Angels of Wrath ft-2

by Larry Bond

  Ferguson wiped the seawater from his eyes and looked around, peering left and right as if looking for friends amid the throng. He scanned up and down for a few moments, getting a feel for the crowd. Though it was past high season, there was a good number of people here. Finally he found what he was looking for: an unattended towel. As he scooped it up, a hotel employee approached. Ferguson smiled and, before it was possible for the man to say anything, asked if he could possibly have a martini. The man was flustered; Ferg repeated the question in French. He was a little rusty and the grammar came out wrong, but the employee was hardly in a position to correct it. The man asked him in Arabic if he was with the Ugari party. Unsure what the right answer would be, Ferguson replied in French that he wasn’t sure what time it was, as he had left his watch upstairs. After two more tries the man turned around and headed back toward the building.

  Wrapping the large towel around his shoulders as a gesture to modesty, Ferguson set out in the direction of the catamaran concession, where ten slightly damp one-hundred Euro notes procured him the last boat on the dock, a craft that had been promised to a man who’d gone to gather his family just a moment before. Ferg hopped aboard as the man returned, running up his sail and pulling away as the concessionaire explained over the man’s loud protests that there had been a mistake.

  Steering northward, Ferguson passed a second beach — from the water it looked just as big as the first one, but he wasn’t checking slogans for authenticity- and then a stretch of jagged rocks. Sail furled and anchor set in the shallow rocks, he slipped into the water, diving down and retrieving the pair of plastic torpedoes he had tied to one of the rocks below. Back in the boat, he opened one of the containers and slipped on a shirt and a pair of cargo hiking shorts. Then he took one of the small Glocks from the torpedo and stuffed it into his belt line, letting his shirt cover it. He took three magazines of 9mm bullets and put them into one of his pockets; a pair of pin grenades went into his other. The weapons, which looked more like oversized fancy metal pens than pins (or grenades for that matter), were downsized flash-bangs, useful for diversions and skipping out on bar bills. He debated taking out another gun but decided against it. Carrying one could always be defended as a matter of personal protection, but two bordered on ostentation. Ferguson got out his Irish passport and put it into his shirt pocket, along with a ticket stub indicating that he had arrived two days before in Damascus from Germany.

  From the second torpedo-shaped container, Ferguson daubed a layer of cold cream to his nose and cheek, old-fashioned protection against sunburn. Wraparound sun glasses in place, he donned a pair of rubber gloves and applied a thick layer of gel to his hair.

  The wind began to kick up, and by the time Ferguson was ready to go back onshore he had floated several hundred yards northward. That was fine with him; he didn’t want to go back to the hotel beach in case the waiter brought back more than a martini. He went where the wind took him, sailing until he found a familiar-looking dock jutting from one of the vacation villages that dotted the area. Tying the torpedoes together, he slung them over his shoulders and sauntered onto the dock, wandering up the pebbled path and around to the road.

  The way, unfortunately, was barred by a security guard. The man demanded in Arabic to know who Ferguson was. Ferguson answered in Arabic that he was a guest of Muhammad Lassi, whom he was just going up to see.

  Lassi was, in fact, a resident here, a fact Ferguson knew because he had visited Lassi the year before. Unfortunately, the guard had seen Mr. Lassi not too long ago: a week ago, in fact, at his funeral. He informed Ferguson of this as he pulled out his pistol.

  8

  TEL AVIV

  THAT AFTERNOON…

  Corrine spent a good portion of the morning meeting with the American ambassador, who wanted to talk about some of the nuances of the president’s upcoming trip. As part of her cover — she was supposedly working for the Commerce Department on a special assignment — she met with Israeli officials to discuss a proposed protocol for loan paybacks. In between she got an update on the Khazaal situation to the effect that there was no update. Ferguson had managed to call while she was in one of the meetings, leaving only a message that they should “catch up” when she got a chance. It was his only acknowledgment of her request that he meet her here.

  Corrine had lunch with the Commerce Department negotiator, a pleasant enough middle-aged woman who missed her five- and six-year-old children dearly and spent the entire lunch talking about them. As they waited for the coffee to arrive, Corrine excused herself and went to call Corrigan and try Ferguson again. One of the Delta bodyguards assigned to her by the embassy followed her to the restroom.

  “You’re not coming in with me,” she said to him.

  The man looked embarrassed. “No, ma’am.”

  Corrine felt compelled to tell him she was joking, but he didn’t noticeably relax. The restroom was a coed affair and not terribly clean, but it did have a lock on the door. She scanned the room and turned on the white noise box, then pulled out the sat phone. Corrigan was off-duty; Lauren Di Capri, his relief, told her there was nothing new.

  “All right. Can you connect me to Ferguson?”

  “He’s off the air right now. His phone’s off. When he checks in—”

  “Where is he?”

  “On his way to Lebanon. He should be there now.”

  “Why?”

  “He had a hunch on where Khazaal might be going.”

  “Why the hell didn’t he check in with me first?”

  Lauren didn’t answer.

  “You tell him to call me. No excuses.”

  “All right.”

