Angels of Wrath (54 page)

“I’ve been looking for you,” she said, walking up to him.

“That the most original line you could think of?” Ferguson asked.

“It’ll do. What am I drinking?”

“Champagne?”

“What are you drinking?”

“Coffee,” said Ferguson. He held up the glass; he convinced the bartender to pour some into a tumbler with ice.

“Could I have a whiskey sour?” she asked the bartender.

“A whiskey sour?”

“I always wanted one.”

“Don’t fall asleep on me. I’ll feel obliged to take advantage of you.”

“
Hmmph
.” Thera had taken the precaution of downing a “go” pill, prescribed by Agency doctors for situations where a CIA officer had to stay awake no matter what. She wondered if Ferguson did; he didn’t seem to have had a chance to get any sleep.

“I see you brought our friends.” He pointed to the attaché case.

“You told me to. I was worried I would have to open it up at the door.”

“They don’t check for weapons here because of all the tourists. It’s downstairs where we’ll have a problem. I already got us a locker on the other side of the casino. We’ll put it there.”

“What are we doing downstairs?”

“Going to see Ras. We’re a bit early.”

“How early?”

“Early enough to finish your drink and tell me what happened with Ravid.”

Thera told him what she knew. It was almost word for word what Corrigan had said.

“How’s the drink?” Ferguson asked.

“Very sweet. Too sweet.”

“I know the feeling. Come on.”

Ras had someone with him, but he did his swoon act over Thera as they approached, and the guest was quickly forgotten. After Ferguson ordered his usual Perrier and twist, Ras asked to what he owed the pleasure of basking in Thera’s loveliness.

“Mr. IRA has finally decided to buy, perhaps?” he asked.

“Yes, and I want to buy something special,” said Ferguson. “Red-fuming nitric acid.”

Ras continued to sip his drink.

“What ship captain would bring it in?” Ferg added.

“I don’t even know why you would want such an item,” said Ras.

Ferguson leaned across the table and smiled. “You want to end up like Khazaal?”

Ras’s hand trembled slightly as he put down the glass. “You had something to do with Khazaal? The Syrians told me Mossad was behind it.”

Ferguson stared at him.

“It would be very bad business to betray a trust. Very bad business,” said Ras.

“Better bad than dead.”

Ras sat back, his face pale. “If I wrote down the name of a sea captain, could you find his ship?”
 

“I don’t know,” said Ferguson. “Could I?”

~ * ~

ow what?” asked Thera as Ferguson steered her out of the hotel.

“Now we go up to Versailles and meet Vassenka.”

“He’s going to meet you?”

“Supposedly. Somebody called my room and left some heavy breathing on the machine. I took that to mean he’ll be here.”

“You gave him your room number?”

“I gave him yours.” Ferguson smiled. “I left word with two dozen people that he should contact me. What I’m hoping is that Meles and Khazaal getting stomped on killed his deal.”

“What good will he be in that case?”

“We can still find out who he was dealing with and where the Scuds are. We’ll have this ship tracked down and find out how much fuel is on it. My guess is that there’ll be quite a lot. Which argues for a lot of missiles.”

Ferguson called Corrigan with the information from the beach. The Versailles was within walking distance; they made it into the casino with ten minutes to spare. There wasn’t a lot of leeway: Ferguson hoped to take the Russian out twelve miles in a small boat and get aboard a helicopter. The helicopter had to come all the way from Turkey, and would only be able to stay on station for about forty-five minutes. The backup plan was to take the boat all the way to Cyprus: not impossible, certainly, but not as convenient nor as quick.

“Are we running late?” Thera asked, noticing he was checking his watch after they took a seat in the lounge above the poker tables.

“We’re on time.”

Ferguson ordered a Turkish coffee. Thera scanned the room and searched for something to talk about. “Is Rankin always so angry?”

“Somebody took his bottle away when he was a baby and he never got over it.”

“Monsoon is nice. Sergeant Ranaman.”

“Ranaman, yeah,” said Ferguson. “You like him?”

“Yeah, I like him a lot. He’s…”

Her voice drifted in a way that made it obvious to Ferguson that
like
meant something more than he wanted it to mean. He glanced at her face, turned away from him in profile. The curls came down behind her ear so gracefully, it was as if a painter had placed them there with a brush.

“Yeah, Monsoon’s a great guy,” said Ferguson, finishing the sentence for her. “Maybe we should have him work with us more. It’s hard to get Arabic speakers, good Arabic speakers.”

