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"From people who know such things," Koenig answered cagily. "Would you like to talk to them?"
Shvets suddenly got the feeling that he'd lost the upper hand. He needed to say something to fluster Koenig. "Back to these banking laws for a moment. I assume these very same laws could be used to conceal gross incompetence of your branch in Geneva ... or better yet, that one of Herr Dorfman's colleagues at the bank helped himself to millions of dollars that did not belong to him. Don't they say that most bank heists are inside jobs?"
"That is pure, unfounded speculation."
"As is your gossip about Herr Dorfman being a GRU spy." Checkmate.
Koenig squirmed for a moment and then offered, "Would you be willing to talk to the people who have sworn that Herr Dorfman was a spy?"
"Absolutely," he said, even though he had no such intention, "but I would like to see those faxes first. Especially the one that originated in Moscow."
Koenig studied him cautiously for a moment and then said, "I will have copies of the faxes made for you. Give me a minute." He left the room, glancing back over his shoulder with a frown.
Shvets paced while he waited. This was starting to look like a big mess. Once these thieves in suits confirmed that Dorfman had worked for the KGB, they would not be the slightest bit inclined to repay a single dollar. The Germans hated the Russians almost as much as the Russians hated the Germans. Koenig came back a few minutes later. He had two other men with him this time, and Shvets knew the jig was up. Koenig handed over the stack of faxes. They were blank, except for the sending and receiving fax numbers. The man might as well have written "Fuck you" in large letters across the top sheet. Still, it was better than nothing.
CHAPTER 41
ZURICH, SWITZERLAND
THEY had drinks in the library, although Rapp thought of it more as shots like he had done back in college, except instead of a smelly bar in upstate New York he was in a mansion on the outskirts of one of the most refined cities in the world. Herr Ohlmeyer did not believe in ruining fine spirits with anything other than ice, so the liquor was served either up, on the rocks, or neat, which Rapp learned was basically naked, meaning nothing but the booze. Rapp chose a glass of sixteen-year-old Lagavulin single malt scotch and asked for it on the rocks. Ohlmeyer liked playing host and told Rapp it was a fine choice. Rapp took the glass, smiled, and said, "Thank you."
Greta had not made her entrance yet, so Rapp took the opportunity to corner Hurley, who was standing by the massive granite fireplace speaking with one of Ohlmeyer's two sons. He approached Hurley from behind and tapped him on the shoulder. "We need to talk."
Hurley said something to Ohlmeyer's son in German that Rapp did not understand, and after he had walked away, Hurley turned to Rapp and asked, "What's up?"
Rapp jerked his head in the direction of the small soundproof office. "What was that all about?"
Hurley's jaw clenched as was his habit when he didn't want to talk about something. Reluctantly he said, "It's part of the deal. Don't worry. Just listen to Carl, he knows what he's doing."
"Does Irene know about it, or Spencer Tracy, that guy who I'm not supposed to know?" That was how Rapp referred to the man he had met briefly at the offices of International Software Logistics, the man who, he assumed, was running the show. The question caused the veins on Hurley's neck to bulge, which in turn caused Rapp to take a step back. That particular physical cue was often a precursor to Hurley's blowing his top.
Hurley felt the older Ohlmeyer's eyes on him and told himself to take a deep breath through his nose and exhale through his mouth. It was a trick Lewis had taught him. It helped him center himself. Ohlmeyer despised public outbursts. "Listen, kid ... this is a tough business. There's certain things they don't need to know about, and quite frankly, don't want to know about."
Rapp considered that for a second before asking, "Can it get me in trouble?"
"Pretty much everything we do can get in you in trouble with someone. This is about taking care of yourself. No one else needs to know about this other than Carl and his two boys."
Rapp took a sip of his scotch and was about to ask another question, but thought better of it. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.
Hurley wished he could say more, but the kid would have to figure it out the hard way, as he himself had had to do back in the day. He took a big gulp of bourbon and thought about how much easier it would have been if someone had just pointed a few things out to him. Hurley changed his mind and decided to let it fly. "Kid ... you're good, and that's no small thing coming from me. My job is to find faults and try to beat them out of you. At some point in this line of work ... I don't care how good you are ... I don't care how just your cause ... sooner or later you're going to land yourself in a big pile of shit. It might be your fault, although more than likely, it'll be some asshole back stateside out to make a name for himself so he can advance his career. He'll put a target on your back, and trust me on this one, even though you're going to want to stand and fight, you need to run. Run and hide ... lie low ... wait for things to blow over."
"And then what?"
"You live to fight another day, or maybe you just disappear for good." Rapp frowned, and Hurley knew exactly what he was thinking. "We're not that different, kid. The idea of running away for good isn't in our veins, but it's nice to have options. You bide your time, you find out who it is who's out to get you, and then you go after them."
Rapp absorbed the advice and looked around the courtly library. "When are we shipping out?"
"Tomorrow morning. I was going to tell you guys later."
"Where to?"
"Back to the scene of the crime."
"Beirut?" Rapp whispered.
"Yep." Hurley held up his glass. "Although I might have a small job for you first."
"What kind of job?"
