Chapter 29
SAYYED had just one wool suit. It was black and was worn for special occasions. He was wearing it tonight because it was his warmest suit, and also because to a man like Ivanov, appearances were exceedingly important. He lectured his people about taking care of themselves and was known for firing people who put on too much weight or women who wore too much or too little makeup. Sayyed had carefully trimmed his beard and slicked his black hair back behind his ears. At forty, he was still in decent shape, or at least he wasn’t out of shape. The black suit and white shirt and tie helped hide those few extra pounds he’d put on over the last couple of years.
As he walked toward the restaurant he immediately picked out the men from Ivanov’s security detail. There were four in the lobby, one by the front door, one by the elevators, and two bracketing the entrance to the restaurant. The boy man suddenly appeared from behind a large plant. His cigarette was hanging from the side of his mouth and he was smiling. Sayyed had been in such a rush to avoid the cold earlier that he had failed to notice that Nikolai was extremely handsome. More pretty, really. In kind of a movie star way. There were none of the usual rough edges that were standard with the lackeys in the Russian state security services. His skin was fair, his eyes a greenish blue, and his hair a light enough brown that he would probably be blond if he lived in a warmer climate.
“Your room is nice … Yes?” Shvets asked.
“Very.”
Shvets popped his cigarette case with one hand and offered one to his guest. Sayyed took one, as well as a light.
“Director Ivanov is waiting for you at your table. I hope you are hungry.”
“Yes. Very much so.”
“It is the cold weather. Please follow me.”
The restaurant was decorated in deep reds and sparkling golds, most of it in velvet. It was typical Russian. Heavy-handed and desperate to impress. This backwater behemoth knew nothing of understated class. Sayyed was no snob, but he was proud of where he came from. The Ottoman Empire had lasted for more than six hundred years. After fewer than one hundred years these brutes had gone from one of two superpowers to a mob state.
A haze of blue-gray smoke hung in the air. Every table was occupied. There were easily several hundred people in the restaurant, and they all appeared to be in various states of inebriation. It occurred to Sayyed, for the first time, that the Russians were loud people. Especially when they laughed. Sayyed didn’t recognize any faces, but he guessed they were all very important. That was the Russian way. Even during the height of the great workers’ paradise, the ruling elite had lived an opulent life, separate from the workers. They enjoyed luxuries that the little people never dreamed of.
Two towering men stood watch near a booth in the back corner. Red velvet curtains were pulled open and fastened with tasseled ropes to marble columns. Sayyed glimpsed Ivanov sitting between two young beauties. The man was nearing sixty and was showing no signs of slowing down. He was a consumer of all things that interested him. In a way he was the perfect man to run an intelligence service, assuming his interests were in line with those of the state.
Sayyed had been told that Ivanov’s power had grown significantly in recent years. In the days of the Politburo, the black market was tolerated but never flaunted. During the transfer from centrally controlled markets and government plans to pseudocapitalism, no one was better positioned to take advantage of the new wealth than the men at the KGB. They had the guns, the enforcers, and the spycraft to break, blackmail, or frame any man who did not welcome them to the buffet. And Ivanov had an insatiable appetite.
Ivanov saw him coming and yelled his name. He tried to stand but was stuck between the two girls, so he gave up and sat back down. “Assef, it is good to see you.” The Russian threw out a large hand with rings on the forefinger and pinky.
“And you, too, Mikhail,” Sayyed lied. He reached across the table and clasped Ivanov’s hand.
“If you had turned me down one more time I was going to send my men after you,” Ivanov said with a hearty laugh, although his eyes weren’t smiling.
Sayyed laughed and tried to play along. The comment was without a doubt meant for him to remember. And keep remembering every time Ivanov called on him. Sayyed so badly wanted this evening to end, and it had only just begun.
Ivanov ordered an expensive bottle of Bordeaux and introduced Sayyed to the girls. The blonde one was Alisa and the redhead was Svetlana. The redhead was suddenly very interested in the spy from Syria. That was how Ivanov had introduced him—as a spy, of all things. The Russians might have found the moniker intriguing, but to Sayyed it was an insult, one of many he was sure he would be forced to endure on this cold winter evening.
More wine was ordered, along with plate after plate of food. Sayyed was full by the time the main course was served. Ivanov steered the conversation away from anything serious, and Svetlana steered her hands toward Sayyed’s groin. Sayyed had no illusions about his ability to woo women. He was handsome enough, but not enough to garner the attention of a twenty-year-old runway model. Ivanov had undoubtedly ordered her to take care of him. Sayyed wondered if she would be beaten after he turned her down.
When the plates were cleared, Ivanov nudged Alisa out of the booth and ordered Svetlana to follow. He told the girls to go to the bar and order dessert. As they walked away, he slapped each girl on the ass. They turned around, one giving him a dirty look, the other pouting. Ivanov laughed at them and watched them hold hands all the way to the bar, and then as if a switch had been flicked, he turned all business. After whispering something in one of his bodyguard’s ears, he plopped back into the booth and moved around so that he was sitting a mere foot from Sayyed. The drapes were pulled shut, and they were alone.
“You have been avoiding me.”
He’d said it with a crooked smile, but that menacing glint in his eye was back. Sayyed deflected by saying, “I do not enjoy travel, and the cold weather is something my body is not used to. I meant no offense.”
“Ah … I know what you mean. In the summer I find Damascus to be unbearable. But don’t worry, I wasn’t offended,” Ivanov said, lying to himself more than Sayyed. “I just wish it hadn’t taken this long. We have many important things to discuss.”
