Angels of Wrath (61 page)

The men had seen him on the ground and came over, shouting at him that they were policemen and he was in a great deal of trouble. One kicked him in the ribs, asking in Arabic if he was drunk or drowned. The other grabbed him and started to pull him up; as he did, the sat phone fell from one of Ferg’s pockets. The man dropped Ferguson in a heap and picked up the phone. The phone had a thumbprint reader as well as a password number for security, so there was no chance of it working. The man fiddled with it for a few minutes, then tossed it to his companion, who threw it out into the sea.

When the first man returned and tried to pick up the drunkard by the shirt, he suddenly found himself flying in a somersault toward the rocks. Ferguson jumped up and aimed a kick at the other man, bare foot connecting with the Iraqi’s knee. The man grabbed Ferguson as he fell and managed to pull him down with him. Ferguson kicked at his chest but the man held on, his fingers like metal clamps. The fatigue that had immobilized Ferguson just a few minutes ago vanished; he rolled and smashed the man’s head with his fist, pounding him into unconsciousness with three blows to the temple.

In the meantime, the first man drew his pistol and began firing wildly, the bullets sailing well over Ferguson’s head. Panicked, he quickly emptied the magazine. As the gun clicked empty, Ferguson threw himself forward and plowed headfirst into the Syrian, knocking the wind from him. Two sharp blows to his head put him out for good.

Ferguson grabbed the gun and looked at the man’s belt for more ammunition. All he could find were a pair of handcuffs. He cuffed the man’s arms behind his back and did the same to his companion. Then he sized up the men and borrowed the clothes of the larger. His pants were too wide but more than an inch short; the shoes, at least, fit snugly.

Smaller than an American vehicle and without the bubblegum light at the top, the police car nonetheless came fully equipped with everything Ferguson wanted at the moment: four wheels, a full tank of gas, and a key to save him the trouble of jumping it.

Ferguson turned the wrong way out of the road leading to the ramp and found himself driving north rather than south on the highway. The easiest way to correct this was with a U-turn in the middle of the road. He misjudged the distance and went off the other side, the tire slipping down into a ditch and taking part of the exhaust with it. The pipe clattered along loudly. Ferguson was no mechanic, but he found a suitable solution by veering off the side again, scraping the pipe sufficiently to leave it and the muffler behind.

Except for its effect on Ferguson’s ears, the noise wasn’t a problem on the highway; given that the hotel was only a mile or so away, he figured he could tough it out. But as he neared the hotel he saw a pair of military vehicles at the front entrance and decided to keep going.

The sat phone would be sending a GPS signal out because it had been tampered with. If he didn’t call in soon, Van Buren would initiate the bailout plan. Unfortunately, Syria wasn’t very big on roadside telephone booths. Ferguson drove all the way to Latakia without spotting a place to park. Finally, he parked on a side street near the train station and got out, figuring there would be a phone inside. He had to put his hands in his pockets to keep the borrowed pants from ending up around his ankles, but there was a phone at the corner, and he called the number that signified he was OK.

Feeling a bit like a homeless man living in a borrowed set of pants, Ferguson walked south through the city, looking for a place where he might hide out and sleep. After several blocks he thought of the hotel they had escaped from and the bikes they had left in the alley nearby. As he turned down one block, he caught a glimpse of the moon. The sight of it between the buildings and his fatigue played on his mind, and within a block he was softly humming “The Rising of the Moon.”

Death to every foe and traitor

Or would strike the marching tune—

And we’ll arm our boys for freedom

‘Tis the risin’ of the moon . . .

The bicycles were still there. He took one and pedaled south, riding for nearly an hour until his legs felt so tired he thought they might fall off. He found a spot of brush near the water on the other side of the railroad tracks to hide.

Ferg lay on his back, staring at the stars, the words to “The Rising of the Moon” still echoing in his head.

~ * ~

14

TAL ASHTAH NEW, IRAQ

DAYBREAK . . .

The guards who challenged Rankin, Guns, and James on the road into the airport at Tal Ashtah New had American Ml6s and sidearms, but everything else about them was Iraqi. Rankin stared at their ill-fitting pants and their untucked shirts as their sergeant checked the ID cards. In Rankin’s opinion the Iraqi army was good at one thing and one thing only: running away. All the real fighters joined the resistance groups.

The guard gave the cards a cursory glance, then handed them back. Rankin gave him the name of the air freight company they were looking for, seeking directions; the Iraqi simply waved at them, not wanting to be bothered.

“There can’t be many buildings here,” said James, leaning forward from the backseat between Rankin and Guns. “And what’s here’ll be falling down.”

Contrary to James’s prediction, the first building they saw was in good shape, and the second was brand new.

“That way,” said Guns, seeing the sign for Mesopotamia Express, the name of the company that flew the aircraft Thomas had tracked. The macadam road turned to concrete; the company’s building sat to the left, in front of a large ramp area. A four-engined aircraft sat in the back. After spending much of their day yesterday tracking down useless leads about people who might have been connected to the shipment of the rocket fuel, this felt like they were really on to something. Even though Guns realized it was unlikely they would find Vassenka or the cruise missile Ferguson had told them about here, he checked his M4, making sure it was ready for action.

