Angels of Wrath

1

“There’s been an explosion outside the airport at Latakia,” Wu told Corrine from the Cube. “I’m looking at an image of it now. Several vehicles have been destroyed. It looks like there may have been a large truck bomb near the vehicles.”

“Was it the convoy we were targeting?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Give me Mr. Corrigan,” said Corrine.

“Uh—”

“Now.”

The line clicked.

“What’s going on?” Corrine demanded.

“We’re working it out. We don’t know, exactly.”

“Did we do this?” said Corrine.

“No.”

“Where’s Ferguson?”

Corrigan hesitated, but then said that Ferguson and the other members of the First Team who had gone into the city to rescue Thera were still at the hotel.

“They’re still there?” Corrine asked.

“I’m trying to figure it out. This is all happening right as we speak and—”

“Connect me to Colonel Van Buren.”

“With all due respect—”

“Do it, Jack.”

Once again the line clicked. The connection now had a slight buzz of static, and there were background sounds.

“Ms. Alston?” Van Buren sounded subdued.

“What’s the situation?”

“All of the vehicles in the caravan were destroyed. Khazaal appears to have been among them. There were no survivors.”

“You’re sure? This isn’t a trick?”

“It isn’t a trick. Someone came and checked all of the vehicles.”

“It had to be the Israelis,” said Corrine.

“Wouldn’t be a bad guess,” said Van Buren. “The Syrian army has responded from their part of the base, and I’ve been told by the EC-130 to expect the local police force. We’re going to get out. My men are boarding the 737.”

“What about Ferguson?” asked Corrine.

“Our contingency called for them to find another way out. I think it would be safer for them to stay away from the airport at this time.”

“What happened to those two Israeli planes? Were they involved?”

“The last I checked, they were still offshore. Ma’am, at the moment—”

“Yes, I realize you have a lot to do. Please proceed.”

“Thank you.”

Corrine leaned back in her seat.

It had to be the Israelis.

Or Ferguson.

Certainly it had been the Israelis: they had aircraft offshore, a deeply covered agent in the city…

So why was she so mad at Ferg?

2

“There was an explosion at the airport,” Corrigan told Ferguson. “The caravan with Khazaal was targeted. There was at least one bomb, probably several.”

“The Israelis,” said Ferguson. It was a statement, not a question. He finally understood what Ravid was doing here, what had been going on all around him. It was the sort of puzzle he should have figured out, could have figured out, if only he’d taken a step back.

“Why would they hit Khazaal?” Corrigan asked.

“They didn’t. They wanted Meles,” Ferguson said. “He hit the Israeli airliner bound for Rome, remember? Just like we were willing to take him if he went along with Khazaal for a ride, they got our guy, too. They’re probably going to want to be thanked.”

“I don’t think Corrine liked it much.”

“Tell me about those planes we spotted off the coast. Where are they?” Ferguson shouldered his backpack and picked up his bike. Thera and Monsoon were standing next to him. Guns had grabbed his bike and ridden after the Russian. Ferguson switched the radio to Rankin’s direct channel and told him what was going on. “Don’t go to the airport. Meet us back at the hotel.”

According to Corrigan, the Israeli aircraft had stopped orbiting and were now flying southwestward, back out to sea.

“They were backups in case the bomb missed,” Ferguson told him. “We probably messed up their timing. Ravid must have figured out somehow that Meles was going with Khazaal on the airplane. Pretty good work. They must have a bunch of people sprinkled around, enough to spot the caravan and ignite the bomb.”

“Why didn’t they tell us, Ferg?”

“Maybe they did, and we just didn’t understand.”

“When?”

Ferguson started to pedal without answering. The most likely scenario, he guessed, was something along these lines: Mossad had been targeting Meles and stumbled across Khazaal. They felt an obligation to tip off their American allies but withheld enough information — which meant just about everything — so they wouldn’t jeopardize their own show, which was a takedown of Meles. They tracked Khazaal first, or tried to — the First Team operation probably crossed them up then, too — then came here and got him.

Parnelles had probably been informed or at least given some sort of indication.

And Corrine?

Corrine had probably told him everything they had told her. Whether she should have been able to read more into it or not was another question.

He rode up toward Souria, where the taxi had stopped. Guns was waiting; the Russian was long gone.

The driver and the man he’d grabbed were not. Both had rather large bullet holes in their heads.

“I lost him, Ferg. I’m sorry,” said Guns.

“It’s all right.” Ferguson unzipped his backpack and fished out the small attaché case. “Take this back to our hotel,” he told Thera and Monsoon, who’d ridden up behind him. “Guns and I are going to ride up to the train station on the traffic circle. We’ll meet you in the room. Be ready to rock. You can pack the nonlethal stuff away.”

Ferguson handed the briefcase with the gems to Thera but didn’t let go.

“Give us exactly two hours,” he told her. “You don’t hear from us, you leave. The blue boat at the Versailles Marina is ours. You go fifty miles due west, exactly due west, and there’ll be a cruiser waiting for you. That’s our lifeboat. Corrigan knows. You got it?”

“Two hours,” she said. “Blue boat.”

He could tell from the way she was looking at him that she wouldn’t go. He turned to Monsoon. “Two hours. You got me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You drag her if you have to.” He turned back to Thera. “If something goes wrong and you don’t leave, I’m going to personally smack that pretty cheek of yours, you got it?”

“Suck an egg,” she said, grabbing the briefcase away.

3

Thomas replayed the Global Hawk imagery at his workstation several times, watching again and again the destruction of the caravan. He was not so much interested in the event itself, a rather conventional, if spectacular, remote detonation of very large bombs in tractor-trailers parked along the road leading to the airport gate. What fascinated him, even unnerved him a little, was the fact that the Mossad operation had proceeded in parallel to the First Team’s without being detected.

In retrospect there would certainly be plenty of clues. They had practically tripped over it several times: Ravid, the airplanes. But they’d been so intent on their own operation that they hadn’t seen what was in front of their faces.

