by Larry Bond
He leaned to the side so she couldn’t see his combination, then stuffed the pages of Professor Ragguzi’s book inside. He gave the lock a spin, then another and another.
“I’m not going to break in,” Wu told him disgustedly as she walked away.
Corrigan was in the middle of a call with Corrine Alston when Thomas cleared security to get into the Cube’s situation room. Unlike in the movies, the Facility was extremely simple: no large-screen video panels, no wall of constantly updated radar plots and infrared views. Corrigan sat at a simple metal desk with a single computer and a large telephone set. If the situation called for it, several more very plain desks and computers could be set up in the open area to the left. The chairs that were used were terribly uncomfortable and the computer screens among the cheapest available. Corrigan’s main equipment consisted of a telephone headset. The lines it connected to were scrambled, and some actually tied into radio frequencies, but the operation of the phones themselves was no more difficult than the setup for a typical corporate office cubicle. It was what you did with the phones that mattered.
Corrigan raised his finger as Thomas came in, signaling for him to take a seat.
“The interrogation is ongoing,” Corrigan told the person on the other end of the phone line. “I don’t know why Ferg couldn’t make it to Tel Aviv, but I assume that had something to do with it.”
Thomas couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation, though he could tell from Corrigan’s expression that it wasn’t pleasant. That led Thomas to conclude, correctly, that Corrigan was speaking to the president’s counsel, Corrine Alston. Thomas had never met her, but he’d heard that she was difficult to satisfy and expected prompt and perfect results.
Thomas tapped his feet impatiently as he continued to wait. He wondered if he should ask Corrigan about the Turkey UFOs, perhaps even share Professor Ragguzi’s manuscript with him. They’d never actually discussed UFOs, at least not in depth, but he was fairly certain Corrigan was a fellow believer, one of the very few he’d encountered at the Agency. Working for the CIA had the unfortunate effect of dulling most people’s capacity for imagination.
Corrigan held up a piece of paper for Thomas, sliding it toward him.
It was the VIN numbers he had asked for. He recognized the sequence at the start of the long number: it was one of the Lebanese vehicles. It was also two years old.
“Thomas,” said Corrigan, finally off the phone. “We need to find out where Khazaal is going. Absolutely need to find out.”
“The Ford came from Lebanon originally,” said Thomas.
“It’s a start. What else do you know?”
Thomas told him about the snake intercept and a few other things.
“So the bottom line is, you know nothing,” said Corrigan. “What would you say about western Lebanon? Could the meeting be there? It could be there, couldn’t it?”
“It could be anywhere. I think the car—”
“Yes, yes. The car came from there.”
“No,” said Thomas. “The car originally was shipped into Lebanon two years ago.”
“We have a map showing Tripoli circled, the Tripoli in Lebanon on the coast, not the one in Libya. You think it could be there?”
Thomas was not an expert on the Middle East (he’d been brought into the job primarily because he was more a generalist, though he had a great deal of experience tracking terrorist groups), and so he could only shrug.
Not that he would have had a different answer if he had been an expert.
“Ferg says there’s an Iraqi community there,” Corrigan told him. “Got to get everything you can get and tell me what you think. You have one hour.”
~ * ~
3
ISRAEL, NEAR GAZA
Ravid folded the newspaper under his arm as the line began to move forward again. The corrugated steel roof of the Israeli checkpoint shut away some of the sun but not the heat nor the dust and certainly not the languid boredom and anxiety that mixed together as the crowd waited to pass into the Gaza Strip. It had become nearly as difficult to get out of Israel as it was to get in, at least if you were a Palestinian, as Ravid’s papers claimed he was. Weapons gates and ID checks were routine, and it was not unusual for Israeli intelligence officers to choose someone at random for interrogation. Palestinian guards waited on the other side of the border, and while they rarely stopped anyone, they could make one’s life thoroughly miserable, with less chance of appeal than one would have in Israel.
In Ravid’s case, life could be very miserable indeed; his Palestinian papers were forgeries, part of the elaborate shell game of covers he played, his true identity hidden like the heart of an onion under many skins. As an Arab intellectual and activist, it was natural for him to use a cover to travel into Israel. If he got caught by the Israelis, well, that would be inconvenient but would at least shore up his phony identity.
If he got caught on the Palestinian side, however, his fate was less sure. Eighteen months ago, he had known many people who could clear up a “misunderstanding.” Now there was no telling if they were even still alive.
Tischler had told Ravid relatively little of his mission. This was Tischler’s way, for his own protection as well as the mission’s: information became available as it was necessary, never before. But Ravid got the definite impression that Tischler no longer trusted him. The Mossad supervisor had asked about the drinking, trying to make it seem offhanded: “Still enjoying the vodka?”
“No,” said Ravid. “No.”
