Angels of Wrath (53 page)

“Perhaps the Iraqis can help you. You should reconsider about the Siren. I have a genuine offer on the table. Five million.”

“Right.”

“But I would give you a very good deal for old time’s sake,” said Birk, deciding he would much prefer to sell to the American CIA. “Two million.”

“Three times too much.”

“Two million is a bargain.”

“What happened to one million?”

“One million,” repeated Birk. No, he decided; that was too much of a discount.

On the other hand, considering what the Israelis had done . . .

“Perhaps, for old time’s sake,” said Birk. “Perhaps for a million.”

“I need a few more days,” said Ferguson.

“Oh,” said Birk, genuinely disappointed now. But here was the consolation: he would make four million dollars more, and more than likely the Jews were buying it anyway. Yes, this must be so. They did not fool around the way the Americans did.

“Who’s your other buyer?” Ferg asked.

“Oh, there are always buyers.”

“Come on, don’t try and bluff me,” said Ferguson.

“I have other buyers,” said Birk. “You will see I am serious, Ferguson.”

“Right.”

“We’ll see then.”

“You’re not a very good liar, Birk. That’s your one flaw as an arms dealer.”

“It isn’t a flaw; it’s a reason to do business with me: I’m honest.” Birk once more looked at the tip of his cigar, frowning as if there were something wrong with the gray ash.

“Tell me about Vassenka,” said Ferguson.

“Again?”

“Who was he here to meet?”

“I didn’t even know he was here,” said Birk, protesting a bit. “You told me.”

“I’d like you to do me a favor,” said Ferguson, taking a swig from the bottle. “I’d like you to pass a message to him. Tell him I’m ready to make that deal.”

“To Vassenka? He would never talk to me.”

“Sure he would. Professional courtesy.”

“No. I doubt this.”

“Try. Tell him I’m ready to make that deal.”

“He’ll know what you’re talking about?”

“If he has a good memory. Tell him I can get him out of the country. Vouch for me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re a great guy.” Ferguson rose.

“Are you sure he wasn’t killed?”

“I know he wasn’t killed, and I know you know every Russian in town, even though you hate their guts. Tell him my offer stands. And I’ll get him out.”

“If you need a Russian—”

“I need that Russian,” said Ferguson, pulling on his flippers. “I’ll check with you tonight, in your office.”

“I’m always there.” 

~ * ~

9

APPROACHING CYPRUS

Ravid said nothing the whole way to Cyprus, shaking his head and not answering when asked if he wanted anything to drink. He sat alone, walked the deck alone, and in general kept to himself. After watching him for a while, Rankin decided that the Israeli felt humiliated that he’d had to go to the Americans to escape. It was possible that something had gone wrong in the operation, as well: how had he gotten injured? But Rankin decided he wasn’t in the mood to question the guy. If he was going to be a jerk and not say anything, well, the hell with him.

Maybe if he’d been in the same position, he’d’ve kept his mouth shut, too. The boat that had picked them up was a nice-sized yacht, the sort of toy Rankin had seen a lot of in Miami and fancy places like that on vacation. The crew had obviously been briefed to ask no questions. There were bunks below where they could sleep if they wanted; only Thera took the offer. The others sat on the deck, drinking coffee and looking at the view. Except for the reason that they were there, it would have been a hell of a little vacation.

A CIA handler met them at the dock in Cyprus, along with two men in civilian clothes who were actually PMs-in-training, paramilitary CIA employees doing grunt work as part of their initiation rites. Ravid, still not talking, followed along passively and didn’t object when the handler—he claimed his name was Paul F. Smith, emphasizing the “F” as if that would make them believe him—said they’d like to debrief him before sending him on his way.

Ravid didn’t argue. Smith took them all to a British clinic to be checked out by a doctor. Ravid, the only one among them who was injured, went into the nurse’s area to take off his clothes and have his wounds attended to. When the doctor came for him five minutes later, he was gone.

“We can use the tag,” said Thera, reaching into her bag for it.

“Waste of time,” said Rankin, pointing to Ravid’s shirt on the changing bench. The two tags Ferguson had placed on him were there.

~ * ~

10

CIA BUILDING 24-442, VIRGINIA

Thomas stared at the e-mail from Professor Ragguzi, which had come on his “blue computer,” a unit used for nonsecure communications with the outside world. (All communications and other use were subject to strict monitoring to make sure security rules weren’t violated.)

He had hoped for a response, but could not have guessed that it would be quick. Or so blunt.

You’re wrong.

That was it. No explanation, no hedging. Thomas’s own e-mail, which he had carefully vetted with two internal security officers and Corrigan, had filled two screens. Without citing any classified information, it made a careful argument calling the Turkey sightings into question, politely wondering if perhaps the professor could clarify.