It was not, he reasoned, a bad thing from their point of view: while politically it would have been better to capture Khazaal and put him on trial, the ultimate goal was to eliminate him as a threat. And he had been eliminated.

But was there more to the picture now that they weren’t seeing?

The Russian hadn’t been at the meeting. Had he not been invited? Had his deal already been set?

Corrigan, who’d been standing over his shoulder for several minutes, became exasperated that he couldn’t get the analyst’s attention. “Thomas!” he said, practically screaming.

“More important, what was the deal supposed to be?” said Thomas, finishing his thought out loud.

“What are you talking about?”

“Why wasn’t the Russian at the castle?”

“Maybe he was due later. Listen, there are going to be all sorts of questions about the attack on the caravan. I need you—”

“Too busy,” said Thomas, waving his hand.

“What?”

“I have to go check something.”

He turned and left the area on a run. Corrigan shook his head, once more ruing the day he had recommended the eccentric for his job.

4

Vassenka wasn’t at the train station, or anywhere nearby. Ferguson decided it wasn’t worth spending any more time at the moment looking for him. As they rode back to the hotel, Guns berated himself for letting the Russian get away, angry that he had gone after the women rather than hanging back and waiting.

“Could’ve been a brilliant guess,” offered Ferguson. “And you could’ve ended up like the taxi driver.”

“Nah.”

“Even marines don’t win every battle,” said Ferguson.

“Yeah.”

“I can hum a few bars of ‘Halls of Montezuma’ if it’ll make you feel any better.”

Guns laughed, but it was a forced laugh, and Ferguson gave up trying to cheer him up.

By the time they got back to the hotel, Rankin and the others had gotten an update from Corrigan. Van Buren and the assault team had taken off, successfully eluding the Syrian authorities. Intercepts from the EC-130, still orbiting offshore, indicated that the Syrians’ preliminary guess was that the Israelis were responsible. There had been as yet no mention of the incident on Syrian TV, which was not unusual; the media was government controlled.

Not knowing what to expect, Rankin had stacked guns and ammo on the coffee table. The rest of their gear was packed and ready for express departure. Thera, sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the wall, monitored the video flies that were covering the lobby and street.

Ferguson changed from his black fatigues into Western-style civilian clothes, then sat down in one of the chairs in the common room, considering what to do. The odds heavily favored checking out now; the police were sure to come down on every foreigner in town. But the fact that Vassenka hadn’t been at the meeting interested him.

Had he been late for his date? Or was Khazaal supposed to pick him up on the way from the castle?

Or was he not involved at all?

That seemed like far too much of a coincidence.

Meles was planning something big; he was a big kind of guy. Did the fact that he was working with Khazaal mean he was going to help Khazaal in Iraq, or did Khazaal have something to help him elsewhere?

If it weren’t for the jewels, Ferguson would have figured it like this: Khazaal had several old Scuds and wanted to get the best deal he could for them. He hooked up with Meles. Vassenka would be brought in to fix them up once the deal was completed. The fact that he was already in town meant they wanted to move pretty quickly.

That scenario made sense, except for the jewels. Vassenka would be expensive, but three million bucks was more than he was worth.

Unless they were meant to buy something else as well. Like a few of the missiles Birk was selling.

Birk had claimed there was only one.

“Hey, Ferg. You know that Israeli undercover agent, Aaron Ravid?” said Rankin. “He’s walking on the street outside about twenty yards from the hotel entrance, staggering around. Looks like he’s been shot.”

5

Corrine placed a call through to the White House to alert the president to the situation. She reached Jess Northrup, the assistant chief of staff, whose main mission in life was to keep the president from falling more than a half hour behind his daily schedule.

He hadn’t succeeded yet.

“I’m afraid I have bad news,” she told Northrup. “I have to talk to the president personally.”

“All right.”

When the president came on the line, Corrine plunged into the situation, telling him everything she knew. Uncharacteristically, he didn’t interrupt her.

“Well, now, Miss Alston, I would say that this is less than optimum,” he said when she was finally done. “Reminds me of a bear harvesting a cornfield: not practical or pretty.”

“No, sir.”

“Although I suppose there is something to be said for the fact that the individuals in those vehicles will not have to be dealt with again. I suppose that, down the line, we may even think that Israel did us a favah. But that would be fah down the line.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Does the State Department know?”

“We’ve informed them.”

“Very well. Let us move on,” said McCarthy. “Get the rest of your people out of danger. I will see you in Baghdad Tuesday, will I not?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be here.”

“Very good, then, Miss Alston. Keep me informed.”

6

Ferguson took a step out from the shadow as the man staggered past him, touching him lightly on the shoulder and then backing away. It was definitely Ravid, and the Israeli looked very much the worse for wear: he was bleeding from the forehead; the side of his face looked battered; and a patch of black blood stood out on his shirt beneath his jacket.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Ferguson asked him.

Ravid tried to focus. “You’re an American.”

“Yeah, cut the bull. I know you’re Mossad. One of my people saw you in Tel Aviv.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m not in a mood to play games tonight,” Ferguson told him. “For one thing, you guys just blew my operation. And for another it’s past my bedtime.”

“Police—”

“You don’t want the police.”

Rankin had circled around the block from the other direction. He raised Ferguson’s shotgun and steadied it against Ravid’s head.

“I could take that gun from your man,” said Ravid.

“Then I’d have to kill you,” said Ferguson.

“It’s clear, Ferg,” said Guns over the radio. He and Monsoon had checked the area to see if Ravid was followed. “Nothing, not even a wino or a cat.”

“All right. We’re going to take him upstairs. After we check him for bugs and see if this is blood or catsup.”

Ravid’s wounds were minor but real, scrapes that could have been from shrapnel or simply falling down, said Rankin. He wouldn’t say how he got them.

“Why did you guys take down Meles Abaa without telling us what was going on?” Thera asked. “We could have helped.”

Ravid looked at her as if she’d suggested the earth was flat.

“The real question is, why’d you come here?” Ferguson asked.

“I didn’t.”

