Angels of Wrath (43 page)

“You think a toy store’s dangerous?”

“You’d be surprised,” said Ferguson, who actually didn’t want them seen by Ravid. “I saw a remote-controlled car there. Get as many of those as you can. Even better would be an airplane. If you see one, grab that, too. But make sure it’s good one; the cheap models’ll only go to seven hundred and fifty feet. We want the high end. Twenty-five hundred if you can.”

“What about a boat?”

“Only if you’re planning on taking a bath,” said Ferg. “After you go shopping, take a nap. You need all the beauty rest you can get.”

~ * ~

irk’s brother-in-law turned out to be unusually adept at jumping cars and even relished the idea of victimizing the Charitable Brotherhood, which even he knew was nothing more than a collection of slimes masquerading as concerned citizens. Ferguson had him follow in the second truck as he drove across town, first north and then west to a residential area at the edge of the city. He’d taken Brother-in-Law along not as a gofer but as an insurance policy in case Birk had been lying about dealing with the Iraqis or otherwise became curious about the Americans’ location in town; the trucks were a misdirection play that would keep someone hunting for them busy while Ferguson set up the operation.

“Hungry, comrade?” asked Ferguson as Brother-in-Law climbed into the cab. He said it in Russian, and the other man reacted immediately, practically spitting as he said in English that all Russians were dogs and he would do well to wash his mouth out after using the language.

“Don’t like them, huh?” said Ferguson.

“Phew.”

“Something personal, I hope.”

Brother-in-Law didn’t reply. Ferguson took the road to the coast, then instead of going south took a right on the highway.

“You look hungry,” he explained. “We’ll get something to eat.”

Brother-in-Law grunted, but then told Ferguson that there was a decent place for breakfast a mile up the road, one where there weren’t too many Russians or Syrians.

“If you don’t like Syrians and you don’t like Russians, why are you here?” Ferguson asked. “Family obligations?”

This drew a long, convoluted story about the need for the family to recover a farm it had lost during World War II because of the Russians. To Brother-in-Law, Syrians were Russians with head scarves and robes (even if the majority in Latakia didn’t wear them).

“How about the Iraqis?” asked Ferguson. He ran his fork through the scrambled eggs. Apparently Brother-in-Law liked runny yolks and potatoes so crisp they endangered fillings.

“All Iraqis are idiots,” said Brother-in-Law.

“But Birk deals with Iraqis all the time.”

Brother-in-Law made a face but didn’t answer.

“Sometimes?” said Ferg.

Brother-in-Law knew better than to say anything, but if Birk had a deal going with Khazaal he either didn’t know about it or didn’t realize Khazaal was Iraqi. The latter seemed pretty far-fetched; the former remained a possibility.

After breakfast, they drove to a bicycle shop in the center of town where he bought a dozen used bicycles and had them loaded into the back, from there they went back to the dock where he’d tied up the boat.

“Give my regards to Birk,” Ferg told Brother-in-Law as he handed him the promised money and another hundred for goodwill. “You probably ought to tell him I gave you a hundred to help. Knowing Birk he’ll want a cut.”

The Brother-in-Law smiled and slammed the door.

~ * ~

hera and Monsoon returned to their hotel with an armload of toys and a large bag of batteries. By the time Ferguson returned—he’d stashed the bicycles in several strategic locations and parked the second truck near the first—Guns and Grumpy were racing two of the cars around the suite.

“I have to go check in with Van,” Ferg told them. “Then I’m going to catch some z’s. Give those to Rankin when he wakes up. And don’t wreck them; he needs them to make some bombs.”

~ * ~

27

INCIRLIK, TURKEY

Colonel Van Buren had just come back to his office when the call from Ferguson came through. He checked his watch. It was a little past ten a.m.

“You’re up early,” he told Ferguson after he picked up the phone.

“Haven’t been to bed,” said Ferguson.

“No wonder you sound tired.”

“Nah, must be the connection. Listen, Van, I’ve been thinking. I can’t blow them up when they’re meeting, right?”

“Right.”

“But they don’t know that.”

“OK,” answered Van Buren, not entirely sure where Ferguson was going.

“So what I do is, I make them think they’re being attacked, which gets them the hell out of there on our time schedule. We follow Khazaal, who probably heads back to the mosque—”

“You can’t take him there either, Ferg.”

“I’m not going to. We’re going to set up so that it looks like we will, though. Move people in and out of the area, make sure they’re seen.”

“Then what?”

“He’s going to do the logical thing and go for his airplane. I take him there. We compromise the air conditioning so it shoots dope into the cabin. The only question in my mind is whether we do it on the ground or in the air.”

“Ground is easier and safer,” said Van Buren. “I can put two platoons of Rangers at the airport, land them near the plane. We’ll use the civvy 737 you guys dropped out of. I think it can land on that field.”

They worked out the arrangements and contingencies, talking over the various options. While taking him on the ground at the airport would be easier than doping him in the air, it was likely to lead to political complications if things went wrong, since there would be plenty of people around to notice. But as they worked the possibilities back and forth, it still seemed a better bet.

