by Larry Bond
“Before I forget—the Youth Soccer League,” said Ferguson, pulling a folded envelope from his pocket. “Covers the shortfall. You can end the season.”
“You are a saint, Ferg, a true saint.”
“I thought you said I was a sinner.”
“A man can be both, and sure as I’m sitting here, you’re proof of that.”
Ferguson laughed. Lunch arrived. Casey ate less than a quarter of his plain piece of bread.
“Do you remember Ryan Dabson?” said Father Casey after the plates were cleared.
“Sure.”
“Working for IBM now.”
“Oh, there’s a surprise,” said Ferg, mocking his old classmate.
“I still remember pulling him off of you one practice.”
“I’m sure it was the other way around,” said Ferguson.
“It might have been,” said the priest, “but you wouldn’t want to fight him now. You’d be giving away a hundred pounds,” warned Casey, who had no idea what Ferguson did, except that he worked for the government. Casey began talking about Dabson, now married and with a little one on the way. The priest had the tone of a proud father, and in Dabson’s case, he had every right; he’d surely influenced Dabson more than his biological father, who’d left his mother when Ryan was three. Dabson had attended school with the help of a well-off aunt; when her funds ran low, Casey had arranged a scholarship.
“He’s planning a trip to Dublin in a few months. Tried to get me to go,” added Casey.
“You ought to,” said Ferguson.
“What? To Ireland? I left the country for good when I came here, Ferg. I’ll not go back there now, not even to die.” He fell silent but only for a moment. “I’ll tell ya the place I’d look to go, if I had the chance: Jerusalem.”
“Jerusalem?”
“Aye. The Holy Land. Before I shake the mortal coil, to trod where Christ did. Aye, that I would give half my soul to the devil for.”
“So go.”
“Priests aren’t rolling in dough, Ferguson. Not at all.”
“Your order won’t send you?”
“It’s not the sort of thing I’d ask them to do,” said Casey. “It would be an abuse of privilege.”
“Take that money,” said Ferg, pointing at the envelope.
The priest’s face blanched. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Ferguson.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I meant a rich parishioner might find a way to contribute.”
“If it’s the present company you’re speaking of, you’re not a parishioner.”
“Relax.”
“And you claim not to be rich. If I thought you were, son, I would have been asking you to support the basketball team as well. Now there you would do so much good for some boys who didn’t have the choices you had yourself in life.”
“Not lacrosse?”
“Can’t trust the kids with sticks these days.”
Ferguson sipped his beer. Today was his last day off, and his last in the States. It was likely that the CIA agent wouldn’t be back for a long time, which meant it could well be the last time he saw Case, as the kids used to call him. “Why would you want to go to Jerusalem?”
“’Tis the Holy City, Ferg. The place of our good Lord’s passion. A special place.”
“Sure, if you’re a fanatic. The whole Middle East is wall-to-wall with crazies.”
“Religion is not fanaticism, Ferguson. We’ve had this discussion before. I thought you’d have been paying attention. Belief is not the fault of God; you can’t be blaming God for man’s sins. No, sir. Your terrorism is not God’s fault. It’s blasphemy to say that. A great sin.”
“I was just saying it’s an interesting place.”
“It’s a place I’d like to go. Better there than Ireland, of that I’m sure.” As a young man, he had seen bad times in Ireland—mother murdered and his father convicted of it—but even he couldn’t say why that had turned him toward God. The Lord hadn’t appeared to him on a cloud or spoken to him in a darkened room, but he had just as surely been called.
“Jerusalem, huh?” said Ferg, checking his watch.
“Don’t get any funny ideas into your head now, son.”
“That’s all that’s in there, funny ideas.” Ferguson rose, then pointed at the pocket the priest had put the envelope into. “Make sure there’s no name in the bulletin connected with that.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” said the priest. “You’re a blackguard as far as I’m concerned, no truer blackguard in all Christendom.” He smiled and gave Ferguson his hand. “Thanks, lad. A lot of kids will be better for it.”
