Just seconds later came a new sensation of movement, only this time Isphording was sure that the van was on the road again. Outside their armored box they could see nothing but darkness. The guard tried his cell phone but couldn’t get a signal and could only communicate with the two men in the cab by banging on the bulkhead that separated them.
For thirty-five minutes they could feel the motion as the van was moved out of the city. They could sense and hear the truck accelerate as it reached a highway, and later slow and twist around curves as it left the major thoroughfare. Not long after, all motion stopped. Wherever the Russians, Yuri Zayysev and the woman, Ludmilla, who’d pretended to be Kara, were taking him, Isphording assumed they’d arrived.
He and his guard waited in silence for something to happen. The minutes crept by slowly.
What the lawyer couldn’t see from the back of the armored van was that Linc and the others were waiting for Juan to arrive. As soon as he pulled his Mercedes SUV between the tractor trailer and Julia’s Volkswagen, Hali closed the big overhead door. Because of the overcast sky, the light coming through the opaque skylights cast the big warehouse in murky shadow. Hali snapped on a few overhead lamps, but it did little to soften the building’s gloomy air.
Cabrillo’s SUV was powdered with cement dust, and the chairman himself was grimy. He accepted a damp cloth from Julia to wipe the worst of the dust from his face. He also drank down a half liter of water. “So far, so good,” he congratulated his people. “Looks like no one had any trouble getting here, so let’s open this tin can and finish it. Linc, I couldn’t tell when I lowered the truck into the rig, which way is it facing?”
“It’s facing the rear doors.”
“That should make this a little easier.” Juan grabbed a Heckler&Koch MP-5 machine pistol from a workbench and slid the strap over his shoulder. He also palmed a pair of round grenades. They were dummy practice grenades but would look indistinguishable from the real things to the guards in the van. He passed around black ski masks to everyone and lowered his over his face so only his eyes and mouth were exposed. The others had also armed themselves with an assortment of pistols and machine guns.
Once everyone was ready at the rear of the trailer, he unlatched the door. He gave his people a five-second countdown and swung open the door with a jerk. All five of them swarmed up inside the trailer, jumping onto the van’s long hood, waving their weapons and shouting incoherently. The Swiss driver and the guard riding shotgun had service pistols in their hands, but through the bulletproof glass they were at a standoff. Before the driver could start the engine and try to drive out of the trailer, Juan leered into the windscreen and showed off the grenades.
He pointed at each man and then at the doors before pulling the pin from one of the grenades. There was no mistaking his intention.
The guards maintained their defiant look but knew there was nothing they could do. They laid the weapons on the dashboard and slowly reached for the door handles. As soon as the doors unlocked, a member of the team was ready with plastic-tie handcuffs, blindfolds, and gags. Hali yanked the key ring from the driver’s polished belt and tossed it to Juan.
The chairman climbed over the top of the armored van and jumped lightly to the floor of the trailer. On the fifth attempt he inserted the correct key into the lock, but before he turned it, he nodded to one of his men.
If anything went wrong there was no reason for Kara and Rudolph Isphording to be able to give the same description of Yuri Zayssev, so he had General Operations specialist Michael Trono call out in Russian-accented English, “To the guard in there with Herr Isphording. Your two comrades have already been subdued. They will not be harmed, and neither will you. I am going to open the door just enough for you to toss out your weapon. If you do not, I will be forced to use tear gas. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” the guard responded.
“Herr Isphording, how many guns does the guard have?”
“Just a pistol,” the lawyer replied.
“Very good. Has he removed it from its holster?”
“Yes.”
“That is very wise of you,” Trono said. “Herr Isphording, take the gun from him and move to the rear door. I am opening it now. Toss the weapon onto the floor.”
Cabrillo cracked open the heavy door, and a black revolver clattered off the rear bumper. Hali and Julia had joined them, their weapons at the ready. Juan nodded to them and heaved the door all the way open. The frightened guard sat on a bench that ran along one wall of the van. He understood enough of the situation to have already laced his fingers on top of his head. Hali cuffed, gagged, and blindfolded him while Julia helped the paunchy lawyer from the vehicle. The other two guards were shoved into the back of the van, and Juan locked them in.
