by Larry Bond
“I should be more like them, huh?”
“I don’t tell anyone how to run their business.”
Up top, Birk looked over his bodyguards and shook his head. “I can’t even fire this one,” complained the arms dealer, kicking the biggest one. “Tomanski is my brother-in-law.”
“You’re married?” said Ferguson.
“My sister’s husband.”
“You don’t look like the type to have a sister,” said Ferguson. He pulled out a wad of Syrian bills. “I’ll leave this to cover their medical expenses, will they get to spend it or will you?”
“Tell me how much it is, and I’ll dock it from their pay.”
“Fair enough. I don’t feel like swimming back, so I’m going to borrow your boat. I’ll take your brother-in-law with me. He can bring it back when he wakes up. When will things be ready?”
“In the afternoon. Three o’clock.”
“I’ll meet you. Where will you be?”
“The Versailles, but…”
“Not a problem,” said Ferguson, understanding that Birk would be doing business. “I’ll just call. Same number?”
Birk nodded.
“Come on, Sleeping Beauty.” Ferguson bent down and picked up Brother-in-Law.
“Not him!” yelled Thera. “He’s almost conscious.”
It was too late. Whether awake or in drug-induced sleep, the man grabbed Ferguson’s neck in his arms. Ferg leaned forward, spun to the side, and when that failed to release the stranglehold, pushed off the boat, taking Brother-in-Law with him.
The cold water revived the bodyguard enough to panic, and he tightened his grip rather than loosening it. Ferguson jerked his elbow hard against the man’s side, expecting that would release him, then kicked upward. His progress upward could be measured in micrometers. Brother-in-Law was a real meat and potatoes kind of guy, with emphasis on the potatoes; he weighed a hundred pounds more than Ferguson.
“Cover him,” Thera told Monsoon, gesturing at Birk as she dove off into the water to help Ferguson.
By now Ferguson had decided he actually needed air and so took extreme measures, bowing his head down and ramming Brother-in-Law into the side of Birk’s boat. That did the trick: Brother-in-Law’s grip didn’t loosen but the rest of his muscles sagged, and Ferguson was able to kick them both upward to the top about a half second before his lungs would have imploded. Thera fished for the back of Brother-in-Law’s shirt, grabbing it as Birk threw a line down into the water.
“He weighs a ton,” complained Ferguson, ducking back down and finally extricating himself from his grip.
“Keep him,” said Birk. “Get him out of here.”
“Is he alive?” whispered Thera as they pulled Brother-in-Law into the small skiff.
“Don’t check until we’re out of Birk’s sight,” said Ferguson. “He’ll add the funeral to the bill.”
* * *
Brother-in-Law was alive and managed to open his eyes a few minutes later as they headed toward Latakia’s commercial port area.
“Sorry I had to hit you,” Ferguson told him.
Brother-in-Law said something in Polish. Polish wasn’t one of Ferguson’s languages, but it didn’t sound much like “have a nice day.”
“You speak English, or do I have to speak Russian?” Ferg asked.
Brother-in-law spit. “Speak Arabic before Russian,” he said in English.
“I’m going to make up for getting you in trouble with Birk but not for slamming you against the yacht; that was self-preservation,” said Ferguson.
The next sentence was in the universal language: he took out five American hundred dollar bills and held him in front of Brother-in-Law’s face. “I need a little help onshore. Nothing you’ll get in trouble for.”
“What?”
“I need some bicycles and a pair of trucks. I can’t drive the trucks at the same time. One bill now, the rest later.”
Thera stared at Ferguson. Was he crazy? How could he trust this guy when he had just about killed him ten minutes before?
“OK,” said Brother-in-Law reaching for, the bills.
Ferg gave one to him.
“Where are we buying these trucks?” Thera asked.
