Angels of Wrath (18 page)

Thera stared at the woman, whose eyes were focused on her in fury. When Thera did not rise to the provocation, the woman turned back to Fouad. “Talk to Oda,” she said, walking back to the trucks. Oda was the man who had led them inside.

“We have our own trucks,” he told them. He brought them to a corner at the far end of the warehouse, where several chairs sat around a table. “But sometimes we have material that needs other shippers.”

“Our forte,” said Fouad. “What part of Iraq do you come from, my friend?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Your accent. Did you leave before or after the war?”

It was a delicate question but worth the risk; Fouad thought overcoming Oda’s discomfort would provide a basis for the questions he had actually come to ask. Oda told him that he had come only within the last few months—a neutral answer and clearly a lie, though one Fouad could easily go along with. The two men traded a few more lies before Fouad managed to mention Baghdad, saying that he had not been that far east in many years. He mentioned a street that any recent native would have recognized as the home area of one of the insurgent groups, but if this had an effect on Oda it neither registered in his face nor his questions. They turned to the sort of notice required for transport. Thera took over briefly to say that they could stay in the city for two days in the future, as it was a pleasant place, but only on their way back from Damascus.

Found began talking of others they did business with, carefully slipping in the names of Syrians who smuggled arms to rebel groups. Again, there was no reaction. Finally, Fouad looked at his watch.

“We must go,” he said, rising.

“Be on Ben Whalid Street at nine tonight,” said Oda in a low hush, before moving quickly to the door. “A third at pickup, the rest at delivery. One thousand, American.”

“Done.”

~ * ~

hy make such a big deal out of it like that?” said Rankin when they finally reached the more populated part of the city.

“They watch how we react; we watch how they react,” said Fouad. “Smuggling is a matter of trust.”

“He was definitely setting us up,” said Thera. “A thousand is too much for a first-time job.”

“No, not necessarily,” said Fouad.

“We being followed?” Rankin asked.

“I don’t think so, but maybe they have a nightscope in one of the buildings or someone watching us from up there,” said Thera.

“They wouldn’t bother,” said Fouad. “We’re not worth it. We’re small beans.”

“Potatoes,” said Rankin.

“Whatever we are, we aren’t important enough for them to follow. They don’t have that many people.”

“You don’t think the meeting is a trap?” said Thera.

“A trap it may be. Or not.” Fouad wasn’t sure. He wanted to know what they were shipping, and the only way to find out would be to show up. “There is a Kurd in this city who might be of help,” said Fouad. “If we can find him before nine, then we need not keep the appointment.”

“We’re not going to keep it, not all of us,” said Rankin. “You go. Thera and I will take the bikes and trail you.”

“A reasonable plan,” said Fouad.

~ * ~

hey didn’t find the Kurd, and so Fouad drove the truck down Ben Whalid at exactly nine p.m. The street ran through the downtown area, and as he approached each intersection Fouad slowed, expecting to be signaled. But there were no men, no signs, no signals. He reached the western end of the street; unsure whether to go left or right, he turned right toward the river. As he did, something thumped against the left side of the truck. He turned to see what it was. In that brief moment Oda leapt from a hiding place between two cars along the road, hopped onto the running board of the passenger side, and opened the door. It happened so quickly that Fouad did not have time to feel fear.

“I thought I had gotten something wrong,” said Fouad.

“Nothing wrong,” said Oda, pulling himself inside the truck. “Drive on.”

Fouad wondered what would have happened if he had gone the other way, but the answer soon occurred to him: there was another man posted along the other street; they would have simply changed places. The other man would now be trailing, probably wondering where his companions were.

~ * ~

ou see him?” asked Rankin. He was riding on the motorcycle a few hundred yards behind the milk truck.

“Not yet,” answered Thera. She’d gone ahead, turning down a side street, and was now doubling back.

“All right. Looks like we’re heading up along the river.”

“That’s not the river. The tributary.”

“Whatever.”

“I see him now. He’s got a guy in the cab with him.”

Thera passed the tanker, saw the car that Rankin said was trailing it, then passed Rankin. She rode a little farther then turned around. She’d changed from her long dress and put on coveralls and a helmet so she looked like a man, albeit a highly suspicious one.

“Turning,” said Rankin. “Going toward the river or tributary or whatever that is. Stopping.”

He killed the bike’s motor, coasting off the road near a thicket of grass and brush. The truck and car had stopped about thirty yards ahead. He let the bike down as quietly as he could, then slid the Uzi from his backpack, extended the stock, and walked in the direction of the truck.

Fouad was still in the cab.

“So where is my cargo?” he asked Oda.

“Where are the others?”

“They wanted to get dinner. And other things. You know how it is when you are young,” he said.

Oda wasn’t much for innuendo and responded by taking out his pistol. “Where are the others?”

It had been a long time since anyone had pointed a gun at Fouad’s chest, and the first thing that he thought of was: I do not want to die for the Americans.

