He heard it again, and had he not been turning his head to check on Zayysev he never would have believed the Russian’s lips had moved. By some miracle Zayysev was still alive. He was ghostly white, and blood continued to drool down his chest like crimson molasses. Isphording felt hope surge inside him like a dose of adrenaline.
“Keep them talking,” Zayysev mumbled, his eyes flickering from shock.
“What?” the lawyer whispered urgently. Mohammad or Rafik could be back any second.
“Tell them anything they ask. Just keep them talking.” Zayysev’s voice was so faint Isphording had to cup a hand to his ear and tilt his head to hear him.
“I don’t understand,” he pleaded.
“More of my men are on the way…” Zayysev’s voice trailed off. His eyelids fluttered and rolled back into his skull as he fell unconscious once again. How he had survived the multiple gunshots staggered the imagination.
Rudolph Isphording recalled what the Russian had said prior to the attack, that they were waiting for more of his companions. No doubt they would be armed. His first rush of hope became a torrent. He was going to be rescued. He was going to get out of this alive!
A bellow of exhaust echoed from the warehouse, and the armored van slowly emerged from the trailer, guided by one of the masked terrorists. Rafik strode back into the office an instant later. His face was contorted in a cruel mix of hatred and self-satisfaction. He dragged a chair from behind one of the desks and sat astride it in front of Isphording. His breath smelled of carrion.
“Now, pig, you will tell me what you did with the money you stole from my people.” He spoke in English, his accent somehow making him even more intimidating.
“I will tell you what you want to know,” Isphording replied in Arabic.
Rafik slapped him across the face hard enough to leave a red print on his skin. “You will not defile the language of the Prophet again. Speak English, Isphording. Isphording? That is a Jewish name.”
“I’m Catholic.”
Rafik slapped him again, his eyes going wide with insane rage. “You will speak only when asked a question.”
Isphording glanced to the motionless form of Yuri Zayysev, praying that his men would come soon.
“We know you used part of my people’s money to create fake companies,” Rafik began. “One is called D Commercial Advisors. Another is Equity Partners International. You used these companies to buy a large ship, called
For a long second Isphording didn’t know what to say. The Palestinian had it all wrong. None of the PLO money he’d hidden away had gone into that deal. That one was set up solely for Anton Savich and the Sikh, Shere Singh. Then he thought that it didn’t matter if he told Rafik all about it. Zayysev’s men would be here any moment, and the kidnappers would be dead.
“That is correct,” he said in a scratchy voice before clearing his throat. “There were actually two ships, floating drydocks. One called
“Who has control of these vessels?” Rafik demanded.
“A Russian named Anton Savich and a Sikh named Shere Singh.”
“You are wise not to lie.” There was little praise in Rafik’s voice. “We know about Savich. Tell me where we can find him.”
“I — I do not know,” Isphording admitted miserably. “He travels all the time. I don’t think he has a home, only a post box in Saint Petersburg.”
Rafik made to strike the lawyer again.
“It is true, I swear,” Isphording cried. “I have only met him once, over two years ago.”
“We will return to him in a moment. What about this Sikh? Who is he?”
“Shere Singh. He is Pakistani but now lives in Indonesia. He is a wealthy man. His holdings are vast — timber, shipping, real estate. The largest company is the Karamita Breakers Yard on the west coast of Sumatra. I believe he controls the two drydocks through it.”
“Have you ever met this man? What does he look like?”
“I’ve met him through a video conference last year. He appears to be a big man and like all Sikhs has a long beard and wears a turban.”
Mohammad suddenly burst into the office, jabbering in almost incoherent Arabic. “Rafik!” he shouted. “Rafik, the police arrest Fodl. He knows our, our, eh…” He drew silent.
“Location,” Rafik snarled in his native tongue. “Fodl knows our location.”
The terrorist got to his feet. Isphording gave a startled cry and cowered into the couch cushions, expecting to be beaten. “Please don’t hurt me. Please.”
“Silence!” Rafik snapped. He took a blindfold and a pair of hard plastic ear protectors from Mohammad.
“What — what are you doing?” Isphording sniveled. Tears coursed down his cheeks. They were going to execute him right here and now.
“I said, silence,” Rafik roared.
Before Rafik tied the blindfold around Isphording’s head, Mohammad jammed soft rubber plugs deep into his ears. Then came the blindfold and finally the ear protectors. Isphording couldn’t stop shaking. He could neither see nor hear anything. He was then gagged, but surprisingly, not too tightly. One of the terrorists hauled him to his feet, and together they guided him from the office. He had no idea what was happening, couldn’t tell where they were taking him. After just a few steps he smelled the exhaust from the idling van. A moment later he was unceremoniously dumped into the back. Though disorientated, he could sense the presence of the three guards