“I have to separate him from the jewels in case this doesn’t work,” added Ferguson. “That’s the tricky part. I have to do it before the meeting starts.”

Ferg explained that the Iraqi kept the jewels near him but not with him, clearly not trusting any of the people he was dealing with. Ferguson needed a plan to separate the cars before the meeting, while he still knew where the jewels were.

“What if he changes the way he does things before the meeting?” asked Van Buren, sensing from Ferguson’s dismissively breezy tone that he hadn’t finished thinking the mission through. “Maybe that’s the one time he brings them with him.”

“It’s possible,” said Ferguson.

“What are they trying to buy?” Van Buren asked.

“That’s what has me beat. There’s at least one serious cruise missile on the market here, and a Russian expert who should know how to use it is in town. But the guy who has access to them claims he hasn’t been approached.”

“Like an arms dealer never lies, huh?”

Ferguson laughed. He was tired; the laugh was way too loud. Van Buren worried that Ferg was pushing himself too far. You had to be a little reckless to do what Ferguson did, but it was a controlled kind of recklessness, and despite his goofy veneer Ferguson was one of the most controlled people Van Buren had ever met, much more deliberate even than the anal drill sergeants who had introduced him to the army a million years before.

Recklessness, controlled or uncontrolled, left little room for mistakes.

“You OK, Fergie?” Van Buren asked.

“I’m more than OK. I’m the best.”

“Yeah, I know all that. You OK?”

“I’m all right. A little tired. I have to take a nap. How’s your kid? Signed with the Red Sox yet?”

“He’s got to go to college.”

“I’d tell him to take the money and run.”

“That’s why you’re not his dad,” said Van Buren.

“Lucky for him.”

~ * ~

28

LATAKIA TWO P.M.

The alarm on Ferguson’s watch beeped incessantly, growing louder until its owner finally found the button to turn it off. He stared up at the ceiling, momentarily disoriented.

Did I take my stinking pills, or not?

He couldn’t remember. The need to travel lightly had simply made the compartmentalized pill minders impractical, but there were times when even he could have conceded they were useful. Ferguson, still not sure, took a dose just to be sure; better to be a little hyper than seriously dragging, which was the effect missing even one round of the T3 replacement had on him lately.

Outside in the common room, Rankin was dismantling the remote-control cars. “I assume there are going to be explosives to go with these,” he said by way of greeting.

“Yeah, I have to go pick them up. You didn’t take apart my airplane, did you?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Why the hell don’t we use a real setup instead of this cobbled together crap?”

“Two words:
plausible deniability.”

“Sounds like bullshit to me.”

“That’s one word,” said Ferguson. “But it’ll do.”

Ferguson intended that the weapons that he used would suggest the tactics favored by some of the insurgents in Iraq, specifically the southern Shiites who had access to some of the British equipment left behind in the war. His visit to Ras was intended to introduce the name Suhab Majadin to the local authorities. Ras hadn’t recognized it, but the Syrian intelligence service would. Suhab was the leader of a faction that hated Khazaal and vied with him to head the insurgency. A thorough investigation would show that Suhab was back in Iraq and had in fact been paid off by the present government to tone down his activities. But a thorough investigation was unlikely in Latakia.

“Where’s Thera?” Ferguson asked.

“Still sleeping.”

“Wake her up, will you? I have another errand for her and Grumpy.”

“Why don’t you wake her up?” said Rankin.

“ ‘Cause if I go into her room I’m not sure I’ll come out,” said Ferguson.

~ * ~

orty-five minutes later, Thera and Grumpy found themselves in the casino of the Versailles, playing the slots with bogus slugs and watching for Birk. Thera’s appearance had changed considerably: most notably her hair was now fiery red and stretched well down her back. The effect was startling, even with the black lipstick. Unfortunately these changes were accompanied by one far less flattering: she had gained what looked like fifty pounds, the smooth curves now considerably rounder under her long skirt.

Even disguised, Ferg had warned her that Birk might recognize her if she got too close, and so she let Grumpy do the hard work, betting colors on the roulette wheel, where the video bug that had replaced the button in his shirt could get a good view of Birk, who was testing his skill at calling sevens on the nearby craps table.

From what Thera could see across the room, Birk was alone, except for his bodyguards. Ferguson wanted to know who he was meeting here. He suspected Ravid, since he was staying at the hotel, though Thera wouldn’t have been surprised to see Khazaal or Meles or even one of the men from the mosque.

Birk was still alone when Ferguson’s phone call came. Birk took the call, listened, said something, then hungup and continued playing. Ten minutes later, he cashed out his chips—he was ahead—and went into one of the lounges. Thera followed, with Grumpy right behind her. The lounge was tiered; they took a table together on the top tier, diagonally across the room from Birk and positioned so that Grumpy’s video bug would catch the face of anyone sitting at his small table.