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He clapped a hand over the man’s mouth, cutting off both his words and his ability to breathe. “It’s a simple question, Ilya. You should answer it.”
He removed his hand and the man spoke in a shaking voice. “Lesotho. Near Maseru.”
“Did you get that, Irene? Maseru. Can you figure out the closest strip that’ll take the G550 and have it brought in? And call Scott. Tell him that someone might be looking to make a move.”
“I’ll do it right away.”
“Can you get in touch with the Pakistani government and tell them what’s happened? See if they’ll dial back the bullshit until we can figure out where the threat’s coming from?”
“As you know, President Chutani’s not our problem. He wants Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal locked down even more than we do. But the army is another matter. General Shirani is willing to take whatever risks are necessary to create an environment for a successful coup.
“Keep me posted,” Rapp said, cutting off the call and looking down at the man taped to the gurney.
“Please,” he begged. “I don’t know anything.”
Rapp silently examined him—the expensive slacks and shoes, the gaudy gold chain nested in a carpet of chest hair, the nose that looked like it had been broken a few times. The guy stank of Russian mafia.
“By the looks of you, I believe that you don’t know much. But nothing at all? I’m not buying it.”
Rapp picked up an embalming needle injector. “This looks like it would do some damage, doesn’t it?”
“Please! I wasn’t told you were involved and I didn’t know who the woman was. I did it for the money. Nothing more.”
“Okay. Then tell me who’s writing the check.”
“I . . .” he stammered, trying to buy enough time to come up with a plausible lie. “I don’t know. I’m just a criminal. Drugs. Women. Gambling. My name is Ilya Gusev.”
Rapp recognized it. Despite his appearance, Gusev wasn’t just a piece of mindless muscle. He was a high-level criminal with his own outfit. Rapp had become familiar with him when the CIA had incorrectly suspected him of dealing arms in the Middle East.
“Sure,” Rapp said. “I’ve heard of you.”
“Then you know I’m telling the truth!”
“What I know is that you’re not some small-time hustler who takes jobs from anyone with a few rubles to wave around. So either you’re lying about not knowing who you’re working for or you came up with this on your own.”
“No! I’ve told you everything!”
“Look, Ilya. I don’t give a rat’s ass about you. I don’t care if you walk out of here without a scratch or if my people have to scrape what’s left of you off the floor. But I can tell you that if you keep lying to me, it’s going to be the second one. Now let’s start again. Who’s writing the check for this job?”
“I don’t know,” he said, sounding like he was on the verge of breaking into tears.
Rapp looked back at the door, making sure it was closed and trying to assess its thickness. Normally, this would be a simple situation. He’d ask his questions in a way that they would be answered quickly and truthfully. Now, though, he found himself worrying that the sound might carry out to Claudia and Anna. And then there was the matter of blood. He couldn’t walk out of here looking like he’d spent the day working in a slaughterhouse.
Rapp had promised himself that he was going to get a life outside of all this, but he’d forgotten the drawbacks—the constraints that he hadn’t worked under since his wife died.
“You’ve caught me on a good day,” Rapp said, pressing his silencer to bottom of the man’s left foot. “But now my patience is wearing thin.”
The Russian thrashed wildly, trying to break free of the tape, but he still didn’t offer any employment details. Time for a change in strategy. Rapp moved the weapon from the leather sole of Gusev’s shoe to his thigh, pressing the tip into his soft flesh. It would further dampen the sound.
“Are you partnering with ISIS, Ilya? They’ve knocked over a lot of banks and sold a lot of oil. I’ll bet they have enough money to tempt even a high roller like you.”
“No! I was going to shoot them and leave them for you to find. To give you a trail to follow to the Middle East.”
“Why?”
“Maybe someone there wants to kill you?”
“Everybody there wants to kill me, Ilya. But why go through all this effort? A month doesn’t go by that I don’t show my face in the Middle East at least once. No one has to lure me. More likely, someone wanted me out of Pakistan. You just have to tell me who and why.”