Angels of Wrath ft-2

by Larry Bond

  “Did you?”

  “Screw yourself, of course we did.”

  “Keep looking for her,” said Ferguson. “Check back with me when you find her.”

  “If I find her.”

  “Better make it when, Corrigan.”

  * * *

  Ferguson rented a boat and took a spin out to the area where Birk generally anchored his yacht. It wasn’t there.

  Back at his hotel, Ferguson was just taking a cola from the minibar when his sat phone rang.

  “Ferguson,” he said, grabbing it.

  “There are times, Bobby, when you sound so much like your father it sends a chill down my spine.”

  “Hey, General. How are you?”

  “Incredibly busy, distracted, and forgetful, unfortunately,” said Thomas Parnelles, the head of the CIA. “How are you?”

  “Probably the same. Except for the forgetful part.”

  “Memory and concentration run in the genes. I understand you had some difficulty the other night.”

  “Our party got crashed.”

  “Shame.”

  Ferguson had known Parnelles all his life, and it was difficult when talking to him to separate the vast bulk of their relationship from the fact that Parnelles was the head of the CIA. The two roles — surrogate uncle, director of intelligence — were quite opposed to each other. Parnelles had no problem: he’d been segregating his life since before Ferguson was born.

  “I had a call from Tel Aviv,” continued Parnelles. “I spoke with David Tischler. We hadn’t spoken in many years.”

  “Good friend of yours?”

  “Not particularly. He was rather junior when I knew him. Your father liked him. They worked on a project or two together and did some traveling. But I’ve always been at arm’s length with everyone at Mossad.”

  Tischler had never mentioned Ferguson’s father. Good discipline, Ferguson thought; he wanted to keep everything at arm’s length.

  Ferguson’s approach would have been entirely different.

  “He was very impressed with Ms. Alston,” Parnelles continued. “He had something he wanted to share, but she was in transit, to Palestine, and he didn’t know where to get a hold of you.”

  “So he called you?”

  “As a matter of fact he did. I was surprised,” said Parnelles, in a tone that suggested the opposite. “They had a radar plot of an aircraft taking off from the Latakia airport two nights ago.”

  “Funny, the Syrians said it was closed.”

  “I heard that as well. The airplane went northward, toward Turkey, before it was lost on radar.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a time on that, would you?”

  “Only that it was very late. You can’t have everything.”

  “No, but you can ask.”

  They were telling him about Vassenka, Ferguson guessed. Too bad he’d already figured it out.

  “You called me the other night, Bobby. Was something wrong?”

  You tell me, thought Ferguson, but he said, “I think it’s resolved itself.”

  “That’s very good to hear. I have a great deal of confidence in you. And Ms. Alston. She’s the president’s representative on Special Demands.”

  Yeah, thought Ferguson. She’s the designated guillotine victim if something goes wrong.

  “I have to be going now, Bobby. You take care of yourself. We should have a drink when you get back. I have a new single malt I’d like to try.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  10

  CIA BUILDING 24-442, VIRGINIA

  THREE HOURS LATER…

  If the airplane had gone directly to Iraq, it would have been easy to trace. The fact that it had gone to Turkey made things slightly more difficult. Thomas had already requested access to all of the radar and other aircraft intercepts over the border. He could look not only at the summaries but also at the raw data and could call on three different people to help interpret them. But all of the flights over the Iraq border had departed from Syria. It seemed pretty clear from the Israeli data, which he had by now verified with separate NATO intercepts off Cyprus, that there had been a flight out of Latakia to Turkey — Gaziantep, to be specific; not the largest airport in the country but not a dirt strip either. It had its share of regular flights, mostly to other places in Turkey but in about a dozen instances to countries around the Middle East.

  Thomas’s mind drifted to Professor Ragguzi and his theory about the Turkey sightings or rather, to Professor Ragguzi’s two-word response to his query. It was unbelievably arrogant. Because he was right, wasn’t he?