  Corrine slapped the phone off. Was it a coincidence that he had called when she was unavailable? The people at the Cube had access to her schedule. It wouldn’t take much to weasel out the best — or, rather, worst — time to call her.

  The incident in Cairo had been explained away by the Egyptian police, largely because they were grateful that an enemy of the regime had been taken care of. But an incident in Lebanon would be something else again.

  And, really, who did he think he was, blowing her off? She’d sent word for him to meet her in Tel Aviv; he hadn’t even acknowledged her.

  Corrine had to straighten this out. She could give him some leeway — she’d given him plenty already — but major operations were supposed to be approved by her first. Especially now, with the president due in the region next week.

  Ferguson was a walking time bomb: he was exactly what the president had appointed her to head off. She had to confront him directly. Waiting for him to call her wasn’t going to work.

  9

  TRIPOLI, LEBANON

  “I didn’t realize you knew Lassi,” Ferguson told the guard holding the pistol on him. If ever there was a situation where the truth was called for, Ferg reasoned, this was it. “He was an uncle to us all,” continued Ferguson in Arabic. “Of course, now that his cousin owns the apartment, that is whom I am staying with.”

  “Where is your identification?” demanded the man. He held the pistol in one hand and used his other to reach for the radio.

  “Right here,” said Ferg. He took the Irish passport from his pocket, tapped it on his nose, and then swiped it across his hair as he nervously scratched an itch. The officer took the passport, frowning as his fingers smeared across the gooey mixture from Ferguson’s hair. He held it against his radio, squinted at it, then crumpled to the ground.

  The gel was an enzyme that activated the synthetic opiate in the cold cream. Ferguson reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and picked up the passport gingerly, wiping off the residue on the man’s shirt. He pulled the man to the side, ejected the bullet from the chamber of his gun — it was very dangerous to carry it that way, when you thought about it — and for good measure took the magazine with him as well. Then he went to find the microbus, which would take him into town.

  10

  EASTERN SYRIA

  THAT EVENING…


  The taxi driver refused to take Fouad and the others anywhere near the address Fouad had given him, dropping them on an empty street three blocks away despite the offer to triple his tip if he drove past the building.

  The scent of raw oil hung heavy in the air. Rankin held his Beretta in his hand, hiding it in the crook of his arm as they passed row after row of dilapidated steel buildings. The structures looked like warehouses that might still have been in use, though they saw no one nearby. Night had begun to fall, shading the buildings with a dimness that made them seem even more ominous.

  “What do you think?” asked Thera when they stopped at a wide though empty cross street.

  “Don’t know,” said Rankin.

  Fouad said nothing. His stomach had started to gnaw at him: nerves mostly, though he realized he must also be hungry by now. Some men claimed that they became immune to danger, even comfortable with it, but Fouad would not tell such a lie or even attempt it.

  They crossed the street. An odor of sewage replaced the petroleum scent; they were close to the river.

  Two dusty Lexus SUVs sat across the road as they walked up. Rankin and Thera realized they were being watched from the roof, though both pretended not to notice. Fouad understood where he was now and saw a script to follow, a path that he had trod before. He picked up his pace, walking to the middle of the block, where two masked men with AK-47s met them.

  The masks were a good sign. They did not want to be identified later on. This wasn’t an ambush.

  The men would not search Thera. She handed over her small Glock as a sign of her integrity, keeping the knife and the other Glock as well as her grenades. Rankin gave up the pistol in his hand as well as the Colt at his back. Fouad surrendered a revolver. As a weapon it was not much, but he had had it long enough now that it had emotional value, and he told the men not to lose it.

  They were shown through a narrow door into a reception area at the center of one of the steel buildings. The floor had been tiled with an elaborate black-and-white mosaic, but the walls were plain panels covered with thick white paint. A window similar to those manned by a receptionist at doctors’ offices in the States sat at one side; there was a steel door next to it. A bare forty-watt bulb in the ceiling supplied the only light.

  The steel door opened, and a man with an AK-47 appeared in the doorway.

  “What do you want?” he demanded in Arabic.

  “Business,” replied Fouad.

  “What business?”

  “We transport items. We seek work. We are here to speak to Ali.”

  The man made a face and disappeared back through the door. He returned less than a minute later, far too quickly to have actually consulted with anyone.

  “Come back tomorrow,” he said.

  Fouad knew that this was a test, but he wasn’t sure what the proper response was. He waited a moment, then began to step back.

  Thera reached across Rankin and took his sleeve. “Tomorrow we should be at the border. If there is no business, we can’t afford to wait,” she told him in Arabic. “Making good customers angry to please one we don’t have makes no sense.”

  “But if there is no business, there is no business,” said Fouad, falling into the act. “We cannot be too greedy.”

  He looked to Rankin, as if giving the other partner the final say. Rankin shrugged.

  “Then we’ll leave,” said Thera.

  They started to, but the man called them back.

  “I have been a poor host, forgive me,” he said. “Perhaps we can find some work for honest people.”

  He came around to the door and waved them inside the warehouse proper. It was large and dimly lit, and almost entirely empty.

