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"Speak up!"
"I said I am related to one of the men."
"Related? To who?"
"Stan Hurley."
"We don't have a hostage named Stan Hurley."
"Yes, you do. Hurley is his real name. You probably know him as Bill Sherman. That's why I volunteered. Please don't hurt me," Rapp pleaded. "I mean you no harm, I just want to get these men released. I promise we will not bother you again--"
"How are you related to this Stan Hurley?"
"He's my dad."
Radih could hardly believe his luck. He might not be able to kill Bill Sherman, but Sayyed had said nothing about his son. Radih stood. "Let's go," he announced to his men. "Tape his wrists and toss him in the trunk."
Rapp was as passive as he could be while they wound the duct tape quickly around his wrists. He counted ten times and noted that they didn't bother to tape his ankles.
"I can make you guys rich," Rapp pleaded as they tossed him in the trunk of a different car. The trunk was slammed shut and then they were off. He had no idea where they were to begin with, so the twenty-odd-minute drive that they went on through the city was unecessary. Just before they stopped, however, things became noticeably quieter. Almost as if they were in the country. When the trunk popped again, Rapp was hit with a blast of sunlight. He glimpsed a building that looked like it was slated for demolition. Two big men yanked him roughly from the trunk. Rapp's bare feet hit the rough ground and he realized they were in an alley. The buildings on each side were riddled with pockmarks, and not one of them had a window. Two blocks away he caught a glimpse of blue. Before he could take in anything else he was rushed into the building and down a flight of stairs. He was immediately hit by the smell of raw sewage. He almost gagged, and this time it wasn't for effect.
The hallway was ten feet wide with rooms on each side. They were all missing doors except three rooms at the midpoint on the right. He noted the two guards with bandannas tied around their faces. They were the first men who had tried to conceal their faces, and then Rapp realized it was the smell. The men who had him by the arms yelled ahead to the guards to open the first door. They removed the padlock from the latch and swung the door open. With a good enough head start Rapp thought he might be able to bust the latch off.
"Please," Rapp pleaded with the men. "I'm only an analyst. I can't do this. Please give me my clothes back and let me call Washington. I'll get you your money."
They tossed Rapp into the room like a rag doll. He tumbled to the floor, begging them to listen to him. Then the door was closed, and he was again enveloped in darkness. Rapp began to whimper, softly at first and then a little louder. For some strange reason, this room smelled better than the hallway, almost as if it had been cleaned with bleach. He recalled the landscape in the alley and remembered the thin strip of blue on the horizon only a few blocks away. It was the sea for certain, and with all of the bombed-out buildings it fit the general description of Martyrs' Square. The merchant must have been right. Rapp rolled onto his side and started digging through his thick hair. The fact that they hadn't covered his head with a hood worried him. He found the small blade and placed one end in his teeth. He set the blade against the top edge of the tape and began slowly moving his hands back and forth.
CHAPTER 63
THE stairs at the tail of the Russian plane were lowered and Sayyed watched the soldiers in black fatigues file down the steps. He counted thirty. All heavily armed. All Russian special forces. Sayyed had no doubt they were intended as both a show of force and an insult.
Sayyed raised the radio to his lips and said, "You were right."
Mughniyah's voice came back, "How many men?"
"Thirty Spetsnaz. Heavily armed."
There was a long pause and then, "I will be there in five minutes."
Sayyed attached the radio to his belt and watched as the elite Russian soldiers spread out to cover the area. Finally, Shvets appeared and then Ivanov. Both men were in suits and wearing sunglasses to protect their delicate Moscow eyes. As they approached, Ivanov yelled at Sayyed from across the tarmac. The big Russian threw out his arms and walked the final ten paces as if it had been far too long since they had last seen each other.
Sayyed was not going to be a rude host, so he held out his arms as well, and despite his misgivings, he greeted Ivanov with a smile. As much as he distrusted the man, there was something likable about him.
"Assef, my friend, how are you?" Ivanov practically picked the Syrian up in his arms.
"I am well. Thank you for coming."
Ivanov pushed the Syrian intelligence officer away and held him at arm's length. "What happened to your ear?"
Sayyed gently touched the bandage and said, "Oh, nothing. Just a little accident."
"Other than that you are well?"
"Yes."
Ivanov peered over the top of his sunglasses at the hangar and the surrounding landscape--the bombed-out hangar, an airliner with only one wing, and another with no engines. "I see Beirut hasn't changed much."
"Things are getting better." Sayyed pointed back toward the construction equipment at the main terminal. "We thought privacy would be best for this meeting." He motioned toward the hangar, saying, "I promise it will be worth your effort."