  Of course he was.

  Thomas went back to the list of flights. There were none into Iraq. So either Ferguson was wrong about the plane having Vassenka, or he was wrong about Vassenka going to Iraq. Either way, wrong.

  Not that it would bother Ferguson, probably. Thomas knew him only from what Corrigan told him, but it seemed like nothing would bother him.

  Unlike Professor Ragguzi, obviously.

  The plane was a four-engined turboprop, probably an An-12BP “Cub,” though someone had erroneously called it a Hercules C-130. Obviously, the plane had taken off again, nearly right away. But where was it? Not in any of the intercept sheets. A plane that large would be relatively easy to detect unless it flew very, very low. Frankly, it wasn’t a good choice for sneaking across a border, unless you had to carry something pretty heavy. It was more the sort of airplane you might use as an airliner or heavy commercial transport.

  Did Professor Ragguzi know something he didn’t know? Nonsense. Thomas had a record of every spy flight out of Turkey, beginning with modified B-29s and running through to the U-2s. The spaceship sighting corresponded indisputably with a series of U-2 flights. Encouraging the UFO stories to take attention away from the U-2s was pure CIA, precisely the sort of thing the Agency used to do during the cold war. And would still do now. Any intelligence agency would.

  Even an extraterrestrial one?

  Was that what Professor Ragguzi was getting at? Were the aliens using the U-2 missions the way the CIA used the UFOs? Hiding in plain sight?

  In “plane” sight?

  Thomas began hammering his keyboard, realizing where the plane had gone.

  * * *

  Corrigan winced when he saw Thomas coming through the door. The analyst looked even more wild-eyed than normal, assuming there was a normal.

  “Ha! Ha!” shouted Thomas.

  “Are you all right?” asked Corrigan, carefully positioning himself behind the monitor.

  “Ha!” he yelled even louder.

  “I really don’t have time to guess what’s going on,” said Corrigan.

  “In plain sight. Hiding in plain sight. Plane sight. Ha!”

  Corrigan knew that if he could remain calm and not overreact, Thomas would soon calm down enough to tell him what it was he had discovered. But staying calm while a man was yelling “Ha!” at the top of his lungs in an ultrasecure bunker was a task that would try a Zen master. And Corrigan wasn’t a devotee of Eastern religion.

  “Ha!” shouted Thomas.

  “No more. What have you found?”

  Thomas shook his head. Corrigan could be so slow at times. “The UFOs used the spy missions to hide their flights.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “It was a scheduled flight. The plane from Syria landed in Turkey. Eight hours later, it took off for Iraq. Tal Ashtah New,” he added. “Took off a few hours ago and is back in Turkey. It’s a scheduled flight. The one from Iraq wasn’t; that’s what threw me off. I thought smuggler, and that’s what I looked for. It was a regular flight. A big plane. Four engines.”

  “Great,” said Corrigan, who wasn’t about to open Pandora’s box by asking what that had to do with flying saucers. “Let me get Ferg.”

  “Tell him Thatch used his credit card this afternoon in Tel Aviv.”

  “What? Thatch? The Seven Angels suspect who was blown up in Jerusalem?”


  “Ha!”

  11

  LATAKIA

  Jean Allsparté gave Ferguson a look of mock horror as the American CIA op slid in at the end of the table at the King Saudi Casino, putting down a stack of chips and pointing at the dealer. The game was blackjack, and Ferguson’s luck ran hot for the first five hands; he won four of them. Now armed with a decent stake, he began betting more strategically, keeping better track of the hands and adjusting his wagering accordingly. After a dozen or so hands, his pile of chips had grown considerably.

  Allsparté was both amused and annoyed at this, and kept glancing at Ferguson. He began betting haphazardly. Ferguson waited until Allsparté had a particularly lucky win — he hit sixteen and got a five — then announced in a very loud voice, “I can’t believe you’re counting the cards. And so blatantly.”

  “I don’t count cards,” said Allsparté in Algerian-accented French.