Ferguson would have sooner believed that pigs could fly than that Ravid had simply wandered by. But there was no sense arguing with him; he was good enough that he wouldn’t say anything he didn’t want to.

“Go inside and lay down,” Ferguson told him.

“I want to leave.”

“Yeah, I know. Inside.” Ferguson thumbed at the bedroom; Ravid got up reluctantly and went in.

“Hell of a coincidence him showing up here,” said Rankin.

“Ya think?” Ferguson snorted.

“Maybe those aircraft we intercepted were supposed to take him out.”

Ferguson shrugged. He doubted it. And if they were, the Israelis would have had a backup, and a backup for the backup.

“Hey, Ferg, you better take a look at the feed from the video bug you planted in the lobby,” said Monsoon, who’d taken the watch. “Two plainclothes guys and a squad of soldiers just walked in the front door.”

Some people choose hotels because of the room service; others look for marble bathrooms and king-sized beds. For Bob Ferguson, multiple escape routes were the deciding factor. He sent Thera, Guns, and Rankin to the stairway, telling them to go to the roof and cross over two buildings before descending to an alley that ran to the next street over, where the team’s safe car had been parked. He and the others, with Ravid, took the elevator to the next floor down, where Ferguson jammed it so it couldn’t close. They went to the backup room, where the windows overlooked the side alley.

Ferguson tied a rope to the leg of the coffee table, opened the window, and threw it down.

“Monsoon, you go first. There should be a Dumpster down there. If it looks soft enough, we’ll throw Ravid here down.”

“I can climb,” said the Israeli.

“Come on, let’s go. The Syrians are used to chasing people. They’re pretty good at it.”

The Dumpster was there, which meant it was only a two-story climb. Ferguson sent Grumpy down next.

“What’s your game?” Ferguson asked Ravid.

“I’m not playing a game.”

“Can you climb, or should I throw you?”

“Climb.”

Ferguson watched him go down. Then he went and unhooked the rope, deciding they would do better not to leave any telltale signs of their departure.

Ferguson glanced down into the alley, where the others were waiting, then pulled out his sat phone and called Corrigan.

“Ferg, why are you using the phone? Is there a problem with the radio?”

“I don’t know. Ravid showed up at the hotel. The Syrian police just came in, and they look like they’re looking for him.”

“Aaron Ravid?”

“Yeah. Maybe you better see if Ms. Alston can ask Tel Aviv to figure it out for us. In the meantime, I’m going to assume he’s just too proud to ask for help and take him out with us.”

“You think that’s what it is? He needs a bailout?”

“I really doubt it.”

It was possible, of course. Maybe Ravid had been close to the airport when the bombs went off, expecting the planes offshore to pick him up there. Now he was desperate to get away.

Maybe.

“What are you guys doing?” asked Corrigan.

“Right now I’m jumping into a pile of garbage,” Ferguson said, dropping his backpack down into the Dumpster. “I’ll get back to you.”

When Ferguson got down, he found Monsoon and Grumpy but not Ravid.

“Where’s the Israeli?” he demanded.

Monsoon turned just as Ravid came out from around the corner, where he’d relieved himself. “Nature,” said the Mossad agent.

“Don’t let him out of your sight again,” Ferguson told the others. “Not even for ‘nature.’ Let’s go.”

Rankin led Guns and Thera across the block to a car he and Fouad had rented.

“Everybody stand back,” he told them, kneeling down next to the driver’s side and feeling underneath for the magnetic box that held the key.

“You think it’s booby-trapped?” asked Guns as Rankin rose with the key.

Rankin didn’t answer, just glanced to make sure they were back far enough. He didn’t think it was booby-trapped and hadn’t seen any signs that it had been tampered with when he checked it before the night’s operation, but you never knew.

After he got it started, he rolled down the windows and opened the other doors; you never knew. He’d seen a car in Iraq that had been set up to go off only when the rear passenger door was opened. Two Americans had driven around in it for days before the bomb was discovered. SOBs were journalists, and they bugged out the next day.

It was four a.m. and the streets were deserted. They headed in the direction of the Côte d’Azure de Cham, a well-known tourist hotel on Blue Beach or Shaati al-Azraq. Two truckloads of soldiers had cordoned off Palestine Square, and all the traffic that ran near it. They ducked it by going up one of the side streets. Figuring that there would be more patrols on the main roads in the middle of town, they crisscrossed their way toward the western part of the city. But this strategy could only get them so far. To get to the beach they had to get on the highway, where they were sure to run into another roadblock. Even though their papers were in order, they couldn’t take the chance of bluffing their way past tonight. The soldiers would be under orders to apprehend any foreigner they saw.

Or shoot them.

“Easiest thing to do is take a boat,” said Guns when they stopped to discuss it. “We can grab one near the water. It’s either that or walk up the railroad tracks.”

“Tracks are safer,” said Rankin.

“It’s ten kilometers,” said Guns.

“It’s not that far.”

“I think we ought to steal a boat,” said Thera. “It might come in handy later on.”

“If we’re in a boat, we have no place to hide from a patrol. The Syrians have a navy. They’ll be running up and down the coast.”

“It’s a risk,” said Guns. “But so’s walkin’.”

“I say we walk.” Rankin got out of the car, reaching into the back and taking his pack.

Thera and Guns looked at each other. “I think he’s just tired,” said Guns.

“He’s going to be even more tired when we get up there.”

Ferguson planned to go south along the main road, cut across the railroad tracks, and then go down the beach about a half mile to an old jetty, where a small rigid-sided inflatable boat had been stowed as part of their emergency escape package. But as they reached the tracks he heard a train whistle and got a much better idea.

“Here comes our ride, boys,” he yelled to Monsoon and Grumpy. “Got your tickets?”

“We need tickets?” said Grumpy, his timing so perfect it sounded rehearsed.

“I can tell you’re a marine. Ravid, you’re with me.” Ferguson pointed to a spot to their right. “He’ll come around the bend down to our left and start up the hill here. It’s not too steep, but it should slow him down. Don’t lose your packs. If we get split up, drop off up near the hotel, Côte d’Azure de Cham.”

