by Larry Bond
Thera helped him pull the green pants over his shoes. An ambulance would meet them at the airport and they would pretend to transport a sick patient into the city. Just in case the Iranian had spies at the airport, they planned to actually go to the hospital, where a car would meet them to take them to the hotel—not the Alfonse, where the message had directed Atha to meet him, but the Americano, two blocks away. The Marines would go straight there, and be waiting when they arrived.
Thera pulled a blue pair of hospital clothes over her jeans and blouse, then tied her hair at the back with a rubber band. The navy had loaned her a pair of handguns; she wore one in a holster beneath her top, and would keep the other in the stretcher with their “patient,” one of the Greyhound’s crewmen.
The pilot announced that they were about to begin their final approach. Thera strapped herself in. Rostislawitch sat next to her.
“I hope you don’t mind,” the scientist told her. “But I don’t like airplanes when they land.”
“They have to land sometime.”
“True,” he said. Then he closed his eyes and gripped her hand.
It was cold and wet, and made Thera worry even more that he might not be able to stand the stress of meeting with Atha.
The sound of the plane grew as they pulled down onto the runway. They bounced slightly; Rostislawitch tightened his grip. Then the ride smoothed out and the brakes caught.
“We have a long way to taxi,” warned the pilot from the front.
Thera took out her phone to call Corrigan and tell him they were on the ground in Libya. She could tell something was wrong from his voice. For a moment, she thought it was Ferg. He’d gone to the airport to take a commercial flight, wanting to check out Tripoli on his own.
At least that was what he told her. Ferguson was never good at sharing mission details, and hadn’t entirely explained why he was going alone. Thera suspected it had something to do with T Rex.
Please, God, don’t let him, be dead.
“Rankin and Guns crashed not too far from the Libya-Sudan border,” Corrigan told her. “They’re OK. Van’s setting up a mission to get them. They found a camp nearby—we think it’s Atha’s base. They’re going to raid it at the same time.”
“They’re all right?”
“Yeah, they’re OK.”
“Where’s Ferg?”
“His flight left Naples on time. He should get in about an hour or so after you get to the hotel.”
“All right.”
“Stay in touch, right?”
“You sound like my dad, Corrigan,” she told him, hanging up.
~ * ~
20
OVER THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA
Technically, one wasn’t supposed to use a satellite phone while on board an airliner. But that was exactly the sort of rule Ferguson believed in observing in the breach. He slipped his right earbud in, then angled himself against the side of the plane. His neighbor in the seat next to Ferguson could only hear his side of the conversation; so long as he was careful about what he said, there’d be no problem.
“Ferg,” he said, pressing the send button in his pocket.
“This is Van. You get the information from Corrigan?”
“Yeah. You see where they went down?”
“I have GPS coordinates,” said Colonel Van Buren. “Thing is, Ferg, they’re too close to the camp to get them without someone there noticing. We have to hit the camp at the same time.”
“When’s that?”
“We’re looking at nine your time in Tripoli,” said Van Buren. “We may be able to push it up. We’re waiting to hear on a tanker. It’s a little more than four hours from here to where the camp is. We’ll be ready to take off shortly. The problem is really on the other side, picking us up.”
It wasn’t clear from satellite photos whether the landing strip would support the weight of a C-130. Staging helicopters in for a pickup would take considerably longer, because of not only their speed but also the need to refuel. Van Buren was working on a plan that would have C-130s and helicopters as backups, so he could switch if necessary. But that involved bringing the helos in from Egypt. They were still trying to finish the arrangements.
“When are you meeting Atha?” Van Buren asked.
“It’s his call. I won’t grab him until I know you’re close. Just in case he has some way of warning them.”
“Thanks, Ferg.”
Of course, that would work both ways—if Ferguson waited too long, the camp might warn Atha. But it was a risk he’d have to take.
Ferguson tapped his phone to kill the transmission. He turned to the woman in the seat next to him. She smiled.
“You’re using a phone, right?” she asked.
“That or I’m talking to myself.”
“I do both on planes all the time,” she told him.
Even so, Ferguson waited for his seatmate to go to the bathroom before calling Guns and Rankin. Guns answered.
“Ferg?”
“What are you doing getting shot down without me?”
“Sorry, Ferg.” Guns explained the situation; they were about ten miles from the camp, on the other side of a ridge that separated it from the desert.
“Can you guys wait until about ten or so to get picked up?” Ferguson asked. “Be better for this side of the operation.”
“No sweat.”
