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"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.