“I’m not sure of the restaurant,” he told Oda. “Why do we need them?”

“You are cheating them?”

“No,” said Fouad. “I am an honest man.”

“For a criminal.”

“I merely make a living. If I am cheating the regime, who is the loser? The Americans who want our oil and manhood? If that is who I am hurting, you should congratulate me as a patriot.”

Fouad wanted to sound brave but even to his ears the note was too forced, too off-key to impress. Oda lifted his gun.

“Where are they?” he asked again.

“We can look for them, I suppose.”

“Out of the truck.”

“The cargo?”

“You are a genuine fool.”

“I am getting out of the truck,” said Fouad. As he reached for the door, he made a judgment. There was a gun tucked against the seat within easy reach, but he calculated that he could not swing it up and around before Oda could blow his brains out. And so he left it there, and started to pull open the door—which was promptly yanked from his grip. A pair of hands grabbed him, and he felt himself flying down from the truck.

As he landed, something flashed above him and the world reverberated with the sharp, loud crack of a grenade exploding.

~ * ~

11

BEIRUT, LEBANON

THAT EVENING …

Corrine’s plane was met by a staffer from the U.S. embassy, who arrived with four marines as bodyguards and a separate police detail. Two members of the Lebanese government’s trade committee also turned up, having heard that the Commerce Department fact finder was especially interested in how agricultural trade might be facilitated.

The trade issue was particularly difficult for President McCarthy; oranges were Lebanon’s major exportable crop, and he had narrowly carried Florida in the recent election. But the issue gave her more than ample reason to tour the country and to get over to Tripoli. The men were invited to come with her on the ride to the embassy to make their case.

Corrine nodded several times and even managed to praise the quality of the country’s fruit, mentioning that she hoped to further acquaint herself with different exportable items in preparation for a full report to the commerce secretary “at the most opportune time.” The men interpreted this as a positive sign, immediately offering to assist her. Corrine lamented that her schedule was not her own but that official help would be welcome.

Considerable dancing and a feint or two later led her to say that she planned to see the Mediterranean coast, mentioning that she was interested in tourism and the potential impact of the industry on “full” trade and relations. The men, of course, praised her decision and began working on an itinerary by cell phone. Corrine had a full slate of tours for the next day and a half by the time they reached the embassy.

Inside, she used the secure communications center to call Lauren, who was on duty in the Cube. “Where is Ferguson?”

“Tripoli, as far as I know. He should be checking in any second. Should I have him call you at the embassy?”

“No. I’ll be in Tripoli in the morning,” she said. “Tell Mr. Ferguson to find me.”

“What?”

“I’ll be at the Medici. Tell him if he doesn’t find me, I’ll find him. I assume he’ll find it much more expedient if he picks the time and place, but I am quite prepared to take matters into my own hands.”

~ * ~

12

EASTERN SYRIA

Rankin managed to get Fouad out of the cab just as the flash-bang he’d thrown into the truck exploded. But before he could fire at Oda, the car that had followed the truck off the road pulled to a stop. Rankin sprayed the windshield with his Uzi, killing one of the two men inside. The other jumped out and began returning fire, hitting Rankin in the chest, where the bulletproof vest he wore beneath the coverall stopped the slug, leaving him with only a minor bruise. Rankin fired at the top of the gunman’s skull. The man’s head exploded like a pumpkin, gore spraying everywhere; even Rankin winced involuntarily at the sight.

Fouad lay on the ground nearby, trying to push himself toward some nearby bushes for cover while staying as flat as possible at the same time. He crawled forward, chin scraping the hard-packed dirt. He feared that the American would mistake him for one of the attackers or, worse, would throw a grenade or indiscriminately blanket the area with gunfire, not trying to kill him but not particularly caring one way or another.

~ * ~

ankin hadn’t warned Thera before he tossed the grenade, and its explosion off the road surprised her. She hunkered low on the bike and passed the turnoff the others had taken. When she realized this she throttled down and braked until she could drop the bike. The motorcycle flew from her hands, but she managed not only to stay on her feet but also to pull her M4 carbine up and ready, crouching as automatic weapons fire erupted off the road.

A car approached from the north with its lights off. Thera hunkered on the shoulder. She had her night glasses on and could see all three of the men as they got out of the vehicle. She didn’t fire until she saw a weapon in one of the men’s hands. The delay allowed one man to dive to the ground and roll or crawl into the thicket; the others fell where they stood.

Thera crouched, looking for the man who’d gotten away. For a moment she thought he had run off, but a stream of bullets dancing on the nearby macadam told her that was wishful thinking. She jumped over to the side of the shoulder, looking for cover. As she did she saw another car coming from the north, also with its lights off. Thera drew her gun to take aim, but she came under fire again, bullets ricocheting less than a foot away. She squeezed right and got off a few rounds, sending the gunman farther into the weeds. By that time, the car had stopped. She turned to see someone running from it toward the turnoff.