“How will we know it?”

“It’s the first big building you’re going to see once we’re out of town. Big building,” Ferg told him. “Come on. We have to cross the tracks so we won’t be seen from the road.”

The train was loaded with empty automobile carriers and going faster than he’d thought, but not so fast that they couldn’t jump it. They spread out and Monsoon went first, followed by Grumpy, who pulled himself up against one of the support beams.

“Let’s go Ravid,” yelled Ferguson, pulling the Israeli agent up from his crouch.

“I don’t know if I can.”

Ferguson gave him another push. Ravid picked up his speed, swung his hand tentatively, then finally grabbed on to the ladder at the rear of one of the cars. Ferguson waited until he was sure he was on, then turned and grabbed hold of the ladder of the next car. He swung his feet up, hung off for a moment, then flattened against the train as it headed under a highway overpass.

The train swung out toward the Mediterranean, then banked back inland. There were troops posted at several of the road intersections as they passed, and others down by the river.

Ferguson worked his way over to Ravid.

“How far?” asked Ravid.

“Six or seven miles,” said Ferguson. “Be there in no time. How’d you know where to find us?”

“I didn’t.”

“Why didn’t you guys tell us you were alter Meles? Wo could’ve helped.”

Ravid said nothing, he had narrowed everything down to the space immediately in front of his eyes; he knew nothing beyond that. For the next twenty-four hours — for eternity if he had to — he would focus only on that space.

“You come to me so I can drag your butt out of here in one piece, and you’re going to be ungrateful?” said Ferguson.

“I didn’t come to you for anything.”

“Jump off the train then.”

Ravid stared at him, but made no move to get off.

An old Russian army truck sat near the front of the hotel when Ferguson got there, but he couldn’t see any soldiers.

That didn’t mean some weren’t around, but he guessed that if there had been a decent-sized contingent they would have at least set up a checkpoint in and out of the hotel and probably stopped traffic through the local tourist area as well. Not that there was much traffic at five o’clock in the morning.

Ferg didn’t see Rankin’s car in the parking lot. He left the others outside and went into the building through a service entrance near the back. Walking through the back hall, he checked the stairwells and then came out into the lobby as if he were a guest on his way out to a morning appointment. On the way out he spotted a soldier who’d presumably come with the truck sipping from a ceramic coffee cup and chatting with the nightman at the desk.

The car still hadn’t shown up. Ferguson walked to the side of the building and pulled out his sat phone to check in with the Cube. Instead of Corrigan he got Lauren.

“Hey, beautiful, what happened?” he asked her. “Corrigan had a date?”

“No, he went down to talk to Slott at Langley. The Mossad connection has everybody torqued.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty torqued myself.” He glanced at his watch. “How’s the Dayliner doing?”

“We can pick you up within a half hour. Just say when.”

“You know where Rankin is?”

“He just checked in. They’re two kilometers from the hotel.”

“Are they crawling?”

“They ran into trouble with patrols. They walked up the train tracks.”

“Skippy.” Ferguson shook his head. Rankin was dependable, extremely good with his hands, and a dead shot but very cautions. Ferg glanced at his watch. “All right. Let’s say six-thirty on the pickup, Get me a room somewhere, will you?”

“A room?”

“Yeah, I’ve never been much for sleeping on the beach.”

“Slott wants you out. Corrine, too.”

“Uh-huh. You know what? Make it the Versailles. I like the view from their beach.”

“What’s going on, Ferg?”

“I’ll tell you when I figure it out.”

Ferguson found the others sitting on rocks near the water, looking very much like day laborers waiting for the start of work. He told them that their boat was on its way, then went down to the sea, where he dipped his hand into the surf and used it to down his pills. The tang of the salt felt good and he splashed some over his face and hair.

“Stuff’ll kill you,” said Monsoon.

“If I’m lucky,” said Ferg.

“You want me to go find Rankin?”

“Nah, they’ll find their way. How’s our guest?”

“He wants to leave,” Monsoon said, thumbing toward Ravid. “I told him not to while you were gone. I promised to break his legs if he did.”

“A promise is a promise,” said Ferguson. “Maybe we’ll get lucky, and you’ll get to keep it.”

He climbed up the shoreline to where Ravid was sitting. The Israeli narrowed his eyes as he approached, watching him the way a hawk might focus on a mouse in a field before pouncing.

“What’s your story?” asked Ferguson. “You don’t want to be rescued?”

“I haven’t been rescued. I told you, I didn’t want to go with you.”

“There’s a Syrian inside having a cup of coffee. You want me to turn you over to them?”

Ravid didn’t even bother answering. He stared ahead, intent on his course.

“How’d you know where we were?” asked Ferguson.

“I didn’t.”

“We’ll save you anyway. You don’t even say thank you.”

Rankin, Guns, and Thera appeared a short time later, directed by Lauren to their location. Ferguson told them to keep an eye on Ravid after the pickup.

“You sure he’s really Mossad?” asked Rankin. “Maybe he works both sides.”

“A possibility,” said Ferguson, though lie doubted it. “I put a locator lag on him when we cleaned him up. If he really wants to run, let him go.”

“Figures. They screw us, and we save their butts,” said Rankin.

“Way of the world, Skippy. Way of the world.”

7

Corrigan had just started to explain what had happened for the second time when the phone behind Slott’s desk rang. The deputy director for operations of the CIA guessed it was his opposite number at Mossad returning his call.

“This will be Adam,” Slott told Corrigan. He reached over and picked up the phone. The CIA telephone operator confirmed that indeed Adam Rosenfeld was on the line. “Put him through,” Slott said.

Corrigan, unsure of the protocol, started to get up.

“No, no, stay,” Slott told him. “This won’t take long.” Slott wanted Corrigan to hear his end of it to emphasize that he fought for his people, even if he had been effectively angled out of First Team operations.

“Adam, what the hell were you doing in Syria? Excuse my French,” said Slott as soon as the other man came on the line.

