Angels of Wrath ft-2

by Larry Bond

  He rubbed his eyes, staring at the screen. He had a large map of Latakia open on the desk to help him keep a visual image of the operation in his head. Van Buren and the Special Operations forces were at the airport several miles southwest of the city. They had just radioed in that they had control of the airplane Khazaal was going to use to get back to Iraq. The police and army were responding to the castle and several sites within the city. A contingent was moving to shut off the port, but so far forces had not been sent to the airport. The security there had not been notified, thanks not only to the jamming by the EC-130 but a selective cutting of the lines by Van Buren’s people.

  Thera and Monsoon were on the south side of the city, searching the hotel where the Russian had been staying. Ferguson and Guns were at the northern outskirts of Latakia, waiting for the convoy that was heading down the highway from the north. Ferg suspected that it would bypass the city and head straight to the airport. He and Guns were still on their bikes but had a car stashed not too far away that they could use if necessary. Rankin and Grumpy were north of the castle on bikes. In a few minutes they would move down to check it out if they could.

  “Something’s going on with Thera,” said Thomas, the First Team analyst who’d come down to the Cube to help monitor the data. He was sitting in the second row of temporary desks to Corrigan’s left. “Listen in to channel two.”

  Corrigan hit the preset, which isolated on her microphone. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Yes,” said Thomas. “Don’t you think that’s very odd?”

  Corrigan looked at the analyst, then hit Ferguson’s preset on the communications panel.

  “Ferg, I think we have a problem.”

  32

  LATAKIA

  “Five million dollars is a very large sum.” Coldwell pushed the drink that had been set down away. She had not ordered it, but she was glad now to have a prop. “Two million dollars.”

  “Considering the capabilities of the missile, it is quite cheap,” said Birk. “Five million dollars — the weapon cost more than five times that to make.”

  “The price includes the associated systems?”

  “Enough systems to launch the weapon, yes.” Birk forced himself to smile. He did not like the way she said that. Clearly she had been coached, but that was to be expected, surely.

  Not by Ferguson, he thought. Ferguson would simply have handled this himself.

  Who then? He had to be careful whom he sold to. Or rather, he had to make sure the price was commensurate with the risk. Five million was a handsome payoff, but was it handsome enough?

  As long as the target was not Israeli, he thought, he would be safe. The Europeans and Russians were so inept that they would have trouble even discovering what hit them, let alone mounting any sort of revenge. The Arabs were more or less the same. The Americans were capable of being nasty but were slow and clumsy, as Ferguson proved. Besides, the woman had hinted that the target was Arab, which suited Birk just fine.

  He would travel for a while in any event. Perhaps he would retire. With a good sale here, he could.

  Try his luck in Asia in a year or two? Get rid of his family relations, find a nice native woman to see to his needs?

  Why not?

  “Five million is too much,” said Coldwell. “Two million.”

  “Ah well,” said Birk, leaning back. It was so easy to tell when amateurs were bluffing.

  “I simply don’t have five million,” said Coldwell. “Two million.”

  “Two million?” Birk hesitated a long moment. Two million was a fair price on the present market, but should he settle for a fair price? In truth, prices were depressed right now, especially for large pieces of hardware. In the old days (two or three years ago), a missile like this might fetch five million easily.

  But Birk was not one for nostalgia.

  “Two. Done.”

  Coldwell had been prepared to go higher — Ravid said three — but the secret to a good negotiation was to make the other person think he had won. “Very well,” she said. “If we can work out the arrangements.”

  “What arrangements?” said Birk.

  “The turnover, and I will need technical information.”

  Birk shrugged. He hated these riders in the end game. Always there would be some chiseling down the line: ten thousand dollars for missing wires, one hundred thousand dollars to compensate for an antiquated GPS system. “I’m sure we can work the details out.”

  “Very well.” Coldwell rose.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ll contact you when I’m ready to take delivery.”

  “Wait, now,” said Birk. For a moment he feared he had been set up and would be arrested.

  “I must make other arrangements. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Hold it now, please,” said Birk. He realized that his voice had nearly cracked and smiled at himself. This was either part of her negotiating tactics or just the by-product of her being a naïf. Either way, there was no reason to panic. Certainly not.

  Coldwell stared at Birk. He didn’t trust her, but that was to be expected. She didn’t trust him. It was the basis of their relationship.

  The one person she did trust was Ravid. She hadn’t until he told her why he wanted to destroy the Muslim holy city. There was no emotion in his voice when he told her of the death of his wife and child; his tone had been flat and unaffected. That was how she knew he spoke the truth. She didn’t even hold his attack against him; it was to be expected in his position.

  “Who are you working with?” Birk asked.

  “I’m not at liberty to say. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Tell me that it’s not Khazaal.”

  She shook her head.

  “An Arab?” Birk asked.

  “I can’t say.”

  But he saw it in her face: not an Arab. “You’ll be in touch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, be in touch,” said Birk expansively. “Have some champagne before you go.”

  “Another time,” said Coldwell.

  33

  BAGHDAD

  “This brandy is very good.”