The truth, though of course it was not quite that simple.
Up ahead, one of the guards began giving a woman a hard time. Her documents were due to expire tonight. He decided that meant she had to be searched; the machine and the wand were not good enough. A pair of female guards walked over and began talking to the woman, who balked for a moment before conceding to the inevitable and following them to a small building nearby.
Ravid glanced at the young man behind him. He had a dull, dazed look on his face. The man just wanted to return home with a minimum of hassle. He would endure whatever he had to, as long as he achieved his goal.
Two years ago, the look of resignation would have roused pity in Ravid. Now it kindled anger, incredible anger. He wanted to kill the man, to kill all the Muslims here, every one of them, stomp them from the earth.
He clenched his fist against his rage. Wrath was useless here. Stomping a few men, even a few hundred, wouldn’t satisfy him.
Coming back might offer him a chance for revenge on the scale he wanted, but never with Mossad’s blessing. He was not so foolish to think that he would have it. And to even hint at simmering animosity, let alone the deeper emotions he felt, would have been the end of the interview with Tischler. There was a line that he could not cross no matter how badly he was needed. Simply to deny emotion was the safest course.
Mossad would be watching him very carefully. There were other agents, men and women, not quite as good, not as experienced or adept, but able nonetheless. They would be watching for him to slip, hoping (perhaps) that he wouldn’t, but ready if he did. This would make it difficult for him to find a way for revenge but not impossible. Not if a big enough opportunity came.
To a man of his abilities, to a man of his wrath, nothing was impossible.
Ravid’s throat felt so dry it cracked. He wanted a drink. Vodka, gin even.
A drink!
With all the will he could muster, Ravid pushed his tongue around his lips, wetting them. If he could master this thirst, he could master anything.
The line began to move. One of the guards pointed to him, gesturing him toward a metal detector. Ravid hesitated, his thirst overwhelming. The young man with downtrodden eyes nudged him gently, anxious that he wouldn’t lose his own place in line.
“Wait,” said the Israeli, pointing toward his arm.
Ravid did not understand at first, and by the time he realized what the soldier was after, the man had pulled the paper out from under
his arm. Sawt Al-Haqq Wal-Hurriya (Voice of Truth and Freedom) was considered anti-Israeli.
“Why do you have this?” demanded the guard.
Ravid stared at the soldier rather than answering. Silence was always safest.
The man took the paper and threw it into a nearby trash bag. “Go,” said the soldier, gesturing dismissively.
~ * ~
4
INCIRLIK, TURKEY
Van Buren tried hard not to glance at his watch. If he wanted to catch his son before he left for the weekend tournament, he had to call him before ten o’clock Eastern Time. It was now ten minutes to the hour. But the planning session was too important to interrupt, not the kind of thing you stopped for a personal matter.
“I don’t know whether the Israeli information is wrong or not,” said Ferguson. Ferguson got up and went over to the side of the large conference room to try some of the coffee. They’d been given the use of several rooms at the U.S. Air Force facility in western Turkey, where the First Team MC-130 and other support units were temporarily based. The location made it easier to fly near Syria and was less vulnerable to Iraqi resistance spies and possible attacks than a base in western Iraq would have been. Ferg, Fouad and the prisoners had transferred from the Chinooks to the MC-130 at a small airfield and come directly here the night before.
“The map we found with the money shows a route to Tripoli, Lebanon,” said Ferguson.
“Doesn’t mean Khazaal’s going there,” said Van Buren. “Or that he got past us.”
“The airplane was headed toward Beirut when the Israelis lost track of it. And the car that grabbed our friend came from Lebanon.”
There were holes in the intelligence supporting Ferguson’s theory, and he knew it. The vehicle had been stolen from northern Lebanon, not from Beirut or the western coast. And the Israeli surveillance plane that had managed to spot the plane had lost sight of it near Beirut. They weren’t even sure it was the same plane, only that it had come from the right direction, was the right size, and did not correlate with any known or filed flights.
But there was also circumstantial evidence to support the theory. Tarabulus esh Sham, more commonly known as Tripoli, sat on the Lebanese coast at the end of a long oil pipeline back to Iraq. There were many Iraqis in the city and region. Drug dealers liked the spot because of the port.
“What do you say, Fouad?” asked Van Buren.
“As Mr. Ferguson would have it, the fact that I don’t expect it makes it likely.”
“Not everybody’s thinking two steps ahead,” said Van.
“Khazaal does,” said Ferguson. “I know it’s a long shot, but at the moment it’s our best guess.”
“Assuming we missed him.”
“Even if we didn’t miss him. I can’t search all of Syria and all of Lebanon. I have to start making some guesses.”
“We can’t run an operation there,” said Van Buren. “It’s too urban.”
“I don’t expect you to,” said Ferguson. “Best bet is to go in by sea. This way I don’t advertise to the local security types that I’m in.”
