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  The Witness

  Copyright © 2008 by Josh McDowell. All rights reserved.

  Previously published by IMprint Edition of Campus Crusade in 2008 under ISBN 978-981-08-0788-7.

  First printing by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., in 2010.

  Cover photograph of car copyright © by Shaun Lowe/iStockphoto. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of man copyright © by Andersen Ross/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of couple copyright © by SW Productions/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of pyramids copyright © by Glen Allison/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Andrew Milne Design Limited

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  McDowell, Josh.

  The witness / Josh McDowell.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-4143-3412-7 (pbk.)

  I. Title.

  PS3613.C395W58 2010

  813´.6—dc22 2010017410

  Part One

  1

  His daughter was dead. His wife was missing. And now Rafeeq Ramsey clearly feared for his own life.

  “We have only two more days,” the old man said, pacing the sumptuous living room of his palatial flat on the shores of Monte Carlo and chain-smoking like a man who might rather die of lung cancer than a car bomb or an assassin’s bullet. “I received a new note just before you arrived. If I don’t wire them more money by Friday, they say they’ll kill Claudette and come after me. So please, Mr. Accad, I beg of you—tell me you have good news, because I don’t think I can take much more of this.”

  “How much are they asking for now?”

  “Twenty-five million,” Ramsey said. “On top of the 11 million euros I’ve already paid.”

  It was an enormous sum of money—at least it would be for a mere mortal. But the seventy-nine-year-old Ramsey was no mere mortal. Six months earlier, he had sold his company—Blue Nile Holdings, founded with his late brother back in 1963—to a French conglomerate for a cool €563 million. He was now one of the wealthiest men in Egypt and a living legend among the business elite throughout North Africa and the Middle East.

  Marwan Accad sat a few meters away on a long couch made of rich Italian leather and took in the moment. In so many ways, Ramsey was the perfect client—old, rich, and terrified. It was men like this for whom Marwan had launched his executive security business in the first place.

  But this case had left the vilest taste in his mouth. Greed. Corruption. Blackmail. Murder. Everywhere he looked, every stone he turned over, he found himself face-to-face with the depravity of men’s souls. He certainly did not have any words of solace for this wretched old man, now bereft of the two women he loved most in the world, and he began to wonder if it was time to get out of this business once and for all.

  Marwan finished his espresso and stared out over the glistening Mediterranean and at the reflection of the late-afternoon sun in the windows of the other luxury apartments nearby. He wondered what his parents would have thought of the life he now lived—the jet helicopters and the Humvees, the Armani suits and the Kevlar vests. The more risks he took, the more money he made. Wasn’t that just good business?

  He knew what his mother would say. She had begged him to get out of Beirut after his army service and become a doctor or an engineer and move to Paris. She had longed for him to live a safe and quiet life, to have sons and raise them to be men of peace, men of science, men of accomplishment. But like a fool, he had not listened. Could she see him now? Did she know how much time he spent helping the rich buy their trophy wives back from blackmailers and drug lords? Did she see how much time he spent jetting clients in and out of Baghdad and Mosul and Fallujah? Did the dead cry themselves to sleep?

  “I do have news,” Marwan Accad said at last. “But I’m afraid it is not good.”

  “What have those animals done to Claudette?” Ramsey demanded. “I’ll kill them. I swear to you, Mr. Accad. I will not rest until I hunt them down and make them suffer.”

  Marwan shook his head.

  “It is about Claudette, but it’s not what you think. Please, have a seat.”

  “Just tell me what you know.”

  “I will, Mr. Ramsey. But please, sit, and then I will tell you everything.”

  A corpulent man whose health had been slipping fast over the past two weeks, Ramsey slumped down in a large overstuffed chair and nervously lit another cigarette. His eyes were red and moist and filled with anxious expectation. He leaned forward. “Please, Mr. Accad, don’t toy with me.”

  Marwan nodded. “Mr. Ramsey, what does São Paulo mean to you?”

  The old man looked confused. “You mean the city, in Brazil?”

  “Right.”

  Ramsey shrugged. “Nothing; why?”

  “Nothing?” Marwan insisted.

  “No. Should it?”

  “Did Blue Nile Holdings have any offices or factories there?”

  “No.”

  “Were any of your senior management team from there?”

  “No.”

  “Were any of your employees from there?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Have you ever been to São Paulo on business?”

  “No, I tell you.”

  “Have you ever been there on vacation with your wife?”

  “Who has time for vacations?” Ramsey sniffed. “I am a busy man.”

  “Has Mrs. Ramsey ever been to São Paulo alone for any other reason?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “You’re absolutely sure?”

  “I don’t see what you’re trying to—”

  “Are you sure, Mr. Ramsey?” Marwan pressed. “Think.”

  Rafeeq Ramsey got up from the chair and began pacing around the room again, taking long drags on his cigarette.

  “Well, actually, come to think of it, I think she did,” he said after a moment.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “There’s not much to tell,” Ramsey said. “Claudette’s second cousin once married a Brazilian. It lasted about six months before they got divorced.”