“I might ask the same question.”

“We alerted you to our interests. You should have done the same.”

“We made it possible for you to pursue your interests,” said the Mossad official.

“Oh, don’t give me that. And don’t trot out your luncheon speech about living in a complicated world either.”

Corrigan stared at his hands as Slott scolded his opposite number in Israel, claiming that the Mossad operation had not only sabotaged a delicate mission by the U.S., but had put the lives of his people in danger. Corrigan had joined the CIA only a year before, coming over specifically to work in the newly created job of “desk coordinator” for First Team operations. It was a jack-of-all trades job, running interference for the First Team in the field, helping coordinate missions, and arranging support. As originally conceived, the real power rested with the field officer in charge of the mission, who had almost unlimited authority once given an assignment. The missions were supposed to flow directly from a finding signed by the president. In the last administration, the findings had consisted of language so brief and open-ended that Corrigan had been shocked by the first one he saw: Recover illegal arms.

No location, no time frame, nothing but those three words.

President McCarthy had gradually asserted more control, first by more narrowly defining the missions and, within the last few months, inserting Corrine Alston as the conscience and de facto boss of Special Demands. Slott hadn’t quite recovered; part of his frustration now was being expressed indirectly in his conversation with Rosenfeld.

“We have one of your people with us,” Slott told Rosenfeld, changing his tone to make the information seem almost incidental, though it was anything but. Bailing Ravid out — which was the only possible interpretation of what had happened, Slott believed — was a four-aces hand in the unspoken competition between the agencies. “Aaron Ravid. Or Fazel al-Qiam, as he’s known. We’ll take him to Cyprus. I don’t expect you to acknowledge him,” added Slott. “But you may want to make arrangements.”

Rosenfeld didn’t reply.

“I’m still not happy,” Slott said, realizing he was rubbing it in. He hung up, feeling vaguely unsatisfied.

A statue of a gargoyle sat in the corner of his desk, a Father’s Day gift from one of his sons after a visit to Notre Dame in Paris, where they’d admired the gargoyles in the heights. The boy had been fifteen at the time; now he was thirty, married, with a boy of his own.

Monsters in the shadows of the wall.

Gargoyles were common in medieval cathedrals, but according to the guide who’d led them on the tour that day, no one was actually sure why. There were many theories on what they were: devils denied access to the holy church, old gods, tokens to frighten demons away. It wasn’t even clear that the men who had carved and put them there knew exactly why they were doing so.

“There’s got to be a lot more here than they’re telling us,” offered Corrigan.

“That goes without saying.” Slott picked up the phone. “I have to relay this to Parnelles. If you’d stretch your legs for a minute, I’d appreciate it.”

8

After the boat picked up the others, Ferguson went to the hotel to use the shuttle bus into town. Along the way he changed the jacket he was wearing for a longer coat he found hanging in a men’s room. In the lobby, he appropriated a cap. He didn’t look Syrian at all, but he could have been a Turk or Greek worker, and the policeman standing near the shuttle didn’t stop him. The ride down to town took less than a half hour. The checkpoints had been removed already.

The most logical place for the Russian to hide, Ferguson thought, would be the mosque, and so he made his way back there on foot from the center of town. But when he got to the block, he found it cordoned off, with a large contingent of soldiers on the street outside the wall. A few attempts to ask passers-by what was going on drew nothing but shrugs.

Ferguson walked back over to the hotel they had escaped from the night before. He didn’t go in; instead, he tried to figure out where Ravid had been before he passed by. It didn’t make sense that he had walked from the airport — the field was twenty-five kilometers or so from town — but clearly he hadn’t just materialized on the street either. The immediate area was mostly devoted to business; the residential section that began a few blocks away was solidly middle class. A bus line ran nearby, but there had been no buses at that hour of the night. No cars in the vicinity of the hotel bore any obvious signs of having been close to an explosion.

If Ravid hadn’t come there specifically to find them — by far the most logical explanation — then either he had been nearby to see someone or he had been dropped off by another agent as they escaped from the Syrians. Ferguson couldn’t rule either possibility out; he spent a frustrating hour wandering around before putting the quandary on hold and having a late breakfast. His clothing — and unshowered stench — drew some stares, and so his next stop was a nearby secondhand shop, where the proprietor was quite surprised to see the raggedy patron pull out a thick wad of cash to expedite the sale. Using his Irish passport, Ferguson then rented a car — the double take was milder here — and went up to the Versailles. It was still before check-in, but the man at the desk clearly preferred having him upstairs rather than in the lobby. He showered and after changing into his new clothes did a little additional shopping at the hotel mall.

Among his purchases were a pair of swim trunks and a snorkeling set, which he tested off the Versailles beach, far off the beach. So far, in fact, that he finally had to pull himself up on the side of the nearest boat he could find. Which not so coincidentally happened to be the Sharia, Birk’s yacht.

“Greetings,” he said to the two guards, who responded by leveling their submachine guns at him. “I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d say hello.”

The men were not particularly amused. Fortunately, Birk was sunning himself on the rear deck, smoking a fat Cuban cohiba.

“One of these days, Ferguson, you’re going to push things much too far. Much, much too far,” said the arms dealer, looking over from his chair. “Let him go.”

“Can I get a towel?” Ferguson pulled off his gear and sat in the empty seat across from Birk. He declined the offer of a cigar.

“They don’t make them as well as they used to,” complained Birk. “Standards have slipped since Castro got worried about lung cancer. Something to drink?”

“Water would be nice.”

“A bottle of Pellegrino for our guest,” Birk said. His brother-in-law scowled but went below to fetch it.

“I notice you hired a few new guards,” said Ferguson.

“Rough neighborhood. Why did you blow up Khazaal?”

“I didn’t. The Israelis did. They wanted Meles, and he happened to be nearby.”

“I might believe that,” said Birk. “But no one else will.”

“Did you pay the men for the trouble I caused?” said Ferguson as Brother-in-Law came over with the Pellegrino. He made sure his voice was loud enough for the others to hear.

