Angels of Wrath ft-2

by Larry Bond

  “Bob, back already?”

  “I told you, everybody calls me Ferg.” He grabbed his towel, giving the beach a quick glance while drying his hair.

  “Still no one watching us,” said Kel.

  “Syrians must be busy.” Ferguson plopped down next to her. “Thanks for hiring the girls. They did a good job. All locals?”

  “All locals.” She leaned her arms back, stretched in the sand. “Now it’s time for you to pay up.”

  “A hundred Euros apiece wasn’t enough?”

  “I was talking about me,” she said, craning her head back for a kiss.

  20

  EASTERN SYRIA

  Rankin and Thera stopped their bikes in a grove of trees overlooking the river about fifty miles from the airport. As far as Rankin could tell, they hadn’t been followed, but he was sure they would be.

  Corrigan cursed when he heard what had happened. For once, Rankin didn’t snap back and tell him to screw himself.

  “We’re going to get back on Route 4 and ride up near Aj’aber,” Rankin told him. “At that point we’ll cut south into the desert. Fouad knows a couple of good places for pickups. We should be OK until nightfall.”

  “The Syrians are going to go ape.”

  Rankin said nothing. He was about to kill the connection when Corrigan told him that Ferguson wanted to talk to him.

  “When?”

  “I think he can talk now. Hold on. I’ll find out.”

  Rankin’s shoulders sagged as he waited, partly from fatigue and partly because he knew he hadn’t had a particularly good run the last few days.

  “Hey, Skippy,” said Ferguson. “How do you like the bikes?”

  “They’re all right.”

  “Tell me about the jewels Khazaal had.”

  Rankin told him the little that he knew, then gave him the information that Thera and Fouad had found out at the airport.

  “It’s a logical place,” said Ferguson. “How are you doing?”

  Rankin told Ferguson what had happened.

  “Yeah, Corrigan mentioned something along those lines. Sucks,” said Ferguson. “I’m going to have Corrigan figure out how to get you guys over here after you bug out. Take Guns, too. In the meantime, let me talk to Fouad.”

  Rankin passed the phone over to the Iraqi. Fouad blinked into the sun, which had fallen halfway down the sky.

  “Khazaal went west,” Fouad told him.

  “So I heard. Why would he do that?”

  “I have no answer for you.”

  “Why would he go to Latakia you think? Buy weapons?”

  “It would he logical.”

  “It’s either that or gamble. I don’t figure him for that. If he was going to sell the jewels, he would have gone to Cairo, don’t you think?”

  “A good bet.”

  “Who would he know up there in Latakia?”

  “We have people in Damascus,” said Fouad. “Perhaps you could speak to them.”

  “There’s a waste of time. Why would the resistance need to buy weapons?”

  “Perhaps they aren’t buying weapons but services. Or maybe he is escaping: from Latakia he could go to Turkey.” The more Fouad thought about this, the more he thought it must be the answer. The insurgency was doomed, and Khazaal, not being a stupid man, would try to get out while it was still possible.

  “If he was going to Turkey, it would have been easier to get out through the Kurdish area,” said Ferguson.

  “Not for him.”

  “Point taken.”

  Fouad didn’t understand the expression, but he assumed it meant that Ferguson agreed with him.

  “How’s Rankin treating you?” asked Ferg.

  “Very well.” When Thera had begun running at the first crack of gunfire, Fouad had assumed the worst: that the Americans were abandoning him. He was ashamed now.

  “He can be tough on Iraqis.”

  “Yes,” said Fouad. “But I am tough on Americans as well.”

  “Fair enough. See you guys when you get here.”

  21

  TRIPOLI

  THAT EVENING…

  Corrine went through the motions of the tour, admiring the equipment she was shown, nodding appropriately, and twice taking notes. Her hosts were very cordial and accommodating, traditional Arabs who did not let political or even religious differences disturb the mandate to be gracious hosts. They staged an elaborate dinner with enough food for an army; Corrine thought to herself that she would not fit into the bathing suit she had bought earlier in the day without considerable exercise. As the dinner wound down, she managed to ask her hosts for their opinion about a new peace plan for a Palestinian homeland without offending them. They were vaguely hopeful, but perhaps that too was due to politeness.