  “Did you go to the wedding?” Marwan asked.

  “No, but Claudette did. She hated it—São Paulo, that is. Too crowded. Too noisy. New York without the charm, she said.”

  “When was the wedding?”

  “I don’t know, maybe three or four years ago,” Ramsey said, mixing himself a drink at the bar by the windows. “Why? Where are you going with all this?”

  Marwan reached down, opened his briefcase, pulled out a large manila envelope, and held it out to Ramsey.

  “What is that?” the old man asked. He sipped his martini.

  “Open it,” Marwan said. “You’ll see.”

  Ramsey stared at Marwan for a moment, then set down his drink, walked over, took the envelope, and opened it slowly.

  As he pulled out an eight-by-ten black-and-white photograph, all color drained from his face, and a look of profound confusion filled his eyes.

  In Ramsey’s hands was a photograph of his wife, date-stamped less than forty-eight hours earlier. Unlike the previous photos that had come with the ransom notes, in this one she was not bound. She was
not gagged. Instead, she appeared to be sitting in an office, in front of a desk, talking to a clerk or manager of some kind.

  “I don’t . . . I don’t understand,” Ramsey finally managed to say, though his voice was weak and his hands were trembling. “What is this? Where was this taken?”

  “It was taken by a surveillance camera inside a bank in São Paulo,” Marwan explained. “Your wife withdrew funds from the money you wired for her ransom.”

  Ramsey was clearly having trouble processing the image in his hands.

  “What are you saying, Mr. Accad?” the old man said at last. “That my wife . . . you think she planned this whole thing? You’re saying this is proof that she betrayed me?”

  Marwan said nothing. He waited for the painful truth to sink in before he offered his client a plan of action. But he never got the chance. The plate-glass windows suddenly exploded around them. The noise of two shots filled the room. The old man crashed to the floor. His blood formed a slowly growing pool on the carpet.

  Rafeeq Ramsey was dead, and Marwan Accad feared he might be next.

  2

  Marwan dove for cover behind Ramsey’s massive oak desk as more gunfire filled the suite, shattering dishes and picture frames and sending shards of glass flying everywhere.

  Two of Ramsey’s bodyguards burst into the room, guns drawn, but they were shot dead before they could identify the sniper, much less return fire.

  Marwan grabbed the phone, but the line had been cut. He reached for his gun before remembering it had been taken from him by the security guards at the front desk. A collection of ancient vases exploded over his head. Multiple rounds ripped up the furniture all around him.

  He couldn’t stay there. Whoever had just killed Ramsey was obviously using a scope. They knew Marwan was in the room, and they knew where.

  Marwan rolled left and scrambled to the slain bodyguards. The gunfire intensified. He grabbed the men’s sidearms and doubled back to grab the photo of Ramsey’s wife, then dove out the open door into the main hallway.

  Two more guards were coming off the elevator.

  “Get down! Get down!” Marwan shouted as the hallway filled with gunfire.

  The first guard hit the deck instantly. The second wasn’t fast enough. As the glass of the hallway windows exploded inward, he took two rounds in the back and began shrieking in pain.

  “Quick, Mr. Accad, take the stairs,” the first guard yelled, trying desperately to help his colleague, though his efforts appeared to be in vain.

  Marwan took the advice and moved quickly into the stairwell, guns drawn in case anyone was waiting for him. The stairs were clear. He raced down ten flights, his mind reeling.

  Moments later he burst into the lobby, wondering if there was any hope that his driver was still waiting for him. He scanned the growing crowd but didn’t see anyone he recognized. He could hear sirens in the distance. A fire alarm was going off. People were screaming. It was pandemonium. But the gunfire had stopped, at least for now.

  “Mr. Accad?” someone yelled through the crowd.

  Private security guards and plainclothes agents were racing in from all directions. Residents of the building flooded out of the elevators, panic on their faces. He saw no one he knew, but he heard the voice again.

  “Mr. Accad, over here.”

  He turned and looked again and this time saw his driver, a small, kindly-looking man, running toward him.

  “Mr. Accad, please,” the man said, trying to catch his breath, “we need to get you out of here. Wait here, and I’ll bring the car to the door.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Marwan said.

  “No, no, monsieur,” the driver insisted. “I will only be a moment.”

  The driver was already heading toward the door, weaving his way through the crush of people trying to flee Sovereign Plaza and the adjacent Seaside Plaza, two of the most luxurious and sought-after apartment complexes in Monaco.

  Marwan had no interest in arguing with the man. There was too much else to think about. Had Claudette Ramsey and her accomplices known Marwan was tracing their money transfers? Did they know he’d tracked them to São Paulo? Is that why they had killed Rafeeq Ramsey today, before he could act on these new leads? How was that possible? He had only told Ramsey himself moments before he died.

  Accad & Associates had been working for Ramsey for just the past ten days. Ramsey had employed a Paris-based security firm for years; Accad’s company had been brought in to investigate the death of Ramsey’s daughter and the disappearance of his wife, nothing else. Marwan had offered to supplement or even replace the French bodyguards with his own men, but Ramsey had said no. He didn’t want to implement any obvious changes that might upset the blackmailers or push them toward mistreating his beloved wife in any way. It had been a fatal mistake.

