Angels of Wrath (17 page)

Wrapping the large towel around his shoulders as a gesture to modesty, Ferguson set out in the direction of the catamaran concession, where ten slightly damp one-hundred Euro notes procured him the last boat on the dock, a craft that had been promised to a man who’d gone to gather his family just a moment before. Ferg hopped aboard as the man returned, running up his sail and pulling away as the concessionaire explained over the man’s loud protests that there had been a mistake.

Steering northward, Ferguson passed a second beach—from the water it looked just as big as the first one, but he wasn’t checking slogans for authenticity-—and then a stretch of jagged rocks. Sail furled and anchor set in the shallow rocks, he slipped into the water, diving down and retrieving the pair of plastic torpedoes he had tied to one of the rocks below. Back in the boat, he opened one of the containers and slipped on a shirt and a pair of cargo hiking shorts. Then he took one of the small Glocks from the torpedo and stuffed it into his belt line, letting his shirt cover it. He took three magazines of 9mm bullets and put them into one of his pockets; a pair of pin grenades went into his other. The weapons, which looked more like oversized fancy metal pens than pins (or grenades for that matter), were downsized flash-bangs, useful for diversions and skipping out on bar bills. He debated taking out another gun but decided against it. Carrying one could always be defended as a matter of personal protection, but two bordered on ostentation. Ferguson got out his Irish passport and put it into his shirt pocket, along with a ticket stub indicating that he had arrived two days before in Damascus from Germany.

From the second torpedo-shaped container, Ferguson daubed a layer of cold cream to his nose and cheek, old-fashioned protection against sunburn. Wraparound sun glasses in place, he donned a pair of rubber gloves and applied a thick layer of gel to his hair.

The wind began to kick up, and by the time Ferguson was ready to go back onshore he had floated several hundred yards northward. That was fine with him; he didn’t want to go back to the hotel beach in case the waiter brought back more than a martini. He went where the wind took him, sailing until he found a familiar-looking dock jutting from one of the vacation villages that dotted the area. Tying the torpedoes together, he slung them over his shoulders and sauntered onto the dock, wandering up the pebbled path and around to the road.

The way, unfortunately, was barred by a security guard. The man demanded in Arabic to know who Ferguson was. Ferguson answered in Arabic that he was a guest of Muhammad Lassi, whom he was just going up to see.

Lassi was, in fact, a resident here, a fact Ferguson knew because he had visited Lassi the year before. Unfortunately, the guard had seen Mr. Lassi not too long ago: a week ago, in fact, at his funeral. He informed Ferguson of this as he pulled out his pistol.

~ * ~

8

TEL AVIV

THAT AFTERNOON . . .

Corrine spent a good portion of the morning meeting with the American ambassador, who wanted to talk about some of the nuances of the president’s upcoming trip. As part of her cover—she was supposedly working for the Commerce Department on a special assignment—she met with Israeli officials to discuss a proposed protocol for loan paybacks. In between she got an update on the Khazaal situation to the effect that there was no update. Ferguson had managed to call while she was in one of the meetings, leaving only a message that they should “catch up” when she got a chance. It was his only acknowledgment of her request that he meet her here.

Corrine had lunch with the Commerce Department negotiator, a pleasant enough middle-aged woman who missed her five- and six-year-old children dearly and spent the entire lunch talking about them. As they waited for the coffee to arrive, Corrine excused herself and went to call Corrigan and try Ferguson again. One of the Delta bodyguards assigned to her by the embassy followed her to the restroom.

“You’re not coming in with me,” she said to him.

The man looked embarrassed. “No, ma’am.”

Corrine felt compelled to tell him she was joking, but he didn’t noticeably relax. The restroom was a coed affair and not terribly clean, but it did have a lock on the door. She scanned the room and turned on the white noise box, then pulled out the sat phone. Corrigan was off-duty; Lauren Di Capri, his relief, told her there was nothing new.

“All right. Can you connect me to Ferguson?”

“He’s off the air right now. His phone’s off. When he checks in—”

“Where is he?”

“On his way to Lebanon. He should be there now.”

“Why?”

“He had a hunch on where Khazaal might be going.”

“Why the hell didn’t he check in with me first?”

Lauren didn’t answer.

“You tell him to call me. No excuses.”

“All right.”

Corrine slapped the phone off. Was it a coincidence that he had called when she was unavailable? The people at the Cube had access to her schedule. It wouldn’t take much to weasel out the best—or, rather, worst—time to call her.

The incident in Cairo had been explained away by the Egyptian police, largely because they were grateful that an enemy of the regime had been taken care of. But an incident in Lebanon would be something else again.

And, really, who did he think he was, blowing her off? She’d sent word for him to meet her in Tel Aviv; he hadn’t even acknowledged her.

Corrine had to straighten this out. She could give him some leeway— she’d given him plenty already—but major operations were supposed to be approved by her first. Especially now, with the president due in the region next week.

