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“You’ve been very successful in your business, Mr. Suleiman. The amphetamines and hashish you distribute across the Middle East is high quality and, based on our understanding, extremely profitable. Obviously, Mr. Losa has nothing to offer you on this front.”
Rapp paused to let the man catch up before speaking again.
“However, it appears that now the men you work for want to access the European market with a captagon formulation that’s very differentthan the one you traffic in the Middle East. Again, Mr. Losa offers his compliments.”
Suleiman nodded sagely, though it was obvious that he wasn’t fully tracking on the conversation. Whether it was because of his limited English skills or the fact that he understood nothing about the Russians’ new enterprise was hard to say.
“Your manufacturing process is clearly very efficient, and your product is very appealing. But you’re held back by your distribution network in Europe. That was proven in Italy, and now you have a serious situation on your hands. Your people have been identified as terrorists and that will allow authorities to draw on virtually unlimited resources to capture them. They’re already starting to raid Muslim areas where your people live and operate.”
“You can do better than this?” the man challenged.
“Yes. We pay high-level people in Europe’s police forces, intelligence community, and docks. For instance, we would have known that the authorities had discovered your shipment well before it arrived in Italy. Maybe even before it left Syria. Further, when you finally do get a significant amount of product into Europe, Mr. Losa has a much larger and better-established distribution network that extends from Spain to Finland. Yours is active primarily in Italy, Germany, France, and Belgium. Isn’t that correct?”
In truth, it was unlikely that he had any idea where the network was active. But he knew people who did. All Rapp needed from this man was to accurately convey to his superiors what was discussed in this meeting.
Suleiman leaned back in his chair, examining Rapp while he savored his cigarette. “Why do I trust you? Losa wants everything. And he sends a Frenchman? One of the colonialists who enslaved my people? Is this an insult?”
“I’m Canadian, not French. And those things happened a century ago. Before our grandfathers were born. You and Syria have more serious problems than the colonial era.”
“God has a long memory,” he said. The smoke rolling from his mouth swirled in the candlelight.
Rapp held up a cautionary hand. “Let’s not speak of God. He has nothing to do with this. We’re just two drug dealers trying to make money destroying the lives of our fellow man. I doubt either of our gods approve.”
“You know nothing of Allah. We fight the infidels that desecrate his name. First the Crusaders. Then the French. You come here with your arrogance…”
Rapp stopped listening and instead looked around the room. This asshole hadn’t said anything substantive the entire meeting and now he was waxing rhapsodic about the Crusades? He was stalling. But for what?
Better not to wait around and find out. He stood, but despite the slowness of his movements, the man with the AK stiffened.
“Perhaps it would be better if Mr. Losa came here personally,” Rapp said. “I think I can convince him that his presence would make negotiations more productive.”
If he could dangle the possibility of Losa showing his face in Syria, maybe he could stave off whatever this prick was planning. Probably not, though. He was too low on the food chain to make decisions on the fly.
The guard suddenly swung his rifle in Faadin’s direction, causing the academic to claw clumsily for the gun in his waistband. The muzzle flash was as blinding as the sound was deafening. Faadin jerked ninety degrees to the right and dropped to the concrete floor. The impact sent his weapon clattering across the floor before coming to a stop near the wall. A moment later, gunfire became audible throughout the building as the men on the levels below faced off.
Rapp ignored the pistol and charged straight at the guard. It seemed almost certain that these men had orders that he not be harmed. A dead negotiator served no purpose at all. A thoroughly interrogated one, on the other hand, could be quite valuable.
His theory proved correct, and he managed to use the rifle to pin the man against the wall. The weapon’s sling was still around his body and Rapp reversed himself, jerking back on the weapon instead of pushing. The man stumbled forward, and as he began to fall, Rapp wrenched the weapon from his hands, twisting it in a way that wound the canvas strap around his neck.
“Stop!” Suleiman shouted, causing Rapp to look up. He was much bigger than he appeared while seated—at least six one and carrying two hundred and thirty reasonably solid pounds. Of more concern was the pistol in his hand.
The Syrian’s expression suggested well-warranted confidence, but also a little confusion about how a man in a five-thousand-euro suit had gotten the better of his guard. Rapp decided to amplify his confusion by putting a foot in the struggling man’s back and snapping his neck.
“I said stop!” Suleiman raised the gun and sighted along it at Rapp. An obvious bluff. If he were going to shoot, he’d have already done it. Failing to bring his prisoner out alive would carry a penalty far worse than anything Rapp could do to him.
Rapp charged and, instead of firing, the much larger man tossed his gun aside and began his own charge. A collision wasn’t going to go well for Rapp’s one hundred and seventy-five pounds, so he sidestepped at the last moment, grabbing the back of the man’s shirt and driving him toward the wall. The impact wouldn’t be violent enough to put him down, but it would be enough to provide a brief advantage.
Suleiman hit the wall face-first, but the impact was even less than Rapp had predicted. It almost felt as though the wall was padded—that the man’s momentum hadn’t been fully arrested. It took only a split second for Rapp to comprehend what was happening, but even that was too slow.
The weakened concrete had given way and the Syrian was going through it. He turned at the last moment, making a successful grab for Rapp’s tie, only to learn that it was a clip-on.
As Suleiman pitched out into the night, Rapp couldn’t prevent himself from following. His luck finally seemed to have run out when the upper part of the wall came raining down on him, but then he saw a line of rebar jutting from where the floor had met the now-collapsing wall. His hands clamped around two of them and both held, leaving him dangling more than fifty feet above the street.
He pulled himself back into the building, reasonably confident that no one had seen him. After collecting Suleiman’s pistol and checking the magazine, he crouched next to Faadin. Searching for a pulse was pointless—the man was clearly dead.
Rapp felt a pang of regret as he stood. He’d meant what he said about coercing Losa into sending money to repair the museum. Faadin hadn’t chosen this life and he’d deserved a second chance. The problem was thatdeservedidn’t mean shit in Syria.
CHAPTER 16
