by Larry Bond
~ * ~
24
LATAKIA
As it turned out, Khazaal left the castle around the time Ferguson was grabbing Guns from the riptide. Meles, meanwhile, didn’t go there, visiting a small cottage a mile outside of town, apparently to see another delegate to the upcoming conference.
The flies Ferguson attached to the Imam’s son’s clothes yielded nothing except for a few jokes at the old man’s expense. Good fodder for the CIA Christmas party, but of dubious intelligence value.
The flies that Guns tossed in the boat, however, provided several interesting tidbits when the boat returned from a trip to the port area. According to the transcript Corrigan forward to Ferguson:
sbj a: [garbled] . . . Tomorrow night
sbj b: All of them?
sbj a: As many trucks as you can get, yes. And brothers who are trustworthy.
sbj b: The Yemen? [series of individuals named by pseudonyms or nicknames, none
identified as yet.. . ]
“Which you think means what?” Ferguson asked Corrigan.
“Thomas thinks it means the meeting is set for tomorrow. He’s found an airplane that was leased in Turkey a week ago with money from Morocco that came from Iraq. That airplane has a flight plan filed for Latakia tomorrow night. That jibes with what your source told you.”
“The airplane is going to pick up Khazaal?”
“That’s Thomas’s theory. It landed somewhere in Lebanon a few days ago, but then flew back to Turkey.”
“Near Tripoli?” That would have made sense if the men they had apprehended were to meet Khazaal there.
“I asked Thomas, but he accused me of jumping to conclusions without facts. It seems logical, right? But those guys you grabbed still aren’t talking. Slott won’t send them over to Guantanamo and Cor—Ms. Alston won’t approve, uh, coercive methods.”
Ferguson’s plan, still vague, was to grab the Iraqi as he came out of the meeting. That was problematic, however; Khazaal would be on his guard, and once the attack started he’d fight to the death. The plane represented a better opportunity, but by then Khazaal might have completed whatever deal the jewels were intended to cement. The trick was to think of them as separate events.
“Tell Thomas he did a good job,” Ferg told Corrigan.
“I’m afraid to encourage him. He has yet another UFO theory.”
“Hey, I have some of those myself. What does he think the jewels are supposed to buy?”
“Just the usual: weapons. I have a theory,” added Corrigan.
“Fire away.”
“I think it’s mercenaries. They’ll bring in suicide bombers from Hamas or something.”
“They have plenty of whackos in Iraq already,” Ferguson told him. “Iraq is a net exporter of crazies. Just like guns.”
“I think you’re wrong. It’s not easy to get people to blow themselves up, Ferg.”
“When does that plane land?”
“It takes off around six p.m., and it should be there within one to two hours. A bit of time to turn it around on the ground ... it gets back here somewhere between ten and two.”
“Thanks for narrowing it down for me. My money set?”
“Wired in, with Ms. Alston’s approval.”
“All right. I have to talk to Van and then I’ll get back to you on what else I need. Definitely the Global Hawk or U-2. An Elint plane would be nice.”
“There’s no signals coming out of there, Ferg. With the president’s trip next week and everything, it’s a real bear to spring resources. And even Special Demands has a budget.”
“Corrigan, do you pay for this stuff out of your pocket?”
“No, Ferg, but you know what Slott is going to say.”
“Does he pay for it out of his pocket?”
“He’s going to say if there’s no high probability of data, resources would be better conserved—”
“To which I say, ‘use it or lose it.’ I like my saying better.”
“Yeah, but I’m the one he’s going to yell at.”
“No, he’s going to yell at Mizz Alston,” said Ferguson, snapping off the phone. He looked up at Thera, who was watching the video feed on the lap-lop. “Hey, beautiful, did you buy just that one dress the other day?”
“It’s a skirt set,” she told him.
“Is that a no?”
“I can’t wear the same thing?”
“Don’t be gauche.” He grabbed the blazer he had borrowed from the hospital. “Come along. Uncle Sam is about to take us shopping.”
~ * ~
T
hera found a gorgeous blue dress in the Versailles shop that fit so well she was ready to spend her own money on it, until Ferguson whispered the price. They put her conservative Arab clothes in a bag, along with the weapons that wouldn’t fit beneath her dress without creating unsightly bulges. Ferguson found a blazer next door and a shirt to go with it. For Monsoon and Grumpy, along as shadows and sartorially challenged, Thera selected a pair of brown suits and black shirts that made them look like rap stars trying to look like bouncers. Not a bad effect, Ferguson thought.
“We check our weapons at the door,” Ferg said as they rode in a taxi to Agamemnon. “The Barroom is a very posh place, which means we can’t bribe the help but we can slide the guns in through the window in the men’s restroom.”