“Be square with me, Marine.” Ferguson made his voice very serious. “Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“All right. They’ll call you when they’re close. If things go to shit, holler. Otherwise stay under the rocks until they land.”
The phone rang a few seconds later. Ferguson slid it out of his pocket far enough to see who it was.
“Hey, Madame Butterfly,” Ferg told Corrine Alston. “What’s going on?”
“That’s my question for you.”
“I’m about an hour out of Tripoli. You hear about Rankin and Guns?”
“Corrigan told me. They say they’re OK.”
“Rankin’s not that good a liar, so maybe it’s true.”
“You have a rescue operation lined up to coincide with your grabbing Atha?”
“Yup.”
“OK. Good.” She paused for a moment, long enough for Ferguson to guess what was coming.
“I have another request,” she said finally. “MI6 wants in.”
“I don’t know that song. Is it Irish?”
“Mr. Parnelles called and asked that you play nice with them.”
“Yeah, see, it’s not Irish. I only do Irish folk songs. I can give you a very good ‘Finnegan’s Wake.’“
“It’s your call, Bob. And Mr. Parnelles says he owes you an apology.”
“It’s a really funny song. This guy dies, and they give him an Irish wake. Whiskey brings him back to life. A lot of puns, see, through the whole song. I’ll sing it for you sometime.”
“Thanks for the update, Ferg.”
Ferguson checked his watch. It was a little past three, Tripoli time. He pressed the quick-dial for the Cube.
“Corrigan.”
“No shit. Call that number I gave you the other day for Hamilton. Tell him to be on the five-thirty flight out of Naples for Tripoli.”
“You sure, Ferg?” Only an hour before, Ferguson had told Corrigan that if he even mentioned Hamilton again he’d stuff a dozen stale British scones down his throat when he got back to the States.
“There are only two more flights today, Jack. He either gets that one or waits until midnight.”
“Slott’ll be happy.”
“Yeah, well, make the call anyway.” Ferg saw his seatmate returning, and pushed the button to hang up.
~ * ~
21
NORTHEASTERN SUDAN
“How long you figure before they send somebody else out to look for these guys?” Guns asked Rankin after he had finished dragging the last body into the plane.
“Hour, maybe two. We got the radio. We listen for them.”
“Yeah.” Rankin looked around the desert.
“We got two choices—we drive out further so they can’t find us, or we go up into the hills,” said Guns.
“Then there’s door number three,” said Rankin. “We scout the place for the landing team.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“We scout the place, figure out where the defenses are. We’re just sitting here, Guns. We might as well do something that’ll make a difference. Shit, we’ll be sitting on our butts until what? Nine, if we’re lucky. By the time they’re wrapped up and come looking for us, it’ll be dawn.”
Guns looked Rankin up and down, trying to decide whether he was really up to moving around or whether it was just the sedative— aka Jack Daniel’s—talking.
Maybe a little of both.
“I’m OK,” insisted Rankin. “Let’s finish getting the bodies in the plane and go. We’re sitting ducks out here anyway. Our best bet is to get closer to the camp.”
“I’m not sure about this,” said Guns.
“Come on, Marine. Don’t be chicken.”
Guns laughed. A blanket hugger calling a Marine chicken. Some things were just too funny for words.
Rankin got up. His head felt light, because of either the Jack Daniel’s or the fracture.
“I’m just bustin’ on ya,” he told Guns. “We’d better get into the hills before they come for us, right? We don’t know if it’s one road or two roads or what.”
“OK,” said Guns.
“You’re all right for a Marine,” said Rankin.
“And you’re all right for a jerk.”
Rankin cracked up.
Definitely the whiskey, thought Guns.
~ * ~
22
TRIPOLI, LIBYA
Fresh off the airplane at the Tripoli airport, Ferguson strolled to the nearest bank machine, Rostislawitch’s ATM card in his hand. He angled his head so the machine’s camera couldn’t get a clear shot of his face, then fed the card into the slot and punched the PIN code. He tried to withdraw a hundred dollars’ worth of Libyan money—which didn’t work, since the account was down to five rubles. He checked his balance, took the card, and slid away to the left, again being careful not to let his face be seen.
“It’s so easy to put your money in, so hard to get it out,” he said to an Egyptian woman waiting in line. She nodded in sympathy, even though she didn’t understand all his words.
Outside, Ferguson got a taxi to the Alfonse Hotel. He handed over Rostislawitch’s credit card to the clerk, reserving the room.
“Send some coffee up for me, would you?” Ferguson asked in Arabic.