  The dealer stepped back to take a sip of water. A manager came over and had a word. A larger card chute was ordered over and more decks added to the deal. This annoyed Allsparté immensely: the desired effect. He tried hard not to be flustered, but the larger deck threw off the Algerian’s system, for contrary to what he told Ferguson, he did count cards. After a string of losses, he could no longer contain his impatience. He grabbed his drink from the table and stalked up to the tiered lounge area a short distance away.

  Ferguson played two more rounds, collected his chips and went up to the table.

  “What do you want?” asked Allsparté in his native French. He did not use the polite pronoun.

  “Birk,” said Ferguson. His sat phone, set on vibrate, began to buzz, but he ignored it. “I’m looking for him.”

  “You ruin my night because of him?” said Allsparté, using even less polite pronouns.

  Ferguson scratched the side of his temple.

  “I need to find him.”

  “What was he going to sell you? I will get it ten percent cheaper, just to be rid of you.”

  “Missiles,” said Ferguson. “Scuds.”

  Allsparté made a face and picked up his drink, but at last he was being serious. Ferguson watched the Algerian calculating what to say.

  “The Polack is not so crazy as to sell Scuds,” said Allsparté finally. “And not to you.”

  “To who then?” Ferguson mixed real questions with dodges, making it more difficult for anyone to follow his trail.

  “He has none. Birk would never sell a Scud.”

  “Did Vassenka buy from someone else?”

  “Which agency do you work for? MI6? Or the Americans?”

  “I have my own interests.”

  “Which are?”

  “I’m looking to blow up something very big.”

  “The only thing that Birk had that would interest you was a cruise missile,” said Allsparté. “He mentioned to me that he would sell it soon.”

  “An American missile?”

  “Don’t be absurd. A Russian weapon.”

  “Where did he keep it?”

  “Around.”

  “In the port?”

  Allsparté shrugged. “I don’t inquire too deeply.”

  “Did you transport it for him?”

  Allsparté shook his head.

  “Is it still for sale? Or did Vassenka buy it?”

  “You should know that Vassenka is not a user of missiles.”

  “Khazaal.”

  Allsparté shrugged.

  “Did Khazaal buy some rocket fuel or Scud parts?”

  “You have an obsession with Scuds; you must work for the Americans.”

  “I can pay a good price for Scuds.”

  “You should talk to Birk. He is the seller, not I. I move things at his request.

  “What have you moved lately?”

  Allsparté shook his head. “Very little.”

  “You know where he is?”

  “I do not keep track.”

  “What about the Siren missile. I want it.”

  “Really, you should address your questions to him.”

  “I need a serious missile,” Ferguson told Allsparté, deciding to push things as far as he could. “Birk was going to sell me a Siren missile. But Birk disappeared.”

  “A shame.”

  “Where can I find something similar?”

  “Have you spoken to Ras?”

  “Claims he can’t help me,” said Ferguson, which was true.

  “Well, then, neither can I.”

  “Did Birk sell the Siren to Khazaal?”

  “What would an Iraqi do with a cruise missile?”

  “Same thing I want to do.”

  Allsparté shook his head. “If I knew where Birk was, I would tell you just to get you away from me. I can’t stand your odor. But I do not.”

  Ferguson leaned very close and lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “If I find out you’re lying, it’s not going to be pretty.”

  Allsparté stared at him for a moment, then nodded almost imperceptibly. “I don’t know where he or the missile is.”

  * * *

  The aircraft the Israelis had tracked and that Thomas had traced was large enough to carry a Siren cruise missile and its associated hardware. Which suggested to Ferguson that whoever had helped Vassenka had purchased the missile from Birk and taken the weapon with the expert to Iraq. Birk might even have sold the weapon to Vassenka himself, provided the Russian would pay the undoubtedly steep premium he would ask. Birk complained a great deal about Russians, but in the end money was stronger than his prejudices.

