Angels of Wrath (24 page)

“You
like jazz?”

Ferguson started swimming again. She followed.

“Don’t notice me in the club,” he told her. “I’ll only come close if it’s safe.”

He gave a strong kick. Corrine realized he
was
a good swimmer; she could keep up but just barely.

“Ferg?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s with the bimbos?”

Ferguson laughed and stopped swimming. “Good diversion, huh? The two Syrians who are watching you have their eyes pasted on them.”

“I meant in the room.”

“The cute one, Kel, is a Mossad agent. She claims she didn’t know who I was when she picked me up, but I’m not sure. She also claimed she knew I figured out who she was before my Russian friend appeared, but I think that’s bull.”

“She’s Mossad?”

“The Israelis move people in and out all over Syria. Most of them are contract people they bring up for a few weeks, then get out.”

“Is the other one an agent, too?”

“Nah. She can’t hold her liquor.” Ferguson glanced at the beach and saw that the girls were preparing to leave. “Diversion’s over. You should stay out here for a while before you go back. Glad we had this talk.”

“I never know whether you’re being sarcastic or not.”

“I’d think it was pretty much a given.”

~ * ~

18

EASTERN SYRIA

Thera came up with the idea, and it was a good one: “worthy of Ferguson,” said Rankin. Only Ferguson couldn’t have carried it off.

Primarily a military facility, the airport was patrolled by two companies’ worth of soldiers and two armored personnel carriers, vehicles that dated from the days when Syria was a client of the Soviet Union. Most of the force was concentrated on the military side of the airport, and the two soldiers at the gate to the civilian terminal building didn’t seem to even notice Fouad and Thera as they approached.

Fouad took care of that.

“An outrage!” he yelled in Arabic. “An outrage and dishonor on my family for generations! Shame and the curse of Allah be upon the dog.” He gestured at Thera, who bent her veiled head down over a freshly curved belly. Fouad continued to rant, sketching out the outlines of the story: his daughter’s fiancé had left the city by plane the day before, and he demanded justice.

One of the soldiers looked away, hiding a smirk, but the other, about the age to have children of his own, Fouad thought, nodded with concern. Fouad continued his tirade as they walked along toward the building, complaining about how few people devoted themselves properly to the Koran or common decency.

“You’re going a bit over the top,” whispered Thera as they came up the concrete walk to the main door of the terminal. “Take it down a notch.”

He didn’t understand the slang.

“You’re overacting,” Thera said, “Too much.”

Fouad didn’t think so. If he’d had a daughter who’d been dishonored, surely he would be this angry, angrier. He was entitled to exact revenge on the miscreant, by custom if not by law, and few judges would dispute that right.

Fouad had never had children—his wife had died of cholera two years after they married—but he thought of her now as he refined his rant inside the terminal, acting as if her blessed memory had been besmirched. It took several minutes before they managed to find a charter office where Fouad could lay out an explanation, in rambling style, of what he wanted: information on where the fiancé had gone. Persistent complaints and pleading led them to the office of the airport manager, where the secretary, a thoroughly modern Syrian, proved entirely unsympathetic. He was on the verge of calling the military people up when Thera grew violently ill. They helped her to the restroom together, where a female worker took over and led her inside.

“Surely you have your own daughter,” Fouad said to the man, who was in his late twenties. “You understand and can help.”

“No, by the grace of God,” said the man. “Only a boy so far.”

“You are ten times luckier than I, a thousand times, by the mercy and grace of God you are highly blessed. I am a poor man, wretched,” moaned Fouad, “to be terribly disgraced like this. I shall kill her and then myself when she comes out of the restroom. I will wait until you return to your office so you are not disturbed.”

“The plane that day left for Latakia,” said the man. “That was the only plane. But the passenger ... I doubt it was your son-in-law.”

“Why not?”

The man shook his head.

“Women?” suggested Fouad. He knew, or thought he knew, the answer, but guessing it would raise too many suspicions.

“No.”

Fouad gave his best puzzled stare.

“Foreigners,” said the man finally.

“Americans?”

The man turned pale. “What would an American be doing here?”

“You said foreigners, not
Jews!”

“Iraqi criminals,” whispered the man. “A smuggler, I think, with bodyguards. Not Syrians. The man paid with gold chains.”

~ * ~

ankin could see the civilian terminal building from a small rise on the road about a half mile from the fence. He stopped there, pretending to work on his hike as he eyed the two soldiers in front of the building. They were older men, career guys who probably viewed the posting as semiretirement.

One cupped his hands to light a cigarette. It wouldn’t be hard to take them, Rankin realized; the trick would be dealing with the other twenty guys who would come after them.

Unnecessary planning, he hoped.

