Angels of Wrath ft-2

by Larry Bond

“Ma’am, you have a phone call from Washington,” he said through the door. “I believe it’s the White House.”

  “On my way,” she replied, placing the gun back in the bag.

  “Miss Alston, assure me that you are all right and that the rumors of your demise are greatly exaggerated,” said the president as soon as he came on the line.

  “Mr. President, I’m fine. I hope there are no rumors to the contrary.” Corrine forced a smile for the ambassador, standing next to her in his study as she took the call.

  “I was deeply concerned to hear that there was a problem,” said McCarthy. “Deeply concerned.”

  “I’m fine.” Corrine summarized the incident briefly. While there were several competing theories, Corrine and the security chief at the embassy favored the one proposing that a group had wanted to kidnap her and hold her for ransom, most likely for political gains but possibly simply for financial. “It comes with the territory,” she said. “I would expect that things will be even more restless in the next few days and weeks, as the outlines of your plan become known. Many people are not interested in peace.”

  “Restless does not begin to cover it, my deah, though it is an interesting turn of phrase,” said the president. “I assume your presence had something to do with the arrest of the individual we spoke of in Washington.”

  “Something to do with it, yes.”

  “Well, it would be very good timing to have him arrested,” said the president. “Very good timing indeed. His trial would underline the commitment to democracy and the future.” Future, in the president’s full Georgian drawl, sounded like a country on the distant horizon filled with precious things. “But you and I spoke of your personal safety before you left.”

  “I’m fine, Mr. President.”

  “Now don’t get your back up, deah. I know you can take care of yourself.”

  “I can, sir.” Corrine felt her face flushing. She felt constrained by the fact that the ambassador was nearby. “Really, Mr. President. I am fine. And I am very capable of taking care of myself.”

  McCarthy chuckled. “I would nevah say anything to the contrary, deah.”

  5

  LATAKIA

  “Ferguson, is that you?” said the man, spreading his arms in wonder. He spoke in English, with a heavy accent that most people took as Russian, though he was actually a Pole.

  “Birk, pull up a chair.”

  “I am surprised to see you,” replied Birk Ivanovich, still standing.

  “You should be,” said Ferguson. The last time Birk had seen him had been at the end of Ferguson’s trip here a year before, when Ferguson disappeared into a blazing sunset, ostensibly the victim of a bomb blast. “Have some champagne with me.”

  “Is it good luck to drink with a dead man?”

  “Only with his ghost,” said Ferg.

  “I didn’t set that bomb,” said Birk. He glanced at his two shadows, motioning with his head that they should find seats elsewhere in the elegant club room of the Max Hotel.

  “If you had set the bomb I wouldn’t be here,” said Ferguson. The waiter came over with a fresh champagne flute and poured a drink for Birk, who was here so often that he had a regular table at the far end of the room.

  “To your health,” said Birk, raising the filled glass.

  “And yours.”

  “Still have the yacht?” Ferguson asked.

  “A new one. You should come see it some time. After all, your money helped me buy it.”

  “Still have the one-eyed Greek as the captain?”

  “Fired him. And the hands. I run it myself.”

  “You do?”

  Birk shrugged. “For now. You must sail out to see me. It is offshore, of course. I call it the Sharia.”

  “Islamic justice? You do have a sense of humor, Birk.”

  “I try,” said Birk, downing the champagne. “What are you in the market for today? More missiles?”

  “Always looking,” said Ferg. “How hard is it to get things into Iraq?”

  Birk made a face. “Why would you go there?”

  “Me? I wouldn’t. How hard is it?”

  Birk shrugged. “Not hard. But the market there is as bad as ever. What are you bringing in? Milk? Penicillin? That could get a good price. Not as good as under Saddam but still decent. Aspirin… you would be surprised.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of what you trade in.”

  Birk made a face. “The Iraqis don’t buy. They sell.”

  “You sure?”