“I wouldn’t cheat my men. Not very good business,” said Birk. He signaled that Brother-in-Law should leave them.

“So everyone thinks I killed Khazaal?” asked Ferguson when they were alone.

Birk shrugged. “What other people think, I couldn’t say. The Syrians are looking for Jewish spies. But they are always looking for Jewish spies.”

“The Syrians weren’t in on it, were they?”

“The Syrians and Israelis working together? That would be interesting. Very interesting.” Birk didn’t laugh.

“Was Khazaal here to sell or buy a Scud?” Ferguson asked.

“Bah. Neither, I would think. Obsolete equipment.”

“You’re not answering my question.”

“Ferguson, truly, if you want junk, talk to Ras.”

“You couldn’t get me a Scud if I wanted one?”

“I can get you a real missile.”

“How would I get a Scud?” Ferguson asked.

Birk sighed. “You wouldn’t.”

“If I wanted one.”

Birk studied his cigar. “I suppose that if you honestly and truly wanted one, it could be had.”

“From?”

“The Koreans. You could perhaps purchase a Scud-D SS-le, seven-hundred-kilometer range. The design is not actually the same as the Russian… I’m afraid I don’t retain details I’m not interested in.”

“Why aren’t you interested?”

“No one wants to buy such a missile. The liquid fuel is very difficult to obtain and to handle. The weapon I can get you, much better.”

“The Siren?”

“I have another buyer. You’ll have to act fast. The price is going up.”

Ferguson took this as a ploy and was annoyed. “I want a Scud.”

“Perhaps the Iraqis can help you. You should reconsider about the Siren. I have a genuine offer on the table. Five million.”

“Right.”

“But I would give you a very good deal for old time’s sake,” said Birk, deciding he would much prefer to sell to the American CIA. “Two million.”

“Three times too much.”

“Two million is a bargain.”

“What happened to one million?”

“One million,” repeated Birk. No, he decided; that was too much of a discount.

On the other hand, considering what the Israelis had done…

“Perhaps, for old time’s sake,” said Birk. “Perhaps for a million.”

“I need a few more days,” said Ferguson.

“Oh,” said Birk, genuinely disappointed now. But here was the consolation: he would make four million dollars more, and more than likely the Jews were buying it anyway. Yes, this must be so. They did not fool around the way the Americans did.

“Who’s your other buyer?” Ferg asked.

“Oh, there are always buyers.”

“Come on, don’t try and bluff me,” said Ferguson.

“I have other buyers,” said Birk. “You will see I am serious, Ferguson.”

“Right.”

“We’ll see then.”

“You’re not a very good liar, Birk. That’s your one flaw as an arms dealer.”

“It isn’t a flaw; it’s a reason to do business with me: I’m honest.” Birk once more looked at the tip of his cigar, frowning as if there were something wrong with the gray ash.

“Tell me about Vassenka,” said Ferguson.

“Again?”

“Who was he here to meet?”

“I didn’t even know he was here,” said Birk, protesting a bit. “You told me.”

“I’d like you to do me a favor,” said Ferguson, taking a swig from the bottle. “I’d like you to pass a message to him. Tell him I’m ready to make that deal.”

“To Vassenka? He would never talk to me.”

“Sure he would. Professional courtesy.”

“No. I doubt this.”

“Try. Tell him I’m ready to make that deal.”

“He’ll know what you’re talking about?”

“If he has a good memory. Tell him I can get him out of the country. Vouch for me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re a great guy.” Ferguson rose.

“Are you sure he wasn’t killed?”

“I know he wasn’t killed, and I know you know every Russian in town, even though you hate their guts. Tell him my offer stands. And I’ll get him out.”

“If you need a Russian—”

“I need that Russian,” said Ferguson, pulling on his flippers. “I’ll check with you tonight, in your office.”

“I’m always there.”

9

Ravid said nothing the whole way to Cyprus, shaking his head and not answering when asked if he wanted anything to drink. He sat alone, walked the deck alone, and in general kept to himself. After watching him for a while, Rankin decided that the Israeli felt humiliated that he’d had to go to the Americans to escape. It was possible that something had gone wrong in the operation, as well: how had he gotten injured? But Rankin decided he wasn’t in the mood to question the guy. If he was going to be a jerk and not say anything, well, the hell with him.

Maybe if he’d been in the same position, he’d’ve kept his mouth shut, too. The boat that had picked them up was a nice-sized yacht, the sort of toy Rankin had seen a lot of in Miami and fancy places like that on vacation. The crew had obviously been briefed to ask no questions. There were bunks below where they could sleep if they wanted; only Thera took the offer. The others sat on the deck, drinking coffee and looking at the view. Except for the reason that they were there, it would have been a hell of a little vacation.

A CIA handler met them at the dock in Cyprus, along with two men in civilian clothes who were actually PMs-in-training, paramilitary CIA employees doing grunt work as part of their initiation rites. Ravid, still not talking, followed along passively and didn’t object when the handler — he claimed his name was Paul F. Smith, emphasizing the “F” as if that would make them believe him — said they’d like to debrief him before sending him on his way.

Ravid didn’t argue. Smith took them all to a British clinic to be checked out by a doctor. Ravid, the only one among them who was injured, went into the nurse’s area to take off his clothes and have his wounds attended to. When the doctor came for him five minutes later, he was gone.

“We can use the tag,” said Thera, reaching into her bag for it.

“Waste of time,” said Rankin, pointing to Ravid’s shirt on the changing bench. The two tags Ferguson had placed on him were there.

10

Thomas stared at the e-mail from Professor Ragguzi, which had come on his “blue computer,” a unit used for nonsecure communications with the outside world. (All communications and other use were subject to strict monitoring to make sure security rules weren’t violated.)

He had hoped for a response, but could not have guessed that it would be quick. Or so blunt.

You’re wrong.

That was it. No explanation, no hedging. Thomas’s own e-mail, which he had carefully vetted with two internal security officers and Corrigan, had filled two screens. Without citing any classified information, it made a careful argument calling the Turkey sightings into question, politely wondering if perhaps the professor could clarify.