  Marwan watched police cars and other emergency vehicles converge on the area from every direction and knew the media wouldn’t be far behind. That was the last thing he needed—his face plastered all over newspapers throughout Europe and the Middle East. It was not exactly the kind of publicity the CEO of a thriving executive security company craved.

  He checked his watch and scanned the crowd outside. He finally spotted his driver crossing the street, getting into the gleaming new Range Rover, and starting the engine.

  Marwan moved for the front door. He wanted to get out of there as quickly as he possibly could. But just as he exited the building and began making his way across the plaza, the SUV suddenly erupted in a tremendous explosion, the force of which sent Marwan crashing to the ground. Flames and smoke shot into the air. Glass and pieces of burning metal rained down from the sky. And in that horrifying moment, Marwan suddenly realized that he, too, was being hunted.

  3

  Bodies littered the street and grounds. The wounded screamed for help. Others stumbled around in silence and in shock, looking for friends and loved ones or wondering what had just happened and why.

  Marwan got up and wiped the blood from his face, wincing as the handkerchief passed across the tiny gashes spotting his cheeks and forehead. He removed the ammo clip from one of the guard’s pistols he had taken, emptied the chamber, wiped his prints off the gun, and threw it in a nearby trash can. Then he stuffed the other in his belt, covered it with his jacket, and began running north for the main business district, just a few blocks away.

  He needed to get back to his hotel, gather his things, and get out of town. No one stopped him. Everyone seemed frantic or too shell-shocked to care who he was or why he was in such a hurry.

  He flagged down a passing cab.

  “Le Méridien,” Marwan told the driver.

  “Yes, sir,” the man replied in a heavy accent. A moment later the two sped off.

  The sun was slowly approaching the mountains. The lights of the city were coming on. The casinos and cafés were open for business. Monte Carlo, the playground of the rich and famous, was coming alive, though news of the attacks would be spreading soon.

  Marwan watched the yachts in the harbor blur by as he made a mental checklist. He needed to call his brother. He needed more cash. He needed a flight—reservations, tickets. But to where? from where? Was he headed to Italy or France?

  Running would make him look guilty, he knew. But given all that had just happened, he wasn’t sure he had a choice. Staying could be a death sentence. He would be questioned at length by the police, of course. Who had first introduced him to Rafeeq Ramsey? Why had Marwan come to Monte Carlo when he knew full well that Ramsey already had a French security firm working for him? How could he explain that his second meeting with Ramsey had ended in the man’s death? Why had he taken the security guards’ weapons? Why had he not claimed his own pistol from the front desk? On and on it would go, and those were the easy questions. What really concerned him was something Ramsey had said the first time they had met.

  The taxi pulled up to the hotel. Marwan paid the driver and asked him to wait. He wouldn’t be long. Then he raced insi
de and took an elevator to the fifth floor.

  An attractive young woman in her early twenties rode up with him. She reminded him vaguely of a woman he used to date. Long dark hair. Soulful brown eyes. White silk blouse, black skirt, black stockings, pearl necklace. Red painted nails and red lipstick, with a bit too much eye shadow. That was a long time ago, he thought. She smiled shyly. Normally Marwan would have smiled back, struck up a conversation. But not tonight.

  He looked down at his feet and forced himself to refocus. He tried to reconstruct his first conversation with Ramsey, a week and a half earlier. The broad strokes were easy. Ramsey had recounted the events leading up to the simultaneous abduction of his wife and daughter, one from the beauty salon, the other on her way home from school; one leading to blackmail, the other to murder.

  But it was the names of suspects that Marwan kept running through in his mind. Ramsey had suggested no less than a dozen ex-employees and business rivals who he believed might have the motive, the means, and the opportunity to attack his family. But there was one scenario that concerned him above all others.

  The elevator bell rang. The door opened on the third floor. The woman beside him pulled out a cell phone and began dialing as she stepped off. He took one last look at her. Missed opportunities, he mused as she strutted away.

  The door closed again.

  Marwan’s thoughts returned to his conversation with Ramsey. The old man had told him that several years earlier, two French intelligence operatives had tried to blackmail him, claiming that if he did not pay them two hundred and fifty thousand euros, they would get their friends in the tax bureau to launch an investigation into Blue Nile Holdings for tax evasion and accounting irregularities. They said they would leak stories to the newspapers designed to embarrass him and his company.

  At the time, Ramsey had been trying to sell his company to a Paris-based multinational. He didn’t want the deal scuttled by some long and public government investigation, even if the allegations were false. He told Marwan that he had paid the men, writing it off as “consulting fees.” But when they had demanded more—this time, one million euros—Ramsey had contacted Interpol, which had set up a sting operation. The agents were soon caught and faced twenty-five years to life in prison. But when they cut a deal with prosecutors and promised to name several coconspirators, they were found dead in their jail cells. The murders were never solved, and the case went cold.