by Larry Bond
It was not his job to kill Meles; quite the opposite, in fact. If he struck he would most likely ruin everything. Tischler would not forgive him.
Ravid knew all of this, but these things did not influence him. He cared little for what Tischler thought. If he struck, Tischler and the others would be irrelevant; even if he succeeded, the terrorist’s bodyguards would kill him on the spot.
As the water went from scalding to lukewarm, Ravid fantasized about letting his instincts win and saw himself struggling with Meles. In his daydream, he killed the terrorist. Then, as the bodyguards killed him—a quick and merciful shot through the head—he realized he was not satisfied. He’d been cheated, he thought, of any real revenge for his wife and child’s deaths.
Was that the real reason he had hesitated? The death of one man, however despicable a murderer he might be, would not sufficiently quench his thirst for justice.
Not justice. Revenge. There was no such thing as justice. God, if He existed, provided justice. He did not exist, and therefore there was no justice, just brute emotion.
Ravid wavered as the water turned cold. Perhaps he would have felt relieved after all. Perhaps his muscles had atrophied and he simply didn’t want to admit it. His stomach, once taut, hung toward the ground.
He turned off the water and got out of the tub. Drying himself, he thought of Khazaal, the Iraqi murderer, and the jokes he had made about Jews.
“Oh yes, the Jews,” Ravid had replied, speaking as a closeted terrorist himself. “What can we say about them?”
Khazaal had brought jewels with him from Iraq as part of a complex arrangement brokered by Meles and others to furnish the Iraqi resistance with a catastrophic attack on the new government. Among the stops they had made today was one to a jeweler who might estimate their worth. Ravid had arranged the meeting. Even though he had not seen the jewels—they were kept in a small briefcase—he knew from the jeweler that they were worth two or perhaps three million dollars.
Would that much money fund revenge?
Ravid wasn’t sure. It would surely buy serious weapons—Khazaal was proof—but it was a matter of buying the right weapons. How would they be used? Where? Would killing a hundred, a thousand, a million Muslims satisfy him?
The question was too difficult to face. Instead, Ravid considered how he might get the jewels. Stealing them would require killing the bodyguards: impossible, as the theft would immediately he noticed. Better to switch them somehow.
Impossible. There wasn’t enough time now. And besides, he was watched too carefully. If he got the jewels, he would never be able to use them.
Ravid tried to put the idea out of his mind as he finished dressing, but it remained with him. It was comforting in an odd way, an abstract problem to occupy his mind, a theoretical danger to divert him from the great peril his mission here posed. It distracted him as well from the thirst that kept creeping into his mouth, the desire simmering in the distance of every thought and emotion. He wanted a drink nearly as much as he wanted revenge, possibly more, definitely more, as hard as he tried to banish the idea. He defeated the desire a dozen times a day, but always it was there, sneaking back, whispering from a distant room. Thinking of the jewels and Khazaal helped push it away.
By the time he was ready to leave the rented apartment for a round of late-night visits to the local cafés, Ravid had come up with several different plans to swap the jewels just before the Israeli action began, and even knew where he might find the substitutes.
His fantasies died with the first step he took from his house. Two Arabs were watching from across the street. He pretended not to notice, continuing toward the main boulevard a block away. These were almost certainly Meles’s men and thus not difficult to lose, but his best course was to let them follow; they would report back to their master exactly what he wanted them to say. He ground the molars in his mouth together and pushed his gaze toward the pavement, narrowing his world to the small space before him as he walked.
~ * ~
19
TEL AVIV
THE NEXT MORNING …
Corrine was not shocked to find her plane met by a Mossad officer when she landed. She acted as if she expected no less and kept her lawyer face on as she was led, without explanation, down to the secure conference room once again. This time it was empty. Corrine stared at the wall, her expression as blank as she could possibly make it, until Tischler came in and closed the door.
“Fazel al-Qiam,” she said.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Tischler.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have time to play chess this morning, Mr. Tischler,” she said. “I realize that you have a great number of obligations, which surely explains why you don’t return my calls. I, too, am busy. I’ve stopped on my way to Baghdad because some of our people tripped over Fazel al-Qiam in Latakia. After he tripped over me here and in Lebanon. What exactly is going on, Mr. Tischler?”
Tischler remained silent. She smelled the same hint of shaving lotion that she had on their first meeting, but now it seemed part of an act, too contrived, as if he thought he could impress her by dressing nicely and keeping every strand of hair in place. He wore a nice watch and a handsome ring on his pinkie, along with a thick wedding band: all props, she thought, to help put her off.
“It might have been helpful if you had informed us that you were in Latakia,” she added. “You knew we’d end up there.”
