Angels of Wrath (32 page)

Fouad left his shoes and joined the others purifying themselves at the fountain before going to pray.

“God is greater,” prayed Fouad. “All praise be to Allah ...”

He had learned the words as a child, but at many times in his life they came to him fresh, their meaning revealed again. Today was one of those times: as the prayers proceeded, so did his understanding. The words from the al-Talbiyah (“Compliance”) were like ringing truth: “Here I am, God, at your command. Here I am!”

What did God require of him? The men he was here to find invoked God. Was it the same God? How could they be so badly mistaken?

But they were mistaken. The Prophet (peace be unto Him) had preached only necessary war, had forbidden the killing of innocents, had offered peace to those who would live in peace with the faithful.

Sadness overcame Fouad, as if he were responsible for the others’ sins and mistakes in addition to his own.

“Glory to my Lord,” he said, flattening himself prostrate on the stones. “Glory to my Lord, Most High.”

~ * ~

uns timed his arrival so that he came through the gates just after prayers. He headed toward the administrative office, shadowed by Monsoon. Since Fouad hadn’t seen any weapons detectors, or guards for that matter, they went in with pistols under their flowing Arab-style clothes, along with bugs similar to the one Fouad had been given. They milled around the outside of the building for a moment, as if looking for someone, then Guns went to the office and, in Chechnya-inflected Russian, explained that he had just come to the city and desired guidance on a good place to stay.

The man at the desk didn’t understand a single word he said.

Guns repeated it, nearly word for word. The man shook his head.

Guns now tried, haltingly, to say in Arabic where he was from and what he wanted. Ferguson had told him not to worry about his pronunciation, for the important thing was to make clear that he was from Russia, which he did by taking his passport from his pocket and using it as a prop. He then asked if the man spoke French; this won him another blank stare.

“Englishki?” said Guns. “Speak Eug lush?”

“English?” said the man.

“Dab, un
little. From Russia. I am from Russia.” He continued in half Russian, half English to mention the town in Chechnya he’d come from and the path he’d taken through Georgia to Egypt, which duplicated the route Corrigan had said Vassenka would take. The man at the desk simply nodded.

“Rooms?” said Guns finally.

“We are not a hotel, my brother.”

“Where? A hotel?”

The man wrote down the address of a place in town. As he did, the phone on his desk rang. He frowned, then picked it up. After a few moments his eyes widened in alarm. He hit the receiver button, then tapped the keys, talking quickly when someone came on the other line.

“I am very sorry,” he said, rising and handing the paper with the hotel to Guns. “I have an emergency.”

Guns followed the man out of the building, toward the mosque, where a crowd had gathered. A siren wailed above the walls. People began to shout. Guns turned and saw an ambulance backing through the narrow passage into the courtyard. A man was carried from the mosque as the rear of the ambulance was opened and a stretcher brought out.

The man they laid on it was Fouad.

~ * ~

13

DAMASCUS

Even before they came near her, Corrine realized that the two men in the terminal were the agents Corrigan had sent to trail the Russian. That, she decided, was not good; if she could identify them with just a glance, wouldn’t he?

She went back to reading the paper she’d bought. One of her two embassy guards sat in the chair next to her; the other was a row away, watching. “Ms. Alston?” said one of the men, standing next to her. The man smiled down at her. With a white shirt and tie, he looked more like a detective than a spy.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Are you Ms. Alston? Do you have something for us?”

Corrine glanced sideways at the guard, one of the Delta men who had escaped from the club with her. He had a perplexed look on his face. Clearly he couldn’t believe it either.

Corrine glanced at her watch. The Russian’s plane was due in twenty minutes.

“Plans have changed,” she said. “Give me a phone number where I can reach you.”

~ * ~

’m sorry, Ms. Alston, I didn’t quite catch that,” said Corrigan.

“I said, who the hell were those guys?”

“Egyptians. They’ve done some work for us before. All of our people are tied up chasing down security leads related to the president’s visit and—”

“You’re serious? Those were legitimate agents?”

“We’ve gotten information from them. The Agency has, not Special Demands. Ferg didn’t give me much time. We have to take what we can get sometimes.”

“No. We don’t. I’ll take care of trailing the Russian myself.”

“Uh, ma’am, do you think that’s a good idea?”

“He’s only being trailed to the airport, right? In Latakia?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“I think I can handle that.” She killed the connection as he continued to protest.

~ * ~

orrine saw the Russian come off the plane, watching as he walked toward the boarding area for the flight to Latakia. The small aircraft, an Embraer EMB-120 Brasilia, held only thirty passengers, and Corrine had already reserved places for herself and the two Delta bodyguards. In order to be prepared in case Vassenka changed his mind at the last minute, the men were outside in rental cars, poised in different spots in the lot. Corrine’s job was to watch him inside and to plant the tracking device.

