Angels of Wrath (42 page)

“You shouldn’t. It would decrease your life expectancy. And you see how defenseless you are.”

“I’m not dealing with him, Ferguson. I haven’t been invited to their party. I’m not trusted, and I don’t care to be. Not there.”

“Why is the Russian in town?”

“I don’t know. Honestly.”

“Are the Israelis involved?”

“Mossad? Here? You believe the stories that they are supermen. That is a myth they like to spread. They were powerful once. Those days are gone.”

“How much do you want for the missile?”

“A million. As I said the other night.”

“Three hundred thousand.”

“Be reasonable. I have others interested.”

“Oh really? Khazaal?”

“There is a good market for a weapon like this,” said Birk. “Someone offered me five tonight.”

Ferguson laughed.

“I can get two million,” said Birk, annoyed not that his bluff was called but that he had made such a halfhearted attempt. He was not at his best when first waking. “You must meet my price.”

“I don’t know how high I can go,” said Ferguson. “If you’re serious—”

“Very serious.”

“I have talk to the bean counters.”

“You were to do that the other day.”

“No, the other day I had to get clearance from my superiors. Now that I have it, I can see what’s in the piggy bank.”

“You’re becoming more like the Russians every day, Ferguson. This is not a good direction to take. What happened to the man I was going into business with? Where is the boldness?”

Ferguson smiled. “In the interests of goodwill, I’d like to buy some other items.”

“Not on credit,” said Birk.

“Considering that we’re doing business—”

“Not on credit, Ferg. No, no, no. You know better.”

“We can roll it into the other deal, with a little interest.”

Birk shook his head.

“All right. But I need to take delivery by this afternoon,” said Ferguson.

“It will be figured into the price. What do you need?”

“C4—”

“I have a Czech substitute. Very high quality.”

“Acceptable. I need something along the lines of the M252, the 81 nun mortar.”

“I can get you two of the British designs. Same weapon. How many rounds?”

“At least four good ones. High explosives. I’d like some training rounds and an illumination round or two.”

“Training rounds? Why?”

“I’m out of practice. I need some rifles.”

“M16s? Or will AK-47s do?”

“Well, what do you have?”

“Oh, we have many things,” said Birk, finally warming to his role as a dealer. “If you want a machine gun, I have these very nice H&Ks made in Mexico. I came by them just the other day.”

“Mexico?”

“Your army chose the Minimi over it, but I think the trials were rigged.”

“Yeah, but Mexico?”

“Labor is cheaper there. What can I say?”

“I’ll take two, but I need regular rifles as well. Kalashnikovs. Couple of thousand rounds. And something like a MILAN antitank weapon.”

“Now we are becoming serious,” said Birk. This was his way of saying that he did not have the item, but could find suitable substitutes. “Not RPGs?”

“I need something better. Longer range.”

“Battle tested.”

“Sure, if I don’t mind being flattened by the return fire.”

“Handled properly, there will be no return fire.” Birk knotted his brow. “I have a pair of older Gustavs. Good weapons. Hard to find ammunition.”

“How many rounds?”

“Just two. But I can let you take them very cheap.”

“I’ll bet.”

The Gustavs—M2 Carl Gustav recoilless rifles—were Swedish-built antitank guns. They fired an 84mm round to about 450 meters; the missile could penetrate up to eighteen inches of armor.

“Are you going to war with all of this?” asked Birk.

“More or less. I need some crappy radios, too. Something easy to intercept. Russian.”

Birk rolled his eyes. “As you wish.”

They haggled for a bit over price after Ferguson finished giving him the  shopping list. The mortars were very expensive: the list price on the versions that the U.S. used was just a shade under $25,000, and while Birk couldn’t get quite that much for a used British model, he held out for more than half. Ferguson got some throw-ins, including a pair of white phosphorous rounds, but he was not in a position to haggle and probably wouldn’t have gotten a much better deal elsewhere in the city if he had been. Birk claimed to be taking a beating by selling the Gustavs for only five thousand dollars apiece, which was actually a fair deal, especially as an RPG-7 (the basic lightweight Russian rocket-launched grenade) would have cost about the same. The total—as Ferguson had predicted several days before—came to just under a hundred thousand dollars.

Thera, tiring of the back and forth, went topside to check on Monsoon. He had removed the mesh from the two guards at the bow and stowed it in a canvas bag. Though it covered about ten square feet, the thin filament filled the space of a large skein of yarn.

One of the men moaned. “Think he needs another shot?” Monsoon asked Thera.

“Nah, we’re out of here. You can OD on that stuff.” She could tell from Monsoon’s expression that he didn’t think that would be a particularly bad thing; in his eyes, an arms dealer’s goon was as much of a scumbag as a terrorist was. “Killing him would be counterproductive in the long run,” Thera explained. “It’s not worth the risk.”

“He’s not going to be happy when he wakes up anyway.”

