Angels of Wrath (40 page)

The empty shelves and idle clerks in the mall had the opposite effect. There were at least three dozen Iraqi government soldiers in the building and another dozen Americans, outnumbering the shoppers nearly twenty to one.

Iraq might be on the road to democracy, but it was a long road, with many twists and turns, and it would be years before the country rose from poverty, let alone began to live up to its economic potential. In two months, the bulk of the remaining American troops were scheduled to withdraw. Corrine couldn’t help but wonder what would happen when they were gone. Besides reducing security, their removal would hurt the local economy, which was benefiting from cash payments for bases as well as from the GIs’ personal spending.

Bellows shrugged off the question.

“A few hiccups, nothing more,” he said as they rode back to the embassy. “I have a few meetings I can’t duck. Should we get together after dinner? Late? I’d love to catch up.”

“Sure,” said Corrine. “That’d be good. I have a few things to do myself.”

The embassy complex—it had been built at the end of the occupation, one more spur to the economy—was so new that it smelled of plaster as well as fresh paint. There were three small dormitory-style residence buildings for VIPs. Though Bellows suggested she take a room in the ambassador’s residence near him, Corrine demurred; she planned on using the secure communications facilities, which were located in the basement of the largest of the VIP buildings (the Yellow House, so called because of the exterior color). Staying there would make it easier to come and go. She also wanted to keep a little professional distance between herself and Bellows, though she didn’t tell him this.

Like its predecessor, the embassy had extensive secure facilities manned twenty-four hours a day and located in an elaborate bunker. Corrine found her room, then went down and checked in with Teri, her secretary at the White House. Teri ran through a long list of calls and then demanded to know if the rumors were true that she had been shot at.

“No. There was some sort of fracas in a nightclub, but my bodyguards hustled me out before things got too crazy,” said Corrine, crossing her lingers in front of her.

“Is that really what happened?”

“Would a lawyer lie?”

“Ha.”

After she managed to allay Teri’s fears, she phoned Corrigan to see what was up with Ferguson. The First Team leader wanted to talk to her, Corrigan said. Corrine kicked off her shoes and curled her legs up in the chair as she waited for the connection. The long day had her tired out already, and she was a little disappointed by the ambassador; he hadn’t taken her questions seriously.

Or maybe he had, and that’s why he was putting a smiley face on everything.

“How do you like sunny Baghdad?” said Ferguson cheerfully when the line connected.

“It’s all right. What’s going on?”

“I know where Khazaal is staying, a mosque in town.”

The word
mosque
swept away her fatigue. “You can’t blow up a mosque.”

“I didn’t say I was going to. Can I make the arrest without a replacement for Fouad?”

“Go ahead, but don’t do it in a mosque. Not in a mosque.”

Ferguson said nothing.

“Unless you really have to,” she added finally.

“I don’t think I will. I’ll talk to you.” He snapped off the line.

Corrine rose and went upstairs in search of a shower.

~ * ~

24

LATAKIA

As it turned out, Khazaal left the castle around the time Ferguson was grabbing Guns from the riptide. Meles, meanwhile, didn’t go there, visiting a small cottage a mile outside of town, apparently to see another delegate to the upcoming conference.

The flies Ferguson attached to the Imam’s son’s clothes yielded nothing except for a few jokes at the old man’s expense. Good fodder for the CIA Christmas party, but of dubious intelligence value.

The flies that Guns tossed in the boat, however, provided several interesting tidbits when the boat returned from a trip to the port area. According to the transcript Corrigan forward to Ferguson:

sbj a
: [garbled] . . . Tomorrow night

sbj b
: All of them?

sbj a: As
many trucks as you can get, yes. And brothers who are trustworthy.

sbj b
: The Yemen? [series of individuals named by pseudonyms or nicknames, none

identified as yet.. . ]

“Which you think means what?” Ferguson asked Corrigan.

“Thomas thinks it means the meeting is set for tomorrow. He’s found an airplane that was leased in Turkey a week ago with money from Morocco that came from Iraq. That airplane has a flight plan filed for Latakia tomorrow night. That jibes with what your source told you.”

“The airplane is going to pick up Khazaal?”

“That’s Thomas’s theory. It landed somewhere in Lebanon a few days ago, but then flew back to Turkey.”

“Near Tripoli?” That would have made sense if the men they had apprehended were to meet Khazaal there.

“I asked Thomas, but he accused me of jumping to conclusions without facts. It seems logical, right? But those guys you grabbed still aren’t talking. Slott won’t send them over to Guantanamo and Cor—Ms. Alston won’t approve, uh, coercive methods.”

Ferguson’s plan, still vague, was to grab the Iraqi as he came out of the meeting. That was problematic, however; Khazaal would be on his guard, and once the attack started he’d fight to the death. The plane represented a better opportunity, but by then Khazaal might have completed whatever deal the jewels were intended to cement. The trick was to think of them as separate events.

