Angels of Wrath (47 page)

“They’re mounting up,” the controller in the aircraft said a few minutes later. “Looks like they’re going south in one big convoy: Khazaal’s truck, Meles, the whole lot of them.”

“You got that, Rankin?” asked Ferguson.

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Hang loose until they clear past the police. If you can get into the castle to take a look around without too much trouble, do it. Otherwise, bag it and meet us back at the airport. Don’t cut it too close.”

“Not like you, huh?”

“Not like me.”

~ * ~

he Russian held the gun in both hands as he approached Thera. There was no question of reaching for one of her weapons under the long Arab dress; at this range, the 7.62mm rounds in his gun would make her look like Swiss cheese long before she could return fire.

The Russian said something to her; she replied in Arabic that there must be some sort of mistake. The Russian yelled at her, and after pulling the chain across the door, slapped her across the face with the pistol. The blow sent her to the floor. While Thera could have done without the pain, she was able to slide her hand to her waist, where she had a small Smith & Wesson. But as she tucked her thumb under the button on the
jilbab
to get at it, the Russian hauled her up by the hair and tossed her against the wall, this time hard enough stun her.

“What’s going on?” said the Russian in broken English. “What are you? Police?”

“My room,” said Thera, her brain too scrambled to give her a better alibi.

The Russian grabbed hold of the back of her
jilbab
and pushed her toward the door. He pressed his gun against the side of her face and told her, half in English and half in Russian, to open it. When she did, he pitched her head into the hall as if dunking her into the water, obviously intending that anyone outside shoot her before him.

“We go,” he said.

Thera coughed. “Where?” she said in English.

He said something in Russian that didn’t sound very promising.

“Where are we going?” she asked again. She wanted the others on the radio circuit, including the EC-130E and the people back in the Cube, to hear.

“Move,” he said, propelling her into the hall. She started for the elevator, but he grabbed her, pointing her toward the far end of the hall. “Move.”

“Outside, yes. I’ll do as you say.” A large window sat at the end of the hall. Thera walked to it. The window had a fire escape outside, but it was also wired to sound an alarm if opened. A small sign in Arabic and English warned of this; Thera pointed to the sign and tried to explain.

The Russian didn’t buy it. He yelled at her, pointed the gun at her head, and opened the window himself. As the alarm began to sound, he cursed and threw her out onto the grate, quickly following.

~ * ~

31

CIA BUILDING 24-442, VIRGINIA

Corrigan hated this part of an operation. He had literally a world’s worth of information at his fingertips—feeds from the Global Hawk and the U-2, near real-time transcripts of intercepted transmissions from the EC-130E, the First Team’s radio chatter from the scene—but it served mostly to remind him how far removed from everything he was. All he could do was sit and watch.

He rubbed his eyes, staring at the screen. He had a large map of Latakia open on the desk to help him keep a visual image of the operation in his head. Van Buren and the Special Operations forces were at the airport several miles southwest of the city. They had just radioed in that they had control of the airplane Khazaal was going to use to get back to Iraq. The police and army were responding to the castle and several sites within the city. A contingent was moving to shut off the port, but so far forces had not been sent to the airport. The security there had not been notified, thanks not only to the jamming by the EC-130 but a selective cutting of the lines by Van Buren’s people.

Thera and Monsoon were on the south side of the city, searching the hotel where the Russian had been staying. Ferguson and Guns were at the northern outskirts of Latakia, waiting for the convoy that was heading down the highway from the north. Ferg suspected that it would bypass the city and head straight to the airport. He and Guns were still on their bikes but had a car stashed not too far away that they could use if necessary. Rankin and Grumpy were north of the castle on bikes. In a few minutes they would move down to check it out if they could.

“Something’s going on with Thera,” said Thomas, the First Team analyst who’d come down to the Cube to help monitor the data. He was sitting in the second row of temporary desks to Corrigan’s left. “Listen in to channel two.”

Corrigan hit the preset, which isolated on her microphone. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Yes,” said Thomas. “Don’t you think that’s very odd?”

Corrigan looked at the analyst, then hit Ferguson’s preset on the communications panel.

“Ferg, I think we have a problem.”

~ * ~

32

LATAKIA

“Five million dollars is a very large sum.” Coldwell pushed the drink that had been set down away. She had not ordered it, but she was glad now to have a prop. “Two million dollars.”

“Considering the capabilities of the missile, it is quite cheap,” said Birk. “Five million dollars—the weapon cost more than five times that to make.”

“The price includes the associated systems?”

“Enough systems to launch the weapon, yes.” Birk forced himself to smile. He did not like the way she said that. Clearly she had been coached, but that was to be expected, surely.

