Angels of Wrath (16 page)

“I don’t see how they could have,” said Melfi.

“Which of course would be how they did it,” said Ferguson. “Or he used one of the tunnels we don’t know about. Or he came over a few days ago. Or our information is completely bad.”

Ferguson outlined the general game plan, telling Melfi that he and his people would continue to watch the border area.

“In the meantime, Fouad, Rankin, and Thera are going to go over to Sukna and then Deir Ex Zur and see if they can catch a whiff of the trail.” Ferguson reached into his rucksack and pulled out a large padded envelope, which contained travel and identity documents, along with a bundle of money. “You go as Egyptians with the milk truck. Everybody knows you’re smugglers looking for business.”

“I don’t look very Egyptian,” said Rankin.

“No one will question it if you don’t talk too much,” said Fouad. “You smear more red tone on your face and keep growing your beard, you look fine.”

“Maybe I ought to dress like a Bedouin,” suggested Rankin.

“That’s overdoing it,” said Ferguson. “Anyone who studies your face is going to know you haven’t spent your life in the desert. You’ll be all right. Just the normal pajamas will do.”

Rankin had a customized
salwnr kameez,
an oversized shirt and
baggy pants, which in his case were bulky enough to hide a lightweight bulletproof vest along with his weapons. He could obscure his face when necessary with a head scarf or
shimagh.

Despite its poor relations with the U.S., in many ways Syria was much more liberal than many Middle Eastern countries, and Western-style clothing would be the norm in the larger towns and cities. Fouad was dressed little differently than a man would dress in America.

“The milk truck has a series of fake compartments,” Ferguson told them. “I got it off a genuine smuggler. Actually, the First Airborne got it off a smuggler, and they said I could borrow it.”

He explained how the compartments worked. There was one toward the cab area large enough to fit weapons and a series of smaller ones. “You can chain two of the motorcycles on the back, and another at the side. They may come in handy.”

“Where are you going to be?” Thera asked Ferguson.

“The map those clowns were working with suggest they were going to Tarabulus esh Sham, Tripoli. Long shot but worth checking. It’s north of Beirut.”

“What happened to Syria?” asked Thera.

“Still in the running. It may be that they were going here first, maybe to pick up someone or sell something or even buy something, then heading north. I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Won’t know until I get there and maybe not even then.”

“What am I doing, Ferg?” asked Guns.

“For the time being, big guy, winning Melfi’s poker money. Your Arabic isn’t good enough to ride with those guys, and I don’t want to burn you in Lebanon with me in case I need you to come in as a Russian drug dealer or something like that. If you’re seen with me it’ll kill your cover. Just remember, I get half your winnings here.”

Guns smirked. Melfi didn’t.

“Questions? Complaints?” asked Ferguson.

“There’s five thousand Euros here,” said Thera, flipping through the money.

“That’s all they’d let me sign for.”

She stared at him.

Ferguson realized she was thinking about the cash they’d found in the smuggler’s car and laughed. “Don’t forget your sunblock,” he told them.

~ * ~

6

EASTERN SYRIA

THAT AFTERNOON ...

Sukna was a very small town, and it was clear as they approached that they were not going to get any information there, even it was to be had. A small patrol of Syrian soldiers met them outside of town and quizzed them. Fouad handled it somewhat nervously, and Thera worried that the man was going to make the mistake of offering the Syrians a bribe. Close to the border that might be expected, but here it would be regarded as an insult and perhaps worse.

Rankin pressed his elbow into the Iraqi’s side, hoping to shut him up. Fouad blubbered on, talking inanely about the swarm of bugs that followed the truck, worrying that they were attracted by the souring milk in the back. Finally even the guards grew tired of him and waved them past the checkpoint.

“Why did you tell them that the milk was sour?” said Thera, leaning across Rankin.

The Iraqi shrugged.

“Talk less,” said Rankin.

“I have been in this business longer than you have been alive,” answered Fouad, though it had been many years since he had traveled undercover. The weather didn’t help his mood, and the flies were atrocious. He thought to himself that he should have insisted on going to Tripoli, where at least he might have been able to find a pool to cool off in.

“This doesn’t look like a good place to stop,” said Thera as they came to a cluster of buildings that marked the start of the town center. Soldiers stood on both sides of the road.

Rankin agreed. They drove through slowly but saw no hint of what was going on. There was a second checkpoint at the northern outskirts; this time the soldiers wanted to check their truck. The interior had been dummied up against just such a possibility with a mixture of brackish water and milk. One of the soldiers made the mistake of tasting some of the liquid as it poured from the back and spit it into the sand; his companions laughed at him.

“Obviously a new recruit,” said Rankin as they drove away.

“You think Khazaal’s in the town and that’s why they’re here?” asked Thera.

“Nothing can be completely ruled out,” said Fouad. “But the Syrian government would not want to be seen actively cooperating with the resistance at this time. If anything, the soldiers would be looking for him and others. You see how our truck was searched? They were looking for a person, not merchandise. They probably heard the helicopters yesterday or rumors of the gunfights. That is why they are here.”