Isphording saw five armed commandos, some wearing work clothes, others all in black. One had the curves of a woman, and he guessed it was Ludmilla. “Is one of you Yuri Zayysev?” he asked eagerly.
“Da,” one of the commandos answered. His work clothes were streaked with gray powder, and when he stripped off his mask, his face was still streaked with dust. His hair was red, like Isphording had been told to expect, and his beard had been trimmed to a ruddy goatee.
“Mr. Savich sends his compliments, Rudolph.” The man used the name Isphording himself had provided. “Of course, he couldn’t meet you in person, but you will see him soon enough. There is an office at the back of the warehouse. Ludmilla will take you there. We’ll leave here in a few minutes.”
Julia had taken off her mask so that the attorney could see that she was the woman he knew as Ludmilla, although she wasn’t wearing the disguise.
“Thank you.” Isphording pumped her hand. “And my wife? What about Kara?”
“Another team is fetching her now,” the woman called Ludmilla replied.
“Thank you,” the lawyer repeated. “I thank all of you for saving me.”
“You were not harmed?” Ludmilla asked as Isphording followed her out of the trailer. Linc had placed a stepladder at the rear door to make it easier for him.
“No. I am fine. A little frightened perhaps. Until you came on Friday I had no idea the Palestinians were after me. I’m grateful to you all.”
Julia gave him a smile. “You have Mr. Savich to thank. We are just doing as he ordered.”
“I knew he’s a powerful man, but I had no idea he could arrange something like this.”
“Here we are,” Ludmilla announced.
The office was spartan, just a couple of desks and filing cabinets and a worn vinyl couch under a frosted glass window. The floors were scuffed linoleum, and the room smelled of cigarettes. Curtains were drawn over the large piece of plate glass that overlooked the warehouse floor. Isphording collapsed onto the couch and accepted the bottle of water Ludmilla handed him.
A few minutes later Yuri Zayysev strode into the office. He’d left his machine pistol out in the warehouse, but he’d belted a holster around his lean waist.
“What happens now, Herr Zayysev?” Isphording asked.
“We’re waiting for some more of my people, and then we are leaving. The man who drove the truck thinks he might have been followed, so we’re hurrying our schedule. We don’t know if the Palestinians are on to us or not.”
“They haven’t operated outside the Middle East in years,” Isphording said. “They must truly be desperate.”
“A lot of money is unaccounted for since Yasir Arafat’s death,” Zayysev countered, “enough to make anyone desperate.”
The lawyer was about to reply when everyone jumped at a crash outside in the warehouse. A second later came the unmistakable sound of silenced weapons fire. One of Zayysev’s men gave a choking scream that was cut off by another burst of gunfire. Zayysev tore his pistol from its holster and racked the slide. “Stay here,” he ordered Ludmilla. He crossed to the open door, keeping low. More gunfire echoed outside. He eased around the jamb, his pistol outstretched, probing. He cursed and fired four roun
ds to clear a way out of the office. Taking a cautious step out, he fired again at a dark shape running behind the semi. He turned to give Ludmilla another order when he was caught by a sustained and brutal burst of autofire that stitched him from knee to chest. The impact of a half-dozen rounds blew him back into the office, where he fell crumpled against a desk. His chest was a mass of blood.
The plate glass window overlooking the warehouse exploded in a rain of silenced gunfire. Bullets impacted all around the room, sparking off the metal furniture and tearing gouges from the cheap paneling. With the reactions of a cat, Ludmilla threw her body over Isphording, shielding him until she could unholster her own weapon. She twisted off him as a figure loomed in the shattered window frame. Around his face the gunman had wound a checked kaffiyeh like those favored by Palestinians. He spotted Ludmilla and raised his assault rifle to his shoulder. She fired first, and Isphording saw the Arab’s head literally come apart. Blood and pink clots of brain matter sprayed the wall next to him in an obscene Rorschach ink blot. Another Muslim gunman took his place and raked the office with his assault rife. A chunk of Ludmilla’s arm was blown off, and then she caught two more rounds to the stomach. She managed a low keen of pain as she fell to the dirty linoleum surrounded by a spreading lake of her own blood.
