Angels of Wrath (70 page)

THE RED SEA

Tischler was with the troops who roped down to the tanker. He took his time coming to the diving boat. By then Ferguson had been searched by several Israelis—it was obvious Thera was unarmed—and allowed to get up off the deck. Ferguson went below and retrieved a beer from the ice chest. He was drinking one when the Mossad supervisor came aboard.

“Why’d you wait so long if you knew what was going on?” Ferguson asked him.

“I didn’t know what was going on. We followed you.”

“You couldn’t have found Ravid on your own?”

Tischler didn’t answer. They could have, certainly, though they might not have thought to if the Americans hadn’t raised questions. Or at least that’s what Ferguson thought. Tischler wasn’t the type to say.

“The operation was always to get Meles,” said Ferguson. “And you tipped us off about Khazaal as a matter of courtesy. Am I right?”

Tischler shrugged.

“But Ravid wanted more. He didn’t tell you, but he’d probably been looking at getting more for quite a while. Did he stumble across Seven Angels, or did they come to him?” asked Ferguson.

“I assume he ran into them in Syria. There are all sorts of crazies there.”

“The sister ... is she on the boat?”

Tischler shook his head. “I would have told you if she was. There are no Americans. Probably Ravid killed her.”

“So he used Thatch’s credit card, not her,” said Ferguson.

“I would believe so.”

Ferguson thought so as well.

“Ravid took Khazaal’s jewels and used Coldwell to buy the missile, because Birk might not have sold it to him. And you just watched?” said Ferguson.

“We would not have let that happen if we had been in a position to observe it.”

“You expect me to believe it?”

“You missed it as well. You were there, Ferguson. It happened under your nose.”

“True enough.”

“I wish that the outcome were different. He was a valuable man.”

Ferguson thought about the words Tischler chose: not a
good
man but a
valuable
man.

“Listen, Tisch. I have one question that I absolutely need an answer to,” said Ferguson. “You give it to me, or you give it to Parnelles. Either way, we get an answer: The suicide bomber who took out Thatch . . . coincidence?”

“Coincidence. Unfortunate,” added Tischler. “It would have been useful to see who he spoke to.”

“And Ravid being in Tripoli when the attempt was made on Alston . . . was he there because of the rocket fuel? I know Meles was actually the one who set that up and that there have to be more Scuds than the one Rankin got, but I want to know about that attempt on Alston. Was it a coincidence? Or did he arrange that, too?”

“He was en route to Syria. He had to make contact with Meles in Lebanon. One believes in coincidences, or one doesn’t. You’re free to go.” Tischler turned to go back to the small boat he’d used to come over from the tanker.

Ferguson went over to the side. “Hey.”

Tischler turned around.

“I’m sorry about Ravid,” said Ferguson. “I heard his wife and kid died. If that had happened to us, we would have pulled him. In the old days, you guys would’ve, too.”

“What you would do is of no concern to me, Ferguson. I told your father that a long time ago, and I tell you that now.”

“You figured you could ride Ravid one more time, right? To get Meles. Because Meles was worth it.” Ferguson smiled, because he could tell from the slight twitch in Tischler’s face that he had hit the mark. “Would you have felt that way if he had destroyed Mecca and every Arab in the world descended on Israel?”

“You’re wrong, Ferguson. What happened here is something completely different. American extremists wanted to cause Armageddon. They attacked Mecca, and he died stopping them.”

“You think anyone’s going to believe that?”

“It’s the truth,” said Tischler flatly. “Or perhaps it wasn’t crazies. Perhaps it was a CIA plot from the very beginning.”

“What are you going to do with the people on the tanker?”

“They’re my prisoners,” said Tischler. “They’re Israelis. They’re coming back to Israel.”

“You have charges that will hold them?”

“We have a number of charges, beginning with currency transfers that were in violation of Israeli and international banking laws.”

“You recover the jewels?”

“Not yet.”

