As Sayyed reached the roof, he realized that it also might get him killed. He peered around the corner with his left eye and looked across the street. The Maronite building was one story taller, and with a glance he counted no fewer than five heads and three muzzles along the roof line. It had just been reported to him that they were filling sandbags and barricading the windows and doors on the first floor. Of course they were. That’s what he would do, and was in fact doing. It would be really nice if they could get through this little standoff without a shot being fired, because if just one shot was fired, the entire square would erupt in a fusillade of lead projectiles. He’d seen it happen before. Literally thousands of rounds would be exchanged in minutes. He would have to remember to tell the men to keep their weapons on safe.

Sayyed found Samir around the other side of the blockhouse at the top of the building. It was the place most shielded from the position across the street. Samir handed Sayyed the satellite phone that Ivanov’s effeminate deputy had given him before Sayyed left Moscow. “Hello,” he said as he placed it to his ear.

“My friend, how are things?”

Sayyed frowned. It was Ivanov, and he sounded as if he was drunk. It was only midafternoon. “Fine,” Sayyed said, as he stole a quick look around the corner. The sun had reflected off something across the street, and he got the horrible feeling it was the front end of a sniper’s scope.

“How are things in your fine city?”

Sayyed pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it with skepticism. Something was wrong with Ivanov. The man hated Beirut. He sighed and put the phone back to his ear. “A little tense at the moment, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“What is wrong?”

“Just a land grab by one of the other militias. It has created a bit of a standoff.”

“Fellow Muslims?”

“No,” Sayyed said, irritated by the implication. Ivanov liked to get drunk and lecture him on history. Specifically, that Muslims loved nothing more than to kill each other, and the only time they stopped killing each other was when they decided to kill Jews, Hindus, or Christians. “Maronites.”

“Ah … the wood ticks of the Middle East. Haven’t you been trying to exterminate them for a thousand years?”

“What do you want?”

“My package,” Ivanov said, slurring the words. “Is it ready? You haven’t decided to negotiate with the Persians, have you?”

“I am standing by our deal. When can I expect it to be retrieved? I assume you are still sending someone.”

“Yes … although I am considering coming myself.” There was a long pause and then, “You did offer … didn’t you?”

“Oh,” Sayyed said, surprised that Ivanov was taking him up on his insincere offer. “Absolutely.”

“Good. I will be there in three days. Maybe sooner.”

“Fantastic,” Sayyed lied. “I will have everything prepared. I must go now. There is something urgent I need to attend to. Please call if you need anything else.” Sayyed punched the red button and disconnected the call. He looked around the desolate landscape, with its pancaked and shelled-out buildings, and wondered how he could ever play host to Ivanov in this pile of rubble.

Then as he turned to go down the stairs he came face-to-face with Imad Mughniyah, the coleader of Islamic Jihad. Mughniyah, not known for levity, looked as if he was ready to kill someone. “Imad,” Sayyed said, “what is wrong?”

Mughniyah looked back into the stairwell and motioned for his two bodyguards to give him some privacy. “Who was that?” he said, looking at the phone. “I heard you talking.”

“Ivanov.”

“What did he want?”

“To insult me, I think, but I did not take the bait.”

“Anything else?”

“He was going to send one of his men to pick up the spy. Now he’s changed his mind and he’s going to come himself.”

“He just changed his mind … right now?”

“Yes,” Sayyed said, wondering what all the questions were about. “What is wrong?”

Mughniyah again looked over his shoulder to make sure no one would hear him. In a raspy voice he said, “My bank accounts … in Switzerland … they are empty.”

“What do you mean empty?”

“Empty … gone … nothing.”

Sayyed knew there must have been a mistake. “Impossible.”

“I have checked three times already. And it is not only the two Islamic Jihad accounts. My personal account you helped me set up is also empty.” There was a hint of accusation in his words.

“This can’t be. There has to be a mistake. Have you called Hamburg?”

Mughniyah nodded. “My cousin tried six different times today.”

“Did he get hold of Dorfman?”

He shook his head. “Herr Dorfman is dead.”

“Dead!”

“Killed in his own home last night.”

Sayyed’s knees felt week. He was the one who had suggested Dorfman to Mughniyah and the others.

“You are the only one of us who knew this banker. You specifically said we would never regret investing our money with him.”

Sayyed could see where this was going. They would need to blame someone, and he was the easiest target. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

“As sure as I can be from here.”

Sayyed didn’t like the way the Islamic Jihad’s heavy was looking at him. “We will get to the bottom of this. I promise you I had nothing to do with this. Come with me,” Sayyed said, wanting to get off the roof lest Mughniyah decide to throw him off. “We’ll go to my bank here in town. I’m sure there has been a mistake. I had money with him as well.”

“Tell me again … what is the connection with Dorfman?”

Sayyed had already reached the first landing. He stopped dead in his tracks and looked at Mughniyah. “Ivanov introduced me to him six years ago.”

“And he just called you and mentioned none of this?”

“Not a word.”

“Fucking Russians … always scheming.”

CHAPTER 37

ZURICH, SWITZERLAND

RAPP and Richards missed most of the excitement. With the time change and lack of sleep over the past few days, both of them took Ohlmeyer up on his offer of a room. Rapp had just enough energy in him to slip out of his suit and pull back the covers, but not enough to brush his teeth or anything else. He didn’t even bother to close the curtains. He did a face plant on the big king-size bed and was out cold. He could do that sometimes. Just lie down on his stomach, close his eyes, and it was good night, Irene. The only problem came when he woke up. Lying on his face like that caused his sinuses to drain and blood to pool around his eyes.

His arms were pinned beneath him. He cracked one eye and thought of the ultimate yin and yang—life and death. He wondered if it was normal to think about it so much or if he should bring it up to Lewis when he made it back stateside. That was if he made it back. That thought brought a smile to his face. He had no idea why he found it amusing that someone might kill him, but he did. Probably because there was a better-than-even chance that whoever the man was, he had no idea the kind of fight he was in for. Rapp didn’t discuss it with anyone, not even Lewis or Kennedy, but he was good at this kind of work and he was getting better.

At twenty-three he was already intimately familiar with death. There was his father and then Mary, and now less than a week ago he’d stared into the eyes of a man and pulled the trigger. And as life drained from the man’s face, he had felt nothing. At least not guilt, or sorrow, or nerves. It was as if a calm had passed over him. And then last night, the bizarre home invasion of Herr Dorfman. When he’d signed on with Kennedy, he hadn’t had that type of thing in mind. Killing a man in the manner that he’d killed Sharif, he’d dreamed of at least a thousand times. Dorfman, never. Never once had his fertile imagination predicted that he would see a man shot in the head while he clutched his prized poodle.