CHAPTER 31
HURLEY explained to them that the process wasn't so much about finding the best option as it was eliminating the bad ones. That is, if you had the time to go through all the alternatives. After two days together, Hurley made the decision and they both agreed. Sunday night was the perfect time to make their move, and it would happen at the house. It was located thirty-five minutes outside of Hamburg, a nice wooded one-acre lot. Rapp was pretty sure Hurley had known from the get-go that this would be the appointed hour, but he wanted some push back. He wanted Rapp and Richards to tear into his plans and make sure there wasn't a better time to go after Dorfman. For two days that's pretty much all Rapp and Richards did.
For Rapp one of the more enlightening exchanges happened when he asked the salty Hurley, "What about the dogs?"
"Dogs," Hurley said with a devilish smile, "are a double-edged sword. Take this fuck stick, for example." Hurley pointed to Dorfman's black-and-white photograph. Hurley had taken a black marker and drawn a Hitler mustache on him the night before. "He's an anal retentive Nazi prick if I've ever seen one. Wants complete order in his life, so he gets two poodles ... why?" He looked at Rapp and Richards.
"Because they don't shed," Richards answered.
"Exactly. Hans is a neat freak. Wants everything just so ... wakes up the same time Monday through Friday, and Saturdays and Sundays he allows himself one extra hour of sack time. He thinks he's too smart for the religion his parents raised him on, so on Sundays instead of going to church, he reads two or three newspapers, studies his Value Lines or whatever it is that a German banker studies, and he takes his dogs for a walk along the river and comes back and takes a nap. He has pot roast, mashed potatoes, and green beans for dinner, watches some crappy TV on the couch, and then lets the dogs out one last time at ten o'clock and then it's lights out."
Richards looked at the surveillance info. "How do you know all these details? I don't see any of it here."
Hurley smiled. "This isn't my first banker."
Rapp set that thought aside for a second and asked, "But what about the dogs?"
"Oh, yeah. The dogs. The dogs run the show. They need to be let out four times a day. Every morning at seven on the dot, a couple more times during the day, and then one more time before they turn in. What does he have to do every time before he lets them out?"
"Turn the alarm off," Rapp answered.
"You two see any alarms at the lake house?"
"No," Rapp answered.
"That's because they can make you lazy. You ever see me lock my hounds up?"
"No."
"What good does a dog do you if he's locked in his kennel?"
"If he's a guard dog, not much."
"That's right." Hurley looked at Rapp and said, "I bet I can guess your next question. You think we should take him while he's walking the dogs by the river?"
"The thought occurred to me."
"There's three reasons why I would prefer to avoid that option. The first is that it's harder to control things in a public setting. Not to say we couldn't do it. We might get lucky and have no witnesses like you did in Istanbul, but that can't be guaranteed. But two and three are why the park won't work. I need to talk to him and a public park is hardly the place for the kind of conversation we're going to have."
This came as a complete surprise to Rapp and Richards. Richards asked, "Why?"
"I'll explain it later."
"What's the third reason?" Rapp asked.
"We can't let anyone know he's dead before 9:00 A.M. Monday."
"Why?" Richards asked.
Rapp answered for him. "He'll tell us when we're done."
The Dorfman file was shredded and burned late Saturday night. By Sunday morning the ashes were cool enough that they could be scooped into a bag and thrown down the garbage chute. They spent two hours that afternoon sanitizing the condo. If they had to come back they could, but Hurley wanted to avoid doing so if possible. At eight in the evening they packed the last of the gear into the trunk of the rented four-door Mercedes sedan and left.
Rapp was the wheel man for the evening. Hurley and Richards were going in. It occurred to him that he was being punished for taking the initiative in Istanbul, but what could he say? Someone had to stay with the car. On the drive down the E22 Hurley went over the plan one last time. Every minute or so, he threw a question at Rapp or Richards asking them how they would react if this or that thing did not go as planned. Traffic was almost nonexistent, so they made it in just thirty minutes.