The attack had been so lightning fast and savage that Isphording was too stunned to move. The smell of blood and gunpowder overwhelmed the small office. The attacker, who must have been the one that killed Zayssev, entered the room. He stepped over to Ludmilla’s crumpled body, using a foot to turn her corpse so he could better see her wounds. “Nice shooting, Mohammad,” he said in Arabic to the gunman at the window. The terrorist leader unwound the kaffiyeh from his face and glanced at Isphording. His features were sharp and dangerous, and his dark eyes blazed with hatred. “I know you speak my language,” he said to Isphording, continuing in Arabic. “You did work for the late Chairman Arafat, hiding money that should have been spent fighting the Americans and the Jews.”
“The others are all dead, Rafik,” Mohammad reported from outside the office. “The building is ours.”
“Did I not tell you someone would try to free this pig from prison?” Rafik gave Isphording such a superior leer that the lawyer couldn’t stop his bladder from releasing. “All we had to do was wait.”
Rafik snicked open a switchblade knife, its keen edge glinting in the fluorescent light. “Now, let’s talk about the money.”
17
RUDOLPH Isphording never gave much thought to the people whose money he laundered. He’d insulated himself from his clients so they were nothing more than pass codes on bank account ledgers or vague signatures on legal documents. He had always considered himself a numbers man, a person most comfortable behind a desk protected by a paper fortress. Now the evidence of what he’d done was sprayed across the walls of the office and pooled under Ludmilla’s body. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the carnage that had been Yuri Zayysev’s chest.
Rafik had been called out to the warehouse before asking the lawyer any questions. Mohammad watched him from the office doorway, his eyes looking like chips of obsidian. Isphording could see that the Palestinians were maneuvering a ramp to the back of the trailer to unload the armored van. The Russians who’d snatched him had taken great pains to make sure no one had been injured or killed. He felt certain that Rafik and his thugs wouldn’t be so scrupulous. Isphording’s entire body trembled like he was in the grip of an epileptic seizure.
The terrorist leader called out for Mohammad to join him for a moment. He pinned Isphording with a menacing glare and stepped out onto the warehouse floor.
Minutes crawled by, allowing the lawyer’s fears to kaleidoscope in ever more horrifying thoughts, so when the sound penetrated his mind, he wasn’t sure what he heard. It sounded like someone was calling his name, but the voice was distorted and wheezy, like they were a great distance away or it was coming from a dream. He turned his eyes toward the doorway. No one was there. He looked around the room. Ludmilla lay faceup, her clothes sodden with blood.
“Isphording.”
He heard it again, and had he not been turning his head to check on Zayysev he never would have believed the Russian’s lips had moved. By some miracle Zayysev was still alive. He was ghostly white, and blood continued to drool down his chest like crimson molasses. Isphording felt hope surge inside him like a dose of adrenaline.
“Keep them talking,” Zayysev mumbled, his eyes flickering from shock.
“What?” the lawyer whispered urgently. Mohammad or Rafik could be back any second.
“Tell them anything they ask. Just keep them talking.” Zayysev’s voice was so faint Isphording had to cup a hand to his ear and tilt his head to hear him.
“I don’t understand,” he pleaded.
“More of my men are on the way…” Zayysev’s voice trailed off. His eyelids fluttered and rolled back into his skull as he fell unconscious once again. How he had survived the multiple gunshots staggered the imagination.
Rudolph Isphording recalled what the Russian had said prior to the attack, that they were waiting for more of his companions. No doubt they would be armed. His first rush of hope became a torrent. He was going to be rescued. He was going to get out of this alive!