“You might want to look on Birk’s boat, south of here,” said Ferguson. “Those people are going to stand trial, right?”

“That’s not my decision.”

“I could arrest them and turn them over to Saudi authorities,” said Ferguson. “They were targeting Saudi territory.”

“You seem to lack authority to make an arrest stick.”

“I could call the Saudis.”

“By the time they get here, we will be gone. In any event, this will be a matter for the courts to consider ... if it gets that far.”

“The Saudis know what their target was.”

“They’re my prisoners, Ferguson. You’re as obnoxious as your father was and twice as stubborn.”

“I take that as a great compliment.”

~ * ~

o you think they’ll put them on trial?” Thera asked after Tischler and his men left.

“They want to keep this quiet. They’ll come up with some BS charge to keep them on ice, like we would do a plea bargain in the States. There’s no way they’ll risk any sort of serious leak.”

“That’s why you told Corrigan to call the Saudis on an open line,” said Thera. “You thought the Israelis were listening in. You think they set this up, and they only intervened because they thought it would come out.”

“I was just hedging my bets in case I was wrong,” said Ferguson. “I figured they were tracking us, but I couldn’t be sure. Probably they meant to take out the ship all along, and we just happened to be in the right place at the right time. We were in the wrong place with Meles and Khazaal. Things even out.”

“If you believe in coincidences,” said Thera.

“Look at it as God’s work, if you want. Of course, then you have to decide whose God it was.”

“God doesn’t work that way.”

“How would you know?”

Ferguson laughed at her frown, steering the boat back toward its home port.

~ * ~

~ * ~

SUBURBAN VIRGINIA

TWO WEEKS LATE

Just in from his morning rounds visiting the shut-in members of his parish, Father Tim Casey sat down at the kitchen table in the rectory. The pain today was a little more intense than the day before, which itself was more than the day before that. But it was the Lord’s pain, he told himself, and he could manage it. He would push himself until the end: hardly a struggle at all, as long as he caught his breath.

How he would tell the children that the parish council had vetoed the winter basketball program—now that was a problem he couldn’t resolve. It was the sort of secular matter that had to be left to the council, truly, but it would break the kids’ hearts, and a few of their parents’ as well. That pain he couldn’t bear; he was too weak to see others’ distress.

He’d put it off another day at least.

Casey picked through the mail. Most of it was junk, advertisements and the like. There was an electric bill and a belated card on his anniversary as a priest that he recognized from a former student, a conniving no-good liar, now a rich banker in Boston, God forgive him.

There was an envelope from the morning mail addressed to him and marked
personal
in large red letters, with a stamp he didn’t recognize and no return address. He picked it up and tore open the end as his housekeeper came in.

“Isn’t it wonderful, Father? An everyday miracle.”

Mrs. Perez was in the habit of exaggerating, and she could very well have been talking about a new cleanser for the kitchen floor, father Casey gave her only part of his attention, reserving the rest for the envelope. There was an odd book in it, the sort that the priest associated with raffles.

It was only as he flipped through them that he realized they were airline tickets. And a hotel. Transfers between them. And a bus tour.

All for Jerusalem.

Nonrefundable, according to the script.

“Anonymous,” said Mrs. Perez.

He’d find a way to get these exchanged, he thought. They would fund a quarter of the basketball season, if not more.

Still, if he couldn’t. . .

God was tempting him. He would do the right thing. The priest felt a twinge of guilt as he looked up.

“He spoke to the treasurer himself. The money was wired into the account,” said Mrs. Perez.

“What are you talking about?” he asked the housekeeper. “Who spoke to the treasurer?”

“A parishioner who wishes to remain anonymous. He funded the basketball season—the entire season—And asked for not so much as a God bless you in return. He must be a saint, father. A true saint.”

Casey blinked. “Aye,” he said, looking back at the tickets. “A saint and a sinner. . . . The best of us are.”

~ * ~