by Larry Bond
“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.
“Hate 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.
“That’ll be Ferg,” said Guns, gesturing toward the men coming off the helicopter ramp. “Maybe we ought to go check it out.”
“I guess.”
“Why don’t you like him?” Guns asked.
“What’s it to you?”
“Ain’t nothin’ to me,” said Guns.
“Good.”
* * *
Ferguson watched as the mechanics fiddled with the engine, trying to get it to start. With the way his luck was running, the stinking thing wouldn’t work, and they’d lose the entire day. Fouad folded his arms next to him, his long face even longer.
“How was Turkey?” asked Thera, who’d come down from the base.
“Dark. How are these guys treating you?” asked Ferg.
“Not bad.”
“Like being the only woman in the desert?”
“I’m used to it,” said Thera. “What I’d like to try some time is being the only woman in a palace.”
The engine coughed. A mass of black smoke emerged from the exhaust.
“Getting there,” said one of the soldiers.
Ferguson wasn’t so sure. He saw Guns coming down the path from the rocks, trailed by Captain Melfi, who’d come east to the base camp with most of his men after the snatch operation the night before.
“Hey, Houston, why don’t we grab the rest of the team and have a little planning session?” Ferguson suggested, taking his rucksack.
“You going to keep up that Houston business instead of using my real name?”
“It’s better than some of the alternatives, don’t you think?”
“I think Thera is fine.”
“You don’t get a vote.” Ferguson smirked at her frown.
Melfi gave Ferguson an update on the traffic, or rather the lack of traffic, as they walked back up to the command tent. They found Rankin sitting at the table that dominated the room, staring at the large map. Ferg helped himself to a cup of coffee, then leaned over the table, orienting himself.
“Couple of things might have happened,” Ferguson told the others. “One is that we missed him. In that case he may be waiting for the folks we grabbed to show up in one of the cities around here. So we check them out.”
“How did he get past us?” asked Rankin.
“Disguised, scooted right through with the rest of the traffic near Aby Kamal,” said Ferguson, pointing at the border city on the Euphrates. “Bribed the guards, tricked the Americans.”
“I don’t see how they could have,” said Melfi.
“Which of course would be how they did it,” said Ferguson. “Or he used one of the tunnels we don’t know about. Or he came over a few days ago. Or our information is completely bad.”
Ferguson outlined the general game plan, telling Melfi that he and his people would continue to watch the border area.
“In the meantime, Fouad, Rankin, and Thera are going to go over to Sukna and then Deir Ex Zur and see if they can catch a whiff of the trail.” Ferguson reached into his rucksack and pulled out a large padded envelope, which contained travel and identity documents, along with a bundle of money. “You go as Egyptians with the milk truck. Everybody knows you’re smugglers looking for business.”
“I don’t look very Egyptian,” said Rankin.
“No one will question it if you don’t talk too much,” said Fouad. “You smear more red tone on your face and keep growing your beard, you look fine.”
“Maybe I ought to dress like a Bedouin,” suggested Rankin.
“That�
�s overdoing it,” said Ferguson. “Anyone who studies your face is going to know you haven’t spent your life in the desert. You’ll be all right. Just the normal pajamas will do.”
Rankin had a customized salwnr kameez, an oversized shirt and baggy pants, which in his case were bulky enough to hide a lightweight bulletproof vest along with his weapons. He could obscure his face when necessary with a head scarf or shimagh.
Despite its poor relations with the U.S., in many ways Syria was much more liberal than many Middle Eastern countries, and Western-style clothing would be the norm in the larger towns and cities. Fouad was dressed little differently than a man would dress in America.
“The milk truck has a series of fake compartments,” Ferguson told them. “I got it off a genuine smuggler. Actually, the First Airborne got it off a smuggler, and they said I could borrow it.”
He explained how the compartments worked. There was one toward the cab area large enough to fit weapons and a series of smaller ones. “You can chain two of the motorcycles on the back, and another at the side. They may come in handy.”
“Where are you going to be?” Thera asked Ferguson.
“The map those clowns were working with suggest they were going to Tarabulus esh Sham, Tripoli. Long shot but worth checking. It’s north of Beirut.”
“What happened to Syria?” asked Thera.
“Still in the running. It may be that they were going here first, maybe to pick up someone or sell something or even buy something, then heading north. I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Won’t know until I get there and maybe not even then.”
“What am I doing, Ferg?” asked Guns.
“For the time being, big guy, winning Melfi’s poker money. Your Arabic isn’t good enough to ride with those guys, and I don’t want to burn you in Lebanon with me in case I need you to come in as a Russian drug dealer or something like that. If you’re seen with me it’ll kill your cover. Just remember, I get half your winnings here.”
Guns smirked. Melfi didn’t.
“Questions? Complaints?” asked Ferguson.
“There’s five thousand Euros here,” said Thera, flipping through the money.
“That’s all they’d let me sign for.”
She stared at him.
Ferguson realized she was thinking about the cash they’d found in the smuggler’s car and laughed. “Don’t forget your sunblock,” he told them.
6
EASTERN SYRIA
THAT AFTERNOON…
Sukna was a very small town, and it was clear as they approached that they were not going to get any information there, even it was to be had. A small patrol of Syrian soldiers met them outside of town and quizzed them. Fouad handled it somewhat nervously, and Thera worried that the man was going to make the mistake of offering the Syrians a bribe. Close to the border that might be expected, but here it would be regarded as an insult and perhaps worse.
Rankin pressed his elbow into the Iraqi’s side, hoping to shut him up. Fouad blubbered on, talking inanely about the swarm of bugs that followed the truck, worrying that they were attracted by the souring milk in the back. Finally even the guards grew tired of him and waved them past the checkpoint.
