Act Of Treason Part 5

"I thought it was well doc.u.mented that the n.a.z.is carted off the Rothschilds' private collection during the war. It just seems a bit of a coincidence that the son of a Swiss banker would be in possession of so many rare bottles of wine."

"I can a.s.sure you," said a slightly more calm Speyer, "that I paid for every bottle of wine in this cellar. Most of it with the fees I earn by hiding your vast fortune from the U.S. government."

The man with the New York accent smiled broadly showing a set of freshly capped white teeth. "You are worth every penny, Joseph. Now how about we open one of these rare bottles in celebration of our victory?"

The banker hesitated for a second and then said, "I think that is a wonderful idea. An absolutely wonderful idea." Speyer was now nodding with enthusiasm. "I will decant it, and in the meantime I will find something significantly less expensive and infinitely more suitable to your boorish American palate." Speyer sauntered off, leaving the two Americans alone.

"Cy, you look well."

Cy Green was born in New York in 1950 to Jewish immigrants who had fled Hungary as the communists consolidated their power over the country in the wake of WWII. He'd made his first million by the age of twenty-five and his first billion by the age of thirty-five.

"Thank you," replied Green. "I've been on vacation for a long time now."

Ross grinned, but didn't dare laugh.

"Congratulations on winning the election," Green said with a raised brow.

"Thank you."

"How is my pardon coming?"

"We're working on it," Ross said.

"Working on it? That doesn't sound very convincing."

"Cy, I can't guarantee that I'm going to be able to pull this off."

"You were willing to give me guarantees three months ago when you were desperate."

"This is a delicate situation. If we push too hard it might backfire."

"If you don't push hard enough it might backfire," Green said with an edge. "And I mean really backfire."

"There's no need for threats."

"I have over one billion dollars in a.s.sets that have been frozen by the U.S. government, my companies in the States are paying fifty thousand dollars a day in contempt of court charges, and I have not set foot in the country I love in more than four years. My estate in Palm Beach, my penthouse in New York, my mansion in Beverly Hills...all of them have been seized by the feds. My own children aren't even allowed to step foot in my homes."

The mix of vodka and recent success made Ross a bit braver than he normally would have been. "Maybe you should have thought of some of this before you started trading with the enemy. Not to mention committing fraud and tax evasion."

"Don't lecture me on the intricacies of multinational corporations," Green snapped. "I am the victim of an overzealous prosecutor."

"If that's the case, you should meet him in court with an army of high-priced lawyers and show him for the hack that you claim him to be."

Green was not used to anyone speaking to him in such a way. Especially someone who was so indebted to him. He was about to blow his lid when Speyer returned with two gla.s.ses of wine.

"One of your countrymen sent me a case of this. Caymus Vineyards nineteen ninety-four Special Selection Cabernet. A perfectly fine table wine to be served at one of your backyard barbecues. But not at one of my parties."

Green took his gla.s.s and said, "Joseph, I think you will need to leave us alone for a few more minutes."

"Certainly. I will go put on some music."

When the host was far enough away, Green's face twisted into a questioning frown and he said, "You are either drunk or you have grown awfully proud of yourself."

"It's probably a bit of both." Ross smiled. "I am after all the vice presidentelect of the United States of America." He held up his gla.s.s in a toast to himself.

Green ignored the gla.s.s. "And how did you get there? Do you think for a minute that Josh would have picked you for a running mate if his father-in-law hadn't told him to do so? His father-in-law...my real estate partner."

"Cy, let's not make a big deal out of this. We're..."

Green cut him off. "I told him if we put you on the ticket, you could make our problems go away, and guess what? I got you on the ticket and then I had to save your a.s.s a second time. Now it's your turn to deliver."

Suddenly Ross wished he had been sober for this meeting. He could use a clear head right about now. "I'm sure your partner would find it interesting to know that you had his daughter killed."

Green clenched his jaw and took a half step back. "I suppose you've deluded yourself into thinking that you played no part in that entire affair."

"I most certainly did. I almost died."

"You're unbelievable. You're more self-absorbed than I am."

Ross took a sip of his wine. "I think we were beginning to close in the polls. I think we could have..."

"I think you're an idiot!" snapped Green. "You were not closing in the polls, and even if you had been, they would have released the photos of Jillian, that little s.l.u.t, giving a b.l.o.w.j.o.b to a d.a.m.n Secret Service agent. Now the American people might have loosened their morals a bit over the years, but they sure as h.e.l.l aren't about to accept a wh.o.r.e as their First Lady."

"Those photos could have just as easily backfired, if they had released them."

"You really are delusional." Green laughed. "Need I remind you of the frantic phone call I received from you with one month to go in the campaign? Your pit bull of a campaign manager had received the photo of Jillian having the sword put to her by the hired help."

"He was a Secret Service agent."

