by Larry Bond
“Mr. IRA,” Ras said to Ferguson in German-accented English as he approached the table. “Your wife?”
“I wish,” said Ferguson. He pulled out the chair for Thera. Unlike Birk, Ras believed the cover story Ferguson had used on his last visit.
“A most beautiful woman,” said Ras, standing and taking her hand to kiss it.
Thera played along as Ferguson had coached her, saying nothing and sitting down; the strong, silent type intrigued Ras and left him howling for more.
“Perrier,” Ferguson told the waiter.
“Is that all?” said Ras.
“With a twist. Thanks.”
“I will have a bourbon on the rocks,” said Thera. She wore a flowered two-piece skirt set whose silk was too tight for her to hide more than one small pistol on her inner thigh.
Ras’s face lit up as he pushed his drink aside. “The same for me. Good bourbon. American. Your best.”
The waiter bowed and went off.
“I hear you had some excitement in town the last time you were here,” Ras told Ferguson, even as he stared at Thera.
“Every day is an adventure.”
“I had nothing to do with it.”
“Guilty conscience?” Ferguson leaned back in the chair, observing the rest of the room. Besides the Syrian intelligence agents on semipermanent assignment here, he thought he recognized someone from the French military intelligence agency and a Czech who sold information to the Russians.
“If I had wanted to kill you, I assure you I would not have missed,” said Ras.
“Everybody tells me that.”
Their drinks arrived. Ras made sure to clink glasses with Thera, who took the tiniest possible sip.
“So who was gunning for me?” Ferguson asked.
“You have many enemies here. Many.”
Thera watched as the two men boxed around a bit, Ferguson letting Ras steal long glances at her before prodding the conversation along. When he finally got around to why they had come, it seemed like an afterthought, catching up on gossip: he’d heard the Russian Vassenka was in town.
“Vassenka?” Ras’s face momentarily blanched. “An idiot. I hope not.”
“Doesn’t like you much, does he?” said Ferguson, going with the reaction.
“An idiot.”
“Well, you should have paid him,” said Ferguson.
Thera thought it was a guess, but it was a masterful one. Ras shook his head and held up his glass for another drink.
Ferguson now moved in for the kill, still subtle but more aggressive. Given that Ras believed his old cover story, it was natural that he was interested in Vassenka as a competitor. But even before Ras’s refill arrived, he could tell that the Syrian had no useful information. He lingered a bit, finishing his seltzer before rising to go.
“Leaving so soon?” asked Ras.
“At some point, perhaps we will be interested in rifles,” said Ferguson. “A few days.”
“I can offer so much more,” said Ras, looking at Thera.
Ferguson took her arm proprietarily.
“Didn’t get much from that,” said Thera as they made their way to Buenos, another casino nearby.
“Sure I did.”
“Like?”
“Vassenka’s not here yet, and no one around town has been talking him up. Ras doesn’t know about the meeting, probably because the Syrians haven’t told him. He’ll tell the Syrians about Vassenka, and they’ll be looking for him. If they find him, they’ll tell Ras, and Ras will tell me. If I need him to. That enough for you?”
“It’s OK.”
“You get all the credit,” added Ferguson. “Dress looks good. I’m starting to get a little sweet on you myself.”
She laughed, thinking he was joking.
9
NORTH OF LATAKIA
The first truck made a U-turn soon after heading onto the highway, which left both trucks going south in the same direction, separated by about a half mile. Alerted by Corrigan, Rankin delayed leaving his hiding place, guessing that the idea had been to catch anyone following the second SUV. It was absolutely the right move, but it would make it more difficult to track them closely if they split up later on.
Both the U-2 and the Global Hawk that alternated with it used an integrated sensor suite built by Raytheon for surveillance work. The sensor set had an active electronically scanned array (AESA) that allowed moving targets to be identified and tracked at long range. The multihyperspectral electro-optic infrared sensors (in layman’s terms, a very good digital camera that could see in the dark) transmitted a stream of images to the satellite unit and from there back to the Cube and the team’s laptop. More refined though similar to the units that had been used for battlefield and bombing assessment during the 2003 Iraq War, the system provided a commanding view of what was going on in the city. But no matter how advanced, technology had its limits, as became apparent when the trucks pulled into a lot containing similar vehicles just outside the city.
A car lot, where the vehicles had been borrowed or stolen from hours before.
“There’s a bus coming,” said Corrigan.
Rankin cursed and stepped on the gas, but by the time he got close enough to see the bus the men were aboard and it was moving.
“We’ll tag along, see if they get off together,” said Rankin, though he knew it was hopeless. “Best we can do.”
10
LATAKIA
Ferguson was just about to call it a night when a large man in an ill-fitting suit walked into the Milad, a crowded club on the Blue Beach. The pale-ski lined, pimple-faced European looked out of place here, but then he probably would have looked out of place at his own funeral.
“Birk wants to talk,” said the man. “At the Max.”
“Very good,” said Ferguson. “We were just on our way over.”
The Max awed Thera. The place was one part European grand hotel and another part Las Vegas fun palace.
“Nice place,” she said as Ferguson tugged her inside.
“It’ll do. Don’t say anything in Russian. Or about Russia. And count your fingers when we’re done.”
Birk was sitting with Jean Allsparté, an Algerian who specialized in arranging transport for items large and small. Ferguson remembered from his last visit that Allsparté spent almost all of his time in town gambling; clearly he was here now for a deal. Birk dismissed him as soon as he saw Ferguson arrive: Allsparté slipped away before Ferguson could get close enough to ask how his luck was running these days.