“Yes, I know,” Sayyed said, trying to be agreeable.
Ivanov took a gulp of wine and asked, “How long have we known each other?”
“A long time,” Sayyed said, looking into his own glass. “Twelve years, I think.”
“Thirteen, actually. And we have f*cked with the Americans like no one else.” Ivanov made a fist and shook it. “Every time they have tried to stick their nose in your business, we have sent them running away like a scared dog.”
“That is true,” Sayyed said, making no mention of all the times the Russians had stuck their long snouts into his business.
“And now they are back again.”
Sayyed was still looking at the expensive French wine in his glass. He could feel Ivanov watching him with intensity. He shrugged and said, “Not really.”
“That is not what I have heard.”
“What have you heard?”
“I have heard you captured one of Langley’s deep cover operatives.”
Sayyed’s mind was swimming with thoughts of murder. The idiots in Damascus, no doubt, had passed the information to the Russian. Did anyone in his government know how to keep a secret? Knowing he was trapped, he said, “We caught one of them snooping around. I’m not sure he was an agent of any particular importance.”
Ivanov smiled. “I think you are being modest.”
Sayyed didn’t know how to answer so he took a drink of wine.
“I am told this man worked in their Directorate of Operations. That he reported directly to Deputy Director Stansfield. That he worked in Berlin and Moscow for a time.”
Someone in Damascus really did have a big mouth. “As you know from experience, these men are trained to lie. I cannot say with any certainty that his claims are truthful.”
“They usually try to understate their importance, not overstate it.”
That was true. “The important thing is that we have bloodied them yet again, and as you know, they do not have the stomach for this kind of thing.”
Ivanov gave him a dubious look. “I’m not so sure these days.”
Sayyed was. “Do not worry yourself with such little fish.”
“This might be a bigger fish than you think,” Ivanov said, with a hint of inside knowledge.
“What have you heard?”
“Things … rumors here and there. Nothing concrete, but I’ve been in this business long enough to smell a rat.”
“What things?”
“Hamdi Sharif.”
Sayyed thought of the recently deceased arms dealer. “Yes. I knew him well.”
“Who do you think killed him?”
Sayyed had heard two rumors. “Mossad more than likely, but there was something else I picked up.”
“What?”
Sayyed was not afraid to repeat the rumor. A man like Ivanov would take it as a compliment. “That he was stealing from you and you had him killed.”
Ivanov looked at him with unblinking focus, but did not respond.
“If that was the case,” Sayyed said, “then that was your right.”
Ivanov shook his head. “If he was stealing from me I would have known, and I would have killed him. But he was not stealing from me.”
“So it was the Jews.”
“No … I don’t think so.”
“Who then?”
Ivanov sat brooding for a half minute and finally said, “I would like to speak to the American rat you are keeping in that basement in Beirut.”
He had not told a soul in Damascus where he was keeping the CIA man, which meant either that Ivanov had obtained the information from one of Sayyed’s supposed allies or that it was a good guess. Whichever was the case, he would need to move the American as soon as he got back. “You are more than welcome to speak to him. You are welcome in Beirut any time. You know that.”
Ivanov began shaking his head at the mention of Beirut. “I cannot. There are far too many things happening here in Moscow. Things that need my urgent attention.”
Sayyed tried to deflect by saying, “So you think the Americans are trying to get back in the game?”
“I don’t think so, I know so.”
Sayyed looked skeptical. “How?”
“Because Thomas Stansfield is finally in charge of their clandestine activities.”
“You think one man is capable of turning that mess around? They don’t have the stomach to get back into Lebanon. This man I caught…”
Ivanov pounded his fist on the table, cutting him off. “Let me tell you something about Thomas Stansfield. I had to go up against him early in my career. The man plots on more levels than you or I are capable of comprehending. He is a master of deception operations. He gets you running around like a dog chasing your tail.” Ivanov circled his hand around his wine glass faster and faster. “You become obsessed with traitors in your midst and you forget to do your job. You see shadows everywhere you turn, and you become completely defensive, and that is just one facet of the man. There is another side, where he is more Russian than American.”
Sayyed had no idea what he meant. “More Russian than American?”
“He is the last of a breed of Americans who knew how to be every bit as dirty as the dirtiest enemy. Don’t let his grandfatherly image deceive you. The man is a street fighter with a big set of Russian balls.”
Sayyed wasn’t sure why the man’s balls were Russian. Beyond that, he thought Ivanov was overreacting. “The Americans haven’t bitten back in years,” Sayyed scoffed.
“I know, and that was because we had the CIA in a box and Stansfield didn’t have the power. But he is in charge of their clandestine service now, and I’m telling you he is going to stick his nose in our business, and we can’t allow that to happen. Trust me. If he gets so much as a toehold, we will be in for the fight of our lives.”
Sayyed still wasn’t convinced.
Ivanov leaned forward, then grabbed the Syrian’s hand. “I am asking you this one time. I will only ask it once. Will you give me the American, so I can find out what he knows? I know your Iranian friends want him, but I will make sure you are compensated.”
This was why Sayyed did not want to come to this godless frozen city. There was nothing in it for him, especially since he was not done dissecting the mind of Agent John Cummins. Unfortunately, there was no way out. If he did not bend to Ivanov’s wishes, he might not make it out of the country in one piece. With a heavy sigh he told Ivanov that he could have the American.