"Exactly...and on the back of that photo someone had written the words, You'll never win. You'll never win. Do you remember the phone call you made? Do you remember that you were practically in tears? Do you remember saying we should have the b.i.t.c.h killed?" Do you remember the phone call you made? Do you remember that you were practically in tears? Do you remember saying we should have the b.i.t.c.h killed?"

Green was five inches shorter and he got right up in Ross's face. "Go right ahead and convince yourself that you had nothing to do with this. It's probably a good place to be when you're dealing with other people, but when you're with me, drop the att.i.tude. You're a motherf.u.c.ker just like I am. The only difference between the two of us is that I'm under no illusion to the contrary."

"I have devoted the last twelve years of my life to public service, and I most certainly..."

"You've devoted your entire life to yourself. You didn't run for the Senate because you wanted to help people. You ran for the Senate to feed your ego. So don't stand here and try and sell me a load of c.r.a.p. I know exactly who you are even if you don't."

"You know, Cy, a little grat.i.tude might go a long way."

"Grat.i.tude for what? For being allowed to stand in your presence? Are you f.u.c.king kidding me? The only person who should be showing any grat.i.tude right now is you. I'm the one who got you elected. You haven't done s.h.i.+t. I'll show you my grat.i.tude when you get my pardon signed a week from today."

Ross nodded. "I'm working on it, but we might need more time."

"You don't get more time. You a.s.sured me you could get President Hayes to sign the pardon, so get him to sign it next Sat.u.r.day with all the others."

"I'll make it happen," Ross said because he knew it was the only answer Green would accept. Wanting to change the direction of the conversation he asked, "The man you hired...have you taken care of him yet?"

"I'm working on it. Why?"

"The FBI knows he exists."

"Do they know he was the trigger man?"

"No, but it's not worth leaving it up to chance. He needs to be taken care of."

"Don't worry about him." Green pointed a finger at Ross. "Just worry about getting me my pardon."

Ross took a big gulp of wine and smiled. He had no guarantees that he could get Green his pardon. In fact, if he had to guess, it was more likely that President Hayes would turn them down flat, which would mean that Josh Alexander would have to start out his term with an extremely controversial pardon. Either way, this would not be easy. There was one other option that occurred to Ross. He looked into Green's eyes and held up his gla.s.s.

"To your pardon."

"To my pardon." Green clanged his gla.s.s against Ross's. "I'll drink to that."

Ross smiled and thought to himself, and may you die of some tragic accident before next Sat.u.r.day. and may you die of some tragic accident before next Sat.u.r.day.

7.

LIMa.s.sOL, CYPRUS.

R app was careful to stand back from the window. He looked through the telephoto lens and adjusted the focus. A second man entered the frame. Rapp's right index finger pressed the trigger halfway down, and the digital camera automatically adjusted the focus. He pressed the b.u.t.ton all the way down and snapped off two quick images. With a deep exhale he lowered the camera, but kept his eyes on the street. app was careful to stand back from the window. He looked through the telephoto lens and adjusted the focus. A second man entered the frame. Rapp's right index finger pressed the trigger halfway down, and the digital camera automatically adjusted the focus. He pressed the b.u.t.ton all the way down and snapped off two quick images. With a deep exhale he lowered the camera, but kept his eyes on the street.

A frown creased his brow and he said, "Who the f.u.c.k are these guys?"

He'd been asking himself that question since mid-afternoon, and he wasn't any closer to an answer. The photos had been sent back to Marcus Dumond at Langley so he could run them through the facial recognition system, but so far they'd come up with nothing. The system worked well when you could narrow the parameters a bit, but Rapp didn't have a clue where these guys came from or for whom they worked. Rapp told Dumond to start with the a.s.sumption that they were local cops, so the cyber tech hacked into the Lima.s.sol Police Department database. Dumond ran through the personnel files and came up with nothing. Then it was on to the national police, and after that the h.e.l.lenic National Intelligence Service. Again they came up with nothing.

Rapp had spent time in Cyprus before. Most of it in Nicosia, the capital of the Greek side of the island. The Northeastern side was controlled by the Turks. Geographically, Cyprus had occupied a position of great strategic importance throughout history. It dominated the eastern end of the Mediterranean. For thousands of years the island had been fought over due to its value in controlling the sea-lanes between Europe, the Middle East, and North Africa. The Phoenicians, a.s.syrians, Greeks, Persians, Egyptians, Romans, Arabs, the Frankish Lusignan dynasty, Venetians, Ottoman Turks, and many lesser-known countries had all controlled the island at one point or another throughout recorded history. Because of its significance to the trade routes, the island had also long been favored by outlaws. Real pirates and slave traders and their modern day cousins; narco traffickers, mafiosi, and now terrorists. After 9/11 it was discovered that Cyprus was one of Osama bin Laden's favored banking venues. The island was famous for its seedy underbelly, which only deepened the mystery of who these guys might be.

