Angels of Wrath (8 page)

“I wouldn’t want to micromanage Ferguson,” Parnelles said. “Sometimes a horse has to be given his head.”

“Or a man enough rope?” suggested Corrine.

“If we have the proper people in place, we learn to trust their judgments,” said Parnelles. “I’m not here to second-guess you or to stick up for Bobby.”

“Okay.” Corrine folded her arms. Talking to Parnelles was like playing three-dimensional chess blindfolded: sometimes it was a struggle simply to know where the pieces were, let alone dissect his strategy.

“Mossad has developed information that a member of the Iraqi resistance will be en route to Syria for a meeting within the next few days,” said Parnelles. “Nisieen Khazaal.”

“Khazaal would leave Iraq?”

“Mossad’s information is almost always correct, especially if they’re passing it along. Nonetheless, we haven’t been able to confirm it. Not through the ordinary channels. Our dedicated resources in Syria are skimpy. The NSA is sifting through intercepts, and the staff in Damascus and down at the farm are sifting the wheat, but we have no verification.”

Nisieen Khazaal had been a member of the Iraqi army before the war. He had been identified by the new government’s intelligence service as well as the CIA as the leader of “New Iraq,” a resistance movement responsible for more than two dozen strikes against various American and Iraqi targets in the last twelve months. Capturing him and putting him on trial would be major coup. Especially now, with the Iraqi government just starting to gain legitimacy.

“We have to get him if we can,” said Corrine. “Even if it’s a long shot.”

“I quite agree.”

~ * ~

everal hours later, back in D.C., the president poked his head into Alston’s office.

“Well, now, Miss Alston, I am glad to see you here so late,” he told her in his gentlemanly Georgian voice. “The taxpayers are getting their money’s worth.”

“We have to talk, Mr. President,” Corrine said.

“So your note said, my
deah.
And here I am.” He slid into the chair across from her desk. “So what do you want to tell me?”

President Jonathan McCarthy came by his twang honestly: he traced his ancestry to an indentured servant who’d come over before the Revolution. The accent could range from a very light note to a thick brogue, depending on political requirements—and how tired he was. Since it was going on eleven p.m., she supposed fatigue was responsible for its thickness . . . though she was never one hundred percent sure.

After Corrine relayed what Parnelles had told her about Khazaal, the president’s smile turned to a frozen frown.

“Why would he be going to Syria?” he asked.

“We’re not sure. Our theory is that there is some sort of summit planned, with outside groups meeting to coordinate strategy and possibly pass money. Khazaal’s organization needs funds. The new government has had some success clamping down on the money that was coming from outside religious groups.”

“I find the timing curious.”

“It may have nothing to do with your trip to Iraq,” she told him. “Or it may have everything to do with it.”

The president had decided to visit Baghdad to help dedicate the new Parliament building there a week and a half from now. It was a critical symbol of democracy in the struggling country, and McCarthy was convinced that his presence would demonstrate how far Iraq had come. At the same time, it would allow him to make what would seem like a spontaneous visit to Jerusalem as well, with the idea of helping the peace process along. The side trip was a closely guarded secret since it was supposed to seem like a spur-of-the-moment idea, but the visit to Baghdad was not. As McCarthy put it, the president of the United States was not some skunk who snuck into town at midnight to sniff around the garbage cans. Iraq was a struggling democracy; his visit would help convince others that the outcome of the struggle was not in doubt. Or at least that was what he hoped.

“I’d like to use Special Demands to investigate this,” said Corrine. “The First Team and the supporting Special Operations elements are already in the Middle East for the Seven Angels case. That’s just about wrapped up. It would be quite a coup to capture Khazaal. And who knows what it would avoid? The possibilities are immense.”

“Do you know what the old farmer thought of possibilities, Miss Alston?”

“I couldn’t begin to guess.”

McCarthy didn’t bother telling her the punch line. “Use the Team. Find this man and arrest him. He should be brought to justice. Just remember, Miss Alston, that my trip to Baghdad is very important. I would not like anything to disrupt it.”

“We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen,” she said.

“I know you will,
deah.
I know you will.” He rose. “There is one other item I’d like you to possibly attend to, if you have the time and inclination.”

A request from the president was more than a mere request, and they both knew it. But McCarthy hewed to his well-taught manners, asking rather than demanding. It was one of the reasons his staff worked so hard for him.

“Of course I’ll do it. What do you need?”

“Our ambassador to Iraq, Mr. Bellows. I believe you know him fairly well.”

“My father does.”

McCarthy smiled. Peter Bellows had been a business partner of Corrine’s father two decades before. McCarthy, who had known Corrine’s family since before she was born, knew that. Ten years before, Bellows had left business to become an ambassador. While his first appointments were made mostly as political paybacks, the previous administration had found him very useful, and he was now seen as a very capable man, though McCarthy himself had not had an opportunity to test his mettle.