  Ferguson plied the casinos for another two hours, but failed to hear anything about where Birk was. Nor did the bugs pick up activity in Coldwell’s room. The video image had been tentatively matched against a driver’s license picture. The match was not perfect, but for Ferguson the ID was synched by the fact that Coldwell had disappeared from her Chicago-area home. He didn’t think she had bought Birk’s weapon and wasn’t surprised that she was missing again: Coldwell had probably approached someone with a less well-developed sense of propriety or humor than Birk and paid for her insanity with her cash and life.

  “I have been wondering when you would show up again,” said Ras when Ferguson walked into the Barroom. “But where is your wife?”

  “She has a headache,” said Ferguson.

  They bantered back and forth a bit, Ras noting that the town had been quiet of late.

  “Funny you should mention that,” said Ferg. “I hear your competition is hiding out.”

  “What competition?”

  “Birk.”

  “Why would he hide?”

  “Supposedly because he supplied the Israelis with the weapons that were used to blow up the Iraqis at the airport.”

  “Birk? Never.”

  “It’s what I hear.”

  “I would not believe that.”

  “Someone told me he’s hiding out in the yacht he sold to buy the Sharia. It’s called the Saudi King and anchored near Jezira,” said Ferguson.

  “Why would he hide there? Everyone knows he sold it.”

  “I think that was the idea. Then again, maybe not.” Ferguson poked the lime twist in his drink. “People tell me things, and I believe them. I’m just a gullible fool.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Ferguson slid a small speedboat around the ships moored off Jezira, a floating dock large enough to earn the Arab name for island. Corrigan’s photo analysts had not been able to find Sharia anywhere off Syria. Clearly the yacht was gone, but was Birk? Linking him to the attack at the airport was the surest way Ferg could think of to find out if Birk was or wasn’t in Latakia; if the authorities came looking for him here, then clearly he was nowhere else to be found.

  Of course, there was always the possibility that Birk was aboard his old yacht. Ferguson decided to eliminate that possibility before the police arrived. He drew up next to the large craft and hauled himself aboard. The vessel was empty, but it took longer than he’d planned to check it out.
There were several large crates in the cabin area, and for a few minutes Ferguson thought he had actually stumbled onto part of the cruise missile. This did not prove to be the case, though the discovery did pique Ferguson’s interest: the crates contained naval mines. He took some photos with his digital camera to be used for future reference and went below to see if some sort of mechanism had been set up to disperse the mines, as impractical as this seemed. It had not, nor was there anything else aboard to explain the mines further. Ferguson decided it wasn’t worth puzzling out at the moment, and returned topside to leave.

  As he untied his boat, he saw a large shadow about a half mile away, close enough for him to see that it was a Syrian corvette that operated out of Tartus to the south.

  Its guns could make mincemeat of Ferguson’s boat in about thirty seconds, but the ship wasn’t half the threat the two Zodiacs he spotted coming from the shore were. And to prove that particular point, bullets began to fly from their bows.

  12

  BAGHDAD

  Rankin heard noises inside the room that suggested James was not alone.

  He knocked anyway. When James didn’t answer, he knocked again.

  “Go away!”

  “Hey, James, I gotta talk to you.”

  “Rankin, buddy. I’ll be with you in half an hour.”

  “Gotta talk to you now.”

  “Can’t do it.”

  The girl who was with him in the room giggled.

  “I’m coming in,” said Rankin. “I have a key.”

  He was bluffing, though he did have a set of picks. Unlike Ferguson and Thera, he wasn’t very good at undoing locks. It’d be easier for him to simply break down the door.

  “All right. Hold on.”

  The girl James was with sat in a chair in the corner when the door was open, watching quietly from under a blanket. She looked awfully young, but Rankin wasn’t in a position to ask for a driver’s license. James stood near the bed in a pair of jeans and no shirt, his pigeon chest heaving. He took a swig from a bottle of red wine.

  “I need a translator,” Rankin told him.

  “So?”