It was a dark, cold, windy night with temperatures expected to dip near freezing. They were all dressed in jeans and dark coats. Hurley and Richards also had black watch caps on their heads. The neighbor behind Dorfman was a widower with cats, but no dogs. The plan was to access his property from her backyard. At nine they did a final radio check and then at nine-fifteen Rapp turned the silver Mercedes onto the winding country road. The dome light was set to off. Rapp downshifted and coasted to a near stop several hundred feet from the widower's house. Richards and Hurley stepped from the slowly moving vehicle, carefully nudged their doors closed, and then disappeared into the trees. Rapp continued. A little less than a minute later he turned onto Dorfman's street and did a slow drive-by. The house was set back from the street about seventy-five feet. The front of the house was dark, but faint lights could be seen beyond what they knew was the living room and dining room.
Rapp pressed the transmit button on the secure Motorola radio, "All's clear up front."
Hurley and Richards found their way through the overgrown property of Dorfman's neighbor with relative ease. This was not Hurley's first trip, and he didn't feel the slightest bit guilty for not telling the new recruits. They did not need to know everything. He had personally put together the surveillance package on Dorfman eight months earlier. The stuff about the dogs he knew from many years of experience, and as far as bankers being anal retentive, it was a fairly accurate statement. The stuff about Dorfman having left the church that his parents raised him in and being a Nazi prick, he'd learned by keeping an eye on the man for close to two years.
To run an effective organization you need money. Hurley and Kennedy had been working overtime trying to map out how these various groups moved their money around the globe, and they had decided Dorfman was the key. In this, the ultimate asymmetric war, where they could not use even a fraction of the might of the United States military, they needed to get creative. If they couldn't openly bomb the terrorist training camps in the Bekaa Valley, then maybe there was another way to hurt them.
Hurley and Richards took up position near the back door at nine-thirty. If they had missed him somehow, Hurley was prepared to cut the phone line and break in. That option presented two problems, however. If he busted the door in, the security system would be tripped, and although an alarm would not be received at the monitoring station, the house's siren would begin to wail and would likely arouse the attention of one of the neighbors. Dorfman also owned a pistol, a shotgun, and a rifle. That Dorfman might react quickly enough to stop the intruders was unlikely, but Hurley didn't like unlikely.
The back light, above the kitchen door, was turned on at ten-oh-one. Hurley was crouched closest to the door on one knee and Richards was right behind him. From where he was positioned, Hurley could hear the chimes on the keypad as the digits were entered. The door opened, and the two standard poodles bounded out the door and onto the patio. Hurley had to trust Richards to do his job and stay focused on his. He sprang from his position and put his shoulder into the door before it could be closed. He hit it with enough force that it bounced back and hit an unsuspecting Dorfman in the face.
Over his shoulder he heard the dogs begin to growl. He grabbed the door by the edge and, looking through the glass, came face-to-face with a stunned Dorfman. The growling had turned to barking and Hurley resisted the urge to turn around to see how close they were to taking a bite out of his ass. Instead he pulled the door toward him and then smash
ed it into Dorfman's face. There was a scramble of nails and paws on the brick patio and then the welcome sound of compressed air forcing a projectile down a muzzle. One shot and then a second, each followed by short yelps and then some whimpering. Hurley saw the light switches to his left. There were three of them. He raked his silencer down the wall, knocking all three into the off position and relegating them to semidarkness. Quickly, he slid through the door, partially closed it, and stuffed the silencer into the shocked and open mouth of Dorfman.
CHAPTER 32
THE Mercedes was the same color and model as the one Dorfman drove. Rapp cruised the neighborhood listening to Hurley and Richards with one ear and the police scanner with the other. His German was nonexistent, but as Hurley had pointed out, the only thing he needed to listen for was a car being dispatched to Dorfman's address. No car was dispatched, so Rapp pulled the rented Mercedes into the driveway and turned around in the small car park so it was facing out. Hurley reasoned that if any of the neighbors saw the car they would assume it was Herr Dorfman's.