  “I’m sure,” Corrine told Bellows. “But, really, I can’t.”

  “Still on duty?” The ambassador put the snifter down, and went over to the chair. “It is after ten.”

  “The president’s counsel is always on duty.”

  “McCarthy runs everybody ragged, I hear.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. He has high standards.”

  Bellows swirled his glass gently, then took a sip, savoring the liquor. “So tell me, Corrine. Why exactly did he send you?”

  “To take a snapshot of the Middle East before the president arrives.”

  “The State Department has a regular advance team for that.”

  “The president likes a personal touch.”

  Bellows nodded but added, “There’s a rumor that you work for the CIA.”

  “Well, there’s a rumor I’d like to encourage.” Corrine laughed. “I hope you’ve helped spread it.”

  “Well, I did think it was preposterous.”

  “I don’t think it’s preposterous,” said Corrine. “I think I’d make a very good spy.”

  “You would, you would.” He took another sip. “But, seriously, why are you here? You’ve been traveling throughout the Middle East. It’s not because of the trade legislation. That’s clear.”

  “The trade legislation is part of it,” said Corrine.

  “The initiative between Israel and the Palestinians?” asked Bellows. If that were the case, he thought, she was in way over her head. Corrine was a good girl but young, and certainly unschooled in the nuances of diplomacy, let alone the Middle East. Not that he would tell her that.

  “I’m just familiarizing myself with the area,” said Corrine. “It’s been quite a while since I was in Israel and Egypt. And I’ve never been to Iraq. Or to Syria, which turned out to be a much more beautiful country than I had realized.�
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  “It’s rumored that the president is going to appoint someone to shepherd his peace plan for the Palestinians and the Israelis,” said Bellows, deciding to cut to the chase. There was no reason not to be forward with her; she was his friend’s daughter, practically his niece. If she could help, she surely would. “Am I in the running?”

  “Would I know?”

  “Would you?”

  “Well, I guess if I were a spy, I might.”

  Bellows was a veteran of several administrations, democratic as well as republican, and he knew a prevarication when he heard one.

  “I do want the job. I would take it if you’re here to offer it,” he said.

  “I’m not.”

  “Will you recommend me?”

  “You’re an old family friend. You don’t think the president would take a recommendation with a grain of salt? Or a barrelful?”

  “Iraq has turned the corner,” said Bellows, reprising a speech he’d given on their tour after she arrived. “The country is stable. It’s an example to the Middle East.”

  “You don’t think the resistance is lying low until after the last of our troops are withdrawn?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You can be honest with me.”

  Bellows put down his drink. “You’ve seen the city. What do you think?”

  “I haven’t been here long enough to form an opinion. I’d be more interested in what you think.”

  “Well, I think Iraq has turned the corner, as I said.” Bellows didn’t have a real opinion of Iraq. He knew only that the secretary of state believed it was useful to cite progress and that it was therefore useful to him to do the same, especially if he wanted a more important position.

  Like peace envoy. And then maybe secretary of state.

  The beeper at Corrine’s belt began to buzz. Corrigan or someone else on the First Team wanted to talk to her.

  “I have to return this call,” she told the ambassador. “I’m sorry. I have to go down to the bunker.”

  “Of course. We’ll chat later on.”

  “I’d like to.”

  “And you can have some brandy.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  34

  LATAKIA

  Rankin and Monsoon were heading back toward the castle when Corrigan called Rankin on the radio.

  “Ferguson wants you to head down toward Latakia. We may have a situation with Thera. We’ve lost contact with her.”

  “Where’s Monsoon?”

  “He’s outside the building where the Russian was holed up. Thera’s inside somewhere.”

  “I thought the Russian was at the meeting.”

  “We’re working on it. Just get there, OK?”

  “Yeah. We’re going.”

  * * *

  When Monsoon had seen the lights go on in the hotel room, he assumed that it was Thera. But she’d gasped a few seconds later, the sort of sound a person made when they tripped, he thought. From that point on, her radio had been dead.

  He went to the side of the building when the fire alarm began to ring, looking for a way to get in. Then he heard someone on the fire escape and saw it was Thera and the Russian.

  He slid to the corner of the building and took out his radio unit to dial into the shared team circuit. Before he could, Ferguson buzzed in on the man-to-man line.

  “Watchya got goin’, Monsoon?”

  “Thera’s in the Russian’s building. He must’ve been inside. He’s got her and taking her up the fire escape. Him or someone else. I couldn’t tell.”

  “Track them. Don’t get too close. Tonto and I are two miles away,” said Ferguson.

  “I don’t know if I can get her back without shooting him.”

  “He’s dead as far as I’m concerned,” said Ferguson. “Don’t hit her, though.”

  “That’s fine.” Monsoon slung his AK-47 over his shoulder and ran around to the fire escape, leaping up to pull the ladder down.

  * * *

  Thera moved up the fire escape slowly, partly because she was still disoriented from being slammed against the wall and partly because she thought it would give Monsoon and the others time to catch up. The Russian grumbled and pushed, but, overweight and not in particularly good shape, he stopped every few rungs to catch his breath.