“I wouldn’t use the word buy,” said Ferguson. “Borrow, maybe.” Ferg was going to take them from a so-called charity organization that was actually a fund-raising front for terrorists funneling money into Palestine and Iraq. “But Brother-in-Law and I are going to take care of it on our own. You and Monsoon are going to the toy store at Versailles. The shops in the hotel mall there all open at eight. I don’t want you hanging around; in and out first thing, OK? Don’t be in the lobby, don’t walk the halls, nothing. In and out.”
“You think a toy store’s dangerous?”
“You’d be surprised,” said Ferguson, who actually didn’t want them seen by Ravid. “I saw a remote-controlled car there. Get as many of those as you can. Even better would be an airplane. If you see one, grab that, too. But make sure it’s good one; the cheap models’ll only go to seven hundred and fifty feet. We want the high end. Twenty-five hundred if you can.”
“What about a boat?”
“Only if you’re planning on taking a bath,” said Ferg. “After you go shopping, take a nap. You need all the beauty rest you can get.”
* * *
Birk’s brother-in-law turned out to be unusually adept at jumping cars and even relished the idea of victimizing the Charitable Brotherhood, which even he knew was nothing more than a collection of slimes masquerading as concerned citizens. Ferguson had him follow in the second truck as he drove across town, first north and then west to a residential area at the edge of the city. He’d taken Brother-in-Law along not as a gofer but as an insurance policy in case Birk had been lying about dealing with the Iraqis or otherwise became curious about the Americans’ location in town; the trucks were a misdirection play that would keep someone hunting for them busy while Ferguson set up the operation.
“Hungry, comrade?” asked Ferguson as Brother-in-Law climbed into the cab. He said it in Russian, and the other man reacted immediately, practically spitting as he said in English that all Russians were dogs and he would do well to wash his mouth out after using the language.
“Don’t like them, huh?” said Ferguson.
“Phew.”
“Something personal, I hope.”
Brother-in-Law didn’t reply. Ferguson took the road to the coast, then instead of going south took a right on the highway.
“You look hungry,” he explained. “We’ll get something to eat.”
Brother-in-Law grunted, but then told Ferguson that there was a decent place for breakfast a mile up the road, one where there weren’t too many Russians or Syrians.
“If you don’t like Syrians and you don’t like Russians, why are you here?” Ferguson asked. “Family obligations?”
This drew a long, convoluted story about the need for the family to recover a farm it had lost during World War II because of the Russians. To Brother-in-Law, Syrians were Russians with head scarves and robes (even if the majority in Latakia didn’t wear them).
“How about the Iraqis?” asked Ferguson. He ran his fork through the scrambled eggs. Apparently Brother-in-Law liked runny yolks and potatoes so crisp they endangered fillings.
“All Iraqis are idiots,” said Brother-in-Law.
“But Birk deals with Iraqis all the time.”
Brother-in-Law made a face but didn’t answer.
“Sometimes?” said Ferg.
Brother-in-Law knew better than to say anything, but if Birk had a deal going with Khazaal he either didn’t know about it or didn’t realize Khazaal was Iraqi. The latter seemed pretty far-fetched; the former remained a possibility.
After breakfast, they drove to a bicycle shop in the center of town where he bought a dozen used bicycles and had them loaded into the back, from there they went back to the dock where he’d tied up the boat.
“Give my regards to Bir
k,” Ferg told Brother-in-Law as he handed him the promised money and another hundred for goodwill. “You probably ought to tell him I gave you a hundred to help. Knowing Birk he’ll want a cut.”
The Brother-in-Law smiled and slammed the door.
* * *
Thera and Monsoon returned to their hotel with an armload of toys and a large bag of batteries. By the time Ferguson returned — he’d stashed the bicycles in several strategic locations and parked the second truck near the first — Guns and Grumpy were racing two of the cars around the suite.
“I have to go check in with Van,” Ferg told them. “Then I’m going to catch some z’s. Give those to Rankin when he wakes up. And don’t wreck them; he needs them to make some bombs.”
27
INCIRLIK, TURKEY
Colonel Van Buren had just come back to his office when the call from Ferguson came through. He checked his watch. It was a little past ten a.m.