  “What business do you have here?” said a woman’s voice as they approached a pair of trucks at the back near the garage-style doors. The trucks were Russian military transport models, nearly as old as Fouad.

  “We are open for anything,” said Fouad.

  A woman in Western jeans and a flowing top came out from behind one of the trucks, flanked by two young men with M16s.

  “You’re just petty smugglers,” said the woman dismissively.

  “Honest carriers,” said Thera. “Trying to make a living in a difficult era.”

  “Don’t lie, sister.” The woman walked to her, pointing. “You’re simple thieves.”

  “Carriers.”

  “You must be a whore to be with such men.”

  Thera stared at the woman, whose eyes were focused on her in fury. When Thera did not rise to the provocation, the woman turned back to Fouad. “Talk to Oda,” she said, walking back to the trucks. Oda was the man who had led them inside.

  “We have our own trucks,” he told them. He brought them to a corner at the far end of the warehouse, where several chairs sat around a table. “But sometimes we have material that needs other shippers.”

  “Our forte,” said Fouad. “What part of Iraq do you come from, my friend?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Your accent. Did you leave before or after the war?”

  It was a delicate question but worth the risk; Fouad thought overcoming Oda’s discomfort would provide a basis for the questions he had actually come to ask. Oda told him that he had come only within the last few months — a neutral answer and clearly a lie, though one Fouad could easily go along with. The two men traded a few more lies before Fouad managed to mention Baghdad, saying that he had not been that far east in many years. He mentioned a street that any recent native would have recognized as the home area of one of the insurgent groups, but if this had an effect on Oda it neither registered in his face nor his questions. They turned to the sort of notice required for transport. Thera took over briefly to say that they could stay in the city for two days in the future, as it was a pleasant place, but only on their way back from Damascus.

  Found began talking of others they did business with, carefully slipping in the names of Syrians who smuggled arms to rebel groups. Again, there was no reaction. Finally, Fouad looked at his watch.

  “We must go,” he said, rising.

  “Be on Ben Whalid Street at nine tonight,” said Oda in a low hush, before moving quickly to the door. “A third at pickup, the rest at delivery. One thousand, American.”

  “Done.”

  * * *

  Why make such a big deal out of it like that?” said Rankin when they finally reached the more populated part of the city.

  “They watch how we react; we watch how they react,” said Fouad. “Smuggling is a matter of trust.”

  “He was definitely setting us up,” said Thera. “A thousand is too much for a first-time job.”

  “No, not necessarily,” said Fouad.

  “We being followed?” Rankin asked.

  “I don’t think so, but maybe they have a nightscope in one of the buildings or someone watching us from up there,” said Thera.

  “They wouldn’t bother,” said Fouad. “We’re not worth it. We’re small beans.”

  “Potatoes,” said Rankin.

  “Whatever we are, we aren’t important enough for them to follow. They don’t have that many people.”

  “You don’t think the meeting is a trap?” said Thera.

  “A trap it may be. Or not.” Fouad wasn’t sure. He wanted to know what they were shipping, and the only way to find out would be to show up. “There is a Kurd in this city who might be of help,” said Fouad. “If we can find him before nine, then we need not keep the appointment.”

  “We’re not going to keep it, not all of us,” said Rankin. “You go. Thera and I will take the bikes and trail you.”

  “A reasonable plan,” said Fouad.

  * * *

  They didn’t find the Kurd, and so Fouad drove the truck down Ben Whalid at exactly nine p.m. The street ran through the downtown area, and as he approached each intersection Fouad slowed, expecting to be signaled. But there were no men, no signs, no signals. He reached the western end of the street; unsure
whether to go left or right, he turned right toward the river. As he did, something thumped against the left side of the truck. He turned to see what it was. In that brief moment Oda leapt from a hiding place between two cars along the road, hopped onto the running board of the passenger side, and opened the door. It happened so quickly that Fouad did not have time to feel fear.

  “I thought I had gotten something wrong,” said Fouad.

  “Nothing wrong,” said Oda, pulling himself inside the truck. “Drive on.”

  Fouad wondered what would have happened if he had gone the other way, but the answer soon occurred to him: there was another man posted along the other street; they would have simply changed places. The other man would now be trailing, probably wondering where his companions were.

  * * *

  You see him?” asked Rankin. He was riding on the motorcycle a few hundred yards behind the milk truck.

  “Not yet,” answered Thera. She’d gone ahead, turning down a side street, and was now doubling back.

  “All right. Looks like we’re heading up along the river.”

  “That’s not the river. The tributary.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I see him now. He’s got a guy in the cab with him.”

  Thera passed the tanker, saw the car that Rankin said was trailing it, then passed Rankin. She rode a little farther then turned around. She’d changed from her long dress and put on coveralls and a helmet so she looked like a man, albeit a highly suspicious one.

  “Turning,” said Rankin. “Going toward the river or tributary or whatever that is. Stopping.”

  He killed the bike’s motor, coasting off the road near a thicket of grass and brush. The truck and car had stopped about thirty yards ahead. He let the bike down as quietly as he could, then slid the Uzi from his backpack, extended the stock, and walked in the direction of the truck.

  Fouad was still in the cab.