“There are coffeemakers in the rooms,” said the clerk, trying to sound helpful.
“Oh, I’m not going to drink that. You do have room service, right?”
“We do. Your accent—you’re from Egypt?”
“Moscow. I spent time in Cairo as a boy.”
“Ah. Very good,” said the man, handing over Ferguson’s card key.
The room was on the large size, with a thick gold bedspread ornate enough for Gadhafi to have worn as a robe, and plush velour-covered chairs. Ferguson scanned for bugs, then unhooked the cable from the television and hooked a receiver up so he could use it to monitor the two he’d left in the lobby and hallway. Before he was finished setting up, there was a knock at the door.
“Room service.”
Ferguson went to the door, opened it a crack, and saw a waiter in the hall. His uniform made him look part Arab, part African; he had a long shirt with wooden beads around his neck, and an ornate, red tasseled cap on his head.
Ferguson unlatched the chain and stood back. As the waiter wheeled the cart across the threshold, Ferguson dropped a twenty on the floor.
The server glanced at it; the next thing he knew, he was facedown on the floor, Ferguson’s knee in his back.
“Don’t move.” Ferguson reached under the man’s tunic and pulled out the waiter’s gun, a Walther P88 Compact.
“Nice weapon. I prefer Glocks myself, but you can’t go wrong with a German gun,” said Ferguson, getting up.
“Jeez, Ferg, quit horsin’ around, huh?”
“You think anybody’s buying that disguise, Ferrone? You don’t look any more local than I do.”
“What do you want? That’s how the room service people dress. Take it up with the management.”
“The hat’s pretty cool,” added Ferguson, helping Jimmy Ferrone up. Ferrone was the CIA’s Libyan station chief. “I like the tassel.”
“Long time no see,” said Ferrone. “How are you?”
He held his hand out, but Ferguson was ready—when Ferrone tried to throw him, he reversed the move and spun him onto the floor.
“All right, you win,” said Ferrone from his back. “I’m getting too old for this.”
Ferguson snorted, then ducked down to the bottom of the cart Ferrone had wheeled in. There was another Walther P88, along with an MP5 submachine gun and enough ammunition for a small siege.
“What happened to the smoke grenades?” asked Ferguson.
“In the ice bucket.” Ferrone stood up and straightened his clothes. He was about Ferguson’s height and weight, and it seemed to him that he had kicked the younger man’s butt not too long ago, or at least fought him to a draw. “You tapping into the security system?”
“No. I got bugs out quicker.”
“Yeah? Something we can use?”
“You’re not important enough.” Ferguson checked and then loaded the pistol.
“Screw yourself, Ferg. What are you working on?”
Ferguson grinned.
“Yeah, all right,” said Ferrone. “If you need more help, let me know.”
“I’m good, Jimmy. Thanks.”
Ferrone stuck out his hand. Ferguson shook his head. “I’m not shaking hands with you.”
Ferrone turned to go.
“Hey, you forgot your tip,” said Ferguson, pointing to the twenty.
“That’s all right. Your coffee’s cold.”
~ * ~
23
NAPLES, ITALY
Kiska Babev’s assistant called her just as the plane was about to board.
“Rostislawitch is at the hotel in Tripoli. He just checked in. Tried to get some money out when he landed. There wasn’t enough in his account.”
“Very good. Were you able to get a boarding list for the earlier flight?”
“Yes, and Ferguson wasn’t on it. That doesn’t mean he’s not on his way.”
“Antov, haven’t I taught you never to state the obvious?”
“Yes, Colonel.”
Kiska was just about to tell him that she wasn’t angry when she saw a man walking into the gate area who looked familiar. He had sandy hair, a thin face, and dressed like a British college student gone to seed.
Familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him.
Had she seen him in Bologna? Or before that, much before that?
British? Or German? Not American, a little too priggish with his clothes.
“Antov, what are the names of the British and German intelligence officers assigned to Italy?” she asked.
“Hold on, Colonel.”
She watched the man, trying to remember. She’d been shown faces of various foreign agents before traveling, but that wasn’t why he was familiar. It was further back than that.
“There are several dozen. You want me to read the names?”
“No. It’s someone who was in Chechnya a year ago. A British agent, I think.”
“Are you sure about Chechnya?”
“I’m not,” she admitted. “Have someone at the airport take his picture when we land. Then follow him.”
“You’re stretched thin, Colonel.” Her assistant began telling her about
the problems he had encountered getting personnel into Libya; most of the people she wanted wouldn’t be there until the next day.