Not by Ferguson, he thought. Ferguson would simply have handled this himself.

Who then? He had to be careful whom he sold to. Or rather, he had to make sure the price was commensurate with the risk. Five million was a handsome payoff, but was it handsome enough?

As long as the target was not Israeli, he thought, he would be safe. The Europeans and Russians were so inept that they would have trouble even discovering what hit them, let alone mounting any sort of revenge. The Arabs were more or less the same. The Americans were capable of being nasty but were slow and clumsy, as Ferguson proved. Besides, the woman had hinted that the target was Arab, which suited Birk just fine.

He would travel for a while in any event. Perhaps he would retire. With a good sale here, he could.

Try his luck in Asia in a year or two? Get rid of his family relations, find a nice native woman to see to his needs?

Why not?

“Five million is too much,” said Coldwell. “Two million.”

“Ah well,” said Birk, leaning back. It was so easy to tell when amateurs were bluffing.

“I simply don’t have five million,” said Coldwell. “Two million.”

“Two million?” Birk hesitated a long moment. Two million was a fair price on the present market, but should he settle for a fair price? In truth, prices were depressed right now, especially for large pieces of hardware. In the old days (two or three years ago), a missile like this might fetch five million easily.

But Birk was not one for nostalgia.

“Two. Done.”

Coldwell had been prepared to go higher—Ravid said three—but the secret to a good negotiation was to make the other person think he had won. “Very well,” she said. “If we can work out the arrangements.”

“What arrangements?” said Birk.

“The turnover, and I will need technical information.”

Birk shrugged. He hated these riders in the end game. Always there would be some chiseling down the line: ten thousand dollars for missing wires, one hundred thousand dollars to compensate for an antiquated GPS system. “I’m sure we can work the details out.”

“Very well.” Coldwell rose.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll contact you when I’m ready to take delivery.”

“Wait, now,” said Birk. For a moment he feared he had been set up and would be arrested.

“I must make other arrangements. I’ll be in touch.”

“Hold it now, please,” said Birk. He realized that his voice had nearly cracked and smiled at himself. This was either part of her negotiating tactics or just the by-product of her being a naïf. Either way, there was no reason to panic. Certainly not.

Coldwell stared at Birk. He didn’t trust her, but that was to be expected. She didn’t trust him. It was the basis of their relationship.

The one person she did trust was Ravid. She hadn’t until he told her why he wanted to destroy the Muslim holy city. There was no emotion in his voice when he told her of the death of his wife and child; his tone had been flat and unaffected. That was how she knew he spoke the truth. She didn’t even hold his attack against him; it was to be expected in his position.

“Who are you working with?” Birk asked.

“I’m not at liberty to say. I’ll be in touch.”

“Tell me that it’s not Khazaal.”

She shook her head.

“An Arab?” Birk asked.

“I can’t say.”

But he saw it in her face: not an Arab. “You’ll be in touch?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, be in touch,” said Birk expansively. “Have some champagne before you go.”

“Another time,” said Coldwell.

~ * ~

33

BAGHDAD

“This brandy is very good.”

“I’m sure,” Corrine told Bellows. “But, really, I can’t.”

“Still on duty?” The ambassador put the snifter down, and went over to the chair. “It is after ten.”

“The president’s counsel is always on duty.”

“McCarthy runs everybody ragged, I hear.”

“I wouldn’t say that. He has high standards.”

Bellows swirled his glass gently, then took a sip, savoring the liquor. “So tell me, Corrine. Why exactly did he send you?”

“To take a snapshot of the Middle East before the president arrives.”

“The State Department has a regular advance team for that.”

“The president likes a personal touch.”

Bellows nodded but added, “There’s a rumor that you work for the CIA.”

“Well, there’s a rumor I’d like to encourage.” Corrine laughed. “I hope you’ve helped spread it.”

“Well, I did think it was preposterous.”

“I don’t think it’s
preposterous
,” said Corrine. “I think I’d make a very good spy.”

“You would, you would.” He took another sip. “But, seriously, why are you here? You’ve been traveling throughout the Middle East. It’s not because of the trade legislation. That’s clear.”

“The trade legislation is part of it,” said Corrine.

“The initiative between Israel and the Palestinians?” asked Bellows. If that were the case, he thought, she was in way over her head. Corrine was a good girl but young, and certainly unschooled in the nuances of diplomacy, let alone the Middle East. Not that he would tell her that.

“I’m just familiarizing myself with the area,” said Corrine. “It’s been quite a while since I was in Israel and Egypt. And I’ve never been to Iraq. Or to Syria, which turned out to be a much more beautiful country than I had realized.”