Angels of Wrath (7 page)

Which, to Ferguson’s great surprise, shattered.

~ * ~

he range finder on the tracking device showed they were a half block away when Rankin heard the stutter of automatic rifle fire.

“Damn it,” he yelled, reaching down to the floor where he’d stashed his Uzi. “There! Stop!”

Yeklid jerked the wheel of the car and hit the brakes just in time to miss the Mercedes as it shot out of the alley and rammed into a car parked across the street. Rankin threw his door open in time to empty his submachine gun at the men running from the alley with AK-47s. Guns ran up behind him with a grenade launcher and pumped a tear gas canister into the alleyway, not realizing it was too late now to do any good.

The crash had deployed the Mercedes air bags. Ferguson pitched himself down as the guns erupted, reaching to his sock for his other hideaway. He rolled out of the car onto the ground, a gun in each fist.

“Ferguson, get the hell out of there!” screamed Rankin.

“Yo, Skippy! Don’t hit me,” yelled Ferguson.

“Come on, get the hell out of there,” said Rankin.

Guns pumped another tear gas grenade into the alley. The acrid smoke drifted back toward the car.

“Get out of here, come on!” yelled Yeklid.

Ferguson got up and trotted to the car. Two men with assault rifles came from down the block; Ferguson spun around and cut them down.

“Trail car! Trail car!” he yelled, seeing their way blocked.

They clung to the second as Yeklid backed out into the main street, barely missing a truck.

“I called the Egyptians, but I think it’s better if we lay low for an hour,” Yeklid told Ferguson when they collected themselves several blocks away. “I’m going to call one of the senior people I know. This may end up being a real pain.”

“You’re good with understatement,” said Ferguson. “I like that.”

~ * ~

~ * ~

1

CIA BUILDING 24-442, VIRGINIA

Corrine Alston stood as patiently as possible in the small booth in the basement of CIA Building 24-442, waiting as the equipment behind the stainless-steel walls scanned her for high-tech bugs. Security here was so meticulous that no one—not Corrine, not CIA Director Thomas Parnelles, not even the president himself—could bypass the bug scan, let alone the weapons and identity checks. But the ritual only heightened her anger.

The small green light in the center of the ceiling lit. Corrine stared at the door, willing it to open. When it did, she walked down the hall to an elevator that opened as she approached. She didn’t have to press any buttons once inside, which was fortunate; she would have broken either the panel or her fingers with the jabs.

The elevator opened a few seconds later fifty feet below the level where she had started. Corrine walked to a stairwell at the far end, ignoring the two plainclothes CIA officers flanking the entrance. Downstairs, her heels echoed loudly on the cement floor as she strode to the small conference room next to the secure communications suite used to support First Team operations. The door to the conference room was ajar. Corrine pushed it open and found Jack Corrigan sitting alone at the far end of the conference table.

“Why wasn’t I told?” she demanded.

“I did tell you.”

“You waited three hours. I heard about it from the State Department first, for cryin’ out loud.”

“I know, uh, that was a mistake. My mistake. I called your office and Teri said you were with the president. So I waited.”

“You should have used the personal phone. That’s why I have it.”

Corrigan tried not to act intimidated, but Corrine Alston’s fury was not easily withstood. Though only twenty-six, she was one of the most powerful women in the administration, serving as the president’s counsel and his personal representative to the First Team, in effect, Corrigan’s boss.

Complicating matters was the fact that she was pretty good looking, too: touch up her nose, add a little makeup, maybe hire a hairstylist, and she could pass as a model or at least a B actress.

“The Egyptian reaction was better than expected,” offered Corrigan, trying to salvage what he could of the situation. “The tailor turned out to be Ahmed Abu Saahlid. They wanted him for terrorist activities, so—”

“Why was Ferguson in Cairo in the first place? He didn’t clear that with me. He exceeded his authority. He was told to proceed with caution on the entire operation.”

“I think getting Bob Ferguson to proceed with caution, Ms. Alston, would be well beyond even your considerable abilities,” said CIA Director Thomas Parnelles, striding into the room behind her. “And I think you would be doing the country a great disservice besides.”

Corrigan’s military training kicked in, and he jumped to his feet. “Mr. Parnelles.”

Corrine felt her face burn. “Special Demands will not be a rogue organization,” she told Parnelles.

“I quite agree,” said the CIA director softly. He pulled a chair out and sat down.

