Angels of Wrath - [First Team 02]

by Larry Bond

  ~ * ~

  ~ * ~

  1

  BAGHDAD

  THE NEXT MORNING …

  Abu al Hassan, the new Iraqi prime minister, was about as physically different from Saddam Hussein as possible: tall and thin, bald, with no facial hair and a soft whisper of a voice. The State Department briefing papers presented him as a “dynamic individual” and a “political survivor.” But the CIA duty officer Corrine befriended in the communications center rolled his eyes when she asked for his opinion, and Corrine saw why as soon as she met him. Hassan studiously avoided meeting her gaze while they spoke; his answers to even simple questions were so convoluted and hedged that Corrine wondered if the point wasn’t to make her forget what she had asked. To a man, his staff’s body language made it clear they didn’t have any better an opinion of him. He and his government weren’t going to survive their first political crisis. A five percent dip in world oil prices—already forecast after the run-up of the past few years—would be enough to upset the country’s loan payment schedule and threaten the social and rebuilding programs necessary to keep the economy moving ahead. But it wouldn’t take something nearly that severe: if violence stoked up again around Baghdad, if Iran rattled its sabers, if the Kurds complained that their semiautonomous state was too semi and not autonomous enough, the fractious parliament would divide. Hassan, Corrine now realized, had only been chosen because he was such a nonentity the different factions couldn’t object. Under any sort of pressure he would wilt.

  Not a good situation, she thought as he led her on a tour of the new government building. Corrine made the proper admiring noises as they walked through the building, which was architecturally quite impressive, then left with the ambassador to continue the scheduled tour of a hospital in the city.

  “I have to leave Iraq for a day or so,” she told Bellows. “Something’s come up.”

  “More important than Iraq?” said Bellows, surprised.

  “It’s trivial, really,” she lied. “But I have to take care of it. Can you drop me off at the embassy?”

  The ambassador leaned forward and lowered the window separating them from the driver. He gave him the new instructions but left the window open. As he started to lean back, Corrine gestured toward the window. Bellows trusted his driver a great deal—a former Delta Force bodyguard, the man had been with him for six years, through many different assignments— but he closed the window to make her more comfortable.

  Corrine closed it so they could talk.

  “What do you think of Hassan?” she asked.

  “A very solid man.”

  “He’s a milquetoast.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving,” said the ambassador lightly. “He’s very astute politically and very strong.”

  “Are you telling me that because you think it’s what I want to hear? Or because you believe it?”

  “I’m not sure how to answer that,” said Bellows.

  “Is it me? Are you just not taking me seriously?”

  “Corrine, of course I take you seriously,” said the ambassador, shocked that she thought that. “Why wouldn’t I take you seriously?”

  “Can Hassan survive a crisis?”

  “He’s strong. He has a lot of support throughout the country.”

  Corrine gave up, and they drove back to the embassy in silence. She still hadn’t decided whether he was deliberately trying to mislead her or had deluded himself by the time she reached the secure communications center.

  “Where’ve you been?” Ferguson asked her.

  “You wouldn’t want to know. What’s the situation?”

  “Vassenka’s in the morgue. On the bright side, we found the ship we think has the rocket fuel. It’s about twelve hours from Basra.”

  “Stop it.”

  “You think so?” said Ferguson, in his familiar mocking tone. “I was toying with the idea of letting it sail into the horizon.”

  “Bob—”

  “It’s Ferg. Even my enemies call me Ferg. Rankin and Guns are on their way to give an assist to the navy team that’s going to board the ship.”

  “You think of me as your enemy?”

  “Depends on the day. What’s with the Israelis?”

  “I have a meeting tomorrow with Tischler to iron this out. Parnelles suggested I talk to him in person.”

  “How is the general?”

  “I don’t know. Slott passed the message along.” Corrine knew Ferguson meant Parnelles, of course, but she wasn’t sure why he called him “general.” As far as she knew, the CIA director didn’t have a military background. But this wasn’t the time to ask him about it. “Ferg, I’d like you in Tel Aviv for the meeting.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Don’t you think you ought to be?”

  “If it fits into my schedule.”

  “Make sure it does.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “The meeting is at nine a.m.,” she continued. “You want to meet at the airport, or—”

  “I’ll meet you at the building. I have some stuff to do.”

  “So do I.” She clicked off the phone, then went upstairs to change into less formal clothes.

  ~ * ~

  2

  OFF THE SYRIAN COAST, NEAR LATAKIA

  Judy Coldwell sat with the handbag between her knees, pressing her hands together as the small boat approached the yacht. Her chest began to tremble, and for a moment she feared she was having a heart attack. She closed her eyes and took a long breath, trying to calm herself.