  When they reached the sixth floor, Thera felt the rattle on the metal below and realized Monsoon must be following. Now she changed her tactics and began scrambling upward. But the Russian was too close. He reached up and grabbed her ankle, pulling her down. She kicked at him; he punched back.

  “Hey!” yelled Monsoon below.

  The Russian answered by firing two shots from the CZ52. The slugs clinked off the metal.

  Thera scrambled upward, reaching for her pistol beneath the bodice of her dress. Vassenka, huffing, caught up and managed to grab her leg, pulling hard enough to make her lose her grip. She fell against him, clawing but sliding past to the steel deck. The Russian fired blindly at Monsoon below, then started to climb again.

  By the time Monsoon reached Thera, she had gotten her gun out and struggled to her feet. Her knee had twisted and a stream of blood was spurting madly from her nose.

  “Let’s go,” she told Monsoon, half hopping and half running for the ladder. “Come on.”

  “You stay here. Your face is bashed.”

  “It’s just my nose,” she said, pulling herself up the ladder ahead of him.

  * * *

  At the airfield, the Delta Team bound the plane’s crew members and the fuel truck attendant, then carried them into the nearby field where they would be out of the way. They drove the fuel truck up the ramp area and outfitted it with an explosive device so it could be blown up as a diversion if necessary. Two men pulled on civilian clothes that made them appear to be pilots. By the time they were dressed, two canisters and a delivery system had been connected to the ventilation system. The canisters would deliver a mixture of oxygen and Enflurane into the cabin. Enflurane was a last-acting general anesthetic used during operations. The mixture would incapacitate everyone in the pressurized cabin within a minute if not less.

  After checking the aircraft, Colonel Van Buren trotted over to the support team, huddling with his communications sergeant as he checked in with the group watching the approach. The 737 pilot reported that he was ready to go; he had the engines idling.

  “Colonel, we have some contacts here we thought you’d like to know about,” said the operator aboard the EC-130E. “We have a pair of Dornier DO 28, liaison/transport types flying very low to the water, offshore on a line to Latakia airport. I’m advised that Israel operates this type of aircraft, designated as the Agur, and uses them for maritime patrol and occasional transport. They have the capacity to land on a short runway and can carry up to fifteen troops, sir.”

  “Are these aircraft Israeli? Are they heading here?”

  “We’re not sure,” said the controller. “Neither plane has answered radio calls and I’m informed they don’t have functional IFF.”

  The friend-or-foe identity device was essentially a radio beacon declaring who the plane belonged to. The fact that the devices were not operating and their pilots were not talking, strongly suggested that they were Israeli aircraft and that they were on something more serious than a routine training mission.

  “Sir, the F-15 escorts have the aircraft in sight and are requesting guidance. They can shoot them down at this time.”

  “Negative,” said Van Buren. He turned to the communications sergeant. “I have to speak to Corrigan, right now.”

  * * *

  Ferguson threw down his bicycle in an alley near the hotel. He had his gear, including his MP5, in the large rucksack on his back; he pulled two stun grenades from one of the pouches on the back of the pack but left the submachine gun inside, not sure whether he’d have to go into the hotel or not. Guns was just coming down the block.

  “Monsoon? Thera? What’s up?” said Ferguson over the radio. He reache
d to his belt to select their channels; neither answered.

  “EC-130 control, are you in contact with Thera?”

  “Negative. I have Sergeant Ranaman.”

  “Monsoon? Ranaman? Where the hell are you?”

  Monsoon’s out of breath voice responded. “We’re on the fire escape. He’s getting away.”

  “Where’s Thera?”

  “She’s here. She’s banged up but OK.”

  “Where’s the Russian?”

  “He just reached the roof.”

  “I’m on my way. Don’t go up until you hear from me. Don’t shoot him if you don’t have to.”

  “But you said—”

  “That was then; this is now. Relax. Everybody get on team frequency. This is a sharing time.” Ferguson pulled off his rucksack. Guns had just arrived. “I’m going up to the roof,” he told him. “Watch the door. We want Vassenka alive if we can get him. We may be able to get him to play with us after Van takes Khazaal. Rankin and Grumpy are on their way.”

  Guns glanced at the big Glock in Ferguson’s hand. “I thought you wanted him alive.”

  “This is for persuasive purposes only,” said Ferguson, sticking it in the belt of his black fatigues. He opened the pack and took out his sawed-off shotgun and a package of plastic bullets. He also grabbed a gas mask, slinging it around his neck but not donning it.

  Guns took out the grenade launcher and packed it with a large, non-lethal round, thick enough to stun a horse.

  Ferguson trotted to the hotel, lowered his shotgun so that it was at his side, and walked in. The desk person said something to him. Ferguson put up his empty hand, signaling as if to say “one minute,” and kept walking.

  A bellhop ran up toward the elevator as Ferguson pressed the button. The man looked as if he weighed three hundred pounds and wanted to pound Ferguson into the floor. Ferguson raised the shotgun, which persuaded him that following the stranger into the elevator would be very foolish.