“You’re up early,” he told Ferguson after he picked up the phone.
“Haven’t been to bed,” said Ferguson.
“No wonder you sound tired.”
“Nah, must be the connection. Listen, Van, I’ve been thinking. I can’t blow them up when they’re meeting, right?”
“Right.”
“But they don’t know that.”
“OK,” answered Van Buren, not entirely sure where Ferguson was going.
“So what I do is, I make them think they’re being attacked, which gets them the hell out of there on our time schedule. We follow Khazaal, who probably heads back to the mosque—”
“You can’t take him there either, Ferg.”
“I’m not going to. We’re going to set up so that it looks like we will, though. Move people in and out of the area, make sure they’re seen.”
“Then what?”
“He’s going to do the logical thing and go for his airplane. I take him there. We compromise the air conditioning so it shoots dope into the cabin. The only question in my mind is whether we do it on the ground or in the air.”
“Ground is easier and safer,” said Van Buren. “I can put two platoons of Rangers at the airport, land them near the plane. We’ll use the civvy 737 you guys dropped out of. I think it can land on that field.”
They worked out the arrangements and contingencies, talking over the various options. While taking him on the ground at the airport would be easier than doping him in the air, it was likely to lead to political complications if things went wrong, since there would be plenty of people around to notice. But as they worked the possibilities back and forth, it still seemed a better bet.
“I have to separate him from the jewels in case this doesn’t work,” added Ferguson. “That’s the tricky part. I have to do it before the meeting starts.”
Ferg explained that the Iraqi kept the jewels near him but not with him, clearly not trusting any of the people he was dealing with. Ferguson needed a plan to separate the cars before the meeting, while he still knew where the jewels were.
“What if he changes the way he does things before the meeting?” asked Van Buren, sensing from Ferguson’s dismissively breezy tone that he hadn’t finished thinking the mission through. “Maybe that’s the one time he brings them with him.”
“It’s possible,” said Ferguson.
“What are they trying to buy?” Van Buren asked.
“That’s what has me beat. There’s at least one serious cruise missile on the market here, and a Russian expert who should know how to use it is in town. But the guy who has access to them claims he hasn’t been approached.”
“Like an arms dealer never lies, huh?”
Ferguson laughed. He was tired; the laugh was way too loud. Van Buren worried that Ferg was pushing himself too far. You had to be a little reckless to do what Ferguson did, but it was a controlled kind of recklessness, and despite his goofy veneer Ferguson was one of the most controlled people Van Buren had ever met, much more deliberate even than the anal drill sergeants who had introduced him to the army a million years before.
Recklessness, controlled or uncontrolled, left little room for mistakes.
“You OK, Fergie?” Van Buren asked.
“I’m more than OK. I’m the best.”
“Yeah, I know all that. You OK?”
“I’m all right. A little tired. I have to take a nap. How’s your kid? Signed with the Red Sox yet?”
“He’s got to go to college.”
“I’d tell him to take the money and run.”
“That’s why you’re not his dad,” said Van Buren.
“Lucky for him.”
28
LATAKIA TWO P.M.
The alarm on Ferguson’s watch beeped incessantly, growing louder until its owner finally found the button to turn it off. He stared up at the ceiling, momentarily disoriented.
Did I take my stinking pills, or not?
He couldn’t remember. The need to travel lightly had simply made the compartmentalized pill minders impractical, but there were times when even he could have conceded they were useful. Ferguson, still not sure, took a dose just to be sure; better to be a little hyper than seriously dragging, which was the effect missing even one round of the T3 replacement had on him lately.
Outside in the common room, Rankin was dismantling the remote-control cars. “I assume there are going to be explosives to go with these,” he said by way of greeting.
“Yeah, I have to go pick them up. You didn’t take apart my airplane, did you?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Why the hell don’t we use a real setup instead of this cobbled together crap?”
“Two words: plausible deniability.”
“Sounds like bullshit to me.”
“That’s one word,” said Ferguson. “But it’ll do.”
