Angels of Wrath - [First Team 02]

by Larry Bond

  The GPS device said they were about five miles from An Nabk, a small town on the road north of Damascus. Or as Corrigan put it, the middle of nowhere.

  “I can tell you used to work for Rand McNally,” Ferguson said.

  “We have a theory.”

  “Who’s we?”

  Corrigan explained what Thomas had found out about Latakia.

  “Thomas admitted Vassenka might be a coincidence,” said Corrigan. “But he does know how to set up Scuds. He’s an expert on the fuel systems. So if the Iraqis had some of the missiles but needed help using them, he’d be able to get them on track.”

  “He would, wouldn’t he?” said Ferguson. “Do we think Khazaal has some?”

  “No. But you know there were at least two dozen that were never accounted for properly. At least. You could have parts buried in the desert somewhere.”

  “I’d think of Khazaal more trying to sell them than use them,” said Ferguson. “He’s more meat and potatoes: rocket grenades, car bombs. According to the estimate I read, he’s supposed to be on his way out.”

  “A Scud would change that.”

  Sure would, thought Ferguson, especially if it were aimed at Baghdad when the president was there.

  Or Israel.

  “Thomas got this on his own or after talking to Fouad?”

  “Thomas doesn’t talk to anybody,” said Corrigan. “Not in any language they can understand.”

  “Fair enough,” said Ferguson. “We’ll be up there by the afternoon. Get me some rooms, backup gear, whole setup. I have two friends with me. Get Thera and the boys over there, too.”

  Ferguson told Corrigan about the Mossad agent Corrine had encountered in the Tripoli hotel.

  “No diplomat of that name exists,” said Corrigan after a quick check on one of the databases.

  “Gee, no kidding, Jack. Here’s the thing, either the guy is a legitimate Mossad agent who was worried about having his cover blown, or he’s a double agent who Mossad ought to know about. Either way, we have to talk to Tischler about him. I just want some more information before I do it.”

  “You’re going to talk to him?”

  “Who do you suggest?”

  “Um, Corrine said she would. She already has the call in.”

  “Jeez, Louise, get her a real job, would you?” Ferguson pressed his lips together. “All right. Make sure she knows about the double-agent angle. Tischler won’t admit it, so she shouldn’t expect him to. Maybe I should tell her. Where is she?”

  “En route to the embassy.”

  “She should have been in Beirut hours ago.”

  “She was. She got up early, and she’s on her way to Damascus.”

  “What?”

  “She was going there anyway. State’s going to file a formal protest with the Lebanese and—”

  “Save the details for another time. I have to go steal a car.”

  ~ * ~

  S

  mugglers in Syria were generally assumed to be heading east toward Iraq, which was one thing in Ferg’s favor. The second thing in his favor was the unexpected availability of a car bearing the faded but still visible indicia of the local Red Crescent society, the Arab world’s equivalent of the Red Cross. Ferguson didn’t steal the car; he bought it for five hundred Euros from a service station/junkyard/chicken farm that had just opened for the day. The vehicle, a ten-year-old Fiat with multicolored fenders, was a veritable bargain even considering the large rip in the backseat and the fact that it burned a quart of oil every two hundred miles.

  Monsoon’s Arabic was quite good, his accent smoothed out by a year’s service at the Beirut embassy and considerable practice. Grumpy, on the other hand, knew only a few words, and even Ferg had a hard time understanding them. The marine’s grandfather had come from Iran, and Grumpy claimed to know Farsi very well. Ferguson didn’t know the language beyond a few rudimentary phrases, but he guessed that most people they encountered wouldn’t either. The mix of language skills suggested a potential cover story: they were relief coordinators on an inspection tour, Monsoon working with the UN from Damascus, Ferguson an international visitor from Ireland, Grumpy an Iranian.

  The story wouldn’t have withstood very deep questioning, but it wasn’t put to the test; they made decent time north, bypassing the city of Hamah and cutting straight toward the coast and the region north of Tartus. Ferguson did the driving and got mildly lost only twice, both times because the car’s engine started acting up and he decided it would be better to break down off the main highway.

  North of Baniyas the engine began overheating, and despite suggestions from Grumpy on how to nurse it the car finally died about ten miles south of Latakia. The distance was walkable, but after a mile they found a bus stop and joined a group of workers heading to town to fill night jobs in the tourist industry.

  Tourism in Tripoli had ancient roots, but it had a very temporary feel there; the grayness of the town around the major hotels and the very visible scars of the Israeli occupation seemed to hang like a shroud at the edges. Latakia, by contrast, was brighter. You could see the money in the freshly paved highway and the sleek lampposts, along with the neon Western-style signs and the glittering domes of two new mosques, recently built by devout nouveau riche businessmen.

