Chapter 30
HAMBURG, GERMANY
THE Hamburg operation was significant for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that certain people began to take notice. A single murder can be an accident or an aberration. Two murders in as many weeks, separated by time, but connected by relationships, is a tough one to swallow for people whose job it is to be paranoid. The second reason it was significant was that Rapp finally realized Stan Hurley was extremely good at what he did. Hurley had given them five days to get their affairs in order. They were going on the road and would not be coming back to the States for several months.
The old clandestine officer announced with a gleam in his eye, “We’ve been kicked out of the office by management. They don’t want to see us back in Washington until we have some results to show for all the money and time that’s been spent on your sorry asses.”
Rapp was not given all the details, but he got the distinct impression that Langley was upset about something. Hurley’s attitude had changed even before they left the States. They were to engage the enemy and make them bleed, and the prospect of finally getting back in the game had transformed Hurley. This time Rapp and Richards went in together. Or at least their flights arrived the same afternoon. Rapp arrived second. He saw Richards waiting for him on the other side of Customs. Rapp was carrying an American passport on this trip, and he handed it to a nice-looking older gentleman, who flipped through the pages with German efficiency. The backpack, jeans, and beat-up wool coat must have been enough to tell the man he was not here on business, because he didn’t ask that standard question, “business or pleasure.” He applied the proper stamps and slid the passport back. Not a glance or a question. Rapp laughed to himself. If only it was always this easy.
The two men shook hands and made their way to ground transportation, where they took a cab to the harbor promenade or Landungsbrücken, as it was known to the locals. A big cruise ship was coming into port. Tourists lined the sidewalk gawking at the massive ship that looked completely out of place so close to all the old brick buildings. Rapp and Richards did not gawk. They were on the move toward the warehouse district, where Hurley was waiting for them.
They passed a prostitute working the riverfront. Richards turned to Rapp and said, “Isn’t this where the Beatles got their start?”
Rapp cracked a small smile. He liked Richards. The guy was quirky in a normal way. They were in Hamburg to kill a man and Richards wanted to talk about the Beatles. “Never heard that,” Rapp said.
“Pretty sure they did. They played some strip club for something like two months straight.” Rapp didn’t say anything. “I’d like to see it while we’re here.”
Rapp cocked his head and gave Richards a long look before couldn’t help himself and started laughing.
“What?” Richards asked.
Rapp lowered his voice and said, “We’re here to kill a man, and you want to go hang out at some strip club where the Beatles played thirty years ago?”
“What’s wrong with that? That we do what we do for living doesn’t mean we can’t do what normal people do?”
Richards had a much easier time transitioning between their two worlds. “You have a point. I can’t wait to see the look on Stan’s face when you ask him.”
“Ha … you watch. If it involves booze and strippers, my bet is he’s all in.”
“You’re probably right.”
The flat was located in one of the hundred-year-old warehouses that had been converted into condominiums near the river. It was damp and cold. A lot like London. Hurley informed them that the majority of the units in the building were as yet unsold. The one they were using was owned by an American company that had purchased it as an executive apartment. Rapp didn’t concern himself with certain details beyond the target, but Richards was more curious. He tried to find out which American company the unit belonged to and if it was a former spook who let them use it. Hurley said if there was something he needed to know he’d tell him. “Otherwise … don’t worry about it.”
Rapp and Hurley hadn’t exactly made peace. It was more of a truce. After the night he’d met George, or whatever his real name was, Rapp, Richards, and Hurley had gone back down to the lake house to begin prepping for the Hamburg operation. Hurley from time to time still looked at Rapp as if he were mentally retarded, but he had cut back on his yelling and cussing. Rapp took this as a sign of détente.
After five days Hurley asked Rapp to take a walk. “Have you gone over the last op in your head?”
“You mean Istanbul?”
“How many ops have you been on?” Hurley asked him with a wake-up expression on his face.
“Sorry,” Rapp said. “Yeah … I’ve thought about it.”
“Anything you would have done different?”
Rapp stared at the ground while they walked. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“The fact that you acted on your own is behind us. I already told you that. Part of my job is make sure you get better. What I’m asking you is a tactical question. When you look back on what happened in the park that morning, once you decided to kill him, is there anything that you would have done different?”
“I don’t know,” Rapp answered honestly. “It all just kind of happened.”
Hurley nodded, having been there before. “That’s good and bad, kid. It might be that you’re a natural at this. Ice in your veins, that kind of shit. Or … you got lucky. Only time will tell, but there’s one thing you did that jumps out as being pretty stupid.”
