“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 Maus, that is someplace in the Far East. You will tell me who controls these companies and who profits while my people suffer.”

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 Maus, the other Souri.”

“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.”