“Let’s check the plane first,” said Rankin.

They drove over and parked alongside. There weren’t any guards or even employees nearby. A high-winged design that looked like a slimmer version of the American C-130, the Russian-made An-12 dated from the late 1950s. T his particular plane had been around since the mid-1960s. After serving in the south of Russia for more than a decade, it had been transferred to Iraqi military service. It was now on its third owner, a company run by a pair of former Iraqi pilots, one of whom had received a bonus from the dictator after the first Gulf War for running to Iran with his MiG. The plane had been well maintained mechanically but looked a bit of a hodgepodge on the outside, with the remains of old paint schemes and even different ID numbers littered along its fuselage. There was a door on the pilot’s side beneath the high wing. This was generally reached with the aid of an exterior ladder. There were no ladders nearby, and the wheel fairing made it difficult to climb high enough to get a foothold, but Rankin got enough of a foot- and handhold to reach the recessed handle.

The freshly risen sun streamed shafts of light through the windows into the long, bare interior. Ropes lay scattered around the tie-downs, but otherwise the cargo bay was empty.

The warehouse doors at the rear of the company’s building were closed, but the front door was open. Rankin, Guns, and James walked past the small reception area into the back, Rankin thinking of what Ferguson would have done in this situation, the others glancing around warily. Guns held his M4 at his side, as if there were any way to be discreet when carrying an automatic weapon into a building.

Two panel trucks that looked like downsized UPS vehicles sat to the right. Assorted pipes, small boxes, bundles of Arabic-language newspapers, old wooden crates, and a pile of rubber mats were arranged opposite them. None of the boxes was big enough to hold a surface-to-surface missile or its related hardware. Rankin was just going around to check the trucks when a fat man in mechanic’s overalls came out from around one of the vehicles and demanded to know what they were doing there.

“Looking for someone?” asked Rankin in Arabic. The phrase came easy on the tongue; he’d said it a million times in Iraq. “What are you doing?”

“You’re the intruder,” said the man, switching to English. “What is it you want?”

Rankin took a step toward the mechanic, who made the mistake of starting to square off as if to punch him. The American’s reflexes kicked in, and within a split second he had the Iraqi on his stomach, arm pinned behind his back. Rankin drew his pistol and pointed it at the man’s face, though given the fact that he hadn’t been intimidated by Guns’s rifle this was probably a useless gesture.

“I think we’d all be better served if we asked a few questions calmly,” suggested James. “I doubt there’s much here for anyone to get very upset about, much less shot.”

He repeated the words in Arabic. The Iraqi, somewhat more subdued, shrugged. He said that he worked on the trucks and knew nothing about the aircraft.

“We don’t want to know about the aircraft,” Rankin said in English, letting James translate. “We’re looking for a very big package.”

“A package that was supposed to go to us but didn’t,” added James when he translated, adding justice to their claim for information.

Guns went over to the desk near the window and rifled through the drawers. He found a strongbox with some bills and a notebook, and a larger ledger divided into columns. The writing was in Arabic. He held it up.

“Hey, James, can you read this?”

The journalist came over and struggled through a few lines. They were cities and what he thought were the names of the drivers or the person responsible for the delivery.

“Let our friend here read it,” said Rankin.

He jerked the mechanic to his feet. The man stared at the ground.

What would Ferguson do? Rankin asked himself.

Probably be able to read it; the SOB seemed to know every stinking language going. But if he couldn’t, he’d bribe the man to get him to help.

Unlike Ferguson, though, Rankin didn’t travel with a wad of counterfeit local currency. He reached into his wallet and took out fifty dollars American, half of the money he had.

“Read it for us,” he told the mechanic, holding the money toward him. But Rankin hadn’t handled the exchange deftly enough; the incident became a matter of pride for the Iraqi, who would have refused a bribe of a hundred times that amount. Rankin, angry at himself as well as the man, tossed down the money. “Take the books. Let’s get out of here,” he said.

~ * ~

hey found a schoolteacher to translate the ledger books. The woman thought they were a bit eccentric until James explained that they had found the books along the side of the road and were trying to figure out where they should be returned. The deliveries were to cities and towns within a hundred-mile radius. There was no information on what was delivered.

All but one of the deliveries had been made to the south, in the direction of Tikrit.

“The thing’s range is what, a little better than fifty miles?” said Guns. “So they’d have to drop it off, then take it farther south.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” said Rankin. “From these books, the deliveries could be envelopes. Neither of those trucks was big enough for a Siren missile.”

He glanced over at James as he said that. James shrugged. He’d already figured out what they were looking for, more or less. As far as he was concerned, knowing the name of the missile wasn’t much of a big deal, unless he had to write about it.

Rankin called Corrigan and gave him the information. Corrigan told him they were already alerting the Iraqi authorities as well as U.S. forces about the possibility that the missile had been brought into the area.

“What about the Russian?” Rankin asked. “Can you check the hotels?”

“I doubt he’d stay in a hotel,” said Corrigan. “Besides, we don’t have unlimited manpower.”

“What’s Ferg think?” asked Rankin. “Did that Birk Ivanovich or whatever sell them the cruise missile for sure, or is this still a hunch?”

“I don’t know. Ferg’s out of communication right now.”