Angels of Wrath (60 page)

Ferguson plied the casinos for another two hours, but failed to hear anything about where Birk was. Nor did the bugs pick up activity in Coldwell’s room. The video image had been tentatively matched against a driver’s license picture. The match was not perfect, but for Ferguson the ID was synched by the fact that Coldwell had disappeared from her Chicago-area home. He didn’t think she had bought Birk’s weapon and wasn’t surprised that she was missing again: Coldwell had probably approached someone with a less well-developed sense of propriety or humor than Birk and paid for her insanity with her cash and life.

“I have been wondering when you would show up again,” said Ras when Ferguson walked into the Barroom. “But where is your wife?”

“She has a headache,” said Ferguson.

They bantered back and forth a bit, Ras noting that the town had been quiet of late.

“Funny you should mention that,” said Ferg. “I hear your competition is hiding out.”

“What competition?”

“Birk.”

“Why would he hide?”

“Supposedly because he supplied the Israelis with the weapons that were used to blow up the Iraqis at the airport.”

“Birk? Never.”

“It’s what I hear.”

“I would not believe that.”

“Someone told me he’s hiding out in the yacht he sold to buy the
Sharia.
It’s called the
Saudi King
and anchored near Jezira,” said Ferguson.

“Why would he hide there? Everyone knows he sold it.”

“I think that was the idea. Then again, maybe not.” Ferguson poked the lime twist in his drink. “People tell me things, and I believe them. I’m just a gullible fool.”

~ * ~

n
hour later, Ferguson slid a small speedboat around the ships moored off Jezira, a floating dock large enough to earn the Arab name for island. Corrigan’s photo analysts had not been able to find
Sharia
anywhere off Syria. Clearly the yacht was gone, but was Birk? Linking him to the attack at the airport was the surest way Ferg could think of to find out if Birk was or wasn’t in Latakia; if the authorities came looking for him here, then clearly he was nowhere else to be found.

Of course, there was always the possibility that Birk
was
aboard his old yacht. Ferguson decided to eliminate that possibility before the police arrived. He drew up next to the large craft and hauled himself aboard. The vessel was empty, but it took longer than he’d planned to check it out. There were several large crates in the cabin area, and for a few minutes Ferguson thought he had actually stumbled onto part of the cruise missile. This did not prove to be the case, though the discovery did pique Ferguson’s interest: the crates contained naval mines. He took some photos with his digital camera to be used for future reference and went below to see if some sort of mechanism had been set up to disperse the mines, as impractical as this seemed. It had not, nor was there anything else aboard to explain the mines further. Ferguson decided it wasn’t worth puzzling out at the moment, and returned topside to leave.

As he untied his boat, he saw a large shadow about a half mile away, close enough for him to see that it was a Syrian corvette that operated out of Tartus to the south.

Its guns could make mincemeat of Ferguson’s boat in about thirty seconds, but the ship wasn’t half the threat the two Zodiacs he spotted coming from the shore were. And to prove that particular point, bullets began to fly from their bows.

~ * ~

12

BAGHDAD

Rankin heard noises inside the room that suggested James was not alone.

He knocked anyway. When James didn’t answer, he knocked again.

“Go away!”

“Hey, James, I gotta talk to you.”

“Rankin, buddy. I’ll be with you in half an hour.”

“Gotta talk to you now.”

“Can’t do it.”

The girl who was with him in the room giggled.

“I’m coming in,” said Rankin. “I have a key.”

He was bluffing, though he did have a set of picks. Unlike Ferguson and Thera, he wasn’t very good at undoing locks. It’d be easier for him to simply break down the door.

“All right. Hold on.”

The girl James was with sat in a chair in the corner when the door was open, watching quietly from under a blanket. She looked awfully young, but Rankin wasn’t in a position to ask for a driver’s license. James stood near the bed in a pair of jeans and no shirt, his pigeon chest heaving. He took a swig from a bottle of red wine.

“I need a translator,” Rankin told him.

“So?”

“Somebody I trust.”

“You don’t mean me.”

“It has to be somebody I trust. The army guys, I just haven’t worked with them. And I’m not working with these civilians.”

“Stephen, come on. This is a different place.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I’m not army. I’m not anything.”

“But I trust you.”

“Screw that. I’m kind of busy.” James took another swig of the wine, then offered it to Rankin. “Want some? It’s French. It’s pretty decent. Cost fifty bucks a bottle in the States.”

“I need you to come with me, James. I really do.”

“Listen, Stephen, I love you and everything, but, no.” James went over to the girl and whispered something in her ear. She nodded, then went into the bathroom, her bare behind poking through the blanket as she walked. Rankin started to speak, but James put up his finger to quiet him. The girl emerged a few minutes later in a long Arab dress that made her look even younger. James pressed money into her hand, then gave her a kiss.

Rankin stared at the floor as she left.

“I need your help,” Rankin said when James closed the door.