  Her car was escorted back to the hotel by four police vehicles. It presented the illusion of safety while creating an obvious target for anyone who hated the regime as well as the U.S. Still, by the time she got into the hotel Corrine could almost believe that the media had overhyped the hatred Arabs felt toward Americans; her experience here had been as pleasant as any she had had in Europe or Asia.

  Once again she waited in the reception area as her room was checked; once again she examined the illustrated manuscript pages. Gazing at them through the glass, she noticed a man approaching the reservations desk who looked vaguely familiar. She stared for a moment, unable to place him, and then, as he turned and met her gaze, she realized it was the man she had seen in the Mossad building.

  She turned her head away, pretending not to notice, feigning absorption in the art.

  The man came over to her.

  “Ms. Alston?”

  Corrine hesitated for a split second before turning around. Her escorts were right at his side bristling, ready to intervene. A few feet behind them, the Lebanese police too were ready.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” said the man, bowing his head slightly in greeting.

  “I’m afraid not.” It was the safest thing to say.

  “I was with the delegation to the UN two years ago. I had the great privilege of presenting the Pan-Arab view on the injustices faced by the Palestinian people.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” she said, emphasizing the noncommittal tone.

  “You did not treat us well.” The man wagged his finger at her. “You personally, of course, were very gracious, but your employers—” He stumbled over the word, as if choosing one that would be neutral. “I was glad to see a new president elected, with better ideas toward the Arab view, I trust.”

  The Lebanese security people, who had begun by looking suspiciously at the man, now turned those same glares toward Corrine.

  “I’m afraid I’ve totally forgotten your name,” she said.

  “I am Fazel al-Qiam. I no longer have my government post,” said Aaron Ravid. He’d come to Lebanon en route to Syria, renewing his contacts and gathering information.

  The American had clearly recognized him from Tel Aviv and wasn’t practiced enough to hide her expression, which was sure to be seen by the Syrian and Lebanese agents watching the lobby. So he’d done the only thing he could do, approach her and try to cover it.

  Was it a coincidence that she was here, an accident of luck? Or was the Mossad somehow using her?

  It must be an accident, but he would put nothing past Tischler.

  Corrine, not thinking, extended her hand to shake. Ravid reacted as a conservative Arab might, frowning and smiling nervously but hesitating to shake. Realizing the faux pas, she quickly dropped her hand.

  “Excuse me. I beg your pardon,” she said.

  “Apologies are not necessary for such a gracious and beautiful woman. I am in private life now, a simple man.”

  “Well, it was nice to see you again.” Corrine started to turn away.

  “You didn’t answer my question. Does the new president understand the needs of the Palestinian people?”

  “I think the president wi
shes to understand all of the complicated needs of the people in the Middle East,” she said. “I would hope, strongly hope, that better arrangements can be made to our mutual benefit. I am here to help report on a trade agreement. I have found my hosts gracious and wonderful. Candidly, I don’t think there are friendlier people in the world.”

  “We could do much trade with America if our rights are respected. Of course, that is tantamount. For too long the Arab people have not been accorded the proper respect. You are happy to take our oil, but do you treat us with the consideration equal partners are due? Sadly, you do not. Our civilization is many times older than yours, but we are treated like the little brother.” Ravid smiled, as if stopping himself from the rest of the rant. “I apologize. You, Ms. Alston, are certainly not personally responsible for this. You have been honorable and respectful, even though I see you disagree with me.”

  “I don’t disagree. I—” She stopped herself midsentence. “I may disagree on some points but not on the whole. Some day, at your leisure, I hope, we may discuss them.”

  “With the grace of God, we shall.”