  “It is the same as when you were here last. They have plenty of small arms. The quality is so-so, but you can make it up on volume. I get my RPGs from there. Cheaper than Russia or Georgia. Ukraine, well, sometimes you can still find a bargain there.”

  RPGs were rocket-propelled grenades.

  “You buy a lot from them?” Ferguson asked.

  “Usually not.” Birk shook his head. “Rifles, yes, if I can find a large lot. But even there, you must be careful. Some of the ones who come here to sell don’t even know the guns themselves. That is the depressing thing. They are not trying to cheat you; they just don’t know. Imagine that!”

  “So what are you selling to Khazaal?”

  “Khazaal?”

  “The Iraqi resistance leader.”

  “I know who he is. Please.” Birk shook his head. “You think I don’t know my business?”

  “I know you know your business. That’s why I’m here.”

  The arms dealer squinted at him in a way that was supposed to suggest that he had no idea what Ferguson was talking about; it had exactly the opposite effect.

  Birk drained his champagne. “Business calls,” he said, starting to rise. “Another time—”

  Ferguson clamped his hand on Birk’s forearm. “Come on, Birk. Don’t hold out on me. It’s bad form.”

  The two bodyguards seated at the table behind Ferguson started to get up.

  “Better tell them to get back,” said Ferg.

  Birk signaled with his head that the men should relax. Ferguson let go of his arm. “There’s a convention in town that I want to be part of.”

  Bilk shook his head. “Too dangerous even for you.”

  “Are you invited?”

  “They would roast me first.”

  “A drink?” said Ferguson. He signaled to the waiter. “Something more serious than the champagne?”

  “Why not? Bombay Sapphire. On the rocks.”

  “Gin now? Last year it was vodka.”

  “I like a change of pace.”

  Ferguson took the barest of sips from the gin, then asked Birk what he knew. The Pole told him that he didn’t know much, only that no one should go near the castle north of town for the next few days. After gentle and not-so-gentle prodding and several more drinks, Birk told him that he had heard several Islamic fanatics — he used a Polish word whose most polite connotation was “maniacs” — were either already in town or en route. They were trying to do something in Iraq, but what it was, no one could say.

  Birk hastened to assure Ferguson that he did not deal with such men directly, though occasionally he might facilitate arrangements with go-betweens. None, he claimed, were currently buying.

  “Is Khazaal in town yet?” Ferguson asked.

  “I cannot afford to keep track of which crazy is here or not here.”

  “You can’t afford not to.”

  Birk shrugged. “I heard, yes, but I don’t see him. He may not be a gambler.”

  “When’s the meeting?”

  “Maybe three days from now, but my information is sketchy as always. Try the secret police.”

  Ferguson had the waiter bring over a full bottle of the gin, but this produced no more information. Finally he mentioned Jurg Vassenka, the Russian expert Thomas had discovered who was heading toward Latakia.

  “An overrated Russian on his way out,” said Birk.

  “You say that about all Russians.”

  “I would not deal with him. He pret
ends to know systems that he does not know. He passes himself off as an expert, when he is an imbecile.”

  “By birth, right?”

  Birk nodded solemnly. Though he did business with them all the time, he did not like Russians.

  “Is he going to the meeting?” Ferguson asked.

  This possibility surprised Birk, though he frowned quickly to hide it. “I doubt it. Is he in Latakia?”

  “He will be.”

  “For that information, I owe you a favor,” said Birk.

  “And I’ll be sure to collect,” said Ferguson.

  6

  NORTH OF LATAKIA

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER…

  Crusaders had started to build the castle in the twelfth century but abandoned it in favor of other, better sites farther up and down the coast. Its four walls ranged from six to twenty feet high and were doubled in places. There were two covered keep areas, but they were not much larger than a fair-sized bathroom. Overall, the footprint was perhaps a tenth of the size of the famous Krak des chevaliers, the medieval castle farther south near Tartūs, which had been built around the same time.

