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"Yes, but what is this nonsense? I have to compete for my information like some rancher bidding on heads of cattle?"
They started walking toward the shade of the hangar. Sayyed followed the script that Mughniyah had given him. "Yes ... well, if it was up to me it would only be you. But I am not the only one with a voice in this."
"Mughniyah?" Ivanov asked.
"Yes."
"I have warned you. He is in love with the religious zealots in Iran, and we both know they will never be the answer to a lasting peace in Beirut."
"I know ... I know," Sayyed said, patting Ivanov's arm as they entered the hangar, "but there is only so much I can do."
"And you have been a staunch supporter. Do not think that has gone unnoticed." Ivanov took off his sunglasses. "Now, where are these Americans that we are all so interested in?"
Sayyed pointed to their left. In the shadowy recesses of the hangar next to a rusty, broken-down truck, a man wearing a black hood sat in a single chair.
"But I thought there would be three?"
"There are," Sayyed said. "Think of this one as a sample."
Ivanov was not happy. "I have flown all this way and you play games with me. I do not like this, Assef."
"No games," Sayyed lied. "Security is very important. One of these Americans is such a big fish that we must be extra careful."
"What is his name?"
"I cannot say just yet."
"Why?"
"We must wait for the others."
Ivanov looked around the empty space. Shvets and the Spetsnaz commander had wisely stopped twenty feet away to give them some privacy. Where were the representatives from Iran and Iraq? Turning back to Sayyed, he asked that exact question.
"They will be here any minute."
Ivanov checked his watch and huffed. His instincts told him something else was going on here. "I do not like this. I do not like this one bit. I am on time. I have important business to attend to back in Moscow."
"I am sorry, Mikhail."
"Sorry will not work." Ivanov leaned in close so he was eye to eye with Sayyed. "When you come to Moscow, I treat you like a prince. I come here, and we meet in this." He waved his hand around the dilapidated space.
"Mikhail, I am sorry. We do not have your resources."
"And that is something you would be wise to remember. I do not deserve to be treated like this."
"I am sorry," Sayyed could only say again.
"If you are so sorry, you will stop playing games with me and tell me who this big fish is. And if you do not want to stop playing games, then I will be forced to start playing them as well. Maybe I will get on my plane and fly back to Moscow. You can conduct your little auction without me."
"Mikhail, I am--"
"Don't say it again. If you are truly sorry you will tell me who the mystery American is. If not, I am done playing games and I will leave."
Mughniyah had specifically told him not to divulge that information until he was there, but Sayyed was growing weary of the man's paranoia. He did not trust Ivanov, but he couldn't see what harm could be caused by telling him about Bill Sherman. "I will give you a sneak peak, but you have to play dumb when Mughniyah gets here." Turning, Sayyed said, "Follow me." As they walked over to a folding table, he said, "This American is rumored to have been heavily involved in some of the CIA's most sensitive operations. Including operations directed at your country." There were three files on the table. Sayyed picked up one and handed it to Ivanov.
Ivanov had been preparing himself for this for the past twenty-four hours. He had expected to see the man in person, but in a way it would b
e easier for him to downplay his reaction this way. He opened the file, looked at the Polaroid photo of the American spy, and nearly gasped. Ivanov hid his emotions and tilted his head as if he were trying to place the face, even though he knew with absolute certainty who the man was. He and Stan Hurley had tangled back in Berlin a long time ago. Hurley had become such a problem that he had sent two of his best men to kill him one night. Neither came back. Their bodies were found floating in the Spree River the next day. The day after that, Hurley marched into Ivanov's office in broad daylight and put a gun to his head. Hurley explained the rules to him that morning, rules that Ivanov already knew, but had nonetheless ignored. The Americans and Russians were not supposed to kill each other. It was all part of the new detente of the Cold War, the easing of tensions in the early seventies brought about by Nixon and Brezhnev. The American then gagged him, blindfolded him, tied him up, and pilfered his files.