“Why did you tell them that the milk was sour?” said Thera, leaning across Rankin.
The Iraqi shrugged.
“Talk less,” said Rankin.
“I have been in this business longer than you have been alive,” answered Fouad, though it had been many years since he had traveled undercover. The weather didn’t help his mood, and the flies were atrocious. He thought to himself that he should have insisted on going to Tripoli, where at least he might have been able to find a pool to cool off in.
“This doesn’t look like a good place to stop,” said Thera as they came to a cluster of buildings that marked the start of the town center. Soldiers stood on both sides of the road.
Rankin agreed. They drove through slowly but saw no hint of what was going on. There was a second checkpoint at the northern outskirts; this time the soldiers wanted to check their truck. The interior had been dummied up against just such a possibility with a mixture of brackish water and milk. One of the soldiers made the mistake of tasting some of the liquid as it poured from the back and spit it into the sand; his companions laughed at him.
“Obviously a new recruit,” said Rankin as they drove away.
“You think Khazaal’s in the town and that’s why they’re here?” asked Thera.
“Nothing can be completely ruled out,” said Fouad. “But the Syrian government would not want to be seen actively cooperating with the resistance at this time. If anything, the soldiers would be looking for him and others. You see how our truck was searched? They were looking for a person, not merchandise. They probably heard the helicopters yesterday or rumors of the gunfights. That is why they are here.”
Rankin waited until they were a few miles out of town, then used the sat phone to call Corrigan and tell him about the Syrians. “They didn’t look like a search party exactly,” he told him. “But I don’t know. Better tell Guns and the rest of them to be careful tonight.”
They made decent time on the highway, stopping once for diesel. Thera found herself nodding off as they continued north, fatigue and the heat lulling her to sleep. Green appeared on the horizon; the wind suddenly felt humid. Then she drifted, sliding somewhere near Houston, where she’d grown up.
Rankin let Thera’s weight shift against him. She had a compact body, not quite buxom enough on top to be a knockout but trim under the loose Arab clothes she wore. Her nose had the slightest hook to it, the sort of blemish that made a woman seem ugly at first but kept your eyes returning to her face until you realized that she was actually very beautiful. A curly strand of hair fell over her ear, drawing a line between the two post earrings.
He reached over and moved her against the side of the truck, not wanting his gun obstructed. He had a small Glock in his pants pocket; his Uzi was strapped beneath the dashboard.
“The woman is sleeping?” asked Fouad.
“Yeah.”
“Women can always sleep.”
“I guess.”
“I have not been to Deir Ex Zur in many years.”
“Makes two of us,” said Rankin, though in fact he had never been there.
“It is the most likely place in the area that he would come,” continued Fouad. “Everyone goes through it, and you can buy many things.”
“Yeah. You’re probably right.”
Deir Ex Zur sat on an important trade route that dated well into prehistory. During the French domination of Syria, it had been an important French outpost, albeit a small one. Like so many other places in the Middle East, the discovery of oil here had changed the city’s fortunes dramatically. It was now a relatively large city, by far the biggest in eastern Syria, with Western-style hotels and a smattering of Europeans on the streets. The Euphrates sat on the northern side of the city, less a boundary than a wide, rich vein of green and blue — and a gathering place for the squadrons of swarming bugs. They made their way to 8th Azar Street, one of the main thoroughfares. Rankin woke Thera when they found a lot to park in. They were a few blocks from the microbus station, which itself was several from the river and the heart of town.
“Time to go to work,” he told her.
* * *
The area around the river had changed considerably since the last time Fouad had been here. While it had always had its share of tourist traps catering to Western visitors as well as Arabs, they had multiplied tenfold in the last two years. The forest of English signs crowding out Arabic pained Fouad as well as disoriented him.
Their first stop was a café frequented by Iraqi exiles on the south side of the river.
“It looks exactly as it did when I first saw it twenty years ago,” said Fouad, surprised as well as relieved. “Wait for me.”
“You sure you’re all right?” asked Rankin.
Fouad, annoyed, put up his hand but said nothing.
When he had been gone five minutes, Rankin told Thera to come along.
“I thought you told him we’d stay out here.”
“I don’t trust him.”
“Ferg does.”
“I ain’t Ferg.”
Thera followed him inside. The influence of tourism had loosened local customs to the point that women were a sizable minority inside the café. If anything, Thera’s rust-colored jiba and lace-up hijab and scarf were on the conservative side here. She followed Rankin to a seat several tables from Fouad, whose back was turned to them at a table in the corner. He was sitting alone.
They ordered tea, Thera doing the talking. She had a pistol strapped to the inside of each thigh as well as her left ankle; on her right were three small pin grenades, miniature flash-bangs that could be used to divert attention if she needed to escape. A knife, spare ammo, and two more pin grenades, these with smoke, were strapped below her breasts. The weapons felt uncomfortable under the long dress, but it was something she’d have to get used to.
“Didn’t even talk to anyone,” grumbled Rankin as Fouad got up to leave.
They met Fouad outside after she finished her tea.
“We have to find a taxi,” the Iraqi told them. “I have an address.”
7
TRIPOLI (TARABULUS ESH SHAM), LEBANON
THAT AFTERNOON…
Ferguson had found that, as a general rule in life, it was best to simply show up at the place where you wished to be. Less questions were asked, more things assumed, if one simply walked out from the crowd. And so it was that Bob Ferguson made his appearance in Tripoli, striding out of the surf at the Palace, a recently built luxury resort that featured the self-proclaimed biggest and best sand beach in all Lebanon — not much of a boast in a country not known for sandy beaches but a slogan nonetheless.
