by Larry Bond
A CIA handler met them at the dock in Cyprus, along with two men in civilian clothes who were actually PMs-in-training, paramilitary CIA employees doing grunt work as part of their initiation rites. Ravid, still not talking, followed along passively and didn’t object when the handler—he claimed his name was Paul F. Smith, emphasizing the “F” as if that would make them believe him—said they’d like to debrief him before sending him on his way.
Ravid didn’t argue. Smith took them all to a British clinic to be checked out by a doctor. Ravid, the only one among them who was injured, went into the nurse’s area to take off his clothes and have his wounds attended to. When the doctor came for him five minutes later, he was gone.
“We can use the tag,” said Thera, reaching into her bag for it.
“Waste of time,” said Rankin, pointing to Ravid’s shirt on the changing bench. The two tags Ferguson had placed on him were there.
~ * ~
10
CIA BUILDING 24-442, VIRGINIA
Thomas stared at the e-mail from Professor Ragguzi, which had come on his “blue computer,” a unit used for nonsecure communications with the outside world. (All communications and other use were subject to strict monitoring to make sure security rules weren’t violated.)
He had hoped for a response, but could not have guessed that it would be quick. Or so blunt.
You’re wrong.
That was it. No explanation, no hedging. Thomas’s own e-mail, which he had carefully vetted with two internal security officers and Corrigan, had filled two screens. Without citing any classified information, it made a careful argument calling the Turkey sightings into question, politely wondering if perhaps the professor could clarify.
Thomas felt as if his entire foundation of knowledge of UFOs, carefully built over decades, had been thrown into doubt. If Ragguzi was wrong—worse, if he refused to acknowledge that he might be wrong—what could Thomas believe?
The CIA analyst tried to concentrate on his work. He rose and began pacing around his office. He had no sense of what time it might be: somewhere in the morning or afternoon, he thought, though perhaps it was midnight.
How could he be wrong?
If he’d overlooked something, perhaps. That was possible. It had happened in Latakia, surely, since they had missed the Mossad operation completely.
Not completely. They had seen pieces but failed to put it all together.
Thomas sat down at his computer and began rummaging through the various lists he had compiled. Corrigan had asked him questions about Vassenka and his abilities; they’d checked into the Scuds, of course. It was logical because of Iraq, though there seemed no possibility, no possibility whatsoever, of there being any remaining in the country. Or, if there were, they would be in pieces. Worse, they would lack the rocket fuel.
Fuel.
Thomas keyed over to the satellite photo of the city. One of the things that made Latakia unique in Syria, and in the Middle East in general, was its train line.
Exactly the sort of thing that you would need to move rocket fuel.
Thomas pulled his chair closer to his desk. Wrong, indeed.
~ * ~
11
LATAKIA
Ferguson had just gotten back to the beach outside the Versailles when his sat phone rang. He stared at it cross-eyed for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure what it was, then pulled open the antenna.
“Talk to me.”
“I have a weird Thomas theory,” said Corrigan. “Can you talk?”
“Better let me get upstairs,” said Ferguson. “I’ll call you back.”
Fifteen minutes later, Ferguson rested his head against the outside of the bathtub, listening to Corrigan talk about rocket fuel formulations as the room filled with steam, the by-product of an impromptu white noise system, otherwise known as a running shower. Thomas’s theory, in a nutshell, was that Vassenka hadn’t been hired simply for his expertise; he was supposed to supply the fuel for the Scuds as well. The Americans had looked for the rocket fuel fairly carefully during the occupation, literally checking every tanker and railcar capable of holding it in the country and using special ground-penetrating radar to look for hidden underground tanks. The thorough search didn’t mean there wasn’t some hiding somewhere, but the stuff was not particularly easy to store. Highly toxic, it ate through metal and could spontaneously catch fire when it came in contact with organic material. Bringing a fresh batch in from outside the country would be the way to go, especially if you had many rockets.
And two or three million dollars’ worth of jewels would buy fuel for quite a number.
“The thing is, we can’t find a railcar with either red-fuming nitric acid or inhibited red-fuming nitric acid,” said Corrigan. Those were the main ingredients in the rocket fuel used by all but the very earliest Scud missiles. “Thomas has gone over every lading notice, shipping document, you name it. He’s been all over it.”
“I’ll bet he has,” said Ferguson.
“Is it a false lead?”
“No. It’s just not in a railcar.”
~ * ~
12
CYPRUS
The men had to double up, but Thera got her own room at the hotel near the British base. She lay down on the bed in her clothes and fell fast asleep, plunging into a thick unconsciousness that felt like burrowing into the ground beneath the dirt.