The only thing Rapp did know for sure was that he had spotted three of them. To do really good surveillance you needed bodies and gadgets. Rapp was in short supply of both at the moment. He'd sent Brooks to pick up Coleman and his men from the airport. He could have asked Kennedy to send some bodies from the emba.s.sy in Nicosia, but there was a real downside to going that route. It was likely the amba.s.sador would end up catching wind that the CIA was running an operation in his backyard, which would lead to him throwing a s.h.i.+t fit and calling the State Department, and then the whole thing was likely to spin out of control. The key with these operations was to move slow and stay off everyone's radar screen if at all possible.

On the gadget front, Rapp wished he'd at least brought along a parabolic mike so he could hear what these guys were saying to each other. Since they were flying commercial, Rapp had made the decision not to load himself and Brooks down with surveillance kits. It was hard enough to sneak a gun, a silencer, and two extra clips of ammunition into a country. The electronic listening devices, scopes, cameras, scanners, and parabolic mikes took up a lot of room and raised a lot of eyebrows. It simply wasn't the type of stuff newlyweds brought on their honeymoon. Coleman and his boys were in charge of transferring that stuff and they were doing it under the guise of a director doing location scouts for a film. They had business cards with the name of a development company, an address in Beverly Hills, and a phone number with a 310 area code that was answered by a woman in Langley, Virginia.

The sun was setting over the Eastern Mediterranean. There was maybe another ten minutes of sunlight at best. In this part of old town the streets were narrow and winding, so the shadows were already falling across large areas of the street and sidewalk cafes below. The hotel was four stories high and Rapp was on the top floor. The contact in Istanbul had said the man they were looking for used a front company called Aid Logistics Inc, the office of which was located on the third story of the stone building directly across the street. The first floor was the cafe and the second floor was a real estate company. There was no alley behind the building so the only way in was through the front door of the cafe and then up the stairs to the right. Rapp knew this because he'd visited the real estate office earlier in the afternoon and walked to the landing between the second and third floors before coming back down.

Rapp watched an old man come out of the cafe located below Aid Logistics Inc and the real estate office. As best Rapp could figure, this guy was the owner. He wore a white ap.r.o.n and doled out a lot of orders to the wait staff. The man walked down the sidewalk to where the sedan was parked and began talking with the two occupants. This was the first time Rapp had seen the old man converse with these guys.

Stakeouts all had their own vibe. Their own rhythm. Most of them were literally as boring as watching paint dry. Sometimes the subject knew he was being watched and he tried to lull you to sleep so he could make his move. That's what the real pros did. You could watch them all day and have no idea that they'd done two dead drops and a pickup. It was like they had eyes in the back of their heads. Which was partially true. Like Wayne Gretzky, gifted hockey players had a bird's-eye image in their mind of where everyone was on the ice at all times. The great spies had the same ability, but in an infinitely more complex and dangerous game. They remembered faces and shoes and pants. Things that were hard to change. They ignored hats, gla.s.ses, jackets, and facial hair. Things that were easy to change. They cataloged each face that pa.s.sed them and antic.i.p.ated not just the actions of those in front of them, but those behind them. Even people they couldn't see.

Very few criminals were actually that good. Most had no idea they were being watched, but more importantly, they knew on some level they were doing something illegal. And in many of these countries they were doing something that could result in having their head separated from the rest of their body. Under this type of pressure, it was next to impossible to stay relaxed and normal as you prepared to do whatever it was that might get you killed. Whether it was making a dead drop, meeting a contact, or preparing to grab someone, it didn't matter. People's body language changed. Their pace quickened and their moves became more rushed and sporadic.

Rapp had noticed the pace of things below begin to pick up over the last hour or so. He was watching the body language of the cafe owner and the other man standing next to the car. He was trying to read their lips, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. It did look like they were speaking English, though, which Rapp found interesting.

Rapp's mobile phone started ringing. It was lying on the bed, but he didn't bother to leave the window. He had a tiny Motorola wireless earpiece stuck in his right ear. With his longer hair it was nearly impossible to detect the device, which picked up his voice through vibration in the ear ca.n.a.l. Rapp tapped the end of the device and asked, "What's up?"

"We just landed."

It was Scott Coleman. Rapp wanted to ask him what in the h.e.l.l had taken so long, but he didn't bother. "Brooks rented a blue minivan. She's waiting at the curb."

"We're stuck on the tarmac."

"What do you mean stuck?"

"There's another plane at our gate. We can't pull up to the gate until it leaves, and then we have to wait for our luggage."

Rapp watched the big man standing next to the car put his arm around the older man in the ap.r.o.n. As the big guy moved to put something in the s.h.i.+rt pocket of the old guy, Rapp pressed the trigger on the camera and held it all the way down. The camera clicked off six photos in quick succession. The big man then patted the cafe owner on the cheek several times before releasing him.