“What’s that?” Rapp asked. Hurley had his full attention.
“I read the police report.”
Rapp didn’t know why he was surprised, but he was.
“The shot to the heart … it was point-blank. Literally. The report was conclusive. The muzzle of the weapon was in direct contact with Sharif’s coat.”
Rapp nodded. He was there. He remembered it well.
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I wanted to kill him.”
Hurley stopped and faced him. “Kid, I’ve seen you shoot. You’re not as good as me, but you’re damn good and you keep getting better. You don’t think you could have popped him from say ten feet?”
Rapp didn’t answer.
“Why did you sit down next to him?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Bullshit,” Hurley said with a smile. “You allowed it to get personal, didn’t you?”
Rapp thought back to that morning, not even a week ago. The feeling came back. That split-second decision to sit next to Sharif so he could look into his eyes. He slowly nodded. “Yeah … I guess I did.”
Hurley’s jaw tightened while he processed the admission. “I’m not going to stand here and tell you there haven’t been times … times that I took a certain amount of joy in sending some of these scumbags to paradise … but you have to be really careful. Pick the right environment. Never in public like you did. He could have had a gun, somebody could have seen you sitting next to him … a lot of things could have gone wrong.”
“I know.”
“Remember, in public, the key is to look natural. That’s why I showed you the shoulder holster technique. That’s why we practice it. You look at your watch and no one thinks twice about it. You’re a guy checking the time. You sit down on a park bench that close to another guy and someone might notice. Just enough to cause him to look twice, and that’s all it might take. The next thing you know the carabinieri are chasing you down the street shooting at you.” Hurley gave him a dead-serious look. “Trust me, I’ve been there.” Hurley shuddered at the memory.
“What?” Rapp asked.
“You ever been to Venice?”
“Yeah.”
“The canals.” Hurley made a diving motion with his hands.
“You dove into one of those canals?” Rapp asked while recalling their putrid shade of green.
“And this was thirty years ago. They’re a lot cleaner now than they were back then.”
The condo was raw exposed brick with heavy timber beams secured to each other by sturdy iron brackets with big bolts. The floors were wide plank, more than likely pine, stained light to add a little brightness in contrast to the dark mud-red bricks. The furniture was utilitarian. Grays and blues. Wood and metal frames. Long sleek lines and the kind of fabrics that could be cleaned. Pure bachelor efficiency. It was a corner unit, so it had two small balconies, one off the master bedroom and another off the living room. There was a second bedroom and a loft space with a desk and pullout couch. When they arrived Hurley had everything prepared.
The dining-room table was covered with a sheet. Hurley carefully pulled it back to reveal what he’d pieced together in three short days. The target was a banker by the name of Hans Dorfman. He looked innocent enough, but then again, to Rapp, most bankers did. Dorfman’s crime, as Hurley stated it, was that he’d decided to get into bed with the wrong people.
“You’re probably wondering,” Hurley asked, “why a well-educated man, who was raised a Christian, would decide to help a bunch of Islamic whack jobs wage terrorism.”
Richards looked down at a black-and-white photo of the sixty-three-year-old banker and said, “Yep.”
“Well, officially it’s none of your goddamn business. When we’re given an assignment it’s not our place to question … right?”
Both Rapp and Richards gave halfhearted nods.
“Wrong,” Hurley said. “I don’t care what anyone tells you, HQ can f*ck up and they can f*ck up big-time. Beyond that, you’ll run into the occasional yahoo who doesn’t have a clue how things work in the real world. When you get a kill assignment, you’d better question it, and you’d better be damn careful. We don’t do collateral damage. Women and children are strictly off limits.”
Rapp had heard this countless times from Hurley and the other instructors. “But people make mistakes.”
“They do,” he agreed, “and the more difficult the job, the greater the chance that you’ll make a mistake, but if you want to make it out of this one day with your soul intact, follow my advice on this. Question the assignments they give you. We’re not blind—or robots.”
Richards was still looking at the photo of the banker. “Stan, are you trying to tell us this guy isn’t guilty?”
“This guy,” Hurley waved his right hand from one side of the table to the other. “Hell no. This Nazi piece of shit is guilty as hell. In fact, guys like this piss me off more than the ones who shoot back. This prick lives in his fancy house, takes two months off every year, goes to the nicest places, and sleeps like a f*cking baby every night. He thinks it’s no big deal that he helps these scumbags move their money around. No,” he shook his head, “this is one of those times when I will enjoy pulling the trigger.”