Not difficult work, she thought. All she had to do was follow along, get behind him in line, and slip the tiny bug onto his sweater. The exterior of the device looked like a burr, the sort of thing you might pick up walking through a field in the fall. Corrine had it perched between her fingers but worried that she would drop it on the carpet. She had no backup.

As the Russian reached the main hallway, he stopped to get his bearings. Corrine started to stop as well, then realized this was the perfect opportunity. She raised her hand slightly, bug ready, and walked into the Russian’s hack. Pretending to be startled, she jerked her hand back, glancing at the bug to make sure it was planted before twisting and falling down.

“Ow,” she said.

The Russian spun defensively, nearly tripping over her. He sputtered something in Russian that Corrine didn’t understand, though she assumed he wasn’t asking for a date.

“Excuse me. I’m sorry,” she said. She got to her feet unsteadily, dragging out her rise as if she were uncoordinated. “I didn’t see you there.”

He frowned at her, said something else in Russian, and then in English told her she was a clumsy oaf. Then he realized how pretty she was and extended his hand.

“Are you OK?” he asked.

“I’m fine, yes. Thank you. It was my fault.”

“You are an American,” he told her. “Funny you should be in Syria.”

“Syria is a lovely country.”

“Not for Americans.”

“I
’m on business.”

The photo she had gotten from Corrigan made him look a little older than he was in real life. He wasn’t unattractive, though the thick scent of vodka on his breath was a turnoff.

So was the grip on her arm.

“I have some time,” he said.

“You’re going to let go of me now,” said Corrine.

He smiled in a way that convinced her he wasn’t going to. Corrine smiled back and then stomped her heel into his instep. As he started to jerk hack, she kicked again, this time zeroing the heel into the ankle of his other foot. She shrugged as he fell to the floor.

Several Arab men passing nearby came up to assist her, but it was unnecessary. She thanked them, calmly rearranged her scarf, and walked across the concourse, trying not to smirk.

Corrine waited until the Russian had gone to the gate to call her shadows outside. “I think just one of you should come in and fly with me,” she said. “I don’t trust him not to bolt or get off the plane.”

“You’re coming with us?” said one of the men.

“All I have to do is fly to Latakia. Ferguson will take it from there.”

“Uh—”

“Charles, you’re with me,” she said. “Danny, we’ll see you in a few hours.”

~ * ~

14

LATAKIA

The power of money had always impressed Judy Coldwell, but in the Middle East it could be absolutely intoxicating. A folded hundred-dollar bill could get one on an airliner that was supposedly booked; two would stop a customs agent’s inquiries. A single fifty-dollar bill was enough to ensure that her registration at the hotel was entered under a name different from the one on her passport—Benjamin Thatch.

Yesterday, Coldwell had stopped in Athens, Greece, where she visited a small pawnshop on a backstreet seldom traveled by tourists. She had retrieved a small suitcase, sewn into the lining of which was a list of accounts as well as the name of a local bank and a bank officer who did not ask many questions, as long as they were accompanied by the right number of hundred-dollar bills. Within an hour he had confirmed that the accounts in Morocco and Austria were accessible. Together, they held about two hundred thousand dollars. Unfortunately, that was a small sum compared to the task that needed to be accomplished.

Coldwell took off her shoes and reached to undo the top button on her blouse. She was tired from the journey, which had included stops in France and Egypt as well as Greece. She would take a bath and then sleep. Tomorrow she would resume her mission.

And do what, exactly? Make herself visible, surely. Find the places where the demons swarmed. She would go to the merchants of hate, mention her brother’s name. Eventually, the contact that Benjamin had made would come to her.

And then what? Would he scoff at thousands when millions were needed?

Coldwell got up from the chair and went to the bathroom. As she leaned over the tub she felt her hands begin to shake. She stared at her fingers; they seemed gnarled, foreign, not hers at all. Fear shot through her; she was not up to the task.

The room turned to ice. Coldwell felt as if she were falling. She had experienced this sensation several times in her life, always at moments of great stress. The first had been as a five-year-old, when she discovered her mother in the basement, her head wrapped in a plastic bag taped tightly so she could not breathe.

Suicide, though the five-year-old had no comprehension what that meant.

Coldwell found herself sitting on the floor, paralyzed. She was a little girl again, staring at the dead body, unable to go back up the stairs.

“I have faced great problems in the past,” Coldwell said aloud. “I can overcome this.”

Still she did not move. She tried thinking of achievements, of struggles. Not a year after she had been hired by the oil company, she had arranged for her boss (a slime and reprobate) to be freed from a Cairo jail after that unfortunate incident with several local boys. That task had been extremely difficult: harder than this, surely, and with greater personal risk. One man had held a knife at her throat and drawn blood.