“You got me.”

“I rest my case.” Ferguson smiled at her and leaned hack to survey the room.

~ * ~

n hour later, Vassenka hadn’t shown up. Ferguson gave him ten more minutes, then another five, then went to the men’s room and called Corrigan. The helicopter had already gone back. They’d arranged for the EC-130E to fly off the coast again; Ferguson wanted an early warning if the Syrian police decided to raid all of the Western hotels. They hadn’t heard anything.

“Find my ship?”

“You were right about Tripoli. It was there a few days ago.”

“And now?”

“I can’t just snap my fingers and get information, Ferg. It’s not that easy.”

“Let me give you a hint where to look: heading for Iraq.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Well, get on it, Jack.”

“I am. Say, when do you sleep, anyway?”

Ferguson laughed at him and went back to Thera at the table.

They gave the Russian another half hour. Ferguson decided they would hit some of the other clubs to see if they could drum up some information about him, but first they had to stash the jewels, which Thera had in the case. So they went upstairs to Ferg’s room. Thera tapped on the wall of the elevator all the way up.

“You took a ‘go’ pill, right?” Ferguson asked, waiting for the door to open.

“I was afraid I’d fall asleep. I’m OK, really.”

“No driving for you. Come on. I’m down the hall.”

The room Lauren had reserved was small, with only a bed and a table too small to spread a napkin. Thera kicked off her shoes and sat back on the bed.

“Is that piece in your hair from in here?” he asked.

“Of course not.” Her face turned deep red. “It’s glass.”

“Don’t get offended. I was just asking. It’d be all right if you borrowed it.”

“I don’t borrow things. I didn’t even open the briefcase.”

“Why not?” asked Ferguson. He opened the small in-room safe. The case was a little too wide to fit. 

“You trust a safe?” Thera asked.

“Of course not. But I’ve never believed that ‘Purloined Letter’ stuff. You leave something out; it’s gone. The safe will keep the amateurs at bay.” He took up the case, set it down, and took out his picks. He opened the case and though he continued to smile at her, he realized immediately something was wrong: there weren’t as many jewels, and it struck him that they weren’t the same.

He snapped it closed. “Your turn,” he told her, as if he’d noticed nothing. He flipped it over to her on the bed. “You open it.”

“Why?”

“I want to make sure you can.”

“All right.”

Ferguson watched as she took the picks. She hadn’t had much practice, that was clear, but she didn’t act like she was completely incompetent either; she snapped it open in about a minute. Thera handed it to him.

“I should make you do it again. You’re a little slow.”

“Are we going to play locksmith or look for Vassenka?”

“Vassenka,” said Ferguson. He started scooping the jewels into the safe.

There was definitely a different mix than the last time he’d seen them. Or was it, Ferguson wondered, just that he was tired now and he’d been in a rush then?

The sat phone rang as he closed the door on the safe. “I hope this is room service.”

“Ferg, they found Vassenka in a shower in a dump off 14 Ramadan Street,” said Corrigan.

“The police raided him while he was taking a shower?”

“No. He reached for a bar of soap and got a grenade instead. He’s in pieces.”

~ * ~

~ * ~

1

BAGHDAD

THE NEXT MORNING …

Abu al Hassan, the new Iraqi prime minister, was about as physically different from Saddam Hussein as possible: tall and thin, bald, with no facial hair and a soft whisper of a voice. The State Department briefing papers presented him as a “dynamic individual” and a “political survivor.” But the CIA duty officer Corrine befriended in the communications center rolled his eyes when she asked for his opinion, and Corrine saw why as soon as she met him. Hassan studiously avoided meeting her gaze while they spoke; his answers to even simple questions were so convoluted and hedged that Corrine wondered if the point wasn’t to make her forget what she had asked. To a man, his staff’s body language made it clear they didn’t have any better an opinion of him. He and his government weren’t going to survive their first political crisis. A five percent dip in world oil prices—already forecast after the run-up of the past few years—would be enough to upset the country’s loan payment schedule and threaten the social and rebuilding programs necessary to keep the economy moving ahead. But it wouldn’t take something nearly that severe: if violence stoked up again around Baghdad, if Iran rattled its sabers, if the Kurds complained that their semiautonomous state was too semi and not autonomous enough, the fractious parliament would divide. Hassan, Corrine now realized, had only been chosen because he was such a nonentity the different factions couldn’t object. Under any sort of pressure he would wilt.