“They know you?”
“I was there last year, briefly,” said Ferg. “One or two might have reason to remember.”
Van Buren liked the CIA officer a lot, though he tended to cut things a little too close to the bone. The First Team was a cooperative venture between the CIA and the Special Operations Command; the two men headed their respective halves, cooperating better with each other than anyone would have predicted before the program began. The arrival of Corrine Alston as the president’s direct representative—and, in effect, their boss— bothered Ferguson a great deal, because he saw it as political interference. Van Buren didn’t know it as fact, but he gathered that Ferguson believed his father’s career at the Agency had been sabotaged by similar second-guessing.
Van Buren’s take on Alston was different. As a colonel and career military man, he was used to dealing with bureaucratic politics, and Alston had been nothing but supportive. She had her own set of questions and priorities, but considering that the latter probably came directly from the president, she had been relatively easy to work with.
“We leave the scout mission at the border intact,” said Ferguson. “But we’ll start looking around in the cities nearby in case we’ve missed him already. Fouad can help Rankin and Thera handle that. Your guys stay on the border with Guns, ready to run a replay of last night. Hopefully with better results.”
“You’re just going into Lebanon by yourself?” asked Fouad.
Van Buren had the same question, though it was typical of Ferg. He had a knack for slipping in and out of places he didn’t belong.
“It’s a scouting mission. I’ll be in and out. If the meeting is going to be held there, I’m going to want as many clean faces as I can get, including yours. And maybe Van’s.”
“Thanks, but my job is with the troops.”
Ferguson laughed, then became more serious. “Once I see if anything’s up I’ll fall back and regroup. We just don’t have enough time to sit out in the desert and wait. This meeting’s supposed to take place in a matter of days.”
“Well, I agree we must try a chance,” said Fouad. “If this is the best of your information, it makes sense.”
“It’s the best at the moment.” One of the earliest lessons Ferguson had learned was to be prejudiced toward action; you didn’t accomplish anything by hanging out and drinking coffee.
Well, you might, but only if that was part of the plan.
“I know some people around town,” Ferguson told them. “Maybe if nothing’s happening, I’ll head down to Beirut. It’s not as bad as you think. Really.”
“How friendly are these people to Americans?” asked Van Buren.
“To Americans, so-so. But I’m going as an Irishman.” Ferg winked. “Everyone loves Irishmen.”
“You have to talk to Alston about this, you know. She’s still worked up about the fact that you went to Cairo without briefing her. Even I heard about it.”
“I’ll take care of her.”
“She’s only trying to do her job.”
“Go make your phone call. I’ll deal with Alston,” Ferg told Van Buren. “But first I have to rustle up a milk truck.”
~ * ~
5
EASTERN SYRIA
JUST BEFORE DAWN . . .
Rankin listened to the heavy crush of the Chinook’s propellers as the massive chopper approached from the east. The desert reverberated with the big bird’s distinctive sound, and though they’d scoured the area for insurgents with the UAV and even sent a pair of patrols toward the road, Rankin worried that a hajji would pop out of a spider hole they’d missed and slam the chopper with a shoulder-launched surface-to-air missile. He’d been on two helicopters that had barely escaped SAM attacks, and while he knew that the men and aircraft chosen for the mission here would be well equipped and trained to deal with the danger, he couldn’t push aside his concern.
He’d noticed that a lot lately. He didn’t fear for himself, but he worried about others getting hurt, almost like a father worried about his kids; or so he imagined. He personally had no experience of being a father, and his time with his own had been extremely limited, his parents divorcing when he was three.
“Two choppers?” said Guns, coming up next to him.
“Sounds like it.”
“There’s one of them.” The Marine Corps sergeant pointed to the shadow of the first helicopter as it approached. The chopper had rotors fore and aft. The dual power plants made the Chinook among the most powerful helicopters in the world, capable not only of transporting forty-four fully armed soldiers but also of carrying upward of 26,000 pounds beneath her belly. This one had been chosen for just that reason: dangling in a massive sling beneath the chopper was the rear section of a tank truck.
Rankin and Guns watched as the Chinook squatted over the landing area. Several Rangers trotted over to help unhook the truck.
“H
ate to be down there,” said Guns.
“How’s that?” asked Rankin. He was still thinking about the possibility of some scumbag popping up with a missile.
“Dirt and crap flying all over the place,” said Guns. “You never get the grit out of your skin.”
Rankin remembered the powdery sand that had clung to his body when he’d been in Iraq during the search for Scuds. Ancient history now.
Relieved of its load, the helicopter seemed to step back in the air before circling off to the right and landing a hundred yards or so down the road and disgorging its passengers. Meanwhile, the second chopper moved into position, the truck’s cab dangling beneath its fuselage.