Rapp walked around the side of the house to the backyard and helped Richards carry the second poodle down to the basement. A small dart with red fins was still stuck in the animal's rib cage. It rose and fell with the animal's heavy breathing. Rapp had been tempted to say something to Hurley two days earlier when he informed them that they were going to use a tranquilizer gun to take out the dogs, but he kept his mouth shut. He knew that Hurley loved his dogs, but still, they were going to kill a man tonight. From a big-picture standpoint, it didn't make a lot of sense to him. Hurley's way was going to take a little more effort and would not silence the dogs as quickly. Hurley knew what Rapp was thinking and noted that the surveillance report said that the dogs usually barked when they were let out of the house. Especially at night. It wasn't as if they were storming a terrorist stronghold. It was just a German couple in their fifties, so Rapp kept his tactical opinion to himself.
Rapp was now looking down at one of the Germans. Frau Dorfman was blindfolded, gagged, hog-tied, and shivering from fright. He glanced at the knots Richards had made. They were well done. Her wrists and ankles were bound and attached with a length of rope. The only reason Rapp knew anything about them was that his little brother had been fascinated by many things as a child, but knots and magic were the two that became his passion. After their father died, Rapp saw it as his duty to take an interest in Steven's various hobbies, even if they weren't his.
The basement had been finished as a rec room with a bar and a small pool table. Richards had been nice enough to deposit the big German woman on an area rug. Rapp saw a blanket on the back of the couch. He grabbed it and paused. On the wall behind the couch was a poster-sized photo of Dorfman and his two dogs. He was holding a trophy and the two dogs were licking his face. Rapp covered the woman with the blanket. It was going to be a long night for her, and an even longer morning, but unlike her husband, she would live. Rapp grabbed the phone next to the couch and yanked the cord from the wall. He quickly coiled the cord around the phone as Richards reappeared from the utility room flashing him the all-clear sign. They were not to speak a word in front of the woman. Rapp climbed the stairs to the first floor, turned off the basement lights, and closed the door.
Per the plan, all of the lights had been turned off on the main floor except for the single light over the kitchen sink, as was the Dorfmans' habit upon going to bed. Rapp walked through the formal living room, past Richards, who was keeping an eye on the front of the house. The French doors that led to the study were cracked an inch. Rapp pulled his black mask down to cover his face, entered, and closed the door behind him. Dorfman was on the floor in his light blue pajamas. His comb-over hair was all askew and his nose was bleeding. A leather reading chair had been tossed to the side and the rug pulled back to reveal a floor safe.
Dorfman looked up at Rapp with tears in his eyes. Again, Rapp didn't understand German beyond a hundred-odd words, but he could tell the whimpering idiot was asking about his dogs and not his wife. Rapp looked around the office and counted no fewer than ten photos of his dogs. There was one five-by-seven of the wife and two kids that had to be fifteen years old. Rapp counted seven trophies and a dozen-plus ribbons.
Dorfman was still desperately asking about his "Hunde." Rapp raised his silenced Beretta and said, "Shut up!"
Hurley squatted down on his haunches and tapped the dial of the safe with the tip of his silencer. His German was perfect. He ordered Dorfman to open the safe. Dorfman closed his eyes and shook his head. They spoke for another twenty seconds, and still he refused. Hurley looked up at Rapp and said, "Go get his wife."
Rapp shook his head.
Hurley frowned.
"Let me take a shot at this. What do you say I grab one of your dogs and put a bullet in his head?" Rapp saw the flicker of recognition in the banker's eyes. "That's right, you idiot. I'm going to get one of your dogs and bring him up here." Rapp reached into his coat and pulled out a tactical knife. He bent over and stuck the tip in front of Dorfman's face. "I'll do you one better. I'm going to lay your hund at your feet and then I'm going to cut out one of his eyes and force-feed it to you."
"Nein ... nein." Dorfman looked truly frightened.
"If you don't open the safe, I'm going to start with your pooch's eyes, and then his tongue, and then his nose, and then his ears, and if you still haven't opened it by then, I'm going to shove all of it down your throat, and then I'll start in on the second dog, and if that doesn't get you to do it, then I'll start in on you."
Dorfman closed his eyes as tight as he could and shook his head in defiance.
Patiently waiting for Dorfman to decide to open the safe wasn't in the cards. Rapp flipped the knife up in the air and caught it, reversing his hold. He then slammed the tip of it down into Dorfman's thigh. The banker's entire body went rigid with pain and he opened his mouth to scream. Hurley gave him a quick backhanded chop to the throat, successfully choking off the shriek of agony.