Ferguson made a show of handing his big Glock to the attendants at the hallway entrance to the club, then went through the metal detector and set it off. They pulled him aside. “Oh, it was probably this,” he said, holding up a penknife. “Sorry about that.”
They took the knife and wanded him with a handheld metal detector. Not satisfied even though it didn’t beep, they patted him down.
“Tickles,” said Ferguson, who finally passed through the gate without setting the machine off. Thera was waiting for him.
“Did you do that on purpose?” she asked as he took her arm.
“What do you think?”
“I know you must have, but I can’t figure out why.”
The maître d’ approached them, nodded graciously, and then showed them to a table overlooking the bar.
“I want them to remember that I was clean,” said Ferguson as they sat. “And I wanted everybody in the place to get a look at how cute you are, especially Ras.”
“Ha-ha.”
“Look, he’s coming to us tonight. Perrier with a twist,” he said as a waiter fluttered toward them.
“I’ll have a champagne cocktail,” she said.
“No bourbon?” asked Ferguson.
“The night is young,” said Thera. “How are we going to get our guns?”
“Monsoon’ll figure it out.” Ferguson rose. “Ras, how are you?”
“Mr. IRA and wife,” said Ras, sitting. “So lovely.” He asked Thera what she was drinking and then ordered the same.
“You don’t strike me as a champagne cocktail kind of guy, Ras,” said Ferguson.
“Mr. Ferguson, I have to say, you have impeccable taste in women. Your wife is so intoxicating she makes me forget who I am.”
“Too bad I don’t have the same good judgment when it comes to picking business associates.”
“How so?” asked Ras, making a not very subtle attempt to stare down Thera’s cleavage.
“I mean that you have not been completely honest with me,” said Ferguson. “You told me you had not heard that Vassenka was in town, and now I hear that he is.”
“If he is or not, that’s not my concern. I didn’t know that he was when you asked.”
“So now you do?”
Ras waved his hand. “The Syrians may think so. I have an open mind.”
“What do they say about Suhab Majadin?”
Ras didn’t recognize the name.
“An Iraqi,” said Ferguson. “A Shiite.”
“You are dealing with him, Mr. IRA?”
“I always deal with the highest bidder. But I have other business with Suhab Majadin. Personal business. Bu
siness that I would like to conclude, especially if I had the opportunity by chance to meet him here.”
They sipped their drinks for a while. Ras asked Thera some questions about her background. Thera said that she was from Turkey but was otherwise purposefully vague.
As Ras glanced at his watch, Ferguson leaned forward. “If you sell anything to Suhab, you’re going to make a lot of people very angry,” he said. “And by sell I include trade, loan, or gift.”
“One never makes a gift in this business,” said Ras.
Ferguson leaned forward on the table. He said nothing and made no gesture that could be interpreted as conventionally threatening. Yet even Thera felt a tingle of fear.
“Where’s Suhab?” whispered Ferguson.
Ras shook his head.
“You’re dealing with him?”
“I don’t even know him.”
Ferguson straightened, then leaned back in his seat, staring at Ras. Then he grinned, in effect releasing him. Ras strode away, his composure not quite restored.
“Can we bug him?” Thera asked.
“He’d find it.” Ferguson sipped his seltzer.
“So what are we going to do now?” Thera asked.
“Dance the night away,” said Ferguson. “Then go for a swim.”
~ * ~
25
LATAKIA
Despair seized Judy Coldwell as the taxi approached the hotel. For the first time since receiving the Reverend Tallis’s message she doubted, truly doubted, her ability to carry out the task.
It was not that the meeting with the Polish arms dealer had gone badly. On the contrary, while clearly he didn’t remember her or the AK-47s and grenades he had supplied her employer three years before, the Pole seemed to have taken her seriously. He had even tried to sell her a weapon.
She thought he had. Surely he hadn’t been just making conversation by mentioning he had a cruise missile for sale. But that was what had depressed her. He claimed to want five million dollars for it.
Five million dollars!
A serious buyer would surely bargain him down—if she remembered correctly, the rifles had sold for about half his initial asking price—but even so: who would be impressed by a few hundred thousand dollars when millions were needed?
A hole opened in her stomach as the taxi pulled up in front of the hotel. She must not lose hope, she told herself. The weight of history was on her side.
Coldwell gave the taxi driver a good tip. Inside the hotel, the short man at the desk smiled at her lasciviously. She forced herself to smile back.
A man trotted across the lobby toward her as the elevator arrived. She got in, then grabbed the door to hold it for him.
“Thank you,” said the man. He reached for the floor button and pressed five, even though she already had.
“The Pole is not a very reasonable man,” said the man as the doors closed. “But he is willing to bargain, which is a plus.”