Thomas felt as if his entire foundation of knowledge of UFOs, carefully built over decades, had been thrown into doubt. If Ragguzi was wrong — worse, if he refused to acknowledge that he might be wrong — what could Thomas believe?

The CIA analyst tried to concentrate on his work. He rose and began pacing around his office. He had no sense of what time it might be: somewhere in the morning or afternoon, he thought, though perhaps it was midnight.

How could he be wrong?

If he’d overlooked something, perhaps. That was possible. It had happened in Latakia, surely, since they had missed the Mossad operation completely.

Not completely. They had seen pieces but failed to put it all together.

Thomas sat down at his computer and began rummaging through the various lists he had compiled. Corrigan had asked him questions about Vassenka and his abilities; they’d checked into the Scuds, of course. It was logical because of Iraq, though there seemed no possibility, no possibility whatsoever, of there being any remaining in the country. Or, if there were, they would be in pieces. Worse, they would lack the rocket fuel.

Fuel.

Thomas keyed over to the satellite photo of the city. One of the things that made Latakia unique in Syria, and in the Middle East in general, was its train line.

Exactly the sort of thing that you would need to move rocket fuel.

Thomas pulled his chair closer to his desk. Wrong, indeed.

11

Ferguson had just gotten back to the beach outside the Versailles when his sat phone rang. He stared at it cross-eyed for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure what it was, then pulled open the antenna.

“Talk to me.”

“I have a weird Thomas theory,” said Corrigan. “Can you talk?”

“Better let me get upstairs,” said Ferguson. “I’ll call you back.”

Fifteen minutes later, Ferguson rested his head against the outside of the bathtub, listening to Corrigan talk about rocket fuel formulations as the room filled with steam, the by-product of an impromptu white noise system, otherwise known as a running shower. Thomas’s theory, in a nutshell, was that Vassenka hadn’t been hired simply for his expertise; he was supposed to supply the fuel for the Scuds as well. The Americans had looked for the rocket fuel fairly carefully during the occupation, literally checking every tanker and railcar capable of holding it in the country and using special ground-penetrating radar to look for hidden underground tanks. The thorough search didn’t mean there wasn’t some hiding somewhere, but the stuff was not particularly easy to store. Highly toxic, it ate through metal and could spontaneously catch fire when it came in contact with organic material. Bringing a fresh batch in from outside the country would be the way to go, especially if you had many rockets.

And two or three million dollars’ worth of jewels would buy fuel for quite a number.

“The thing is, we can’t find a railcar with either red-fuming nitric acid or inhibited red-fuming nitric acid,” said Corrigan. Those were the main ingredients in the rocket fuel used by all but the very earliest Scud missiles. “Thomas has gone over every lading notice, shipping document, you name it. He’s been all over it.”

“I’ll bet he has,” said Ferguson.

“Is it a false lead?”

“No. It’s just not in a railcar.”

12

The men had to double up, but Thera got her own room at the hotel near the British base. She lay down on the bed in her clothes and fell fast asleep, plunging into a thick unconsciousness that felt like burrowing into the ground beneath the dirt.

Several hours later, she heard the phone ring and ignored it. A few minutes later, someone knocked on her door. She ignored that, too. Then she heard the door open.

She grabbed for the pistol she’d slid under her pillow.

“Hey,” said Guns, “it’s just me. Ferg needs to talk to you. He’s been calling on the sat phone and the room phone.”

“Oh.” She slid the gun down.

“You leave the safety on when you’re sleeping, right?” asked Guns.

“Why would I do that?”

Guns went back to his room. Thera, her eyes burning, sat up on the bed and pulled out her phone. She hit the preset combination for Ferguson, who answered on the first ring.

Not that he said hello.

“You still have that attaché case?” were the first words out of his mouth.

“Yeah.” Thera glanced at it. It had fallen on the floor right next to the bed.

“You feel like coming back to Latakia tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“Bring the jewels. Meet me at the Agamemnon, at the bar with the green marble, not in the Barroom. Wear something that will make the mullahs think they’ve found something better than Paradise.”

“Who am I dressing for?”

“Me.”

13

Ferguson watched her come down the steps, her blue dress clinging to her hips, her hair held up on one side by a jeweled pin that made her look like royalty. He watched her looking for him, admired the way she gazed at the room as if she owned it. And she might have, he thought; more than a few of the men nearby were staring at her. Finally Thera saw him and acknowledged him with the slight upturn of the corner of her mouth: not a real smile, but it was pretty nonetheless.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she said, walking up to him.

“That the most original line you could think of?” Ferguson asked.

“It’ll do. What am I drinking?”

“Champagne?”

“What are you drinking?”

“Coffee,” said Ferguson. He held up the glass; he convinced the bartender to pour some into a tumbler with ice.

“Could I have a whiskey sour?” she asked the bartender.

“A whiskey sour?”

“I always wanted one.”

“Don’t fall asleep on me. I’ll feel obliged to take advantage of you.”

“Hmmph.” Thera had taken the precaution of downing a “go” pill, prescribed by Agency doctors for situations where a CIA officer had to stay awake no matter what. She wondered if Ferguson did; he didn’t seem to have had a chance to get any sleep.

“I see you brought our friends.” He pointed to the attaché case.

“You told me to. I was worried I would have to open it up at the door.”

“They don’t check for weapons here because of all the tourists. It’s downstairs where we’ll have a problem. I already got us a locker on the other side of the casino. We’ll put it there.”

“What are we doing downstairs?”

“Going to see Ras. We’re a bit early.”

“How early?”

“Early enough to finish your drink and tell me what happened with Ravid.”

Thera told him what she knew. It was almost word for word what Corrigan had said.

“How’s the drink?” Ferguson asked.

“Very sweet. Too sweet.”

“I know the feeling. Come on.”