“Tell Thomas he did a good job,” Ferg told Corrigan.

“I’m afraid to encourage him. He has yet another UFO theory.”

“Hey, I have some of those myself. What does he think the jewels are supposed to buy?”

“Just the usual: weapons. I have a theory,” added Corrigan.

“Fire away.”

“I think it’s mercenaries. They’ll bring in suicide bombers from Hamas or something.”

“They have plenty of whackos in Iraq already,” Ferguson told him. “Iraq is a net exporter of crazies. Just like guns.”

“I think you’re wrong. It’s not easy to get people to blow themselves up, Ferg.”

“When does that plane land?”

“It takes off around six p.m., and it should be there within one to two hours. A bit of time to turn it around on the ground ... it gets back here somewhere between ten and two.”

“Thanks for narrowing it down for me. My money set?”

“Wired in, with Ms. Alston’s approval.”

“All right. I have to talk to Van and then I’ll get back to you on what else I need. Definitely the Global Hawk or U-2. An Elint plane would be nice.”

“There’s no signals coming out of there, Ferg. With the president’s trip next week and everything, it’s a real bear to spring resources. And even Special Demands has a budget.”

“Corrigan, do you pay for this stuff out of your pocket?”

“No, Ferg, but you know what Slott is going to say.”

“Does
he
pay for it out of his pocket?”

“He’s going to say if there’s no high probability of data, resources would be better conserved—”

“To which I say, ‘use it or lose it.’ I like my saying better.”

“Yeah, but I’m the one he’s going to yell at.”

“No, he’s going to yell at
Mizz
Alston,” said Ferguson, snapping off the phone. He looked up at Thera, who was watching the video feed on the lap-lop. “Hey, beautiful, did you buy just that one dress the other day?”

“It’s a skirt set,” she told him.

“Is that a no?”

“I can’t wear the same thing?”

“Don’t be gauche.” He grabbed the blazer he had borrowed from the hospital. “Come along. Uncle Sam is about to take us shopping.”

~ * ~

hera found a gorgeous blue dress in the Versailles shop that fit so well she was ready to spend her own money on it, until Ferguson whispered the price. They put her conservative Arab clothes in a bag, along with the weapons that wouldn’t fit beneath her dress without creating unsightly bulges. Ferguson found a blazer next door and a shirt to go with it. For Monsoon and Grumpy, along as shadows and sartorially challenged, Thera selected a pair of brown suits and black shirts that made them look like rap stars trying to look like bouncers. Not a bad effect, Ferguson thought.

“We check our weapons at the door,” Ferg said as they rode in a taxi to Agamemnon. “The Barroom is a very posh place, which means we can’t bribe the help but we can slide the guns in through the window in the men’s restroom.”

Ferguson made a show of handing his big Glock to the attendants at the hallway entrance to the club, then went through the metal detector and set it off. They pulled him aside. “Oh, it was probably this,” he said, holding up a penknife. “Sorry about that.”

They took the knife and wanded him with a handheld metal detector. Not satisfied even though it didn’t beep, they patted him down.

“Tickles,” said Ferguson, who finally passed through the gate without setting the machine off. Thera was waiting for him.

“Did you do that on purpose?” she asked as he took her arm.

“What do you think?”

“I know you must have, but I can’t figure out why.”

The maître d’ approached them, nodded graciously, and then showed them to a table overlooking the bar.

“I want them to remember that I was clean,” said Ferguson as they sat. “And I wanted everybody in the place to get a look at how cute you are, especially Ras.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Look, he’s coming to us tonight. Perrier with a twist,” he said as a waiter fluttered toward them.

“I’ll have a champagne cocktail,” she said.

“No bourbon?” asked Ferguson.

“The night is young,” said Thera. “How are we going to get our guns?”

“Monsoon’ll figure it out.” Ferguson rose. “Ras, how are you?”

“Mr. IRA and wife,” said Ras, sitting. “So lovely.” He asked Thera what she was drinking and then ordered the same.

“You don’t strike me as a champagne cocktail kind of guy, Ras,” said Ferguson.

“Mr. Ferguson, I have to say, you have impeccable taste in women. Your wife is so intoxicating she makes me forget who I am.”

“Too bad I don’t have the same good judgment when it comes to picking business associates.”

“How so?” asked Ras, making a not very subtle attempt to stare down Thera’s cleavage.

“I mean that you have not been completely honest with me,” said Ferguson. “You told me you had not heard that Vassenka was in town, and now I hear that he is.”

“If he is or not, that’s not my concern. I didn’t know that he was when you asked.”

“So now you do?”

Ras waved his hand. “The Syrians may think so. I have an open mind.”