  Ferguson leaned forward against the rocks a half mile away, watching through binoculars as two men worked on the approach to the old fort, apparently laying mines along the long, narrow road that led to the only entrance. Built on a rocky promontory overlooking the Mediterranean, the castle had only two doorways: one above a very narrow staircase cut into the stone that led up from the sea and the other at the end of the long road where the men were working. A sharp, clifflike drop near the castle wall and a rocky ravine helped isolate the narrow road, which had been constructed with a pair of switchback curves that could be covered from the old walls. Nobody without an invitation was crashing the party.

  Ferguson flipped up the antenna on his phone. “How’s my U-2 doing?” he asked Lauren back in Virginia.

  “Leaving Cyprus in about ten minutes. We’re going to get a Global Hawk to share time so we have around-the-clock coverage. Your devices planted?”

  “Yeah, but you’re not going to see much from here that they won’t. I can’t get close enough to bug the place. I’m on that bluff a half mile away; ten feet from here they’d be all over me. I figure no more than four guys in there right now, counting the people planting the mines.”

  Ferguson had planted a pair of low-light video cameras to keep the road under surveillance. Small transmitters fed the images into a satellite system that relayed them back to the Cube.

  “What do you think?” Lauren asked.

  “B-52 as soon as they’re all there. Get all the bees while they’re in the hive.”

  “What do you really think?”

  “That’s what I think,” said Ferguson. “Best pest eradicator in the business.”

  “Have you talked to Ms. Alston?”

  Ferguson grunted. “I will.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m going to get moving. Where’s the rest of the team?”

  “Should be getting to the Taib any minute.”

  “Uh oh. Who do you figure is the best singer on the team?”

  “Singer?”

  “Better give me Guns. Marines at least know how to hum.”

  * * *

  When Ferguson got to the hotel an hour later, he discovered that Rankin had decided to take the backup room on the second floor and wait for Ferguson to arrive rather than test the Delta boy’s ability to pick out a tune from a knock. This was just as well; Monsoon nearly clipped Ferguson even though he hummed along with his knock.

  “You’re too close to the door,” Ferg told him as he walked in. “I would’ve flipped you on your back.”

  “I would have shot you first,” said the bodyguard.

  “Want to try it again?”

  Monsoon wisely declined. Guns and Grumpy were soon trading marine drinking stories while Ferguson huddled with Fouad to discuss the layout and possibilities. It appeared that the castle was intended as a meeting place only. The ruins had nothing in the way of amenities, not even an outhouse. This suggested that the people coming in for the meeting would be spread around town and that therefore the best thing to do would be to look for them and with luck find someone they could bug or get close enough to eavesdrop or follow, on the theory that he would lead them to Khazaal. The more people they were looking for, Fouad argued, the easier it would be for them to find someone.

  “Can’t say no to that.” Ferguson grinned at the Iraqi, thinking his father would have made the same point, he felt an ache suddenly to know more about his dad, what he might have done here, but it would have been out of place, too indulgent, to ask.

  “Fouad, why don’t you and Rankin take a tour and arrange some of the backup stuff we need. Thera, get some party dresses, something you’d wear to buy a suitcase nuke. Everybody else hang tight.” Ferguson leaned back on the couch. “I’m going to catch some z’s. Somebody wake me up at six, all right?”

  And with that, he closed his eyes and gave in to sleep.

  * * *

  Fouad had not been in Latakia for several years, and he found that what little he remembered of the place was wrong. He and Rankin rented two different cars and bought bicycles and other items, squirreling them around town for emergency use. Rankin explained that the contingency arrangements were often handled by a separate advance team, but Syria was a place that the Americans found difficult to operate in, a fact Fouad could have guessed on his own.

  When their chores were done, the IraqHed Rankin to several coffee houses, sitting quietly and listening for openings in nearby discussions he might use to gather gossip. It was a task that took patience, and it was clear to Fouad that the American did not possess much of this, though he was wise enough to suffer in silence. Fouad gained little information anyway, learning only where the most devout mosques were; he was clearly a stranger, and his Baghdad accent was probably cause for even more suspicion.