  She could do it. She would do it. It was all ridiculously easy. All she had to do was have faith.

  Finally the boat drew alongside the yacht. Birk came to the side as she climbed over the ladder, extending his hand and helping her aboard.

  “Ms. Perpetua, how are you this early morning? Well, I trust.” He positively beamed. “Come. Have some champagne.”

  “Thank you, no,” she said.

  “Bottled water, then. Or tea, perhaps tea?”

  “Some coffee, maybe.”

  “Coffee, yes. Of course. Coffee.”

  Birk led her into the cabin sitting area, where a bottle of Dom Pérignon was on ice. He opened the bottle and poured himself a glass as he ordered one of the bodyguards to make some coffee.

  “Do you have the weapon?” said Coldwell.

  “Of course,” he told her.

  “Is it aboard?”

  This was one difficulty of dealing with amateurs, thought Birk: they did not understand the protocol. Still, they did overpay.

  “It is accessible,” said Birk. “That is not a problem.”

  “Is it aboard? I’m told it’s very big.”

  “The crates that carry it are large, yes,” said Birk. “No, it is not on board.”

  “Where is it?” Coldwell clutched her handbag, fearing that she had been swindled somehow.

  “It’s not far. Your agents can pick it up as soon as I give the order.”

  “We must pick it up before I pay.”

  “You have the money?”

  “Jewels.”

  “Yes, jewels. Forgive me. Do you have them?”

  “I will get them as soon as the transaction is completed.”

  “I’m afraid that is not how it works,” said Birk. “You will tell me where they are now. I will retrieve them. Then you will be directed to the missile.”

  “You don’t have it on the ship?”

  “It would clutter the deck. Now. Where are the jewels?”

  Coldwell opened her bag. For a moment Birk thought she might actually have them with her, but she—or more likely the person she was working for—was not quite so foolish. She handed him a man’s wristwatch.

  “The alarm screen has the GPS coordinates,” she said. “Don’t push the mode button more than once, or it will be erased.”

  ~ * ~

  R

  avid watched through his binoculars as the American woman handed over the watch with the coordinates for the small b
oat where the jewels had been stashed. It should not be more than a few minutes before Birk’s minions had them and cleared the rest of the transaction.

  The gems were the real ones Khazaal had brought to Syria. Birk would never have been fooled with the fakes.

  He had not counted on the Americans when he had made his plans, but their complications helped him in a way: their presence gave him a natural excuse to stay behind. Someone had to keep watch over the slippery Mr. Ferguson and his minions; even Tischler could not object to that.

  Alter finding that the bodyguards had been waylaid, Ravid realized what was happening and acted without hesitation, a man desperate to obtain the means to his revenge. He already knew the general area where the CIA people were operating; he had only stumbled around for an hour or so before finally finding the proper hotel. Anticipating that he would be searched by the Syrians inside, Ravid had left his substitute jewels outside the hotel and picked them up when he excused himself to answer nature’s call. Swapping them in the boat when the others were taking him to Cyprus was child’s play.

  Birk would make a radio or phone call soon, and the next phase would begin. The moment of ultimate decision was at hand. There could be no hesitation after this.

  There would not be.

  Ravid turned to the men in diving gear at the rear of the boat. “A few more minutes,” he told them. “Be ready.”

  ~ * ~

  B

  irk answered the phone on the first ring.

  “Three million at least,” said his brother-in-law. “One or two are fake, but most are real. Small diamonds and a few rubies.”

  Birk smiled. By this time tomorrow, he would have exchanged the jewels in Turkey. After taking care of a few odds and ends, he would head toward the Greek islands where he would have the leisure to plan a more distant voyage.

  “Well?” said Coldwell.

  “There is a barge at this location,” Birk told her, taking a piece of paper from his pocket. “Those are GPS settings. Use my phone to call your contact, and I will see you off.”

  “I’ll use my own, thank you.”

  “As you wish,” said Birk.

  ~ * ~

  A

  s she left the Sharia, Coldwell felt the muscles in the back of her neck relax. For the first time since she had heard of her brother’s death— for the first time in two years, really—she could relax. It was in the Mossad agent’s hands now. Her mission was complete.

  The small speedboat rocked as the engine kicked to life. Coldwell gripped the railing and then her seat, but for balance only; she no longer had any fear. She gazed at the shoreline, a hazy shadow in the distance. When she returned she would have a long bath, then take a very long nap.

  It was amazing how prescient the old religious writers had been. She was the woman clothed in the sun of chapter 12 in the book of Revelation, the Christian prediction of the new age. The dragon awaited her child, but the Lord God protected her.