Thera and Fouad had taken only their phones with them, reasoning that the radios would be hard to explain if they were searched. Rankin had suggested hiding them in Thera’s “package,” but she pointed out that they would set off a metal detector. It was an obvious mistake, and he wished he hadn’t made the suggestion; it made him look like a fool.

Worse would have been her not questioning it.

Thera came out of the terminal door, followed by Fouad and another man. One of the guards came over.

Were they under arrest?

Rankin reached around to his pack, then saw that the other man who’d come out had gone to the soldier to bum a cigarette. He swung the pack back and gunned the bike to life. He rode down to the gate, passed by, and turned down a street across from the airport fence, riding up a short distance to a cluster of buildings where they had left the other bike. He parked next to it, debating whether to go into the store and get something to drink. He could see from the street that it had a Western-style beverage case, the sort of help-yourself arrangement that would minimize the amount of Arabic he would have to speak.

His Arabic wasn’t
that
bad.

He went in and bought an Arab cola, a precise knockoff of Coke except for the Arabic script. He paid with a ten-pound note that brought some change. He pointed to his mouth and groaned “toothache” when the proprietor tried to start a conversation. The man nodded sympathetically and advised him on a number of cures, all available at the store. Rankin simply shook his head patted his pocket, as if he had aspirin there. It was an old trick but an easy one, and when he left, the store owner had the impression they had had a long conversation.

Outside, he sipped the soda, the best thing he’d tasted in days.

After two gulps, a soldier appeared on the road. The man stared at the bikes as he approached; Rankin watched the man from the corner of his eyes.

“What business do you have here?” asked the soldier, walking up to him.

“Me?” asked Rankin in Arabic.

The soldier thought he was being disrespectful and asked again, this time in an even more demanding tone.

“No business,” said Rankin. The words were right and even the accent was fine, but he didn’t say it quickly enough, and the soldier’s suspicions had already been aroused. The Syrian began to swing his gun up to challenge him; Rankin flew forward, throwing his forearm into the soldier’s chin so hard that the man’s teeth nearly severed his tongue as his head snapped back. Rankin rode him to the ground and knocked him unconscious with two hard snaps to the head.

As quick as he was, Rankin hadn’t been quite fast enough; two of the man’s companions turned the corner of the fence nearby. They were talking to each other, arguing over soccer; it took them a second or more to see the two men sprawled on the road nearby.

It was too late for them by then. Rankin grabbed the soldier’s gun, leveling it against his stomach and thumbing down the selector to automatic fire without conscious thought. As he pulled the trigger he realized he might have chosen to run instead. If they’d been a little farther away or if he’d had another moment or two to think, he might have made that choice, but you didn’t survive in wartime by second-guessing your instincts. By the time he dismissed the idea the men were already dead.

Rankin jumped on his motorcycle, pulling it backward away from the curb before starting it. He started down the road toward the airport. Thera turned the corner, running toward him.

“On! Get on!” he said, pulling up.

“What’s going on?”

“Come on.”

“We can’t leave Fouad.”

“I’m not. Get on.”

Thera had to hike her long dress to her waist before she could do so; they lost a few more seconds before Rankin could spin back toward the other motorcycle. Rankin let her off, retrieved his Uzi from the top of his pack, then sped back toward Fouad, just turning the corner, face flush and chest heaving. Rankin pushed him down as if swatting a fly, then emptied the Uzi at the two soldiers who’d come out from the gate to see what the gunfire was about. Both men hit the dirt, but from this distance, a little better than a hundred yards, it was impossible to tell if he’d put them down or they’d simply taken cover.

“Up! Up!” he yelled to Fouad, reaching down for him. “Up! Let’s go! Come on!”

Fouad got his hands beneath his chest and pushed forward, more a beached whale looking for the water than an intelligence agent trying to escape. Rankin grabbed him and pulled him onboard, nearly losing his gun as he started moving again. Shots whizzed by before he turned the corner.

“Come on!” yelled Thera, who was waiting. “Let’s go!”

“That way,” said Rankin, pointing ahead. “Head for the highway!”

~ * ~

19

TRIPOLI

“Hey, beautiful. This towel taken?”

Kel looked up from her blanket on the beach below the Hotel Cairo, which was next to the Medici. Ferguson had left her there before swimming out to meet with Corrine.

“Bob, back already?”

“I told you, everybody calls me Ferg.” He grabbed his towel, giving the beach a quick glance while drying his hair.

“Still no one watching us,” said Kel.

“Syrians must be busy.” Ferguson plopped down next to her. “Thanks for hiring the girls. They did a good job. All locals?”

“All locals.” She leaned her arms back, stretched in the sand. “Now it’s time for you to pay up.”

“A hundred Euros apiece wasn’t enough?”

“I was talking about me,” she said, craning her head back for a kiss.