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Rapp quickly scrawled a note and left it on the small desk in the corner, then put his sport coat back on and checked all the pockets. Everything was where it should be. Lifting the back of his jacket, he wedged the Beretta into his waistband and gathered his sunglasses, the map, and a large wad of cash and headed for the door. He hesitated for a split second, then told himself not to think.
"I'd rather go down swinging," he muttered as he shut the door. If he survived this little ordeal he'd have to ask Lewis if talking to yourself was a symptom of losing your mind.
Rapp moved quickly down the four flights of stairs to the lobby. There was a new man behind the front desk and he looked nervous as all hell, which Rapp took as a sign that someone had talked to him. This was it. Showtime. Rapp continued out the front door into the blazing daylight and held his map above his head to block the sun while he looked up and down the street. Looking out from behind the sunglasses, he pretended not to notice the duo from Islamic Jihad. With his face buried in the map, he turned to the right and started heading east as if he was going back to the market.
Within half a block, Rapp's nervous system began sending his brain alarms, each more frantic than the previous one. Now he was talking to himself again, but this time it was in his brain. The conscious, here-and-now, higher-functioning part was talking to the ingrained lower-functioning part like a jockey talks to a thoroughbred as it's being led into the starting gate. Easy, he repeated to himself over and over. It took every ounce of control to override his training and millions of years of basic survival instincts that were embedded like code into the human brain. Up ahead, Rapp recognized a black car that was parked across the street. Earlier in the morning the car had been empty. Rapp ignored the man behind the wheel and turned down a narrow side street. Just thirty paces ahead a rough-looking man was stationed in front of a shop. His left leg was straight and firmly planted on the pavement and the other bent up behind him and placed against the side of the building. His big frame was resting against the wall while he took a long drag off his cigarette. The man had dusty black pants and a white dress shirt with sweat-stained armpits, and there was something vaguely familiar about him. Rapp wondered if he had been in one of the photos Ridley had shown him.
The street was otherwise empty. The survivors of the bloody civil war could smell trouble, and they had wisely decided to stay indoors until the morning's sideshow was concluded. Rapp heard the men behind him, their thick shoes pounding out their progress and pace on the sidewalk. Suddenly a car engine revved, and the pace of his pursuers quickened. With every step Rapp could feel them closing in from behind. His brain
ran through options and avenues of escape and he denied each one, willing himself to stay the course like a deranged ship's captain headed for the shoals at full speed.
They were close now. Rapp could feel them. The big fellow up ahead threw his cigarette to the ground and pushed himself away from the building. He smiled at Rapp and produced a leather truncheon from his back pocket. It was at that moment Rapp realized who the man was. Rapp dropped the map in feigned surprise and turned to flee. The two men were exactly where he expected them to be, guns drawn, one pointed at Rapp's head, the other his chest.
The sedan skidded to a stop just to his right, the trunk and front passenger door swinging open. Rapp knew what was next. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw as the truncheon cracked him across the back of the head. Rapp stumbled forward, his sunglasses clattering to the pavement. He fell into the arms of the two men with pistols. He let his legs go limp, and the men struggled with his weight. He felt the arms of the big man wrap around his chest and yank him upright. His 9mm Beretta was pulled from the back of his waistband and he was dragged the short distance to the car's trunk. Rapp landed headfirst with a thud. The rest of his body was folded in on top of him, and then the trunk was slammed shut.
The engine roared and the rear tires bit through a layer of sand and dirt until they found asphalt. Rapp was thrown back as the vehicle shot away. He slowly cracked open his eyes, and as expected, found himself enveloped in darkness. His head was throbbing a bit from the blow, but not too badly. There was no fear on his face or doubt in his mind, though. Just a smile on his lips as he thought of his childhood friend Cal Berkley and his pet snake. Cal's pride and joy was his pet boa constrictor, Buckeye. When they were bored during the hot summer months they'd go over to Cal's house and watch him feed rats to Buckeye. Well, one day Cal came home from school to find Buckeye dead, with a hole in the side of his body and a bloody white rat still alive in the tank. Apparently, Buckeye had gotten lazy and swallowed the rat before it was dead. Once inside, the rat had then chewed its way out.
Rapp couldn't help but smile at the thought of doing the same thing to these assholes. This was either going to be the most spectacular success of his life, or the end of it. Fear and debate no longer had a place in his thoughts. There was no turning back. No more hand-wringing. This was all about deception and action. The game had started. He was descending into the belly of the beast. The only question was, would he be able to eat his way out?
CHAPTER 61
THE Aeroflot Tupolev Tu-154 was cleared for landing on Beirut International Airport's only operating runway. Ivanov's bullish attitude was back. Primakov was backing him all the way on this little excursion. These Palestinian dogs thought they had everything figured out, but as usual Ivanov was three steps ahead of them. Ivanov blamed himself for just one mistake during this entire mess. Why hadn't he thought of killing Dorfman first? All of that money could have been his. How could he have missed such an opportunity? Ivanov supposed he had been blind out of necessity. In his world a talented banker who knew how to skirt laws and hide money was absolutely essential. That was another problem he now had to deal with. Where was he going to find another man with those capabilities? He would have to fly to Hamburg soon after he delivered the Americans to Primakov. He would sit down with Dorfman's boss, Herr Koenig, and make him see that certain reparations were in order.
Shvets had come up with that idea. Get Koenig to authorize a few loans to shell companies that were in Ivanov's name and were run out of Switzerland. Loans that would never be repaid. Shvets explained that a bank of this size wrote off more than a hundred million dollars a year in bad loans. If handled the right way, he could bleed Herr Koenig out of several million dollars a year. This opened up a whole new avenue of possibilities for Ivanov. He could apply the same principle with a few of the new bankers in Moscow. In only a few years he could have all his money back and then some. That Shvets was a smart boy. Maybe too smart.
Ivanov watched Shvets exit the cockpit and close the door. As his deputy sat in the aisle seat next to him, he noted the way Shvets glanced at his glass of vodka, barely able to hide his contempt.
"We will be on the ground in less than a minute," Shvets announced while he fastened his seatbelt.
"Good. I am eager to get this over with and get back to Moscow."
Shvets wondered what kind of man wished to be gone from a place before he'd arrived.
Glancing out the window, Ivanov asked, "Do you think we could persuade Herr Koenig to visit us in Moscow early next week?"
"Doubtful," Shvets said with a shake of his head.
"Well try, and if he won't come to us then I will go to him. As always, though, I would like to try to do this the civilized way first. Two businessmen exploring an opportunity."
"In some countries they call it a shakedown."
Ivanov drained his glass and gave Shvets an unhappy frown.
Shvets realized the sulking Ivanov was gone and the ruthless one was back. "Sorry."
Ivanov did not reply at first. He had picked up on the man's growing insolence over the past year, but it seemed to have grown exponentially over the past week. Maybe it was time to replace him. The question was with whom. The private sector was exploding with opportunity, and the SVR no longer had the pick of the litter. He decided he shouldn't give up on him so easily. A good lesson or two might restore the proper attitude, and if that didn't work, he'd think about having him shot. Cutting him free would be foolish. Shvets knew too many of his secrets.
The plane landed on the relatively short runway and braked hard. While they taxied to the designated area, Shvets leaned over and asked, "What is our plan if the bidding goes over five million dollars?"
Ivanov laughed. "It won't."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I am smarter than these dogs."
Shvets was intrigued. "What have you been up to, sir?"
"Let's just say I made a few calls to my friends in Tehran and Baghdad."