Rankin waited until they were a few miles out of town, then used the sat phone to call Corrigan and tell him about the Syrians. “They didn’t look like a search party exactly,” he told him. “But I don’t know. Better tell Guns and the rest of them to be careful tonight.”

They made decent time on the highway, stopping once for diesel. Thera found herself nodding off as they continued north, fatigue and the heat lulling her to sleep. Green appeared on the horizon; the wind suddenly felt humid. Then she drifted, sliding somewhere near Houston, where she’d grown up.

Rankin let Thera’s weight shift against him. She had a compact body, not quite buxom enough on top to be a knockout but trim under the loose Arab clothes she wore. Her nose had the slightest hook to it, the sort of blemish that made a woman seem ugly at first but kept your eyes returning to her face until you realized that she was actually very beautiful. A curly strand of hair fell over her ear, drawing a line between the two post earrings.

He reached over and moved her against the side of the truck, not wanting his gun obstructed. He had a small Glock in his pants pocket; his Uzi was strapped beneath the dashboard.

“The woman is sleeping?” asked Fouad.

“Yeah.”

“Women can always sleep.”

“I guess.”

“I have not been to Deir Ex Zur in many years.”

“Makes two of us,” said Rankin, though in fact he had never been there.

“It is the most likely place in the area that he would come,” continued Fouad. “Everyone goes through it, and you can buy many things.”

“Yeah. You’re probably right.”

Deir Ex Zur sat on an important trade route that dated well into prehistory. During the French domination of Syria, it had been an important French outpost, albeit a small one. Like so many other places in the Middle East, the discovery of oil here had changed the city’s fortunes dramatically. It was now a relatively large city, by far the biggest in eastern Syria, with Western-style hotels and a smattering of Europeans on the streets. The Euphrates sat on the northern side of the city, less a boundary than a wide, rich vein of green and blue—and a gathering place for the squadrons of swarming bugs. They made their way to 8th Azar Street, one of the main thoroughfares. Rankin woke Thera when they found a lot to park in. They were a few blocks from the microbus station, which itself was several from the river and the heart of town.

“Time to go to work,” he told her.

~ * ~

he area around the river had changed considerably since the last time Fouad had been here. While it had always had its share of tourist traps catering to Western visitors as well as Arabs, they had multiplied tenfold in the last two years. The forest of English signs crowding out Arabic pained Fouad as well as disoriented him.

Their first stop was a café frequented by Iraqi exiles on the south side of the river.

“It looks exactly as it did when I first saw it twenty years ago,” said Fouad, surprised as well as relieved. “Wait for me.”

“You sure you’re all right?” asked Rankin.

Fouad, annoyed, put up his hand but said nothing.

When he had been gone five minutes, Rankin told Thera to come along.

“I thought you told him we’d stay out here.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“Ferg does.”

“I ain’t Ferg.”

Thera followed him inside. The influence of tourism had loosened local customs to the point that women were a sizable minority inside the café. If anything, Thera’s rust-colored
jiba
and lace-up
hijab
and scarf were on the conservative side here. She followed Rankin to a seat several tables from Fouad, whose back was turned to them at a table in the corner. He was sitting alone.

They ordered tea, Thera doing the talking. She had a pistol strapped to the inside of each thigh as well as her left ankle; on her right were three small pin grenades, miniature flash-bangs that could be used to divert attention if she needed to escape. A knife, spare ammo, and two more pin grenades, these with smoke, were strapped below her breasts. The weapons felt uncomfortable under the long dress, but it was something she’d have to get used to.

“Didn’t even talk to anyone,” grumbled Rankin as Fouad got up to leave.

They met Fouad outside after she finished her tea.

“We have to find a taxi,” the Iraqi told them. “I have an address.”

~ * ~

7

TRIPOLI (TARABULUS ESH SHAM), LEBANON

THAT AFTERNOON . . .

Ferguson had found that, as a general rule in life, it was best to simply show up at the place where you wished to be. Less questions were asked, more things assumed, if one simply walked out from the crowd. And so it was that Bob Ferguson made his appearance in Tripoli, striding out of the surf at the Palace, a recently built luxury resort that featured the self-proclaimed biggest and best sand beach in all Lebanon—not much of a boast in a country not known for sandy beaches but a slogan nonetheless.

Ferguson wiped the seawater from his eyes and looked around, peering left and right as if looking for friends amid the throng. He scanned up and down for a few moments, getting a feel for the crowd. Though it was past high season, there was a good number of people here. Finally he found what he was looking for: an unattended towel. As he scooped it up, a hotel employee approached. Ferguson smiled and, before it was possible for the man to say anything, asked if he could possibly have a martini. The man was flustered; Ferg repeated the question in French. He was a little rusty and the grammar came out wrong, but the employee was hardly in a position to correct it. The man asked him in Arabic if he was with the Ugari party. Unsure what the right answer would be, Ferguson replied in French that he wasn’t sure what time it was, as he had left his watch upstairs. After two more tries the man turned around and headed back toward the building.