  Was it blasphemy to think of herself as holy as that? As she considered the question, something grabbed her around the neck. The man in the boat had taken a garrote from his pocket and pulled it tight around her throat.

  For the first few moments, Coldwell struggled. She grabbed the wire with her fingers and tried to pry it off, instincts getting the better of her. And then she heard a voice that sounded like her brother’s whispering in her ear.

  “Let it be,” it whispered. “We will rise again in three days time, the Temple rebuilt.”

  Coldwell relaxed her arms. An angel appeared before her, his body a bright light that shone warmly, a fire of faith and reverence. Behind him stood the new world, the shining tabernacle where there would be no sorrow, no death, no pain. He held his hands out to her.

  “My God!” she exclaimed. “Thank you for bringing me to this moment.”

  She extended her hands toward the angel. As she did, his face tore in two. She saw that it was a mask covering the hideous aspect of a dragon: the Devil incarnate. She began to scream and back away, but the angel’s wings had turned to snakes and held her fast for the burning fire behind him.

  ~ * ~

  T

  he man with the garrote, sensing Coldwell was dead, replaced the wire with a thick metal chain weighed down by iron dumbbells, then pushed her off the side of the boat.

  ~ * ~

  H

  aving gotten up early to consummate the business deal, Birk found it impossible to go back to bed. He decided he would amuse himself by taking the wheel of the Sharia as he set sail northward. The yacht was a large vessel, but a fleet one, and as he laid on the power he felt a rush of adrenaline.

  One of his regrets about leaving the area for an extended “vacation” was that it would deprive him of the most rewarding part of his business: meeting interesting characters such as Ferguson, the American agent who had so entertained him of late. What would life be like without such stimulation? Birk was not one to romanticize danger, but if truth be told he would miss that aspect of his business as well or at least the elation he felt when the time of anxiety had passed.

  “Two boats, small ones,” said Birk’s brother-in-law, coming into the wheelhouse area behind the helmsman.

  Birk turned to look. The boats were small speedboats.

  “Break out the weapons.”

  The helmsman reached to his shirt to draw his.

  “No, not you,” said Birk. “You take the wheel while I see what this is about. Probably nothing.”

  As Birk turned, the man fired point blank into the back of his head.

  ~ * ~

  B

  y the time Ravid got to the Sharia, the shooting was over. Birk, his brother-in-law, and the two bodyguards loyal to him had been killed.

  So had the American woman, strangled by one of the bodyguards Ravid had infiltrated among Birk’s men. Ravid had debated before deciding this. The woman had to be killed as a matter of operational security as well as tidiness. The fact that she was a fanatic and aimed ultimately at the destruction of Jerusalem weighed heavily against her as well. The world was better off with one less fanatic.

  On the other hand, she had released something in him, allowed him to function again, allowed him to really work, he thought. This went beyond simply helping him obtain the missile. Speaking to her of his need for revenge had freed him somehow, and he felt real gratitude: a liability in his profession, but still he felt it.

  He hadn’t wanted a drink quite so badly since that night either. Whether that would last or not, he couldn’t say. He wouldn’t count on it.

  Coldwell’s pocketbook had been brought to him. Ravid examined it now. She had a few thousand dollars in Euros, less than a hundred American, four credit cards, and a passport which might be of some use in the future.

  “Set the course south,” he told the others. “Weigh the bodies down and send them overboard at nightfall. Except for Birk; we will need his to make his ship appear as if it was robbed. Find a place where his body can be stuffed conveniently. Quickly. I must leave as soon as possible.”

  ~ * ~

  3

  LATAKIA

  Ferguson had one indisputable point of reference: the digital photo he had taken when they retrieved the case. He avoided looking at it—he avoided dealing with the problem at all—while he tried to psyche out who had killed Vassenka. Ras provided a semiuseful theory: the Syrian authorities believed Vassenka had tipped the Israelis off to the meeting at the castle and the in-coining airplane, and this was payback.

  The theory was wrong, but it told Ferguson that there were probably additional Iraqis and/or fanatics associated with Meles who had escaped Mossad’s revenge bombing. He and Thera spent the early morning hours placing new taps on the local police phones; the NSA already had a healthy operation harvesting information from the central authorities in Damascus. Sooner or later the rest of the scum would turn up in the net.

  There was a legitimate question to be asked, though: how much of this effort was truly worth
it? With all of the major players out of the picture and the rocket fuel about to be confiscated, the immediate threat had vanished.

  Asking the question was another thing Ferguson didn’t bother with until he put Thera on the ferry for Cyprus. Unlike the yacht she and the others had taken the day before, this was a public vessel, a recent enterprise aimed at tourists but mostly used by Syrian workers who found they could earn twice as much on the island as they could in Syria. Which wasn’t saying much.