And I am a hired gun. Vorsalov knew why he’d been summoned, of course. Al-Baz’s little project was going badly. Vorsalov was unsurprised. The entire operation was ill-advised lunacy.
The Arab in the passenger seat handed him a hood. “Put this on.”
“Why?”
“You must not see where we are going.”
“Then I won’t watch,” Vorsalov said with a smile.
The car screeched to a halt. “You will put this on. Now.”
Vorsalov sighed. “God-cursed theatrics.” He took the hood and slipped it over his head.
He felt the car lurch from side to side as the driver negotiated the rubble-strewn streets. Whether they were trying to disorient him or were simply avoiding craters, he did not know, but after another five minutes, they pulled to a stop.
His door opened. He was helped out and led down some steps. The air smelled damp and musty. He heard the squeal of rats. He was led up another flight of steps, then right. They stopped. He was guided to a chair. Through the hood’s weave he could see flickering candlelight.
“You may remove the hood.”
Vorsalov did so. Against the far wall stood a guard armed with an AK-47. Seated across from him was Mustafa al-Baz and a hooded man in battle fatigues. This was the leader, Vorsalov assumed, one of Khatib’s sleepers. Probably aged fifty to sixty, average height and weight, physically unremarkable. This was always the case with the best terrorists. They were, in CIA franca lingua, gray men.
Sitting on the table were a pitcher of water and a bowl of bean curd. The hooded man gestured. “Please eat and drink if you would like.”
Vorsalov poured a glass of water, took a sip, and set it aside. He was ravenously thirsty, but he knew this was a test. The Arabs enjoyed tests of character. They knew he was disoriented and thirsty, and how he conducted himself even in the simple act of drinking was telling.
He folded his hands on the table and waited.
After a long five seconds, the hooded man said, “Your trip was safe, I trust? Our precautions did not inconvenience you?”
“Such measures are often necessary. I would expect nothing less from a man such as yourself.”
“What do you know of me?”
“Nothing aside from the general’s praise.”
“I see.”
“The general thought I might be of assistance to you.”
“Yes.”
“In what fashion?”
The hooded man gestured to al-Baz, who said, “We are having complications. The matter we discussed in Khartoum.”
Of course you are, you idiots, Vorsalov thought.
“We feel our man on the scene may be… unreliable.”
“Explain.” Al-Baz did so, and Vorsalov said, “You believe he has genuine feelings for this woman?”
“Who can say? It’s almost certain he doesn’t have the stomach to do what is necessary.”
Vorsalov understood. They wanted to increase the pressure on the target, and Fayyad was balking. “A difficult situation,” he agreed. “But I’m not sure what I can do for you.”
“We want you to go to Washington and take command.”
“What?” Vorsalov blurted before he could catch himself. “That’s impossible.”
“How so?” asked the hooded man.
“I’m known there. Their federal police want me.”
“That is not my concern. The general has guaranteed your cooperation.”
“I don’t believe that. He knows I am a face there. He would never—”
“As I understand it, you are under contractual obligation, are you not?”
“Yes, but—”
“General al-Khatib has loaned you to us.”
“I am not some piece of livestock—”
“Enough!” the hooded man barked. “You will help us. You will go to Washington. You will take command of our operation. And you will get us the information we need.”
“And if I refuse?”
The hooded man’s eyes blinked once. “That would be unwise.”
He means it, Vorsalov thought. If he failed to cooperate, any number of fates awaited him: extradition to Russia, imprisonment, death. At best, he could never return to the Mideast, and with most of the major intelligence agencies hunting for him, the world would become a very small place indeed. What in God’s name was driving this operation of theirs?
“For your cooperation,” the hooded man continued, “you will receive compensation in two forms: One, your obligation to General al-Khatib will be fulfilled. And two, a bonus of five hundred thousand dollars will be posted to your account at Bank Grunewald in Vienna.” He slid a piece of paper across the table. “This is the account number, yes?”
Five hundred thousand! Vorsalov forced himself to remain calm. “Yes, it is correct. But the amount is—”
“Nonnegotiable. Can I assume you accept?”
“It seems I have little choice.”
“None at all.” The hooded man stood up. “Mustafa will provide you with the details.” He walked to the door, then turned. “One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“If you fail, you will receive no money, and you will find yourself without friends. Do you understand my meaning?”
“I understand,” said Vorsalov. “Now you must understand something: The target you’ve chosen is a prominent figure. To get the information you seek might require… harsh methods.”
“That does not concern us. Do what you have to do. Get us the information.”
23
Four hours after their target boarded the last ferry for Larnaca, Panos and Kemal stood on the uppermost deck to decide their next move. The wind whipped around them and fluttered the pennants on the buntline.
“He’s in the cafe drinking coffee,” Kemal argued. “He’ll have to piss sometime. The only bathroom is on the car deck. It’s dark, and no one is around.”
“I don’t know, Kemal.”
“You said if we don’t find out his destination, we don’t get paid.”
“I know. I’m not sure about this one. Something about him bothers me.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. He feels… dangerous.”
Kemal grinned cockily. “More dangerous than us? He is old, we are young. We’ll surprise him. Come on, we’ve done this a hundred times.”
Panos thought it over. Kemal was right. There were two of them, and this is what they did best. “Okay. But no killing. We will tie him up in the back of one of the cars. By the time he’s found, the ferry will be docked, and we’ll be gone.”
Whatever Kemal lacked in sheer intelligence, his estimate of their target’s bladder capacity was keen. After two more cups of coffee, the man exited the salon, took the stairwell down to the car deck, and entered the bathroom. Kemal and Panos met in the corridor outside. Panos reached up and unscrewed the single lightbulb, casting the corridor in shadow.
They positioned themselves on both sides of the door. A moment later, the toilet flushed. The door swung open. Kemal stepped in front of the man and flicked open his switchblade
“Don’t move. No sound.”
The man reacted as expected. He took a step back. His expression never wavered, however. Panos saw no fear in his eyes.