  * * *

  Upstairs in her suite, one of the marines found a brochure of tourist spots stuck under the door as they entered. Corrine took it from him before he could toss it in the garbage.

  Convinced it was Ferguson’s message on what time to meet, she thumbed through the English section several times without finding any clue, much less a note or directions. Out of desperation she looked in the directory for jazz clubs. There was only one: the Blu Note, in an older part of town. She didn’t see a clue there either, until she realized that the digits for the acts had been carefully erased or changed, until the only ones that were legible were all the same: 1.

  22

  TRIPOLI

  THAT NIGHT…

  Pleasant though it was, Ferguson’s personal-information sharing with Kel yielded no useful knowledge about any Islamic militant meeting in Tripoli and nothing but generic warnings about cells that were operating in the city. As a courtesy, he waited until she was out of sight to scan his room and suitcase, removing not one, not two, but three bugs and a tracking device. You couldn’t blame a girl for trying.

  The rest of the day and evening were equally unproductive. The majority of the local Iraqi community were employed with the Iraqi Petroleum Company at its massive processing and distribution facility a few kilometers north of town. Fouad had directed him toward the local intelligence contact, who as he predicted was useless; the nonofficial contacts were more thoughtful but had not heard that Khazaal was in the area. Ferguson left bugs in the café they frequented, arranging for an uplink just in case. But if the meeting was taking place here, it remained a well-kept secret. Ferguson wandered through the clubs where the drug dealers hung out; he could have bought huge portions of dope and smaller quantities of weapons, but information was much harder to come by.

  Several hours of wandering the bars and casinos of Latakia had given Ferguson a splitting headache but not appreciably more information. He walked into the Blu Note a little after one a.m. and headed for the rest-room, where he tried fighting off the headache with a small dose of Cytomel as well as aspirin. The thyroid hormone sometimes gave his system a jump start, but it didn’t tonight, and he didn’t have to put on much of an act to look like one of the disaffected Europeans as he sauntered into the bar area.

  The jazz singer he’d seen the night before was back. Ferguson stared at her, looking at Corrine from the corner of his eye. She had a table with her marines and Delta troopers. Two members of the Lebanese police force sat across from her but seemed to be undercover.

  Two other people were watching her from across the room. Ferguson decided they were probably Syrians, though it was difficult to tell. He sipped a seltzer, working out how to approach Corrine without blowing his cover; even though he was leaving town, he didn’t want the Syrians to pick up on him, if possible.

  Easiest thing to do would be to wait until she went to the restroom.

  Or just bag the in-face meeting. It was unnecessary.

  He leaned back against the bar, turning to the right in time to see a possible diversion come through the door in tight jeans and an equally snug red camisole top. She smiled at Ferguson and walked toward him.

  He reached for his bankroll when a man ran into the room behind her. Clearly out of place, he wore a long raincoat, his eyes wide. Someone behind him shouted. Ferguson cursed, reaching to his back for the big Glock. He steadied, fired, and suddenly his headache felt ten times worse.

  ACT IV

  And the fourth angel poured out his vial upon the sun; and power was given

  unto him to scorch men with fire.

  — Revelation 16:8 (King James Version)

  1

  TRIPOLI

  From the inside, it felt like a slow-motion kaleidoscope, a cut and jumble of color and action and sounds, none of which made any sense to Corrine.

  On the outside, she saw a man enter the club, heard someone shout behind him.

  He’s going to kill us, she thought to herself.

  The man’s head exploded, but his body didn’t. A bullet had caught him.

  Ferguson’s.

  Ferguson!

  The CIA officer jumped over the rail from the bar, gun in hand. The bodyguards leapt to their feet. One ran up toward the suicide bomber Ferguson had just killed, double-checking to make sure the man was dead. The other three were pulling her toward the door. Someone nearby jumped up, and just before any one could blast him waved a Lebanese police ID.