Ferguson was a walking time bomb: he was exactly what the president had appointed her to head off. She had to confront him directly. Waiting for him to call her wasn’t going to work.

~ * ~

9

TRIPOLI, LEBANON

“I didn’t realize you knew Lassi,” Ferguson told the guard holding the pistol on him. If ever there was a situation where the truth was called for, Ferg reasoned, this was it. “He was an uncle to us all,” continued Ferguson in Arabic. “Of course, now that his cousin owns the apartment, that is whom I am staying with.”

“Where is your identification?” demanded the man. He held the pistol in one hand and used his other to reach for the radio.

“Right here,” said Ferg. He took the Irish passport from his pocket, tapped it on his nose, and then swiped it across his hair as he nervously scratched an itch. The officer took the passport, frowning as his fingers smeared across the gooey mixture from Ferguson’s hair. He held it against his radio, squinted at it, then crumpled to the ground.

The gel was an enzyme that activated the synthetic opiate in the cold cream. Ferguson reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and picked up the passport gingerly, wiping off the residue on the man’s shirt. He pulled the man to the side, ejected the bullet from the chamber of his gun—it was very dangerous to carry it that way, when you thought about it—and for good measure took the magazine with him as well. Then he went to find the microbus, which would take him into town.

~ * ~

10

EASTERN SYRIA

THAT EVENING . . .

The taxi driver refused to take Fouad and the others anywhere near the address Fouad had given him, dropping them on an empty street three blocks away despite the offer to triple his tip if he drove past the building.

The scent of raw oil hung heavy in the air. Rankin held his Beretta in his hand, hiding it in the crook of his arm as they passed row after row of dilapidated steel buildings. The structures looked like warehouses that might still have been in use, though they saw no one nearby. Night had begun to fall, shading the buildings with a dimness that made them seem even more ominous.

“What do you think?” asked Thera when they stopped at a wide though empty cross street.

“Don’t know,” said Rankin.

Fouad said nothing. His stomach had started to gnaw at him: nerves mostly, though he realized he must also be hungry by now. Some men claimed that they became immune to danger, even comfortable with it, but Fouad would not tell such a lie or even attempt it.

They crossed the street. An odor of sewage replaced the petroleum scent; they were close to the river.

Two dusty Lexus SUVs sat across the road as they walked up. Rankin and Thera realized they were being watched from the roof, though both pretended not to notice. Fouad understood where he was now and saw a script to follow, a path that he had trod before. He picked up his pace, walking to the middle of the block, where two masked men with AK-47s met them.

The masks were a good sign. They did not want to be identified later on. This wasn’t an ambush.

The men would not search Thera. She handed over her small Glock as a sign of her integrity, keeping the knife and the other Glock as well as her grenades. Rankin gave up the pistol in his hand as well as the Colt at his back. Fouad surrendered a revolver. As a weapon it was not much, but he had had it long enough now that it had emotional value, and he told the men not to lose it.

They were shown through a narrow door into a reception area at the center of one of the steel buildings. The floor had been tiled with an elaborate black-and-white mosaic, but the walls were plain panels covered with thick white paint. A window similar to those manned by a receptionist at doctors’ offices in the States sat at one side; there was a steel door next to it. A bare forty-watt bulb in the ceiling supplied the only light.

The steel door opened, and a man with an AK-47 appeared in the doorway.

“What do you want?” he demanded in Arabic.

“Business,” replied Fouad.

“What business?”

“We transport items. We seek work. We are here to speak to Ali.”

The man made a face and disappeared back through the door. He returned less than a minute later, far too quickly to have actually consulted with anyone.

“Come back tomorrow,” he said.

Fouad knew that this was a test, but he wasn’t sure what the proper response was. He waited a moment, then began to step back.

Thera reached across Rankin and took his sleeve. “Tomorrow we should be at the border. If there is no business, we can’t afford to wait,” she told him in Arabic. “Making good customers angry to please one we don’t have makes no sense.”

“But if there is no business, there is no business,” said Fouad, falling into the act. “We cannot be too greedy.”

He looked to Rankin, as if giving the other partner the final say. Rankin shrugged.

“Then we’ll leave,” said Thera.

They started to, but the man called them back.

“I have been a poor host, forgive me,” he said. “Perhaps we can find some work for honest people.”

He came around to the door and waved them inside the warehouse proper. It was large and dimly lit, and almost entirely empty.

“What business do you have here?” said a woman’s voice as they approached a pair of trucks at the back near the garage-style doors. The trucks were Russian military transport models, nearly as old as Fouad.

“We are open for anything,” said Fouad.

A woman in Western jeans and a flowing top came out from behind one of the trucks, flanked by two young men with M16s.

“You’re just petty smugglers,” said the woman dismissively.

“Honest carriers,” said Thera. “Trying to make a living in a difficult era.”

“Don’t lie, sister.” The woman walked to her, pointing. “You’re simple thieves.”

“Carriers.”

“You must be a whore to be with such men.”