American Assassin

“I hope.”

“Nonsense. You are staying.”

Hurley hated to commit to things. “I’d like to, but who knows what might pop up after this morning?”

“True, and I will have my plane ready take you wherever you need to go tomorrow morning. You are staying for di

“That might not be such a good idea.”

“Nonsense.” Ohlmeyer dismissed Hurley’s concern as completely inconsequential. He looked down at the briefcase in Hurley’s hand. With a devilish look he asked, “Did you bring the codes?”

“No … I drove all the way from Hamburg just so I could stare at your ugly mug. Of course I brought them.”

Ohlmeyer started laughing heartily before turning to Rapp and Richards. “Have you ever met a grumpier man in your entire life?”

“Nope,” Rapp said without hesitation, while Richards simply shook his head.

While Rapp and Richards retired to the other end of the forty-foot-long study to get some food, Ohlmeyer and Hurley were joined by two men whom Rapp guessed to be in their midforties. They looked like businessmen. Probably bankers. The four of them huddled around Ohlmeyer’s massive desk while the silver-haired German issued explicit instructions in German. Forty minutes later the two men left, each carrying several pages of instructions.

At nine-oh-five they received the anticlimactic call that the seventeen accounts had been drained of all funds, but that was just the begi

CHAPTER 36

BEIRUT, LEBANON

SAYYED’S lungs and thighs ached as he climbed the crumbling concrete stairs. His week had gone from miserable to intolerable, starting with his trip to Moscow and ending with his superiors in Damascus issuing one of the most idiotic orders he had received in all of his professional career. With the cease-fire finally looking as if it was going to take hold, the cursed Maronites had decided to accelerate their land grab. Their focus, it appeared, was the historically important area known as Martyrs’ Square in Beirut’s Central District. Damascus ordered Sayyed to get to the square, plant his flag, and plant it as quickly as possible. Like some battlefield general who had been ordered to hold a piece of land at all costs and then given no support, Sayyed was left to sort out the how.

Fifteen years in this city had taught him the importance of keeping a healthy distance between himself and the other factions. Rifles and machine guns were nasty things, and placed in the hands of teenage boys they were extremely unpredictable. The idea of taking up one side of the square while the Maronites grabbed the other made his skin crawl. One errant shot, one young, crazy Eastern Catholic, who wanted to avenge the death of a brother or the rape of a sister, could plunge the entire city back into war. Orders, unfortunately, were orders, and as much as he would have liked to, he could not ignore them. So Sayyed sent Samir and Ali to choose an adequate building. And while he was contemplating how to fill it with enough men to deter the Maronites, he was struck with an ingenious solution.

Shvets would be coming from Moscow to collect the CIA agent in just a few days. That would leave him with the American businessman Zachary Austin. He was not an agent of any sort, Sayyed was sure of that. The only question that remained was how much they could get for him, and how that money would be split with that fool Abu Radih. The Fatah gunman had been crying like a little girl over the fact that he’d been forced to surrender the telecommunications executive. If Sayyed brought him in, it would be seen as a great gesture of maturity and goodwill by the others. And maybe he could negotiate it in such a way that he could get the Fatah rats to come hold the entire western end of the square.

The two had sat down over tea the previous afternoon. Radih had brought no fewer than twelve men—a ridiculous number for the current level of tension. Sayyed first explained the situation with the Maronites moving into Martyrs’ Square. He was hoping that the emotionally charged piece of land would spur Radih to action, and he was not disappointed. The man was so eager to show his passion for the cause that he leaped at the chance to hold the western half of the square. Without so much as seeking a concession in return, he pledged fifty men to the operation.

The number surprised even Sayyed, and he was tempted to hold back his offer to hand over the American. Radih was an emotional fool to commit so much without gaining a single concession, but Sayyed had a problem. He couldn’t very well hold the west side of the square and leave the two Americans in the basement of the office over on Hamra Street with only a few men guarding them. He had served three years in the army before joining the General Security Directorate, and he recalled something they’d told him in infantry school about consolidating your forces. It would only be for a few days, until the Russians could pick up the CIA spy. After that, Sayyed didn’t really care what happened to the businessman, just so long as he got his share of the ransom.

Sayyed looked across the small bistro table and said, “I have finished interrogating the businessman from Texas.”

“So is he a spy?” Radih asked.

“No. I am certain he is in fact a businessman.”

“Good. Then I can commence negotiations for his release.”

Sayyed did not speak. He waited for Radih to make him an offer—the same arrangement they’d had in the past.

“I will guarantee you 20 percent of the ransom.”

Sayyed was tempted to ask for fifty. The others would likely back him, but he needed Radih’s help with the Maronite problem. “I think thirty would be fair … considering everything else.” Before Radih could counter, Sayyed said, “I will bring him to the new building tonight along with the other American. It can be your new command post for a few weeks.” It was an honor Radih would never be able to refuse. He would be considered the vanguard in the struggle to reclaim the city from the Christians.

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 a