“For what?” Sidorov asked. “Trying to save your life?”
“Consider everything you have invested in my country gone. All of it.”
Rapp laughed and said, “What an asshole. Here Peter is trying to help you, and this is how you repay him.”
“He is not trying to help me.”
“Trust me . . . If it wasn’t for him you’d already be dead.” Rapp shook his head at the stubborn prick and said, “You know, before meeting you, I thought I would make this clean and easy. You either tell me everything you know about this Hakim guy, especially any financial transactions, or I kill you.”
“Please, enough of your false threats and theatrics. Pay me a million dollars or I will walk away.”
“How about I tell you to go fuck yourself and call the Red Command Cartel and tell them that you helped plot the raid that killed seven of their men and looted one of their distribution facilities of approximately twenty million dollars in cocaine.”
“You are bluffing.”
“I doubt they will be so kind as to fly you to the Bahamas on their private plane. In fact, you will never see them coming. They’ll show up at your house one night and slit everyone’s throat. They’ll kill your grandchildren, your servants, anyone and everyone they find, and they will probably keep you alive just to watch.” Rapp watched him squirm for the first time. He stood, pushing his chair back and eyeing the Cuban bodyguards. “So what’s it going to be, General? Do you want to live and keep your money, or do you want to die?”
Rapp waited five seconds. He watched the greedy general try to figure out what he would do. Five seconds after that Rapp decided he was done dealing with the idiot. “Fuck you, General.” Rapp started to walk away.
Looking over his shoulder, Rapp saw the general reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a pen and a small notebook.
“He told me he was Lebanese.” The general began writing down a name. “Adam Farhat.” He wrote a few more lines on the paper and then tore it off and gave it to Rapp. “That is the bank he used. He specifically directed me to contact a banker, Christian something . . . I can’t remember the last name. The deposit was to be held in escrow until our deal was completed.”
“I do not have the account numbers, but I would imagine a man of your resources can figure that out.”
You’re damn right, Rapp thought to himself. He looked at Sidorov and said, “We’ll talk later.” Then turning to the general he said, “For your sake, I hope we never cross paths again.”
THE transfer in Miami was easy. Hakim got in line at the gate and was given his seat assignment for the flight over to the island. He didn’t get first class this time because there was no first class. The plane was a turboprop operated by American Eagle. The only real moment of stress came on the other end when they landed at Lynden Pindling International Airport. When clearing customs he lied on his form and said that he would be staying at the megaresort Atlantis. He planned on going nowhere near the place and grew worried as the customs agent punched in his name and allowed his eyes to linger on his computer screen for what seemed an unusual amount of time. He had used the passport on other occasions, but this would be his last. When Michael Andros didn’t show up for his return flight on Monday morning the passport would be flagged, but by then Hakim planned on being at least a few hundred miles south of the current location.
The man gave him the proper stamps, and he went out front to catch a taxi. He was hyperalert now. Too alert. Behind every pair of sunglasses he saw a potential spy watching his
every move. He decided he needed a good long sleep in a warm bed. Hakim directed the driver to take him to Princess Margaret Hospital. The drive through town was uneventful, but then again he couldn’t turn around to see if anyone was following them. The driver asked him if he wanted to go to the emergency room or the main entrance. Hakim told him the main door.
He paid the man in American dollars and gave him a five-dollar tip. He spent five minutes walking through the hospital, his suitcase trailing behind him. At the first garbage can he found he ditched the cotton balls. When he got to the emergency area he leaned his cane against a chair and exited the building. Across the street he found a string of cabs. He carefully slid into the backseat of the first one and asked the driver to take him to the Towne Hotel. Hakim had stayed there before. It was nothing special, in fact it was pretty down-market, but it would do for one afternoon. The drive took just a few minutes. When Hakim got out he looked across the street and laughed at the irony. The entire block was dominated by the American Embassy.
The clerk behind the desk was a young man. Hakim pulled out a wad of cash and said, “A room for one night, please.”
“Just you, Mr. . . . ? ”
“Smith,” Hakim said pleasantly as he slid a hundred-dollar bill across the counter.
The clerk glanced toward the restaurant to see if anyone was watching and then casually pulled the bill toward him and placed a stack of envelopes on top of it. “Will you be paying cash, Mr. Smith?”
The clerk quoted him the rate and then added the taxes. All told it came to a little less than ninety dollars per night. Hakim gave him another hundred and told him to keep it. He took the key and moved down the hall toward his room, smiling to himself. He couldn’t wait to feel the sand on his feet, but first he had to make a phone call and ask for a favor. When he reached the room he left the suitcase by the door and sat on the edge of the bed. He stared at the phone for a second and made sure he remembered the number. His eyes danced over the keys and then he picked up the handset and dialed his friend’s number.
“Hello,” the male voice on the other end said.
“Christian,” Hakim said in a happy voice that concealed his nerves. “It’s Adam. How are you?” He listened intently for even the slightest sign of nerves from the other man.