American Assassin

“And I can promise you,” Ivanov added quickly, “that when we find these people, we will get our money back, and we will punish the people who took it.”

“Thank you,” Sayyed said. “Right now, we have something very important to negotiate. We have three Americans. John Cummins, who served four years in Moscow and the last four in Damascus, another relatively young man by the name of Robert Richards, and the infamous Bill Sherman.” Sayyed grabbed the file off the table and handed it to Ivanov, giving him a second to study the photo again. “Now, how much would your government be willing to pay for these three men?”

Ivanov unconsciously licked his lips. A prize like Stan Hurley would virtually guarantee him the directorship. Primakov was getting old and lacked the ruthless animal instinct that it took to run the SVR. He could control the interrogation and filter what information he passed on. The thought of keeping that asshole Hurley in the basement of one of his secure sites like some exotic animal was almost too much to take. He reminded himself that this was still a negotiation and his funds were not unlimited. “I am confident that my government would pay five million dollars for these three.”

“That is not enough,” Mughniyah complained before anyone had had a chance to absorb the offer.

Thus started the back and forth, with Ivanov coming up three million in his price. They were stuck there for a few minutes while Mughniyah kept saying that he would only accept an offer of sixteen million. Ivanov, as well as Sayyed, tried to explain to him that the issues of the stolen money and the value of the American spies had nothing to do with each other. Ivanov raised his offer to ten and was prepared to walk away when Mughniyah finally countered at fourteen. Thirty seconds later they had agreed on twelve, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief, no one more so than Sayyed.

They were only halfway done, though. Mughniyah wanted all the money in their possession before they would turn the men over, and Ivanov wasn’t going to release a red cent until he laid eyes on Stan Hurley.

Sayyed broke the stalemate by saying, “You need to call Moscow, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t I retrieve the prisoners? They are not far from here. You can make the arrangements to have the money transfered, and when we get back we can complete the transaction.”

Ivanov, who wanted to get as far away from this horrible place and these horrible people as quickly as possible, leaped at the chance to expedite his departure. “That is a wonderful idea.” Turning to Shvets, he said, “Nikolai, go with Assef and bring the prisoners back here.”

The last thing Shvets wanted to do was leave the relative security of this hangar and drive into downtown Beirut. He considered asking if he could bring a few of the Spetsnaz with him, but he knew the request would be denied. As he followed Sayyed and his men to their car, he wondered how much longer he could continue to work for Ivanov.

CHAPTER 66

RAPP found the knife, dug it out of the man’s pants, and crossed the room. He took his gun back from Hurley and stuck it under his armpit while he cut the tape from Hurley’s wrists.

The tape peeled free and Hurley said, “Give me the gun.”

Rapp held out the knife. “Get your own.”

Hurley grumbled and took the knife.

“There are two guys in the hallway.” Rapp started dragging one of the bodies across the room and placed it by the wall with the door. “I’ll open the door, you try to sound like Radih. Yell for them to get in here and I’ll pop ’em.”

When the bodies were piled out of sight, Rapp placed his hand on the door handle. Hurley stood behind him. Rapp nodded and yanked the door open. Hurley muttered something about a mess and ordered the two guards to get in there. Unfortunately, only one appeared. Rapp shot him in the back of the head while pulling the door open farther and swinging his left arm around, searching for the second man. The tip of the suppressor ended up less than a foot from the man’s face. Rapp squeezed the trigger and shot him in the nose, pink mist exploding out into the hallway. Stepping over the body, he looked left and right. The hallway was empty.

Rapp dragged the guard into the room. Hurley was already stripping the first guard of his pants, shirt, and boots. Rapp did the same with the second guard and told Hurley to grab the man’s banda

“No.”

“I think I might. What about Bobby and Cummins?”

“Bobby should be here, but I think they took Cummins to the airport. They’re trying to auction off our asses.”

“We’ll get Bobby in a second, but I need to call Ridley first.” Rapp dialed in the right frequency and hit the transmit button. All he got was static.

“Bad reception down here,” Hurley told him. “We’ll have to get out of the basement.”

“All right…” Rapp looked around the room. “I assume Bobby is naked, too.”

“Yeah … Let’s grab him some clothes.”

Rapp scavenged up a set while Hurley collected two ammo pouches with eight extra AK-47 magazines. When they had everything, they tied the banda

“Motherfuckers,” was all Hurley could manage to say.

Rapp considered checking for a pulse, but Richards’s skin was chalk white. He’d been dead for hours. “Should we bring him with us?”

“No.” Hurley shook his head.

Rapp closed the door to Richards’s cell and told himself he would process it later. They ran down the back hallway, but when they got near the stairs they heard some voices. Hurley started making hand gestures, but Rapp waved him off, pulling him back away from the stairs.

Whispering in his ear, Rapp said, “I have an idea.” Rapp handed him the two-way radio. “Try Ridley again. Tell him I think we’re at Martyrs’ Square. I’m go

“What are you talking about?”

“Just wait here. If I’m right, you’re go

Rapp tore off down the hallway, slowing when he was fifteen feet from the stairs at the front of the building. He stopped and listened for a moment, but heard nothing. Then there was the sound of a foot scraping along the floor and a faint voice. Rapp couldn’t tell if was coming from the first floor or farther up. He considered going back to Hurley. He could use his silenced Beretta to take out whoever was at the back of the building and then try to make a run for it. Fundamentally, though, there was a problem. They were on the wrong side of town and severely outgu

“Full speed ahead,” he muttered to himself as he started up the stairs, his silenced pistol in his left hand and the AK-47 in the right. Midway up the steps he got his first glimpse of a small lobby off to the left, maybe fifteen by fifteen feet. Rapp counted two heads and then three. The main entrance was sandbagged, as were the windows on each side, although they’d left two holes in the sandbags to fire from—exactly what Rapp was looking for.

When he hit the landing he noticed two more men lying on the floor. One was standing, looking out one hole in the sandbags, watching the street, and two more were sitting in folding chairs, playing a board game. Rapp walked straight for the man who was on his feet. He kept his pace casual and started shaking his head as if he was going to tell them just how crappy things were downstairs. One of the men started bitching in Arabic. The best Rapp could figure was that the man was telling him he had another hour before he had to pull a watch in the toilet. Rapp laughed and then raised the suppressed Beretta. He had had eighteen shots to start with and was down to twelve.