two blocks either side of the Green Line was virtually destroyed, buildings blown to pieces from high-explosive artillery shells and mortar rounds. Nearly every building had the pockmarks of small-arms fire, but beyond the Green Line you could find a street devastated by the war, yet there would be one building untouched. That one would survive while six or eight in either direction fell made no sense, but it was an undeniable fact of war that some men, and some buildings, seemed to have an almost invisible shield around them. Farther away from the Green Line, entire neighborhoods had made it through the war with far better success, losing only a building or two from the random shelling. Mughniyah loved these buildings. He noted them and used them for his most important meetings.
This restaurant was that kind of lucky building. Sayyed had been initially irritated by all of the extra security measures. They were brought to three different locations and forced to switch cars before they arrived at the bistro. Mughniyah was the most paranoid of the group by a long shot. They found him in the back room with Badredeen. Plates of hummus, ackawi, roasted nuts, kibbeh, baba ghanouj, and spiced fish were waiting. After the last few days Sayyed could barely contain himself. He dug in, using the flatbread to scoop up the hummus and then some olives and cheese.
Mughniyah watched with interest as Sayyed devoured the food, and Radih sat sipping his water. He had heard of the deplorable conditions at Martyrs' Square. He'd spent the better part of his life living in abject poverty, so it wasn't that he was above slumming it with the men. And he despised the Maronites as much as, or more than, any of them. It was the American prisoners who kept him away. Those men would attract too much attention. The Americans would be looking for them, and if they got lucky--well, the building would be leveled with everyone in it.
"Radih," Mughniyah asked, "why aren't you eating?"
"I'm not hungry."
Mughniyah could tell there was something else bothering him, but he was extremely unsympathetic to the problems of others. He stabbed out his cigarette and asked, "Can we be sure he is the same Bill Sherman who escaped the embassy bombing in '83?"
Sayyed nodded while he washed some baba ghanouj down with a glass of water. "It's him."
"And did you learn anything from him today?"
"We should kill him," Radih said. "He is the devil himself. We should not tempt fate a second time. Give me the word and I will kill him tonight."
Mughniyah had no idea what had precipitated such a drastic statement from a man who loved to barter for the lives of hostages. He turned to Sayyed. "And what do you think?"
"Mr. Sherman is an interesting man. A professional liar and provocateur, for certain, but he is also an extremely valuable asset."
"The man is a curse on all of us," Radih proclaimed. "I am telling you we should rid ourselves of lies and kill him tonight."
Thinking it would be a good idea to change the subject, Sayyed asked, "Where is Colonel Jalil?"
"He will not be joining us." Mughniyah turned and shared a knowing glance with Badredeen.
They had been conspiring. That was plain enough to Sayyed, and if it meant leaving the Iranian out, that was fine with him. Sayyed watched as Mughniyah's mood turned dark. He'd seen it before, and when he was sour like this he could be prone to violence. Like some fifteenth-century sultan, he could on a whim ask for someone's offensive head to be s
eparated from the rest of his body. No hierarchy had ever been established for the group, but there was nonetheless a natural order to things. Mughniyah sat atop the food chain for the simple reason that he was the most ruthless among a group of men who were no strangers to violence.
The key, Sayyed had learned, was to think very carefully before answering him when he was in one of his exceptionally surly moods. "What do you have in mind, Mustapha?"
Before he could answer, Radih said for the third time, "I think we should kill him." He did not bother to look at the others. His voice was eerily devoid of his normal youthful passion. "I think the man is the Shaitan himself. We should take him out to the statue tonight and disembowel him. Leave him to a slow death. He can howl his lies at the moon. Let him be an example to the Americans and anyone else who wants to send their assassins to Beirut."
Sayyed held his breath. His eyes darted back and forth between the upstart and the lion. Radih was not a deeply religious man, and his proclamation that the prisoner was the devil was likely to give the duo from Islamic Jihad pause, but then again Mughniyah did not like being interrupted.
"Assef?" Mughniyah asked Sayyed.
Sayyed pulled in a quick breath and said, "I'm not sure I would go as far as to call the man Satan, but on the other hand there is undeniably something very wrong with Mr. Bill Sherman." Glancing at Radih he added, "I can appreciate why Abu might think that would be a good idea, but I'm afraid we would be destroying a very valuable commodity."
Mughniyah grinned knowingly. They were of the same mind.
"Before we decide on something so brash," Badredeen said in his easy tone, "we need to assess a few things. Such as our finances."
Mughniyah held out his hand and said, "We will get to that in a second, but first, I want to talk about Sherman ... Why is he back after all these years?"
Sayyed straightened up. "He says he is here to kill us, but it is unwise to listen to much of anything that comes out of his mouth." He glanced at Radih and gave him a reassuring nod. What Sherman had said about the young man's mother did not have to be repeated. "His associate, though, is far more truthful, and he says they are here to negotiate the release of Agent Cummins."