“I doubt it. But you don’t.” Ferguson took a pair of twenties from his pocket and dropped them on the table. “So do you want the mortal sins by category, or can I just hop around?”
ACT I
And the first went, and poured out his vial upon the earth; and there fell a noisome and grievous sore upon the men which had the mark of the beast …
—Revelation 16:2 (King James Version)
1
JERUSALEM THREE DAYS LATER . . .
“Coming at you, Ferg.”
Ferguson made a show of looking at his watch as their subject, a well-dressed man in his early forties, walked out of the small cafe on Ben Yedhuda Street, heading southward in the direction of Nakhalat Shiva. Ferguson began walking before the man quite caught up with him, letting him catch up and then pass him. Their subject continued past a row of restored nineteenth century residential buildings before crossing the street and going inside a jewelry store.
“All right, I give up,” said Ferguson into the microphone at the sleeve of his shirt. “What the hell is he doing?”
“Got me,” said Menacham Stein, the Mossad agent who’d trailed the man out of the café. “He’s your guy; you tell me.”
Ferguson heard Stephen Rankin snicker in the background. He pulled out his tourist guide, leafing through it as if lost. Inside the store, their subject went to one of the side counters and bent over a display: completely innocuous, but then everything he’d done since arriving seemed completely innocuous.
“Hey, Skippy, you in the market for a watch?” said Ferguson, speaking to Rankin.
“Screw yourself, Ferg,” said Rankin. He’d been called Skip since he was a kid, but absolutely hated being called Skippy. The fact that Ferguson found this amusing irked him even more.
“Make it an expensive one,” added Ferg.
Rankin pushed out of the side street where he’d been waiting. Ferguson took a step back on the sidewalk as Rankin approached, watching their subject inside. As far as Ferg could see, he hadn’t spoken to the proprietor yet.
Though two inches shorter than Ferguson at five eleven, Rankin weighed close to forty pounds more. Bulky at the shoulders and with a face that looked as if it belonged to a middle linebacker, he appeared naturally menacing; the owner drew back apprehensively as he entered the shop.
“So, Menacham, this jewelry store a cover for something?” Ferguson asked as he played up his lost tourist act, fumbling with a map and moving to the side of the street.
“Few jewelers are known for their radical beliefs,” replied the Mossad agent. “Maybe he’s looking for a good deal on a ring.”
Ferguson examined his map. He and two other members of the First Team had trailed Benjamin Thatch to Jerusalem the day before as part of an operation to break up an American group that called itself Seven Angels. The title was a reference to a passage in The Revelation of Saint John the Divine in the Bible concerning the Apocalypse. Based loosely around a church in Santa Fe, New Mexico, the group was dedicated to facilitating the Apocalypse’s early arrival and had apparently amassed more than a million dollars to do so. The FBI, which had initiated the case, believed the money would be handed over to radical terrorist groups willing to cause mayhem in the Holy Land.
Some of the briefing papers on the group erroneously identified them as “fanatical Christians.” In fact, the members view
ed Christianity, as well as Judaism and Islam, as having run its course. Only a few of the group’s active members had even been born Christian; the rest came from Jewish, Buddhist, and agnostic backgrounds. They interpreted various scriptures, especially John the Divine’s Revelation, to predict a new two-thousand-year millennium of peace … built on incredible bloodshed, of course.
Among the many various groups of crazies the FBI kept tabs on, the church had caught their attention not because they looked toward the destruction of holy sites in the Middle East, but because an eccentric millionaire had apparently bequeathed them money to encourage it. Failing to penetrate the church’s membership, the Bureau had put several of its leaders under surveillance over the past few months. The church’s leader had recently declared that the time for the new age to dawn was rapidly approaching. With the exception of some minor currency and tax violations, the Bureau lacked evidence that the group had committed any actual crimes. Then one of the members had made plane reservations to Israel using an assumed name. The man was Benjamin Thatch.