Several hours later, she heard the phone ring and ignored it. A few minutes later, someone knocked on her door. She ignored that, too. Then she heard the door open.
She grabbed for the pistol she’d slid under her pillow.
“Hey,” said Guns, “it’s just me. Ferg needs to talk to you. He’s been calling on the sat phone and the room phone.”
“Oh.” She slid the gun down.
“You leave the safety on when you’re sleeping, right?” asked Guns.
“Why would I do that?”
Guns went back to his room. Thera, her eyes burning, sat up on the bed and pulled out her phone. She hit the preset combination for Ferguson, who answered on the first ring.
Not that he said hello.
“You still have that attaché case?” were the first words out of his mouth.
“Yeah.” Thera glanced at it. It had fallen on the floor right next to the bed.
“You feel like coming back to Latakia tonight?”
“Tonight?”
“Bring the jewels. Meet me at the Agamemnon, at the bar with the green marble, not in the Barroom. Wear something that will make the mullahs think they’ve found something better than Paradise.”
“Who am I dressing for?”
“Me.”
~ * ~
13
LATAKIA
Ferguson watched her come down the steps, her blue dress clinging to her hips, her hair held up on one side by a jeweled pin that made her look like royalty. He watched her looking for him, admired the way she gazed at the room as if she owned it. And she might have, he thought; more than a few of the men nearby were staring at her. Finally Thera saw him and acknowledged him with the slight upturn of the corner of her mouth: not a real smile, but it was pretty nonetheless.
“I’ve been looking for you,” she said, walking up to him.
“That the most original line you could think of?” Ferguson asked.
“It’ll do. What am I drinking?”
“Champagne?”
“What are you drinking?”
“Coffee,” said Ferguson. He held up the glass; he convinced the bartender to pour some into a tumbler with ice.
“Could I have a whiskey sour?” she asked the bartender.
“A whiskey sour?”
“I always wanted one.”
“Don’t fall asleep on me. I’ll feel obliged to take advantage of you.”
“Hmmph.” Thera had taken the precaution of downing a “go” pill, prescribed by Agency doctors for situations where a CIA officer had to stay awake no matter what. She wondered if Ferguson did; he didn’t
seem to have had a chance to get any sleep.
“I see you brought our friends.” He pointed to the attaché case.
“You told me to. I was worried I would have to open it up at the door.”
“They don’t check for weapons here because of all the tourists. It’s downstairs where we’ll have a problem. I already got us a locker on the other side of the casino. We’ll put it there.”
“What are we doing downstairs?”
“Going to see Ras. We’re a bit early.”
“How early?”
“Early enough to finish your drink and tell me what happened with Ravid.”
Thera told him what she knew. It was almost word for word what Corrigan had said.
“How’s the drink?” Ferguson asked.
“Very sweet. Too sweet.”
“I know the feeling. Come on.”
Ras had someone with him, but he did his swoon act over Thera as they approached, and the guest was quickly forgotten. After Ferguson ordered his usual Perrier and twist, Ras asked to what he owed the pleasure of basking in Thera’s loveliness.
“Mr. IRA has finally decided to buy, perhaps?” he asked.
“Yes, and I want to buy something special,” said Ferguson. “Red-fuming nitric acid.”
Ras continued to sip his drink.
“What ship captain would bring it in?” Ferg added.
“I don’t even know why you would want such an item,” said Ras.
Ferguson leaned across the table and smiled. “You want to end up like Khazaal?”
Ras’s hand trembled slightly as he put down the glass. “You had something to do with Khazaal? The Syrians told me Mossad was behind it.”
Ferguson stared at him.
“It would be very bad business to betray a trust. Very bad business,” said Ras.
“Better bad than dead.”
Ras sat back, his face pale. “If I wrote down the name of a sea captain, could you find his ship?”
“I don’t know,” said Ferguson. “Could I?”
~ * ~
N
ow what?” asked Thera as Ferguson steered her out of the hotel.
“Now we go up to Versailles and meet Vassenka.”
“He’s going to meet you?”
“Supposedly. Somebody called my room and left some heavy breathing on the machine. I took that to mean he’ll be here.”
“You gave him your room number?”
“I gave him yours.” Ferguson smiled. “I left word with two dozen people that he should contact me. What I’m hoping is that Meles and Khazaal getting stomped on killed his deal.”
“What good will he be in that case?”
“We can still find out who he was dealing with and where the Scuds are. We’ll have this ship tracked down and find out how much fuel is on it. My guess is that there’ll be quite a lot. Which argues for a lot of missiles.”