“I really wouldn’t want to get into a discussion of operations,” said Tischler.
“I hope for your sake that al-Qiam is not a double agent,” she said. “We’ve heard rumors that he is better known as Aaron Ravid.”
Tischler said nothing. Corrine waited a moment, then pushed back the chair and went to the door. He remained at his seat as she left the room.
This was the way she had to act from now on, she told herself: harder than the people she was dealing with. Otherwise they were going to treat her like a pushover. And if they thought that, her own people were in jeopardy.
Corrine was in the lobby heading for the exit when one of the plain-clothes guards stopped her.
“I believe you left something behind downstairs,” said the man.
“No, I don’t think that’s true,” she said.
“I’m told it is.”
The man smirked, and if the patronizing tone in his voice hadn’t sealed her decision, that did. She smiled at him and then patted his elbow. “Afraid not, thank you. Mr. Tischler knows how to contact me ... if he wants.”
The pat was a bit over the top, but if she was going to play the hard-nosed bitch it would be better to be so obvious that no one missed the point. Corrine walked to her car and told her driver to take her to the airport, where the chartered plane was waiting.
She expected Tischler to make another try, this one in person. But he didn’t.
Once aboard the civilian Cessna Citation that had been leased to take her to Baghdad, she called Corrigan and told him what had happened. She also put in a call to Slott, deciding to personally update him on the meeting. She also felt it possible that Tischler would choose to deal with him rather than her. But Slott’s assistant answered the phone. The time difference meant that it was still quite early in the States. The aide asked her if it was worth calling and waking him at home; Corrine said no.
“Tell him that Tischler declined to say anything, and tell him to call me as soon as he can. I’m en route to Baghdad.”
She clicked off the phone. The copilot had come back to see if she was ready to leave.
“There’s some lunch in that fridge over there,” he said. “Sandwiches. They’re fresh.”
“Thanks,” she told him. “Maybe later.”
“We’ll be in the air in ten minutes.”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
She sat back in one of the plush seats. By the time the Citation’s wheels left the runway, she was fast asleep.
~ * ~
20
LATAKIA<
br />
SHORTLY BEFORE NOON…
Rankin didn’t realize the stooped old man with thick glasses and cane outside the mosque was Ferguson until the man pressed his fingers into his forearm.
“You oughta cut your nails,” he grumbled.
“Let’s go say our prayers. I’m a little slow, and you’re deaf and dumb,” Ferguson told him.
“Hmmph.”
“I know you can do dumb. It’s deaf I’m worried about.”
Always a wise guy, thought Rankin to himself.
Ferguson smirked at Rankin’s frown but noticed that he kept his reaction to himself. They’d done the deaf man routine on an earlier mission, and Rankin had pulled it off very well.
The pair made their way inside the compound, moving slowly toward the mosque. Rankin felt uneasy, not because of the mission—that was a given but because they were going into a holy place. It was the kind of thing that ought to be out of bounds; even if the crazy idiots didn’t respect that, someone ought to. He’d thought that in Iraq, too, though it was a real luxury there.
Not that he’d let it stop him.
Ferguson mumbled his prayers in sing-songy chat as they paused to take off their shoes.
“I’m gonna fall,” he told Rankin.
“Uh-huh.”
Ferguson crumbled to the ground. As Rankin knelt to help him, Ferguson pulled out a pair of shoes from beneath his long dishadasha, or robe, and placed them in the corner, making sure the camera hidden in the toe of the left shoe had a good view of the entrance to the mosque.
“I’m all right,” Ferguson said in Arabic as others came up to help Rankin with the frail old man. “All right. My grandson is deaf, but a good lad. He didn’t mean to drop me.”
Several of the men close to Rankin shook their heads and berated him for not taking proper care of his grandfather. Rankin glowered at them, even though he was supposed to be deaf.
Ferguson babbled away as they walked inside. He told the others that they were pilgrims from southern Egypt, seeking to travel to as many holy places as possible before God called him to rest. His patter soon wore out his listeners, and they were left alone to purify themselves and join the faithful in prayer.
His cover now established, Ferguson played the role of devoted pilgrim and tourist after prayers. He examined the old pillars carefully; he wanted to find a second spot to plant a video camera if the first failed. Shimmying up them without being seen would be impossible, however, as there were at least four rather discreet guards milling through the hall, large men who probably had weapons hidden beneath their clothes. Ferguson managed to catch the eye of one of the men, nodding at him, but the man didn’t nod back.
“You oughta not get in their face like that,” Rankin said as they put their shoes on outside. “Guy looked like he wanted to kill you.”
“Can’t kill me for praying,” said Ferg.
“You weren’t praying.”
“Sure I was, Skip. You weren’t listening.”