“Ferg’s call.”

By way of conversation when the deal was concluded, Ferguson asked Birk what other gossip he had heard about the meeting. Birk mentioned some minor terrorists as he dressed.

“What about Meles Abaa?” asked Ferguson. “I hear he’s at the Riviera.”

“Another person I would not deal with.”

“Why not?”

“The Israelis would not like it. It doesn’t pay to anger them.”

“I thought you said there weren’t any Mossad agents in town.”

“That would get back to them. They do not like Meles. That is the difference between you and the Jews, Ferguson. You say you do not like someone, and you watch what he is doing. The Jews,
chrtttt,
they slit his throat.”

“I should be more like them, huh?”

“I don’t tell anyone how to run their business.”

Up top, Birk looked over his bodyguards and shook his head. “I can’t even fire this one,” complained the arms dealer, kicking the biggest one. “Tomanski is my brother-in-law.”

“You’re married?” said Ferguson.

“My sister’s husband.”

“You don’t look like the type to have a sister,” said Ferguson. He pulled out a wad of Syrian bills. “I’ll leave this to cover their medical expenses, will they get to spend it or will you?”

“Tell me how much it is, and I’ll dock it from their pay.”

“Fair enough. I don’t feel like swimming back, so I’m going to borrow your boat. I’ll take your brother-in-law with me. He can bring it back when he wakes up. When will things be ready?”

“In the afternoon. Three o’clock.”

“I’ll meet you. Where will you be?”

“The Versailles, but. . .”

“Not a problem,” said Ferguson, understanding that Birk would be doing business. “I’ll just call. Same number?”

Birk nodded.

“Come on, Sleeping Beauty.” Ferguson bent down and picked up Brother-in-Law.

“Not him!” yelled Thera. “He’s almost conscious.”

It was too late. Whether awake or in drug-induced sleep, the man grabbed Ferguson’s neck in his arms. Ferg leaned forward, spun to the side, and when that failed to release the stranglehold, pushed off the boat, taking Brother-in-Law with him.

The cold water revived the bodyguard enough to panic, and he tightened his grip rather than loosening it. Ferguson jerked his elbow hard against the man’s side, expecting that would release him, then kicked upward. His progress upward could be measured in micrometers. Brother-in-Law was a real meat and potatoes kind of guy, with emphasis on the potatoes; he weighed a hundred pounds more than Ferguson.

“Cover him,” Thera told Monsoon, gesturing at Birk as she dove off into the water to help Ferguson.

By now Ferguson had decided he actually needed air and so took extreme measures, bowing his head down and ramming Brother-in-Law into the side of Birk’s boat. That did the trick: Brother-in-Law’s grip didn’t loosen but the rest of his muscles sagged, and Ferguson was able to kick them both upward to the top about a half second before his lungs would have imploded. Thera fished for the back of Brother-in-Law’s shirt, grabbing it as Birk threw a line down into the water.

“He weighs a ton,” complained Ferguson, ducking back down and finally extricating himself from his grip.

“Keep him,” said Birk. “Get him out of here.”

“Is he alive?” whispered Thera as they pulled Brother-in-Law into the small skiff.

“Don’t check until we’re out of Birk’s sight,” said Ferguson. “He’ll add the funeral to the bill.”

~ * ~

rother-in-Law was alive and managed to open his eyes a few minutes later as they headed toward Latakia’s commercial port area.

“Sorry I had to hit you,” Ferguson told him.

Brother-in-Law said something in Polish. Polish wasn’t one of Ferguson’s languages, but it didn’t sound much like “have a nice day.”

“You speak English, or do I have to speak Russian?” Ferg asked.

Brother-in-law spit. “Speak Arabic before Russian,” he said in English.

“I’m going to make up for getting you in trouble with Birk but not for slamming you against the yacht; that was self-preservation,” said Ferguson.

The next sentence was in the universal language: he took out five American hundred dollar bills and held him in front of Brother-in-Law’s face. “I need a little help onshore. Nothing you’ll get in trouble for.”

“What?”

“I need some bicycles and a pair of trucks. I can’t drive the trucks at the same time. One bill now, the rest later.”

Thera stared at Ferguson. Was he crazy? How could he trust this guy when he had just about killed him ten minutes before?

“OK,” said Brother-in-Law reaching for, the bills.

Ferg gave one to him.

“Where are we buying these trucks?” Thera asked.

“I wouldn’t use the word
buy,”
said Ferguson. “Borrow, maybe.” Ferg was going to take them from a so-called charity organization that was actually a fund-raising front for terrorists funneling money into Palestine and Iraq. “But Brother-in-Law and I are going to take care of it on our own. You and Monsoon are going to the toy store at Versailles. The shops in the hotel mall there all open at eight. I don’t want you hanging around; in and out first thing, OK? Don’t be in the lobby, don’t walk the halls, nothing. In and out.”