  Tourists from the Middle East and southeastern Europe found their Euros went ten times as far in Latakia as in European hot spots: the casinos paid off a little better and neglected to report earnings to foreign tax authorities. The tight control of the Syrian government made the area extremely safe for tourists; there was no question of kidnapping or crazed suicide bombers here, unless they were under the direction of the government. The dictator and his family owned interests in several of the major resorts and casinos, further encouraging local prosperity. It might be terrible to live under a dictatorship, but playing here was not so bad. Arms dealers and other shady characters had flocked to the city over the past two years, finding the government mostly benign as long as the informal taxes were paid and the occasional favor rendered.

  Corrigan found them a suite at an older hotel in town called the Taib, which translated roughly into English as “good,” an apt description. A business-class hotel that had a sedate, understated staff, Taib was around the corner from one of the main streets at the southeastern end of the city. The building’s thick masonry and plaster walls made listening devices harder to place, and the main clientele made them mostly a waste of time. Ferguson’s sweep turned up only one in the suite, and it had dead batteries. He placed white-noise machines in the two bedrooms and common area, then told his companions to rest up while he went scouting.

  “You’re not tired?” Monsoon asked as Ferguson tried to work the wrinkles out of a sports coat for his evening forage.

  “Nah. I slept on the plane,” he told him. “I have the key, but I’ll knock like this when I’m back.”

  He rapped on the bureau, mimicking the first bars of “Jug of Punch,” an old Irish folk song.

  “I may even sing to you.”

  “What do we do if it’s not you?” asked Monsoon.

  “After you shoot the person knocking, there’s a dock at a new hotel called Versailles about a mile and a half from here on the water. If something happens, you call this number and go there.”

  Ferguson wrote down a local phone number and gave both men a copy.

  “What do we say?” asked Grumpy.

  “Nothing. Make sure the call is answered, then hang up. Someone will look for you at the dock. The person there will say your name and will know your social security number. If not, kill him. If you’re not already dead.”

  ~ * ~

  4

  DAMASCUS

  Corrine studied her reflection in the mirror. Her blond hair had grown a trifle long; she reached into her toiletry purse and retrieved a scissors to trim the bangs.

  The puffy bags under her eyes were a more difficult problem to solve. She daubed on a light veneer of makeup, then rubbed most of it of
f. Corrine ordinarily wore very little, and even the light touch looked artificial to her. She decided that the excitement of the night before would excuse a pair of heavy eyes, and if they didn’t, tough.

  The Lebanese had bent over backward with apologies. When she insisted on continuing on to Damascus, everyone, from the security people to the ambassador, looked at her as if she were insane. But she saw no reason to change her plans. She wasn’t about to let the attempt on her life—if that’s what it was—influence what she did.

  The fact that people thought it was appropriate to treat her as a piece of delicate china pissed her off. That was the way she thought about it: pissed off. Profanity and all.

  Corrine closed her bag and checked her dress. She was scheduled to attend a small reception at the president’s palace with the ambassador that evening. American-Syrian relations had started to thaw with the incoming administration, although the country remained on the U.S.’s sanctions list for dealing with terrorists.

  A knock on the door startled Corrine. She reached instinctively for the small pistol in her bag, even though she was in the embassy, but it was only the steward.

  “Ma’am, you have a phone call from Washington,” he said through the door. “I believe it’s the White House.”

  “On my way,” she replied, placing the gun back in the bag.

  “Miss Alston, assure me that you are all right and that the rumors of your demise are greatly exaggerated,” said the president as soon as he came on the line.

  “Mr. President, I’m fine. I hope there are no rumors to the contrary.” Corrine forced a smile for the ambassador, standing next to her in his study as she took the call.

  “I was deeply concerned to hear that there was a problem,” said McCarthy. “Deeply concerned.”

  “I’m fine.” Corrine summarized the incident briefly. While there were several competing theories, Corrine and the security chief at the embassy favored the one proposing that a group had wanted to kidnap her and hold her for ransom, most likely for political gains but possibly simply for financial. “It comes with the territory,” she said. “I would expect that things will be even more restless in the next few days and weeks, as the outlines of your plan become known. Many people are not interested in peace.”

  “Restless does not begin to cover it, my deah, though it is an interesting turn of phrase,” said the president. “I assume your presence had something to do with the arrest of the individual we spoke of in Washington.”

  “Something to do with it, yes.”

  “Well, it would be very good timing to have him arrested,” said the president. “Very good timing indeed. His trial would underline the commitment to democracy and the future.” Future, in the president’s full Georgian drawl, sounded like a country on the distant horizon filled with precious things. “But you and I spoke of your personal safety before you left.”

  “I’m fine, Mr. President.”

