Angels of Wrath (28 page)

“What do we say?” asked Grumpy.

“Nothing. Make sure the call is answered, then hang up. Someone will look for you at the dock. The person there will say your name and will know your social security number. If not, kill him. If you’re not already dead.”

~ * ~

4

DAMASCUS

Corrine studied her reflection in the mirror. Her blond hair had grown a trifle long; she reached into her toiletry purse and retrieved a scissors to trim the bangs.

The puffy bags under her eyes were a more difficult problem to solve. She daubed on a light veneer of makeup, then rubbed most of it off. Corrine ordinarily wore very little, and even the light touch looked artificial to her. She decided that the excitement of the night before would excuse a pair of heavy eyes, and if they didn’t, tough.

The Lebanese had bent over backward with apologies. When she insisted on continuing on to Damascus, everyone, from the security people to the ambassador, looked at her as if she were insane. But she saw no reason to change her plans. She wasn’t about to let the attempt on her life—if that’s what it was—influence what she did.

The fact that people thought it was appropriate to treat her as a piece of delicate china pissed her off. That was the way she thought about it:
pissed off.
Profanity and all.

Corrine closed her bag and checked her dress. She was scheduled to attend a small reception at the president’s palace with the ambassador that evening. American-Syrian relations had started to thaw with the incoming administration, although the country remained on the U.S.’s sanctions list for dealing with terrorists.

A knock on the door startled Corrine. She reached instinctively for the small pistol in her bag, even though she was in the embassy, but it was only the steward.

“Ma’am, you have a phone call from Washington,” he said through the door. “I believe it’s the White House.”

“On my way,” she replied, placing the gun back in the bag.

“Miss Alston, assure me that you are all right and that the rumors of your demise are greatly exaggerated,” said the president as soon as he came on the line.

“Mr. President, I’m fine. I hope there are no rumors to the contrary.” Corrine forced a smile for the ambassador, standing next to her in his study as she took the call.

“I was deeply concerned to hear that there was a problem,” said McCarthy. “Deeply concerned.”

“I’m fine.” Corrine summarized the incident briefly. While there were several competing theories, Corrine and the security chief at the embassy favored the one proposing that a group had wanted to kidnap her and hold her for ransom, most likely for political gains but possibly simply for financial. “It comes with the territory,” she said. “I would expect that things will be even more restless in the next few days and weeks, as the outlines of your plan become known. Many people are not interested in peace.”

“Restless does not begin to cover it, my
deah,
though it is an interesting turn of phrase,” said the president. “I assume your presence had something to do with the arrest of the individual we spoke of in Washington.”

“Something to do with it, yes.”

“Well, it would be very good timing to have him arrested,” said the president. “Very good timing indeed. His trial would underline the commitment to democracy and the future.”
Future,
in the president’s full Georgian drawl, sounded like a country on the distant horizon filled with precious things. “But you and I spoke of your personal safety before you left.”

“I’m fine, Mr. President.”

“Now don’t get your back up,
deah.
I know you can take care of yourself.”

“I can, sir.” Corrine felt her face flushing. She felt constrained by the fact that the ambassador was nearby. “Really, Mr. President. I am fine. And I am very capable of taking care of myself.”

McCarthy chuckled. “I would
nevah
say anything to the contrary,
deah.”

~ * ~

5

LATAKIA

“Ferguson, is that you?” said the man, spreading his arms in wonder. He spoke in English, with a heavy accent that most people took as Russian, though he was actually a Pole.

“Birk, pull up a chair.”

“I am surprised to see you,” replied Birk Ivanovich, still standing.

“You should be,” said Ferguson. The last time Birk had seen him had been at the end of Ferguson’s trip here a year before, when Ferguson disappeared into a blazing sunset, ostensibly the victim of a bomb blast. “Have some champagne with me.”

“Is it good luck to drink with a dead man?”

“Only with his ghost,” said Ferg.

“I didn’t set that bomb,” said Birk. He glanced at his two shadows, motioning with his head that they should find seats elsewhere in the elegant club room of the Max Hotel.

“If you had set the bomb I wouldn’t be here,” said Ferguson. The waiter came over with a fresh champagne flute and poured a drink for Birk, who was here so often that he had a regular table at the far end of the room.

“To your health,” said Birk, raising the filled glass.

“And yours.”

“Still have the yacht?” Ferguson asked.

“A new one. You should come see it some time. After all, your money helped me buy it.”

“Still have the one-eyed Greek as the captain?”

“Fired him. And the hands. I run it myself.”

“You do?”

Birk shrugged. “For now. You must sail out to see me. It is offshore, of course. I call it the
Sharia.”

“Islamic justice? You do have a sense of humor, Birk.”

“I try,” said Birk, downing the champagne. “What are you in the market for today? More missiles?”

“Always looking,” said Ferg. “How hard is it to get things into Iraq?”

