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“Good question.”
“Yes. Good question. But one with a complicated answer. A short time ago, my counterpart in Moscow told us that he was looking for a Canadian working for the Losa Cartel. The Russians believe that he’s involved in financing insurgents through the narcotics trade. They went on to say that if this man were to try to cross into Israel, they would be grateful if I’d hand him over. It’s my understanding that they’ve made similar deals with Jordan, Iraq, and Lebanon. I imagine Turkey as well.”
“Matthieu Fournier,” Rapp said.
Friedman leaned forward, propping his thick forearms on his thighs. “Imagine my surprise when Mitch Rapp came across my border using a Canadian passport in that very name.”
“So, you work for the Kremlin now?”
“As you know, our relationship with Russia is complex. But what they’re offering is quite attractive.”
“Attractive enough to take sides against the United States in favor of a pariah state with a failing economy and a third-rate military? That seems shortsighted. Even for you.”
“They’re going to coerce the Syrians into signing a treaty conceding Israel’s right to administer our part of the Golan Heights for the next half century.”
“Bullshit.”
“Clearly this is a top priority for them.You’rea top priority for them. Why, Mitch? Are they really after a Canadian lawyer? Or are they after you?”
“A Canadian lawyer.”
“Interesting. Tell me why.”
When Rapp didn’t respond, Friedman pulled a flask from his back pocket and unscrewed the cap. “I’d offer you a drink, but I suspect that if I got that close, you’d find a way to kill me.”
“I’d damn well try.”
He took a pull and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand glistening with sweat. “I want you to know that I strongly objected to this course of action. Unfortunately, my arguments didn’t impressour prime minister. For him, the political prize is too valuable. I, on the other hand, am not stupid enough to discount the possibility that you’ll escape. In fact, I think it’s more likely than not.”
“And?”
“And if you do, I want you to remember that it wasn’t me who did this. It was him.”
Friedman took another swig from the flask, followed by another swipe of his mouth. “It’s the way of the world, isn’t it, Mitch? We bleed and the politicians make speeches. Our prime minister will go over Irene’s head to your president and they’ll do some backroom deal that benefits them both. In the event you die, Irene will undoubtedly find ways to make my life miserable for a few years, but nothing more. She understands her place. We both do.”
The vehicle was bucking over a rutted surface, but with the hood back on, Rapp could discern little more. The overwhelming stench of sweat, and no fewer than six male voices speaking Hebrew. Those things, combined with the fact that his hands were still cuffed behind his back, suggested that his near-term prospects were fairly grim. Nothing to do now but sit back and see what developed.
When they finally stopped, Rapp was pulled from the vehicle and marched for what he estimated was fifty yards. The cuffs stayed on, but the hood was yanked off from behind. About ten feet in front of him, Ben Friedman sucked nervously on a cigarette. To his left, the barrier that separated Syria and Israel glowed in the moonlight.
“A few years ago, we discovered that terrorists had dug a tunnel beneath this section. It was an above-average piece of engineering, so after we killed them, we kept it for use in our own operations. You’ll be sent through and met by Russian agents on the other side. There’s no indication that they know your real identity and correcting their intelligence isn’t my job. They wanted a Canadian cartel lawyer and that’s what I’m delivering.”
He took a another drag from his cigarette, the embers momentarilyilluminating his face. “I’ve instructed my men to remove your handcuffs before they take you across. There’s no reason for the Russians to see you as a threat, and we’ll play to that perception. Good luck, Mitch. I mean that sincerely.”
“Fuck you, Ben. And I mean that sincerely, too.”
CHAPTER 28
SOUTHWEST OF AL-QADR
SYRIA
THEMil Mi-24 attack helicopter was staying low, taking what appeared to be a route designed to avoid populated areas and potential rocket attacks. The aircraft had been heavily modified, now leaning more toward luxury than combat. Rapp was strapped into a surprisingly comfortable leather seat similar to the ones occupied by his guards. Wood paneling and an ornately painted Russian flag added to the feel of an armored executive transport.
The men with him were on low alert, with some asleep and others staring into space. That suggested that despite what had happened to their comrades, they didn’t see him as a threat. The problem was that at this moment, they were right. The fact that his hands were once again cuffed was potentially surmountable, but even if he managed to free himself and take out the armed men guarding him, the Mi-24 had no direct access to the cockpit from the back.
Through the window, he spotted a distant artificial light source that was in the process of being swallowed by dawn. They bankedtoward it and a few minutes later were circling a secure compound plopped in the middle of the empty desert. Rapp examined it intently, doing his best to commit every detail to memory.
The eastern section of the structure was little more than a two-story concrete cube with minimal windows and a courtyard at the center. The south side contained a set of glass doors and an opening that looked like it led to underground parking. The latter was protected only by a drop-down tollbooth-type arm that was in the open position.