  Fouad was not like Ferguson, who could make someone’s suspicions play to his advantage. He was not like Ferguson at all, unable to fake his way deftly through a maze of traps. He lamented this shortcoming to Rankin as they traveled back to the Taib hotel.

  “I wouldn’t compare myself to him,” said Rankin. “What he’s good at is lying.”

  “He’s good at many things. Like his father.”

  Rankin, not particularly interested in hearing Ferguson’s praises, said nothing.

  Fouad wondered how a man so different from Ferguson had become one of his closest associates. But that would make sense, he decided: a man as wise as Ferguson would seek a shadow with different qualities. Rankin was brave, not braver than Ferguson but at his level, and he had proven himself resourceful and watchful.

  “It’s almost six,” Rankin said. “We’ll get something to eat and head back.”

  * * *

  Soon after Ferguson woke up, Corrigan reported that two SUVs had been spotted going into the castle. Ferguson decided to have Rankin, Fouad, Monsoon, and Guns trail the SUVs with the help of the U-2. He and Thera would troll for information in the casinos and clubs. When Grumpy protested that he didn’t want to stand guard in the suite doing nothing, Fouad volunteered to change places with him. The old Iraqi said he would be only too happy to sit and watch the local TV

  “No, sorry. Grumpy doesn’t speak Arabic well enough to talk himself out of anything,” Ferg told him. “There’ll be plenty of time for excitement down the line.”

  “How do you know this isn’t the meeting?” said Rankin.

  “Because my luck’s been too crappy to get that lucky,” said Ferguson. “Take the laptop and the backpack. Corrigan will set up a download so you can see them in real time. The spy plane has to stay off the coast, but he can see into the city from out there all right.”

  “If we find Khazaal, can we shoot him?” asked Rankin.

  “No. Better to lose him than shoot him.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  7

  NORTH OF
LATAKIA

  TWO HOURS LATER…

  Having the spy plane overhead simplified things a great deal. Rankin didn’t have to get too close to the castle and in fact decided it was much safer to stay along the highway a half mile away. He split his force into two elements: Guns and Monsoon in a car to the north, he and Grumpy to the south. The image from the spy plane was downloaded via satellite to the small antenna he’d unfolded from his rucksack nearby. The image was decent, though not quite as clean or detailed as that available back in the Cube, and Corrigan had an analyst on the satellite radio line relaying information. The men in the castle were simply checking out arrangements, walking around the area, probably making sure it would be secure and examining the area for bugs and the like. The interior could not be seen by the spy plane, but the men didn’t bother to stay in there very long, moving around the old battlements and nearby land, probably inspecting it for the upcoming meeting.

  “I think they’re moving,” Corrigan told Rankin over the radio’s satellite frequency.

  “All right. We’re on it.” Rankin had already seen it on the First Team laptop, which received a download over a separate satellite circuit. He closed the case and switched the radio to the team frequency. “Our guys are leaving,” he said. “Guns? You ready to dance?”

  “Always.”

  “Coming out,” said Corrigan. “Truck one is going north. Truck two… south.”

  “They split up,” Rankin told the others as he put the laptop into his pack. “Guns, they should be past you in about sixty seconds. We’re just following,” he added. “Keep far back. And remember that’s a Ford you’re driving, not an M1A1.”

  8

  LATAKIA

  Birk’s most serious competitor in Latakia was a Syrian who had grown up in Germany and went by the name of Ras. He tended to lie more than Birk but had better connections with the Syrian police. Unfortunately, a good deal of what they told Ras were lies.

  Ras generally spent early evenings in the Agamemnon, a small, plush hotel on the Blue Coast north of Latakia. He owned a table in a room they called the Barroom, a lavish, nineteenth-century dining room with crystal chandeliers and tuxedoed waiters. Ras usually had a ship captain or two at his side; a good deal of his arms were sold to foreign concerns and traveled through Latakia’s port. But this evening he was sipping a vodka martini alone. He frowned when he saw Ferguson but brightened considerably when he realized Thera was with him.