  Ferguson saw the room as people: the blues singer, frozen at her piano; the two Syrians trying to get out the door; two young men, teenagers really, running for the back.

  And then he realized what the hell was going on.

  “No!” he yelled, shooting both of the young men. As they fell, the small submachine guns they’d had beneath their clothes, Mac-11s, fell to the floor.

  Ferg bolted out the door behind the marines. Two cars were pulling up.

  “No!” he shouted. “Out of here! It’s a trap! It’s a kidnapping! These guys are terrorists. Back through the front!”

  One of the car doors opened. Ferguson fired once, then pirouetted in time to get a gunman coming down the alley. The marines started to fire at the gunmen appearing from the cars. Corinne ducked and began running back into the building.

  “Yeah, that way,” said Ferguson. “Go! Go!”

  Fie grabbed her and threw her through the doorway. As the bodyguards followed, he grabbed the small smoke grenade he had inside his belt, yanked the pin with his teeth, and whipped it behind him. Then he took another and threw it into the room ahead of them.

  “Go! Front door! Go!” he yelled as the bomb exploded.

  Ferg grabbed Corrine by the back of the shirt and pulled her with him through the pandemonium. One of the bodyguards took hold of Corrine by the right arm and Ferg let go, swooping down to grab the hideaway gun near his ankle. One of the bodyguards grabbed a chair and smashed out a front window. Ferguson heard an automatic rifle popping behind him somewhere, he grabbed at Corrine and helped throw her through the window.

  Their driver and escort — more embassy Delta boys — had pulled the Mercedes up. The escort leveled an M249 squad-level machine gun at Ferguson as he came out with the others.

  “He’s with us!” yelled a marine. “He’s ours!”

  A distinct look of disappointment registered on the man’s face.

  Corrine kept insisting that she was all right and could run on her own, but no one listened. They wedged her in the back, all six of them in the Mercedes. Their second vehicle, an SUV with a local driver, pulled up behind them, but there was no time to parcel out the seating arrangements. The Mercedes driver stomped the gas, and the car whipped forward. One of the marines screamed as his ankle got caught in the door, but he managed to get his foot inside as they skidded forward.

  Four blocks later, the Mercedes and SUV veered onto a side s
treet so that they could rearrange themselves. Ferguson pulled himself out of the back and flipped over into the front.

  “Not here, not here!” he yelled. “This is the last place we want to be. That’s a mosque. Get us the hell out of here. Down the block, go. Go! Go!”

  The driver gave him a dirty look.

  “Go!” said Ferguson. He pulled his gun up, the small one, though the driver probably didn’t appreciate the difference.

  “Listen to what Ferguson says,” Corrine yelled.

  “Left, quick right,” said Ferguson, struggling to get his bearings straight as the car lurched into gear. They made it over to Abou Ali Square and headed south.

  “All right, there’s a place we can get to beyond the town and get a helicopter in,” said Ferguson. “It’s scoped out.”

  “I’m not leaving,” said Corrine.

  “Bullshit you’re not leaving. Somebody just tried to kidnap you. Or assassinate you.”

  “So I’m supposed to run away?”

  “I don’t necessarily disagree with your attitude,” said Ferguson, turning around. “But given that you’re not here for any real reason except to kick in my teeth, I think you ought to get out while the getting out is good. You’re just a target now.”

  Corrine, seated between two marines, realized Ferguson was right. But leaving town felt too much like running away.

  “Hell, you were going tomorrow anyway,” said Ferguson, pulling out his phone. “Besides, it’ll get you out of another one of those tours.”

  Corrine laughed, more out of relief than anything else.

  * * *

  One of the Delta boys had been shot in the arm; one of the marine boys had sprained or possibly broken his ankle in the escape. Otherwise they were unharmed. Ferguson told Corrigan to hustle in the MH-6 helo they had stationed offshore for an emergency bailout. It was sitting on a barge about ten minutes’ flying time away; they made it to the rendezvous point three minutes before the helo did.