Ferguson called Corrigan with the information from the beach. The Versailles was within walking distance; they made it into the casino with ten minutes to spare. There wasn’t a lot of leeway: Ferguson hoped to take the Russian out twelve miles in a small boat and get aboard a helicopter. The helicopter had to come all the way from Turkey, and would only be able to stay on station for about forty-five minutes. The backup plan was to take the boat all the way to Cyprus: not impossible, certainly, but not as convenient nor as quick.
“Are we running late?” Thera asked, noticing he was checking his watch after they took a seat in the lounge above the poker tables.
“We’re on time.”
Ferguson ordered a Turkish coffee. Thera scanned the room and searched for something to talk about. “Is Rankin always so angry?”
“Somebody took his bottle away when he was a baby and he never got over it.”
“Monsoon is nice. Sergeant Ranaman.”
“Ranaman, yeah,” said Ferguson. “You like him?”
“Yeah, I like him a lot. He’s…”
Her voice drifted in a way that made it obvious to Ferguson that like meant something more than he wanted it to mean. He glanced at her face, turned away from him in profile. The curls came down behind her ear so gracefully, it was as if a painter had placed them there with a brush.
“Yeah, Monsoon’s a great guy,” said Ferguson, finishing the sentence for her. “Maybe we should have him work with us more. It’s hard to get Arabic speakers, good Arabic speakers.”
“You got me.”
“I rest my case.” Ferguson smiled at her and leaned hack to survey the room.
~ * ~
A
n hour later, Vassenka hadn’t shown up. Ferguson gave him ten more minutes, then another five, then went to the men’s room and called Corrigan. The helicopter had already gone back. They’d arranged for the EC-130E to fly off the coast again; Ferguson wanted an early warning if the Syrian police decided to raid all of the Western hotels. They hadn’t heard anything.
“Find my ship?”
“You were right about Tripoli. It was there a few days ago.”
“And now?”
“I can’t just snap my fingers and get information, Ferg. It’s not that easy.”
“Let me give you a hint where to look: heading for Iraq.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Well, get on it, Jack.”
“I am. Say, when do you sleep, anyway?”
Ferguson laughed at him and went back to Thera at the table.
They gave the Russian another half hour. Ferguson decided they would hit some of the other clubs to see if they could drum up some information about him, but first they had to stash the jewels, which Thera had in the case. So they went upstairs to Ferg’s room. Thera tapped on the wall of the elevator all the way up.
“You took a ‘go’ pill, right?” Ferguson asked, waiting for the door to open.
“I was afraid I’d fall asleep. I’m OK, really.”
“No driving for you. Come on. I’m down the hall.”
The room Lauren had reserved was small, with only a bed and a table too small to spread a napkin. Thera kicked off her shoes and sat back on the bed.
“Is that piece in your hair from in here?” he asked.
“Of course not.” Her face turned deep red. “It’s glass.”
“Don’t get offended. I was just asking. It’d be all right if you borrowed it.”
“I don’t borrow things. I didn’t even open the briefcase.”
“Why not?” asked Ferguson. He opened the small in-room safe. The case was a little too wide to fit.
“You trust a safe?” Thera asked.
“Of course not. But I’ve never believed that ‘Purloined Letter’ stuff. You leave something out; it’s gone. The safe will keep the amateurs at bay.” He took up the case, set it down, and took out his picks. He opened the case and though he continued to smile at her, he realized immediately something was wrong: there weren’t as many jewels, and it struck him that they weren’t the same.
He snapped it closed. “Your turn,” he told her, as if he’d noticed nothing. He flipped it over to her on the bed. “You open it.”
“Why?”
“I want to make sure you can.”
“All right.”
Ferguson watched as she took the picks. She hadn’t had much practice, that was clear, but she didn’t act like she was completely incompetent either; she snapped it open in about a minute. Thera handed it to him.
“I should make you do it again. You’re a little slow.”
“Are we going to play locksmith or look for Vassenka?”
“Vassenka,” said Ferguson. He started scooping the jewels into the safe.
There was definitely a different mix than the last time he’d seen them. Or was it, Ferguson wondered, just that he was tired now and he’d been in a rush then?
The sat phone rang as he closed the door on the safe. “I hope this is room service.”
“Ferg, they found Vassenka in a shower in a dump off 14 Ramadan Street,” said Corrigan.
“The police raided him while he was taking a shower?”
“No. He reached for a bar of soap and got a grenade instead. He’s in pieces.”