Thomas felt as if his entire foundation of knowledge of UFOs, carefully built over decades, had been thrown into doubt. If Ragguzi was wrong—worse, if he refused to acknowledge that he
might
be wrong—what could Thomas believe?

The CIA analyst tried to concentrate on his work. He rose and began pacing around his office. He had no sense of what time it might be: somewhere in the morning or afternoon, he thought, though perhaps it was midnight.

How could he be wrong?

If he’d overlooked something, perhaps. That was possible. It had happened in Latakia, surely, since they had missed the Mossad operation completely.

Not completely. They had seen pieces but failed to put it all together.

Thomas sat down at his computer and began rummaging through the various lists he had compiled. Corrigan had asked him questions about Vassenka and his abilities; they’d checked into the Scuds, of course. It was logical because of Iraq, though there seemed no possibility, no possibility whatsoever, of there being any remaining in the country. Or, if there were, they would be in pieces. Worse, they would lack the rocket fuel.

Fuel.

Thomas keyed over to the satellite photo of the city. One of the things that made Latakia unique in Syria, and in the Middle East in general, was its train line.

Exactly the sort of thing that you would need to move rocket fuel.

Thomas pulled his chair closer to his desk.
Wrong,
indeed.

~ * ~

11

LATAKIA

Ferguson had just gotten back to the beach outside the Versailles when his sat phone rang. He stared at it cross-eyed for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure what it was, then pulled open the antenna.

“Talk to me.”

“I have a weird Thomas theory,” said Corrigan. “Can you talk?”

“Better let me get upstairs,” said Ferguson. “I’ll call you back.”

Fifteen minutes later, Ferguson rested his head against the outside of the bathtub, listening to Corrigan talk about rocket fuel formulations as the room filled with steam, the by-product of an impromptu white noise system, otherwise known as a running shower. Thomas’s theory, in a nutshell, was that Vassenka hadn’t been hired simply for his expertise; he was supposed to supply the fuel for the Scuds as well. The Americans had looked for the rocket fuel fairly carefully during the occupation, literally checking every tanker and railcar capable of holding it in the country and using special ground-penetrating radar to look for hidden underground tanks. The thorough search didn’t mean there wasn’t some hiding somewhere, but the stuff was not particularly easy to store. Highly toxic, it ate through metal and could spontaneously catch fire when it came in contact with organic material. Bringing a fresh batch in from outside the country would be the way to go, especially if you had many rockets.

And two or three million dollars’ worth of jewels would buy fuel for quite a number.

“The thing is, we can’t find a railcar with either red-fuming nitric acid or inhibited red-fuming nitric acid,” said Corrigan. Those were the main ingredients in the rocket fuel used by all but the very earliest Scud missiles. “Thomas has gone over every lading notice, shipping document, you name it. He’s been all over it.”

“I’ll bet he has,” said Ferguson.

“Is it a false lead?”

“No. It’s just not in a railcar.”

~ * ~

1
2

CYPRUS

The men had to double up, but Thera got her own room at the hotel near the British base. She lay down on the bed in her clothes and fell fast asleep, plunging into a thick unconsciousness that felt like burrowing into the ground beneath the dirt.

Several hours later, she heard the phone ring and ignored it. A few minutes later, someone knocked on her door. She ignored that, too. Then she heard the door open.

She grabbed for the pistol she’d slid under her pillow.

“Hey,” said Guns, “it’s just me. Ferg needs to talk to you. He’s been calling on the sat phone and the room phone.”

“Oh.” She slid the gun down.

“You leave the safety on when you’re sleeping, right?” asked Guns.

“Why would I do that?”

Guns went back to his room. Thera, her eyes burning, sat up on the bed and pulled out her phone. She hit the preset combination for Ferguson, who answered on the first ring.

Not that he said hello.

“You still have that attaché case?” were the first words out of his mouth.

“Yeah.” Thera glanced at it. It had fallen on the floor right next to the bed.

“You feel like coming back to Latakia tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“Bring the jewels. Meet me at the Agamemnon, at the bar with the green marble, not in the Barroom. Wear something that will make the mullahs think they’ve found something better than Paradise.”

“Who am I dressing for?”

“Me.”

~ * ~

13

LATAKIA

Ferguson watched her come down the steps, her blue dress clinging to her hips, her hair held up on one side by a jeweled pin that made her look like royalty. He watched her looking for him, admired the way she gazed at the room as if she owned it. And she might have, he thought; more than a few of the men nearby were staring at her. Finally Thera saw him and acknowledged him with the slight upturn of the corner of her mouth: not a real smile, but it was pretty nonetheless.