The CIA and the Office of Special Demands had been brought in to help only a week before. In Ferguson’s opinion, it was one of the only things the Bureau had done right. They didn’t know who Thatch was meeting or exactly where he was going; they didn’t even know that much about him, except that he was an accountant.
As the agent in charge of the First Team, Ferguson had high standards. Officially known as the Joint Services Special Demands Project Office, the First Team was a CIA-Special Forces unit that could call on a wide range of resources, including a combined Ranger/Special Forces task group that had its own specially modified MC-130s. The Team had been created to address unconventional threats in an unconventional way, without interference from the bureaucracy of either the intelligence or military establishments. The arrangement made Ferguson and the men and women who worked with him essentially free agents, and Ferg was a free agent par excellence.
The Mossad had been called in on the Seven Angels project not only because they had a handle on all the radicals in the region but also because it was nearly impossible to run an operation in the Middle East without their knowledge and at least tacit approval. As usual, Ferguson found the Mossad operatives assigned to assist incredibly efficient and utterly dedicated. They were also, he knew, potentially ruthless and ultimately loyal to Israel, not the United States.
“Coming out,” said Rankin.
Ferg pulled a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket.
“What was he doing?” asked Stein.
“Don’t know. Didn’t talk to anyone that I saw.”
Ferguson bent down, pretending to admire the display in the store he’d stopped in front of. He watched Thatch’s reflection as he passed, counted to three, then started to follow.
“Where we heading?” Ferguson asked Stein.
“Not a clue,” said the Israeli. His accent had a decidedly Brooklyn flavor to it, a legacy of several years as a case officer in New York City. “You’re moving parallel to the Old City, which would be his most likely destination if he were a tourist.”
“Maybe he’s lost,” said Ferg. “It’s his first time overseas, let alone here. I was just about born here, and I’m confused.”
Ferguson slowed his pace to let Thatch get farther ahead as he crossed the street. He followed at about ten yards as the subject continued to the next intersection and then turned right. A block later, the distance had widened to fifteen yards. Ferguson decided to close it up as Thatch turned right down a side street; he trotted forward, then stopped abruptly at the intersection, momentarily unsure where Thatch was. Cursing silently he started to trot again, then stopped as Thatch appeared in the crowd a few paces ahead. Ferguson followed as the traffic cleared. Thatch waited a moment at the curb for the traffic and crossed, all alone on the block. Ferguson crossed behind him.
A short, frumpy-looking woman wearing a raincoat turned the corner and walked in Thatch’s direction.
Someone at the other end of the block shouted. As Ferguson turned to see why, the woman exploded.
2
JERUSALEM
Ferguson woke up in the ambulance, the siren piercing the sides of his skull.
“I’m OK,” he groaned, trying to get up. The attendants had belted him in, and he didn’t get very far.
“Just take it easy,” said Stein.
Ferguson didn’t recognize the voice at first. He tried again to get up. “There some sort of force field holding me down or what?”
“You’re strapped in,” said Stein.
“Don’t want me leaving without paying the bill, huh?”
Stein leaned over Ferguson. “You’re going to be all right. You have a concussion and some cuts.”
“Yeah, and my leg’s missing, right?”
“Your sense of humor’s intact.”
“Already on the road to recovery.” Ferguson worked his arms out from under the restraints and undid the belt.
“You think you should do that?” asked Stein as he sat up.
“Probably not.” His head pounded like a jackhammer. “Where’s Thatch?”
“Gone,” said Stein.
“Convenient.”
Stein didn’t say anything.
“Who was the woman?” Ferguson asked.
“We’re working on it. She tried to get on a bus at the corner around the block, but someone saw that she had a raincoat and the sun was out.”
So probably, thought Ferguson through the pounding, it was just incredibly bad luck for Thatch. And for them. Maybe the FBI wasn’t incompetent; maybe the case was just cursed.