Startled, Coldwell asked if he had been sent by Birk.
“No, not at all. But perhaps we can work together.”
“I’m not quite sure what you mean,” she said.
“Seven Angels?” said the man, Aaron Ravid.
“Yes,” managed Coldwell.
The door opened on her floor. Coldwell stayed frozen in place. When the door started to close, Ravid put his hand out to stop it. “We should find a place to talk. Your room is surely bugged.”
~ * ~
W
hen they finally reached a part of the beach Ravid thought was safe from eavesdroppers, they stood together for a few moments without speaking. It was Coldwell who spoke first, suspicious yet feeling almost confident, as if she were an actress playing out a well-known part.
“Who are you?” she asked.
Ravid gave his cover name, Fazel al-Qiam.
“I am here for Benjamin Thatch,” said Coldwell. “To complete the arrangements.”
“Yes,” said Ravid.
He waited for her to continue, but she did not. Finally he saw no other choice to push the conversation but to admit that he was not the person she was apparently waiting to meet. As soon as he did, however, a frown appeared on her face. He volunteered that he had heard of Seven Angels and knew that the group was willing to help those “with the proper agenda” in the Middle East.
Coldwell listened to him carefully, believing that he was lying now about not being her contact. Benjamin would have presented the group as being sympathetic to the Islamic goals of jihad; it could be counterproductive to explain the true nature of what they wanted, though Coldwell believed most groups would take their money anyway. She was afraid that when she told him she had only two hundred thousand dollars, he would simply walk away.
After a few minutes, Ravid decided that he had gotten all the information from the woman that he was likely to get. She was an amateur at best, a poseur at worst, and if she had real money it would surely be fleeced off of her by one of the many snakes in the seaside hotels within a few days. He watched her face, thinking of how to best break this off. As he did, a light on the water caught Coldwell’s attention and she turned away. The sweep of her head took him by surprise: he saw not Coldwell but his wife. As Ravid pulled himself back to reality, back to the present, Coldwell turned her head back to him.
“I have little money,” she said, deciding to state the situation simply and get it over with. “I can get two hundred thousand, no more.”
“It’s not enough,” said Ravid. He thought of Khazaal’s gems. For a moment, only a moment, he inserted her into the plans he had thought of the other day.
“What would your target be?” Coldwell asked.
Ravid looked up at her. “Mecca.”
Coldwell didn’t understand. She thought she had heard wrong. Before she could say anything, Ravid flew at her. He gripped her blouse and pushed her down, his rage erupting. Two years of anger flashed into his hand as he pushed it against her chest. The suicide bomber, the Muslims, his keepers at Mossad—everything erupted.
Coldwell looked up at him, unable to speak, certain that she was to be killed. She put her hands against his chest, starting to push him off, knowing it would be futile but determined to have her last act on earth be one of courage.
“Yes,” said Ravid as she pushed against him. He let go and stood back. His wife would have fought that way, too.
The rage vanished. In its place was something logical and cold, another kind of wrath, one with a chance to be fulfilled.
“I want to destroy Mecca,” he told the woman. “And you can help me. In this way, both of us can benefit.”
~ * ~
26
LATAKIA
AROUND FOUR A.M.
A layer of thin clouds obscured the moon over the eastern Mediterranean. Water lapped against the side of the boat. The breeze made the air a bit chilly. It was a fairy-tale sort of night, the kind that makes you think nothing can go wrong anywhere in the world, the sort of night that makes even a cynic feel safe while slumbering in bed. Zrrrpp. . .
Zrrpppp. . .
The two guards fell to the deck of the boat, paralyzed by Taser shots from fifteen feet away. As they hit, a man in a frogman’s suit leapt up the ladder of the boat they had been guarding. In his right hand he carried a weapon that looked like a rubberized M79 grenade launcher, which was more or less what it was. He leveled the launcher in the direction of the bow, where two other guards were sitting, and fired. A large shell sped from the barrel, striking the bulkhead just beyond them. As it hit, a nylon and metal mesh net mushroomed from the canister, along with a heavy dose of gas derived from the same chemical family as methadone. The victims struggled for a moment, but they had had a long day and had been close to sleep even before the attack; the effect of the gas was overwhelming.
The frogman bent to the two men who’d been hit by the Tasers. The men were still conscious though paralyzed. He pulled a hypodermic needle from the pouch at his belt, tore away the plastic guard and slammed i
t home in the first man’s leg. He repeated the process with the second man. The drug took effect within three and a half seconds of being administered. By that time, the frogman’s two comrades, Thera and Monsoon, were aboard. In their hands were weapons that looked like oversized spearguns covered in rubber: Tasers designed for working in water.