  “Now don’t get your back up, deah. I know you can take care of yourself.”

  “I can, sir.” Corrine felt her face flushing. She felt constrained by the fact that the ambassador was nearby. “Really, Mr. President. I am fine. And I am very capable of taking care of myself.”

  McCarthy chuckled. “I would nevah say anything to the contrary, deah.”

  ~ * ~

  5

  LATAKIA

  “Ferguson, is that you?” said the man, spreading his arms in wonder. He spoke in English, with a heavy accent that most people took as Russian, though he was actually a Pole.

  “Birk, pull up a chair.”

  “I am surprised to see you,” replied Birk Ivanovich, still standing.

  “You should be,” said Ferguson. The last time Birk had seen him had been at the end of Ferguson’s trip here a year before, when Ferguson disappeared into a blazing sunset, ostensibly the victim of a bomb blast. “Have some champagne with me.”

  “Is it good luck to drink with a dead man?”

  “Only with his ghost,” said Ferg.

  “I didn’t set that bomb,” said Birk. He glanced at his two shadows, motioning with his head that they should find seats elsewhere in the elegant club room of the Max Hotel.

  “If you had set the bomb I wouldn’t be here,” said Ferguson. The waiter came over with a fresh champagne flute and poured a drink for Birk, who was here so often that he had a regular table at the far end of the room.

  “To your health,” said Birk, raising the filled glass.

  “And yours.”

  “Still have the yacht?” Ferguson asked.

  “A new one. You should come see it some time. After all, your money helped me buy it.”

  “Still have the one-eyed Greek as the captain?”

  “Fired him. And the hands. I run it myself.”

  “You do?”

  Birk shrugged. “For now. You must sail out to see me. It is offshore, of course. I call it the Sharia.”

  “Islamic justice? You do have a sense of humor, Birk.”

  “I try,” said Birk, downing the champagne. “What are you in the market for today? More missiles?”

  “Always looking,” said Ferg. “How hard is it to get things into Iraq?”

  Birk made a face. “Why would you go there?”

  “Me? I wouldn’t. How hard is it?”

  Birk shrugged. “Not hard. But the market there is as bad as ever. What are you bringing in? Milk? Penicillin? That could get a good price. Not as good as under Saddam but still decent. Aspirin . . . you would be surprised.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of what you trade in.”

  Birk made a face. “The Iraqis don’t buy. They sell.”

  “You sure?”

  “It is the same as when you were here last. They have plenty of small arms. The quality is so-so, but you can make it up on volume. I get my RPGs from there. Cheaper than Russia or Georgia. Ukraine, well, sometimes you can still find a bargain there.”

  RPGs were rocket-propelled grenades.

  “You buy a lot from them?” Ferguson asked.

  “Usually not.” Birk shook his head. “Rifles, yes, if I can find a large lot. But even there, you must be careful. Some of the ones who come here to sell don’t even know the guns themselves. That is the depressing thing. They are not trying to cheat you; they just don’t know. Imagine that!”

  “So what are you selling to Khazaal?”

  “Khazaal?”

  “The Iraqi resistance leader.”

  “I know who he is. Please.” Birk shook his head. “You think I don’t know my business?”

  “I know you know your business. That’s why I’m here.”

  The arms dealer squinted at him in a way that was supposed to suggest that he had no idea what Ferguson was talking about; it had exactly the opposite effect.

  Birk drained his champagne. “Business calls,” he said, starting to rise. “Another time—”

  Ferguson clamped his hand on Birk’s forearm. “Come on, Birk. Don’t hold out on me. It’s bad form.”

  The two bodyguards seated at the table behind Ferguson started to get up.

  “Better tell them to get back,” said Ferg.

  Birk signaled with his head that the men should relax. Ferguson let go of his arm. “There’s a convention in town that I want to be part of.”

  Bilk shook his head. “Too dangerous even for you.”

  “Are you invited?”

  “They would roast me first.”

  “A drink?” said Ferguson. He signaled to the waiter. “Something more serious than the champagne?”

  “Why not? Bombay Sapphire. On the rocks.”

  “Gin now? Last year it was vodka.”

  “I like a change of pace.”

  Ferguson took the barest of sips from the gin, then asked Birk what he knew. The Pole told him that he didn’t know much, only that no one should go near the castle north of town for the next few days. After gentle and not-so-gentle prodding and several more drinks, Birk told him that he
had heard several Islamic fanatics—he used a Polish word whose most polite connotation was “maniacs”—were either already in town or en route. They were trying to do something in Iraq, but what it was, no one could say.

  Birk hastened to assure Ferguson that he did not deal with such men directly, though occasionally he might facilitate arrangements with go-betweens. None, he claimed, were currently buying.