Ten seconds passed before Dorfman was calm enough to talk to. "Last chance. Open the safe," Rapp said.
Dorfman was now slobbering, muttering something, and shaking his head.
"Fine," Rapp said as he moved to the door. "We'll do it your way." Rapp went back the basement, turned on the light, and stood over the two poodles and the wife. He wasn't sure which one to grab, so he picked the one on the left. Rapp cradled it in his arms and went back to the office. Richards opened the door for him. Rapp gently laid the pooch at his master's feet. The sight of his precious dog in the arms of the masked maniac sent Dorfman into a near-apoplectic state. Hurley slapped him hard and once again pointed at the safe. At least this time Dorfman didn't shake his head.
Rapp retrieved his knife and held the tip in front of the dog's face. "Left eye or right eye? You choose."
Dorfman was now bawling like a child, reaching out for his dog.
Rapp wasn't sure he had the stomach for this, but what the hell else were they going to do? He glanced at Hurley, whose dark eyes, alert with uncertainty, framed by his ski mask, seemed to be pleading with him to stop. Rapp got the impression that Hurley would rather torture the banker than harm the dog. Rapp cradled the dog's head in his arms and slowly started moving the blade toward the poodle's left eye. He was within a centimeter of piercing the outer layer when Dorfman finally relented. He literally threw himself onto the safe and began spinning the dial. Rapp waited until he'd entered the correct combination and then released the dog. Dorfman crawled to his dog and pulled him in, kissing him on the snout and the top of his head.
"What the fuck," Rapp muttered to himself, and then asked Dorfman, "You care more about that damn dog than you do your wife ... don't you?" Dorfman either didn't hear him or chose to ignore the question. Rapp looked at Hurley, who was emptying the contents of the safe.
"I told you," Hurley said as he pulled out three objects and held them up for Rapp to see. "An SS dagger and insignia. Nazi prick."
"A poodle-
loving Nazi who helps terrorists. Great." Rapp started to raise his gun but stopped. "Is it in there?"
Hurley held up some files, computer disks, and an external hard drive. "I think so." He leafed through the files quickly. "Yep ... it's all here. Jackpot!"
"Dorfman," Rapp said as he pointed his gun at the banker's head. "I bet if those damn terrorists were running around killing dogs you would have thought twice about helping them."
"Please," Dorfman said, "I am just a businessman."
"Who helps terrorist move their money around so they can target and kill innocent civilians."
"I knew nothing of such things."
"You're a liar."
"That's for certain," Hurley said as he stood with the bag full of files and disks. He placed the rug back over the closed safe and while moving the chair back said, "You have their names, their accounts." Hurley shook the bag. "You knew exactly who you were dealing with."
"I was doing my job ... for the bank."
"Like a good Nazi." Hurley gave him a big smile and pointed the Beretta at Dorfman's head. "And I'm only doing my job." Hurley squeezed the trigger and sent a single bullet into Dorfman's brain. The man fell back against the hardwood floor with a thump that was louder than the gunshot. A puddle of blood began to seep out in all directions. Hurley looked at Rapp and said, "Let's get the fuck out of here. We need to be in Zurich by sunrise."
"What's in Zurich?"
"Same thing that's always in Zurich ... money and assholes."
CHAPTER 33
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
I VANOV carefully lowered himself into his chair at SVR headquarters in the Yasenevo District of Moscow. Last night had been a wild one. He had closed a very lucrative business deal. A group of foreign investors were looking to pick up some natural gas contracts and were willing to give Ivanov a seven-figure retainer and a nice piece of the action if he could guarantee the acquisition. Now all Ivanov had to do was talk some sense into one of his countrymen who had already made a nice profit on the fields. And if he couldn't talk some sense into him he would have Shvets and a crew of his loyal officers pay the man a call and make him an offer he couldn't refuse. Ivanov smiled as he thought of his favorite movie, The Godfather. He would very much like to meet Francis Ford Coppola some day. The man had captured the essence of power perfectly.