“Nah, come on. Let’s go get drunk. There’s this really great strip joint a mile from here. Where’s your buddy? We’ll have a party.”

“James.”

“Aw, for Christ’s sake.” James shook his head, but Rankin knew from the way he did it—from the frown on his face, from the look in his eyes— that he was coming. James was the guy you met in Hell who wouldn’t let you down. “Can I write about it?” he asked.

Rankin shook his head.

“Stephen, Jesus.”

“Maybe in a couple of years you could write about it.”

James laughed. It was a bitter, tight, very quick laugh. “I’m not going to be alive in a couple of years.”

“Depending on what happens, you might be able to write about it in a couple of years.”

James cursed. “All right. Wake me up when it’s time. I’m
not
driving. I hate driving in this country.”

“It’s time. Come on. I have a gun for you.”

“We’re going
now?”

“I have a machine gun. Guns is getting the Humvee.”

“No Humvee.”

“It’s an armored one. We may need it.”

James shook his head, but Rankin had already started out of the room.

~ * ~

13

LATAKIA

Ferguson knew Ras’s contacts with the Syrians were good, but he hadn’t realized they were quick as well. He’d thought he would have another ten or fifteen minutes at least before they could get anyone out here, and then it would only be policemen who might fire their guns once a year if that. The people firing at him now were coming incredibly close to the yacht and to his small boat, close enough, in fact, that he decided to plunge into the water and begin stroking toward a group of boats two hundred yards away. By the time he reached them the Syrian marines in the Zodiacs had reached the yacht. Rather than confiscating his small boat, they perforated the bottom and watched it sink.

In the meantime, the corvette drew closer and began playing searchlights across the water. Ferguson saw another pair of Zodiacs headed up from the south and figured there would soon be a boat from the corvette as well. There were sure to be soldiers or policemen on shore. His best bet seemed to be swimming north.

Fortunately, it was a pleasant night for a swim, and he began stroking to the north. Unfortunately, the Syrians had sent another pair of Zodiacs from that direction. He reversed course and did his best freestyle back to the boats, pulling himself into the nearest dinghy as the rigid-hulled inflatables began crisscrossing the area. Lying on his back in the bottom of the boat, he pulled out his sat phone and called 911.

Actually, it was Van Buren, who was orbiting offshore in the MC-130.

“How about we try that diversion?” suggested Ferguson.

“When?”

“Ten minutes ago would have been great. But now will do.”

Ferguson stowed the phone and listened to the Zodiacs approach. His arms and shoulders were sore, and his neck stiff; hopefully his muscles would respond better once he got back in the water. He didn’t particularly feel like going back in, but it was better than the alternative.

G
uided by the GPS signal in the phone, the MC-130 zoomed toward shore. Roughly three miles from the mooring area—and well within range to he detected by the corvette—it fired off a shower of flares. This was followed by a hard bank as the corvette began peppering the air with flak. One of the bullets from the gun struck the plane and its fuel tank exploded, sending it spiraling into the water.

Or so it appeared from the water. The MC-130 had actually jettisoned a large disposable fuel tank that had been rigged to explode in flames; a pair of small parachutes kept it airborne just long enough to heighten the effect. Ferguson thought he could hear a whoop of elation from the Zodiacs over the roar of their engines. Three of the four that had pulled up near Birk’s old yacht immediately began racing for the supposed wreckage. He slipped over the side and began stroking south, angling toward shore.

The cramp in his neck disappeared, but his arms remained tired; even his legs felt drained. He pushed on, his goal the rocky beach. But within a few minutes he realized he wasn’t making much progress at all. He thought he felt the temperature of the water abruptly change. Remembering the riptide that had taken Guns, he started to get serious about cutting across the current. When that didn’t work, he rested for a minute. This wasn’t a mistake because he really had no other choice, but the tide took him back to the north in the direction of the corvette’s searchlights.

A minute wasn’t much of a rest, but it was all he was getting. Ferguson threw himself into it, pushing directly toward the beach. Head down, he slammed his hand against the shallow rocks sooner than he thought possible. He wrapped his arm around the stone and held on, the water tugging at him, still trying to pull him out to sea. After awhile he pulled up onto the rocks, wincing because of his bare feet. He made it to a relatively level portion of land and sat down, leaning against a boulder and thinking he would rest a few minutes before heading south along the shore and returning to the hotel. But his arms were too heavy to move, and his legs felt pasted to the ground.

Ferguson remained there, a sodden mass, for a half hour, watching the headlights that occasionally swept along the road above. He’d climbed up next to a boat landing. Studying the lights he eventually realized that if he’d gone just six or seven feet farther to the south, he could have walked up a paved path from the sea. Crawled, more likely.

He was just thinking that he was in an exposed, easily seen position when a set of lights turned down the ramp. Too tired to run, he slipped to the side behind the rock, trying to hide as two men got out and came down to the water, only a few feet from him.