Ferguson intended that the weapons that he used would suggest the tactics favored by some of the insurgents in Iraq, specifically the southern Shiites who had access to some of the British equipment left behind in the war. His visit to Ras was intended to introduce the name Suhab Majadin to the local authorities. Ras hadn’t recognized it, but the Syrian intelligence service would. Suhab was the leader of a faction that hated Khazaal and vied with him to head the insurgency. A thorough investigation would show that Suhab was back in Iraq and had in fact been paid off by the present government to tone down his activities. But a thorough investigation was unlikely in Latakia.
“Where’s Thera?” Ferguson asked.
“Still sleeping.”
“Wake her up, will you? I have another errand for her and Grumpy.”
“Why don’t you wake her up?” said Rankin.
“ ‘Cause if I go into her room I’m not sure I’ll come out,” said Ferguson.
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, Thera and Grumpy found themselves in the casino of the Versailles, playing the slots with bogus slugs and watching for Birk. Thera’s appearance had changed considerably: most notably her hair was now fiery red and stretched well down her back. The effect was startling, even with the black lipstick. Unfortunately these changes were accompanied by one far less flattering: she had gained what looked like fifty pounds, the smooth curves now considerably rounder under her long skirt.
Even disguised, Ferg had warned her that Birk might recognize her if she got too close, and so she let Grumpy do the hard work, betting colors on the roulette wheel, where the video bug that had replaced the button in his shirt could get a good view of Birk, who was testing his skill at calling sevens on the nearby craps table.
From what Thera could see across the room, Birk was alone, except for his bodyguards. Ferguson wanted to know who he was meeting here. He suspected Ravid, since he was staying at the hotel, though Thera wouldn’t have been surprised to see Khazaal or Meles or even one of the men from the mosque.
Birk was still alone when Ferguson’s phone call came. Birk took the call, listened, said something, then hungup and continued playing. Ten minutes later, he cashed out his chips — h
e was ahead — and went into one of the lounges. Thera followed, with Grumpy right behind her. The lounge was tiered; they took a table together on the top tier, diagonally across the room from Birk and positioned so that Grumpy’s video bug would catch the face of anyone sitting at his small table.
“I was in the middle of a run, you know,” said the marine. “A few more rounds and I could have retired.”
“Don’t even joke about that,” said Thera, surveying the room. She realized from his silence that he’d taken her seriously. “I was kidding. What would you do if you won a fortune? Go fishing?”
“I hate fishing. Too boring,” said Grumpy. “I’d learn how to play golf and play every day.”
“Golf?”
“I always thought that would be a good thing to waste time on.”
Across the room, a woman approached Birk. Thera turned to summon a waiter so she could get a better look. The woman was tall and with light features, almost surely a Westerner, and, thought Thera, vaguely familiar. “You getting that?” she asked Grumpy when she turned back.
“I think so.”
“Keep watching,” said Thera. “I’m going to the restroom.”
She got up and took a circuit of the lounge area and bar, and even went back into the casino and the hotel without seeing Ravid or any of the others she might have suspected. By the time she returned to the table, the woman who had been meeting with Birk was gone and the arms dealer was on his cell phone.
“Talked for a few minutes, then said bye-bye,” said Grumpy. “Didn’t look all that happy. What do you think? Unsatisfied customer?”
Thera shrugged. The image would be looked at by analysts back in the States, who would compare it to known agents and others on their watch lists. Most of the players in international arms smuggling were male; Thera guessed the woman was a go-between for someone, maybe even a stranger picked at random to deliver a seemingly innocuous message or help check surveillance.
They had another hour and a half before they had to meet Ferg. Until then, they’d stay with Birk as long as he was in the hotel. Birk had ordered a bottle of champagne and clearly wasn’t going anywhere. “Let’s get ourselves another round of Cokes,” said Thera, signaling to the waiter. “And then maybe you can explain what’s so interesting about whacking a defenseless little ball into a black hole all day.”