Rapp frowned as he watched the older man walk back into the cafe. He looked down at the viewing screen on the back of the camera and toggled back a few frames. He then increased the zoom until he could see what the man had placed in the owner's pocket. It was cash. Cops, for the most part, didn't go around stuffing cash in people's pockets. Especially in this part of the world, where they could throw someone in jail for a week by simply making up a reason.

"Did you hear me?" asked Coleman.

"Yeah." Rapp looked at the horizon. Nightfall was fast approaching and when the darkness came something was going to happen. "Have one of your guys wait for the luggage. I need you to get your a.s.s here ASAP."

8.

R etsina is a Greek wine that is preserved with pine resin. To some deluded Greek nationalists it is the wine of the G.o.ds. To anyone who has ever tasted a decent bottle of French Bordeaux, retsina is about as enjoyable as drinking turpentine. Gazich hated retsina, and so did Andreas. The old man's promise that he would set aside his best bottle of retsina could have been taken as an attempt at humor. One friend ribbing another, but Andreas did not stay on the line to listen to his tenant's response. He didn't even laugh. He hung up right after taking his shot. That was not Andreas's style. He liked to goad and tease. etsina is a Greek wine that is preserved with pine resin. To some deluded Greek nationalists it is the wine of the G.o.ds. To anyone who has ever tasted a decent bottle of French Bordeaux, retsina is about as enjoyable as drinking turpentine. Gazich hated retsina, and so did Andreas. The old man's promise that he would set aside his best bottle of retsina could have been taken as an attempt at humor. One friend ribbing another, but Andreas did not stay on the line to listen to his tenant's response. He didn't even laugh. He hung up right after taking his shot. That was not Andreas's style. He liked to goad and tease.

Something was wrong. Gazich could feel it. His house was in the hills on the outskirts of Lima.s.sol. He was tempted to go there first, but he resisted the urge. He had the cab drive him by his office nice and slow, but not too slow. He saw the man sitting behind the wheel of the parked car and the other man on the sidewalk. Gazich then asked the driver to take him to the Amathus Beach Hotel where he checked into a room, cleaned up, and plotted his next move.

Gazich was not someone who was quick to anger. He was more apt to stew over things and let them come to a boil. That was what happened while he ate his dinner on the private balcony of his hotel room. In his mind it was already a foregone conclusion that these a.s.sholes who had hired him had decided to go back on their word. There was a chance that the law had come looking for him, but it was slim. Gazich had followed the FBI's investigation in the press and their was no mention of them looking for a lone trigger man. Everything coming out of Was.h.i.+ngton suggested that they were going after several terrorist groups. Gazich did not have a complete sense of the FBI's capabilities, but he did know it was next to impossible for them to run an investigation without leaking to the press.

Running would be the smart thing to do. He had over three million stashed in various banks around Europe and the Mediterranean. Invested properly, he could live in relative luxury in any third world country of his choosing for the rest of his days. He had grown attached to Cyprus, though. His house, his office, the lax banking laws. It was the perfect fit. An island nation unto itself. The more Gazich thought about it, the angrier he became, and not just at his double-crossing employer, but at himself. Why had he been in such a rush to take their money? The answer was obvious. The money. He should have followed that old axiom-if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

There was the issue of Andreas and his family to consider. Gazich could only guess what kind of pressure was being put on him. They were good people trying to make an honest living, and now they were sucked into this lethal drama. The easy thing for Gazich would have been to leave the island. Hop on the first ferry in the morning and forget about Cyprus, his a.s.sets, and the friends.h.i.+ps he'd forged there, but he was tired of running. For over ten weeks he'd been packing and unpacking every few days. Running may have been the smart thing to do, but it was also the cowardly thing to do.

Gazich was no coward. Never had been. Never would be. He knew he was a thrill seeker. Someone who needed action. Someone who often liked to choose the path of most resistance. He did it to test his skills. He did it to prove that he was better than all the others. He needed to prove he was king of the jungle. In DC he had gone elephant hunting. Here on Cyprus he was going to turn the tables on the hunters.

The objective was survival. The side game would be to kill these men without getting caught or even raising the attention of the local authorities. One more body dumped in the Mediterranean was nothing. Although a couple of men killed on the sidewalk in front of Andreas's cafe might actually be good for business. Either way, the end game was to find the man, or men, who had hired him, and kill them. That was the only way to finish it. The tricky part would be keeping one of these guys alive long enough to get something useful out of him.

Gazich checked his watch. It was a Sat.u.r.day night, which in Lima.s.sol meant the dance clubs and bars would get hopping soon. He would have to make one stop and then by the time he arrived at the cafe things would be nice and busy. These men would never know what hit them.

9.