A bellow of exhaust echoed from the warehouse, and the armored van slowly emerged from the trailer, guided by one of the masked terrorists. Rafik strode back into the office an instant later. His face was contorted in a cruel mix of hatred and self-satisfaction. He dragged a chair from behind one of the desks and sat astride it in front of Isphording. His breath smelled of carrion.
“Now, pig, you will tell me what you did with the money you stole from my people.” He spoke in English, his accent somehow making him even more intimidating.
“I will tell you what you want to know,” Isphording replied in Arabic.
Rafik slapped him across the face hard enough to leave a red print on his skin. “You will not defile the language of the Prophet again. Speak English, Isphording. Isphording? That is a Jewish name.”
“I’m Catholic.”
Rafik slapped him again, his eyes going wide with insane rage. “You will speak only when asked a question.”
Isphording glanced to the motionless form of Yuri Zayysev, praying that his men would come soon.
“We know you used part of my people’s money to create fake companies,” Rafik began. “One is called D Commercial Advisors. Another is Equity Partners International. You used these companies to buy a large ship, called Maus, that is someplace in the Far East. You will tell me who controls these companies and who profits while my people suffer.”
For a long second Isphording didn’t know what to say. The Palestinian had it all wrong. None of the PLO money he’d hidden away had gone into that deal. That one was set up solely for Anton Savich and the Sikh, Shere Singh. Then he thought that it didn’t matter if he told Rafik all about it. Zayysev’s men would be here any moment, and the kidnappers would be dead.
“That is correct,” he said in a scratchy voice before clearing his throat. “There were actually two ships, floating drydocks. One called Maus, the other Souri.”
“Who has control of these vessels?” Rafik demanded.
“A Russian named Anton Savich and a Sikh named Shere Singh.”
“You are wise not to lie.” There was little praise in Rafik’s voice. “We know about Savich. Tell me where we can find him.”
“I—I do not know,” Isphording admitted miserably. “He travels all the time. I don’t think he has a home, only a post box in Saint Petersburg.”
Rafik made to strike the lawyer again.
“It is true, I swear,” Isphording cried. “I have only met him once, over two years ago.”
“We will return to him in a moment. What about this Sikh? Who is he?”
“Shere Singh. He is Pakistani but now lives in Indonesia. He is a wealthy man. His holdings are vast—timber, shipping, real estate. The largest com
pany is the Karamita Breakers Yard on the west coast of Sumatra. I believe he controls the two drydocks through it.”
“Have you ever met this man? What does he look like?”
“I’ve met him through a video conference last year. He appears to be a big man and like all Sikhs has a long beard and wears a turban.”
Mohammad suddenly burst into the office, jabbering in almost incoherent Arabic. “Rafik!” he shouted. “Rafik, the police arrest Fodl. He knows our, our, eh…” He drew silent.
“Location,” Rafik snarled in his native tongue. “Fodl knows our location.”
The terrorist got to his feet. Isphording gave a startled cry and cowered into the couch cushions, expecting to be beaten. “Please don’t hurt me. Please.”
“Silence!” Rafik snapped. He took a blindfold and a pair of hard plastic ear protectors from Mohammad.
“What—what are you doing?” Isphording sniveled. Tears coursed down his cheeks. They were going to execute him right here and now.
“I said, silence,” Rafik roared.
Before Rafik tied the blindfold around Isphording’s head, Mohammad jammed soft rubber plugs deep into his ears. Then came the blindfold and finally the ear protectors. Isphording couldn’t stop shaking. He could neither see nor hear anything. He was then gagged, but surprisingly, not too tightly. One of the terrorists hauled him to his feet, and together they guided him from the office. He had no idea what was happening, couldn’t tell where they were taking him. After just a few steps he smelled the exhaust from the idling van. A moment later he was unceremoniously dumped into the back. Though disorientated, he could sense the presence of the three guards charged with driving him to his court date. His ankles were bound with some kind of plastic tie, while his wrists and hands were taped as tightly as a mummy’s wrappings. He couldn’t wiggle a single finger, which meant he’d be unable to worry the tape off his hands. Rafik’s men were as efficient as they were deadly.