Ferguson brought his legs down to the floor. “All right, let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Check out his hotel room.”
“I’ll call your people. You’re going to the hospital.”
Rankin watched from the end of the block as the Israelis continued to work. Barely an hour had passed since the suicide bomber had blown herself up, and already the cleanup had begun. A truck with two large panes of glass pulled up nearby; after a brief conversation with the driver, the police waved it through the barricade. The area would soon be reopened to traffic, and within a few hours it would be difficult to tell that anything had happened here. This was all part of the Israeli coping mechanism: you dealt with the horror brusquely and moved on quickly.
Besides Thatch and herself, the woman had killed two elderly men walking behind her. About a dozen people had been injured, including Ferguson. As the police continued to interview potential eyewitnesses, Rankin took another walk around the block, trying to decide whether someone could have been acting with the suicide bomber as a lookout. The answer was yes, but even Rankin thought it was unlikely that Thatch had been assassinated in some sort of elaborate plot.
Manson, the FBI agent who’d been in the control van, walked up to Rankin when he returned. He was the ranking FBI agent on the detail to Jerusalem, though the surveillance operation was under Ferguson’s direct command. “What do you think?” asked Manson.
Rankin shrugged. “You tell me.”
“Crappy luck.”
“Yeah.”
“Ferguson called from the hospital. He wants us to check out the hotel room. Our forensics people are on the way.”
“Yeah. OK, let’s do it,” said Rankin. “I’ll call Guns.”
Guns was Marine Gunnery Sergeant Jack “Guns” Young, another First Team member, who had been tasked to stay at Thatch’s hotel and see if anyone went into his room.
“You want to stop at the hospital, check on Ferguson?” asked Manson.
“Why?”
Surprised by the sharp, almost bitter tone of Rankin’s answer, Manson said nothing.
Rankin’s sat phone rang as they drove over. He took it out of his pocket and slowly swung up the antenna. “Rankin.”
“What’s going on?” asked Jack Corrigan. Corrigan worked back in the States, supporting the First Team from a specially equipped communications bu
nker known as the Cube. It was located outside of Washington in a Virginia industrial park. The Cube sat below an innocuous-looking building owned by the CIA, officially known as CIA Building 24-442.
“Same as ten minutes ago.”
“Thirty,” said Corrigan.
“Whatever.”
“How’s Ferguson?”
“Doc said he’d live. He’s already giving orders.”
“The Israelis know not to release his name, right?”
“It’s their show,” Rankin told Corrigan.
“What’s that mean, Sergeant?”
Before coming to work for First Team and the CIA, Corrigan had been an officer in special operations, in PsyOp. As far as Rankin was concerned, PsyOp wasn’t real fighting; it was trick fighting, lighting, bullshitting. Sissy crap, even if you did get away with it. And of course, Corrigan had been an officer, which meant he didn’t do any real work anyway.
“Corrine Alston wants to talk to you,” said Corrigan when Rankin didn’t answer. “She’s worried about Ferg.”
“She doesn’t have to worry,” said Rankin. But he waited for her to come on the line.
“Stephen, what’s going on?”
“Looks like some Palestinian whack job blew herself and our subject up. I don’t think he was a specific target.”
“How’s Ferg?”
“OK.”
“Corrigan said he was in the hospital.”
“He’s all right. They’re checking him out.”
“The embassy will send someone to the morgue to handle Thatch,” said Corrine. “Can you get over there with them to see if someone else turns up?”
“Not a problem,” Rankin said. She was right; he should have thought of that himself. “I’ll get back to you.”
Ferguson held his hand up as the nurse approached with the needle. “I don’t need it, thanks.”
“It’s just a painkiller.”
“Doesn’t look like Scotch.” He smiled at her, and, keeping his hand out to ward her off, pushed off the gurney. “You’re frowning at me,” he said, reaching for the curtains. “Don’t do that.”