Birk made a face. “Why would you go there?”

“Me? I wouldn’t. How hard is it?”

Birk shrugged. “Not hard. But the market there is as bad as ever. What are you bringing in? Milk? Penicillin? That could get a good price. Not as good as under Saddam but still decent. Aspirin . . . you would be surprised.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of what you trade in.”

Birk made a face. “The Iraqis don’t buy. They sell.”

“You sure?”

“It is the same as when you were here last. They have plenty of small arms. The quality is so-so, but you can make it up on volume. I get my RPGs from there. Cheaper than Russia or Georgia. Ukraine, well, sometimes you can still find a bargain there.”

RPGs were rocket-propelled grenades.

“You buy a lot from them?” Ferguson asked.

“Usually not.” Birk shook his head. “Rifles, yes, if I can find a large lot. But even there, you must be careful. Some of the ones who come here to sell don’t even know the guns themselves. That is the depressing thing. They are not trying to cheat you; they just don’t know. Imagine that!”

“So what are you selling to Khazaal?”

“Khazaal?”

“The Iraqi resistance leader.”

“I know who he is. Please.” Birk shook his head. “You think I don’t know my business?”

“I know you know your business. That’s why I’m here.”

The arms dealer squinted at him in a way that was supposed to suggest that he had no idea what Ferguson was talking about; it had exactly the opposite effect.

Birk drained his champagne. “Business calls,” he said, starting to rise. “Another time—”

Ferguson clamped his hand on Birk’s forearm. “Come on, Birk. Don’t hold out on me. It’s bad form.”

The two bodyguards seated at the table behind Ferguson started to get up.

“Better tell them to get back,” said Ferg.

Birk signaled with his head that the men should relax. Ferguson let go of his arm. “There’s a convention in town that I want to be part of.”

Bilk shook his head. “Too dangerous even for you.”

“Are you invited?”

“They would roast me first.”

“A drink?” said Ferguson. He signaled to the waiter. “Something more serious than the champagne?”

“Why not? Bombay Sapphire. On the rocks.”

“Gin now? Last year it was vodka.”

“I like a change of pace.”

Ferguson took the barest of sips from the gin, then asked Birk what he knew. The Pole told him that he didn’t know much, only that no one should go near the castle north of town for the next few days. After gentle and not-so-gentle prodding and several more drinks, Birk told him that he had heard several Islamic fanatics—he used a Polish word whose most polite connotation was “maniacs”—were either already in town or en route. They were trying to do something in Iraq, but what it was, no one could say.

Birk hastened to assure Ferguson that he did not deal with such men directly, though occasionally he might facilitate arrangements with go-betweens. None, he claimed, were currently buying.

“Is Khazaal in town yet?” Ferguson asked.

“I cannot afford to keep track of which crazy is here or not here.”

“You can’t afford not to.”

Birk shrugged. “I heard, yes, but I don’t see him. He may not be a gambler.”

“When’s the meeting?”

“Maybe three days from now, but my information is sketchy as always. Try the secret police.”

Ferguson had the waiter bring over a full bottle of the gin, but this produced no more information. Finally he mentioned Jurg Vassenka, the Russian expert Thomas had discovered who was heading toward Latakia.

“An overrated Russian on his way out,” said Birk.

“You say that about all Russians.”

“I would not deal with him. He pretends to know systems that he does not know. He passes himself off as an expert, when he is an imbecile.”

“By birth, right?”

Birk nodded solemnly. Though he did business with them all the time, he did not like Russians.

“Is he going to the meeting?” Ferguson asked.

This possibility surprised Birk, though he frowned quickly to hide it. “I doubt it. Is he in Latakia?”

“He will be.”

“For that information, I owe you a favor,” said Birk.

“And I’ll be sure to collect,” said Ferguson.

~ * ~

6

NORTH OF LATAKIA

SEVERAL HOURS LATER . . .

Crusaders had started to build the castle in the twelfth century but abandoned it in favor of other, better sites farther up and down the coast. Its four walls ranged from six to twenty feet high and were doubled in places. There were two covered keep areas, but they were not much larger than a fair-sized bathroom. Overall, the footprint was perhaps a tenth of the size of the famous Krak des chevaliers, the medieval castle farther south near Tartūs, which had been built around the same time.

Ferguson leaned forward against the rocks a half mile away, watching through binoculars as two men worked on the approach to the old fort, apparently laying mines along the long, narrow road that led to the only entrance. Built on a rocky promontory overlooking the Mediterranean, the castle had only two doorways: one above a very narrow staircase cut into the stone that led up from the sea and the other at the end of the long road where the men were working. A sharp, clifflike drop near the castle wall and a rocky ravine helped isolate the narrow road, which had been constructed with a pair of switchback curves that could be covered from the old walls. Nobody without an invitation was crashing the party.