“I am thinking that with the initiative to the Middle East, I will need a special envoy, someone the Palestinians especially would be comfortable with. And Bellows would be a prime candidate,” said the president.

“I’m sure he’d be fine.”

“How do you know?”

The truth was, she didn’t. Corrine had had no dealings with him, not even when she was working in the senate for the Intelligence Committee. Special envoy was not only an important position, it was also the sort of post that might lead to a Nobel Prize, certainly if the president’s initiative brought the two sides closer together.

“I have only one outstanding requirement for the job,” continued the president, “but it’s critical. I need a man, or a woman, who will tell me the truth, even if it is something I do not want to hear.”

“That sounds like my job description,” said Corrine.

“I’m sorry,
deah,
but you would not be qualified for this job.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Well, good. Then I won’t have to worry that you might be prejudiced.” McCarthy’s lips turned up in a half smile. “I’d like you to go on to Baghdad ahead of me and make an assessment. I know Mr. Bellows’s resume is impressive. And I know he’s personable. He and I even get along, for which there is something to be said. But that’s not what I truly need to know.”

“Jonathan…Mr. President—”

“Jonathan is fine when we are alone. Go ahead, tell me what I don’t want to hear but must hear.”

“You’re putting me in a difficult position.”

“Now I thought
that
was your job description.” McCarthy smiled again, and this time traces of it lingered on his face as he continued to speak. “You might find an excuse to visit Tel Aviv and Palestine and the other countries in the region as well, ahead of my visit. Take their pulse, as it were. I suspect that you should be in the area as this Special Demands project runs its course.”

“Yes, sir, of course,” said Corrine, who hadn’t been thinking that at all; she had plenty of work to do in Washington, and her role was to supervise the First Team’s operations, not take part in them. Then again, she was looking for an opportunity to talk to Ferguson in person. He could blow her off too easily on the phone and made a regular habit of it.

“I’ll leave as soon as I can,” said Corrine.

“Now, now. No need to rush,” said McCarthy. “Give yourself twenty-four hours to wrap things up. And make sure that your secretary knows how to get in touch with you.”

“I will.”

McCarthy started to leave but then turned back. “Now you remember one thing. If you get hurt, I’m going to have to be the one to tell your daddy. And neither one of us wants that. So you be careful,
heah?”

~ * ~

2

CAIRO

THE NEXT AFTERNOON …

“Before you blow your top,” Corrigan told Ferguson, “listen to the whole deal. This is a good one, Ferg. A real good one.”

“Corrigan, I don’t blow my top. Your top, maybe.” The old wooden chair creaked as Ferguson leaned back. It felt so rickety, he thought it was going to send him in a tumble to the floor at any minute. Ferguson, Rankin, and Guns were sitting in a secure communications facility in the Cairo embassy, a room within a room with an encrypted communications link back to Washington. They had the option of using video and seeing Corrigan as they spoke, but the vote not to do so had been unanimous.

“So tell me what the story is,” said Ferguson. “Why are we being jerked off one wild goose chase and put on another?”

“How’d you know there was a new assignment?”

Ferguson rolled his eyes for the others. “Spill it, Jack,” he told Corrigan.

“Khazaal. Nisieen Khazaal.”

“That’s it?”

“The name doesn’t mean anything to you? Jesus, Ferg, where have you been? This is only the most infamous Iraqi scumbag going. I bet Rankin knows who he is.”

“Yeah, he’s at the top of the Who’s Who of World Scumbags,” said Rankin.

“Where did we get this?” asked Ferguson.

“Mossad. Came from the top. I think Parnelles huddled with Ms. Alston, and here we are.”

Corrigan gave them everything he knew about Khazaal, which wasn’t all that much. The Israelis either didn’t know or wouldn’t say where exactly he was going. The Agency had several indications that he had moved west from the Tikrit area—a favorite of Rankin’s—and theorized that he was near the border, though not yet across. Several groups tied to his organization had transferred funds into bank accounts used by smugglers, and Iraqi intelligence had several leads about where he was in the western desert.

“Yeah, Iraqi intelligence,” said Rankin. “Hajjis with IQs equal to their shoe sizes.”

“The assignment is to locate and apprehend,” said Corrigan, ignoring him. “Apprehend as in arrest, as in bring him back alive.”

“And what do I do when he tells me to get bent?” said Ferguson. “Rhetorical question, Jack,” he added quickly. “Mossad involved?”

“No. They’re tied up.”

“Where’s Thera?”

“I put her on a plane to Athens. We’ve asked for a liaison from the Iraqi security service. Where do you want him?”

“Paradise,” said Rankin.

“I don’t know yet,” said Ferguson. Mossad’s posture struck him as odd; if they bothered to pass something along, they almost always provided a complete dossier and at least a liaison to feed back notes. “Listen, I want to talk to Parnelles.”

“Why?”

“I’m having some trouble with my 401K.”

“We don’t have a 40IK plan.”

Guns and Rankin both started to laugh. Ferguson grinned, relaxing a little. “Get him for me, will you?”