They walked to the left of the interior courtyard, in the direction of the abandoned building, which seemed to Ferguson the most likely candidate to be hiding Khazaal. They got as far as the long, low step that led to the door before someone yelled at them to ask where they were going.
“Don’t stop,” Ferguson whispered, still shuffling ahead. “You’re deaf.”
“Umph,” said Rankin.
The person shouted again. This time Ferguson stopped and turned toward him. He raised his head slowly, looking up and down, and then started to turn back.
“You fool. Where are you going?” said the man, grabbing Ferguson’s cane.
Ferguson repeated his earlier story about being a pilgrim and tourist, exploring the holy shrines of Islam with his devoted though deaf and dumb grandson. ... A man who, alas, was not sharp in the mental department, perhaps as a result of being kicked by a Jew when he was young.
Even this last bit failed to win the sympathy of the man who had stopped them.
“This place is off limits to the likes of you,” said the man.
“Is it a shrine?” asked Ferguson.
“It is an empty building, fool,” said the man.
He pulled Ferguson’s cane from his hand. Rankin grabbed him. Fear sprang into the man’s face.
“No, no,” said Ferguson, tapping his ersatz grandson’s arm. “No, no. Peace be unto you, brother. Peace be unto you.”
Two other men came over. Both were dressed in business clothes. The taller of the pair began to speak, using calm tones and introducing himself as the imam’s son.
Then he started asking Ferguson about which mosques he had been to.
This was not a difficult question in and of itself, for as it happened Ferguson had been to many. He began with the expected, saying how the greatest experience in his life had been Mecca: an obligation for every able Muslim but, more than that, an experience of joy and faith impossible to duplicate elsewhere on earth. He then moved through Saudi Arabia, then to Yemen and then to Egypt. The Imam’s son still had not tired—in fact he seemed genuinely interested—and so Ferguson found himself in Beirut, where the Omari Mosque was incomparable.
“God must have been very pleased to take it from the nonbelievers,” said Ferguson.
“That happened here,” said the Imam’s son.
“So I’ve heard. But there was no trace.”
“Oh, yes. Come.”
By now, Rankin had a truly bad vibe about the Imam’s son. He tried to signal this to Ferguson by tugging at his arm, gently at first, and then more insistently. Finally his pull became obvious to everyone.
Rather than using it as an excuse to leave, Ferguson began berating his grandson, threatening to lash him with the cane and saying that it was not time to eat yet. Rankin did his best not to react, cringing like the long-suffering grandkid he was supposed to be.
The Imam’s son gently pulled Ferguson away, starting him toward the mosque. Ferguson wrapped his arm around his and planted a small audio “fly” and a tracking device on the man’s jacket.
~ * ~
W
hat the hell is he doing?” Monsoon asked Thera out in the van. They were parked two blocks to the north, barely in range of the bugging devices they were using. “He should be getting the hell out of there.”
“It’s a calculated risk,” Thera told him. “He hasn’t found what he’s looking for. Khazaal has to be inside. He’s the only one Meles would have come to meet. At least that’s what Ferg thinks.”
“Sounds to me like the guy’s trying to trap him. He’s asking too many questions.”
“Probably he doesn’t believe him.”
“We don’t have enough people to get him out if something goes wrong,” Monsoon said.
“He knows what he’s doing. Ferg’s been in this kind of situation before.”
Monsoon took a sip from the bottled water. As a Delta op, he’d been involved in some difficult operations, including a hostage rescue in Peru that had gone sour. But these people pushed things too far; if they saw a hairy situation, they tried to make it ten times worse.
“He have a death wish?” Monsoon asked.
Thera turned and looked at the Delta soldier. She was going to scold him but held back.
“He might,” she said. “He might.”
~ * ~
R
ankin could feel his heart pounding as they walked slowly along the pillars in the mosque, the Imam’s son pointing to the stones left from the older church. These guys didn’t believe they were who they said they were, but they were stuck now; cutting and running for it wasn’t going to get them out alive. Besides the two plainclothes guards at the back of the prayer hall, Rankin had spotted four men with Kalashnikovs outside.
He glanced at Ferguson, still hamming up the old man act. There was no sign that he was nervous. He could’ve been on the stage in a high school play, yapping out rehearsed lines.
Rankin had had a bit in a high school play once. He’d flubbed the five
words he had to say.
Ferguson seemed to fall against him. Rankin grabbed at his arm, then realized that Ferg hadn’t fallen, but was bending forward to spit on the rocks of the Christian church.
“No, you shouldn’t show such disrespect,” said the Imam’s son. “They are children of the book, even if they are wrong in their conclusions. Jesus Christ was a great prophet. Peace be unto him.”