Ras had someone with him, but he did his swoon act over Thera as they approached, and the guest was quickly forgotten. After Ferguson ordered his usual Perrier and twist, Ras asked to what he owed the pleasure of basking in Thera’s loveliness.

“Mr. IRA has finally decided to buy, perhaps?” he asked.

“Yes, and I want to buy something special,” said Ferguson. “Red-fuming nitric acid.”

Ras continued to sip his drink.

“What ship captain would bring it in?” Ferg added.

“I don’t even know why you would want such an item,” said Ras.

Ferguson leaned across the table and smiled. “You want to end up like Khazaal?”

Ras’s hand trembled slightly as he put down the glass. “You had something to do with Khazaal? The Syrians told me Mossad was behind it.”

Ferguson stared at him.

“It would be very bad business to betray a trust. Very bad business,” said Ras.

“Better bad than dead.”

Ras sat back, his face pale. “If I wrote down the name of a sea captain, could you find his ship?”

“I don’t know,” said Ferguson. “Could I?”

Now what?” asked Thera as Ferguson steered her out of the hotel.

“Now we go up to Versailles and meet Vassenka.”

“He’s going to meet you?”

“Supposedly. Somebody called my room and left some heavy breathing on the machine. I took that to mean he’ll be here.”

“You gave him your room number?”

“I gave him yours.” Ferguson smiled. “I left word with two dozen people that he should contact me. What I’m hoping is that Meles and Khazaal getting stomped on killed his deal.”

“What good will he be in that case?”

“We can still find out who he was dealing with and where the Scuds are. We’ll have this ship tracked down and find out how much fuel is on it. My guess is that there’ll be quite a lot. Which argues for a lot of missiles.”

Ferguson called Corrigan with the information from the beach. The Versailles was within walking distance; they made it into the casino with ten minutes to spare. There wasn’t a lot of leeway: Ferguson hoped to take the Russian out twelve miles in a small boat and get aboard a helicopter. The helicopter had to come all the way from Turkey, and would only be able to stay on station for about forty-five minutes. The backup plan was to take the boat all the way to Cyprus: not impossible, certainly, but not as convenient nor as quick.

“Are we running late?” Thera asked, noticing he was checking his watch after they took a seat in the lounge above the poker tables.

“We’re on time.”

Ferguson ordered a Turkish coffee. Thera scanned the room and searched for something to talk about. “Is Rankin always so angry?”

“Somebody took his bottle away when he was a baby and he never got over it.”

“Monsoon is nice. Sergeant Ranaman.”

“Ranaman, yeah,” said Ferguson. “You like him?”

“Yeah, I like him a lot. He’s…”

Her voice drifted in a way that made it obvious to Ferguson that like meant something more than he wanted it to mean. He glanced at her face, turned away from him in profile. The curls came down behind her ear so gracefully, it was as if a painter had placed them there with a brush.

“Yeah, Monsoon’s a great guy,” said Ferguson, finishing the sentence for her. “Maybe we should have him work with us more. It’s hard to get Arabic speakers, good Arabic speakers.”

“You got me.”

“I rest my case.” Ferguson smiled at her and leaned hack to survey the room.

An hour later, Vassenka hadn’t shown up. Ferguson gave him ten more minutes, then another five, then went to the men’s room and called Corrigan. The helicopter had already gone back. They’d arranged for the EC-130E to fly off the coast again; Ferguson wanted an early warning if the Syrian police decided to raid all of the Western hotels. They hadn’t heard anything.

“Find my ship?”

“You were right about Tripoli. It was there a few days ago.”

“And now?”

“I can’t just snap my fingers and get information, Ferg. It’s not that easy.”

“Let me give you a hint where to look: heading for Iraq.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Well, get on it, Jack.”

“I am. Say, when do you sleep, anyway?”

Ferguson laughed at him and went back to Thera at the table.

They gave the Russian another half hour. Ferguson decided they would hit some of the other clubs to see if they could drum up some information about him, but first they had to stash the jewels, which Thera had in the case. So they went upstairs to Ferg’s room. Thera tapped on the wall of the elevator all the way up.

“You took a ‘go’ pill, right?” Ferguson asked, waiting for the door to open.

“I was afraid I’d fall asleep. I’m OK, really.”

“No driving for you. Come on. I’m down the hall.”

The room Lauren had reserved was small, with only a bed and a table too small to spread a napkin. Thera kicked off her shoes and sat back on the bed.

“Is that piece in your hair from in here?” he asked.

“Of course not.” Her face turned deep red. “It’s glass.”

“Don’t get offended. I was just asking. It’d be all right if you borrowed it.”

“I don’t borrow things. I didn’t even open the briefcase.”

“Why not?” asked Ferguson. He opened the small in-room safe. The case was a little too wide to fit.

“You trust a safe?” Thera asked.

“Of course not. But I’ve never believed that ‘Purloined Letter’ stuff. You leave something out; it’s gone. The safe will keep the amateurs at bay.” He took up the case, set it down, and took out his picks. He opened the case and though he continued to smile at her, he realized immediately something was wrong: there weren’t as many jewels, and it struck him that they weren’t the same.

He snapped it closed. “Your turn,” he told her, as if he’d noticed nothing. He flipped it over to her on the bed. “You open it.”

“Why?”

“I want to make sure you can.”

“All right.”

Ferguson watched as she took the picks. She hadn’t had much practice, that was clear, but she didn’t act like she was completely incompetent either; she snapped it open in about a minute. Thera handed it to him.

“I should make you do it again. You’re a little slow.”

“Are we going to play locksmith or look for Vassenka?”

“Vassenka,” said Ferguson. He started scooping the jewels into the safe.

There was definitely a different mix than the last time he’d seen them. Or was it, Ferguson wondered, just that he was tired now and he’d been in a rush then?

The sat phone rang as he closed the door on the safe. “I hope this is room service.”

“Ferg, they found Vassenka in a shower in a dump off 14 Ramadan Street,” said Corrigan.

“The police raided him while he was taking a shower?”

“No. He reached for a bar of soap and got a grenade instead. He’s in pieces.”