Corrine took a moment to gather herself, putting on what she thought of as her lawyer face: neutral, reserved, calm. She wasn’t exactly sure where she stood with Parnelles. The president had appointed him CIA director partly based on her recommendation; she had known Parnelles from her work as counsel to the Intelligence Committee, when as a retired CIA official he had acted as an informal and valuable consultant to some of the committee members. But they had had a few disagreements after his appointment, when as counsel to the president she recommended against some of his suggestions as a matter of legal principle. And now that the president had appointed her as his representative overseeing Special Demands, she wouldn’t blame Parnelles if he saw her as an interloper. The appointment effectively usurped the deputy director for operation’s authority over the First Team, and since the DDO worked for Parnelles, it tended to cut him out as well.

She had heard from others that Parnelles implied he had himself suggested that she take the position, acting as the president’s eyes, ears, and conscience on sensitive covert missions. It hadn’t happened that way; the president had had the idea himself. Or so she believed.

“I called over to your office to find out what was going on,” Parnelles told Corrine, answering her unasked question about why he was there. “When I heard you were on your way, I thought it would be wise to join you in person for an update. Unless, of course, you have an objection.”

“I have no objection at all,” Corrine told him. “You’re CIA director.”

Parnelles smiled. He pressed his finger to his lip in a thoughtful pose, inadvertently emphasizing the scar on his cheek that was a souvenir of a nasty incident during his salad days as a CIA officer.

“Mr. Corrigan was just giving me a briefing,” said Corrine. “And I would be pleased for you to hear and offer your insights.”

Corrigan recounted the events in Jerusalem and Cairo, adding very little to what Corrine and Parnelles already knew. With the First Team operation over, the FBI had made a dozen arrests in the Seven Angels case earlier m the day; Corrine had been with the president when the attorney general personally briefed him. Among the charges were conspiracy to fund terrorism and several counts of tax evasion. From what she had seen, Corrine thought the terrorist case would be hard to prove, but the tax evasion and related currency violations were slam dunks. She kept that opinion to herself.

She also didn’t share her opinion that the group was a collection of schizoid crazies who would have been ignored if they hadn’t had access to a few million dollars and if the FBI didn’t need a political score to shore up its standing with the administration.

“The FBI felt it had to go ahead with the arrests,” said Corrine. “With Thatch dead, there was little prospect of gathering more information about the groups that Seven Angels may have been trying to contact.”

“Good timing with the president’s visit to the Middle East coming up,” said Parnelles.

That was the sort of comment from the CIA director that threw Corrine. She knew—and she suspected that Parnelles did as well—that the president thought just the opposite. Anything involving the Middle East had the potential to throw off the delicate negotiations he was trying to foster between the Palestinians and the Israelis. The arrests were preferable to terrorist activity, certainly, but only just.

“So Seven Angels is wrapped up?” Parnelles asked.

“From the FBI’s point of view, yes. But there are a few things Ferg wanted to look at,” said Corrigan. “He thinks he may be able to get more information about the group’s contacts, maybe leverage that into information about terror groups that we have poor intelligence on. There were some phone calls preceding Thatch’s visit to a dentist’s office in Tel Aviv. It may be a wild goose chase, but you know Ferguson.”

“He does love wild goose chases,” said Parnelles.

Parnelles didn’t say anything else. Corrine sensed he had come not about this—the briefing could have been done over the phone—but because he wanted to talk about something else.

“I think we’re in a wrap-up stage on Seven Angels. The action in Cairo was unfortunate,” she said.

“Unavoidable, I would say,” said Parnelles.

“The Egyptians used that word,” said Corrigan, sensing he might escape without further roasting.

“Is there anything else at the moment, Jack?” asked Corrine.

“No, ma’am.”

“I think the director and I might spend a few minutes reviewing some budgetary matters,” she said.

Corrigan was only too happy to be relieved.

“You dealt with Senator Sondborn masterfully,” said Parnelles when they were alone.

“I simply told the senator that executive privilege is an important principle that must be maintained,” said Corrine, aware that she was being buttered up for something else. The head of the Intelligence Committee had asked for a public session on the recent attempt by terrorists to explode a dirty bomb above Honolulu; his inquiry would have undoubtedly revealed enough about the First Team that its efficiency would have been threatened. Turning him back was a no-brainer and one of the easier tasks Corrine had accomplished the week before.

“Ferguson exceeded his authority by going into Egypt without clearing the operation first,” said Corrine. She knew Parnelles and Ferguson had a long-standing personal relationship, and guessed that was his concern. “I don’t think there’s a question about that. This was an FBI operation, and he went overboard. It was just Ferg being Ferg.”

“That may be.” Parnelles smiled wryly. He had known Ferguson for a long time, and would have been surprised if Ferguson
hadn’t
gone off in his own direction. Getting the First Team involved in the Seven Angels operation had been overkill, but it precluded the possibility of a mess if the FBI, as usual, bungled. More important for Parnelles, it positioned the First Team for a more serious task.