“Ferg, a pleasure,” said Birk rising. “And with such lovely company tonight.” He took Thera’s hand as gallantly as Ras had but then turned to Ferguson and said, “She leaves.”
“She’s with me.”
Birk shook his head. “No.”
Ferguson gestured to Thera that she should go over near the bar. “Not too far,” he said. He watched her leave, then turned to Birk. “So talk to me.”
“Recently on the market. Very nice.”
“I know you’re speaking English, Birk, but I’m not getting the words.”
“Mashinostroenia.”
“Russian weapons manufacturer,” said Ferguson. “Speak English. Or I’ll speak Polish.”
“The P-120 Malakhit 4K-85 — the Siren cruise missile. One has recently become available.”
“That’s nice.”
The weapon Birk was referring to — known to NATO as the SS-N-9 Siren — was an antiship cruise missile that entered Russian (at the time, Soviet) service in 1969. The weapon carried a five-hundred-kilogram conventional warhead, or nuke. Primarily a ship-launched missile, it was also carried aboard Russian “Charlie II”-class submarines. Depending on how it was launched, it had a sixty-nautical-mile range, with inertial and radar-terminal homing, meaning that once fired it could find its own way to the target.
According to some sources, the Russians had experimented with a video guidance system for the weapon that allowed it to be steered to a precise aim point (thou
gh in practice the target would have had to be fairly large: a house as opposed to a door, for example). It was a potent missile, though weapons such as the “Switchblade” (Kh-35 Uran, a Harpoon knock-off) had made it technically obsolete in the Russian inventory.
“Come on. You would like one, no?” prompted Birk. “You bought the SA-2s last year.”
“Different program,” said Ferguson. “What sort of warhead?”
“What would you like?”
“What can you get?”
Birk laughed. “I like you, Ferguson, really. You dance like one of us. You are Polish, no? Tell me you are, and I slice ten percent from the price.”
“Not according to Mom. But she might’ve had reason to lie.”
“Perhaps we should go into business as partners.”
“You’d trust me as your partner?”
“Of course not. That is why you would make a good partner.”
“Maybe when I retire.”
“One million.”
“Too much.”
Actually, the price was low, and under other circumstances Ferguson would have grabbed it. But he had too many other things to worry about and doubted he could talk Corrine Alston into the idea.
“I will find many buyers,” said Birk. “There is a primitive launching system included; no need for elaborate preparation.”
“You have the Titanit radar, too, huh?”
“No, but this is not a serious deficiency. A GPS kit has been installed. There is internal guidance as a backup and—”
“Whose GPS kit? American?”
“Russian, actually,” said Birk. GPS stood for “global positioning satellite” and technically referred to a group of satellites launched by America. But the initials had become short hand for any system using satellites for target guidance. The satellites and the radios that got their bearings from them had many uses; civilians were familiar with the GPS system from mapping programs used for getting directions in high-end automobiles. The U.S. military had pioneered the use of relatively inexpensive “kits” that could be added to otherwise simple weapons: an iron bomb, for example, could be turned into a precision-guided munition with such a system steering its tail fins. The Russians had a satellite network named Glosnass that worked the same way.
Satellite guidance had not been invented when the Siren was first put into service; even if it had been, the Russians wanted the weapon to strike ships, which presumably wouldn’t stay at a fixed point on the earth’s surface very long. But on the black market, such a system would make the missile more desirable to anyone wishing to hit a fixed target. Not only would it be more accurate, it would be easier to use.
A five-hundred-kilogram warhead (a bit more than a thousand pounds) could obliterate a decent-sized building. A nuke could take out a good-sized city.
“Can you get a satellite kit for other missiles?” Ferguson asked.
“Everything is for sale.” Birk sighed. He hated it when negotiations moved off point. “As I understand it, the Siren missile is aimed in the proper direction, then launched. After a certain time the guidance system takes over. The accuracy is very good. Within three meters, guaranteed.”
“Or my money back, right?”
Birk smiled.
“You have an EUC for the missile?” Ferguson was referring to an end-user certificate, a document used by governments to certify that weapons systems had been bought legally. The usual fee for one — fraudulent, of course — started at one hundred thousand dollars.
“That would be pointless in this case,” admitted Birk. “There were not so many made: five hundred, eight hundred… I lose track.”
“I’ll bet.”
“A very good deal for you, Ferguson. A dangerous weapon in the wrong hands.”
“Whose hands?”
Birk shrugged.
“The warhead on the Siren, a nuke?”
“Conventional, alas. But something of this size is very hard to come by. Five hundred kilograms. It would leave quite a hole. And of course you could always remove the conventional payload and replace it with something more to your liking.”
“Do you have more?” asked Ferguson.
“Only the one.”
“If there are so few, where did this one come from?”
“That is always a question I do not ask. One would believe a government,” said Birk. “But I do not deal direct.”
“And the person who has this has only one?”
“Had one. It is now in my possession.”
“What about the guidance system?” asked Ferguson.
“Part of the package.”
“Are there other guidance systems? I might be interested in buying a few.”
“What missile would you like them for?”
“How about a Scud?”
Birk made a face. “An inferior product. I would not sell you one.”
“The guidance system or the missile?”
“Either. The Scud is a piece of junk.”
Not, thought Ferguson, if it were guided by a GPS system, though admittedly this would take a bit of tinkering. “Who would you sell it to?”
“I have no Scuds. Today, I’m selling the Siren. Tomorrow, who knows? Are you a serious buyer?”
“I’ll talk to my superiors and see what we can do.”
“You have a superior?” Birk laughed. “I don’t believe it. Not even God would be your superior. As a show of good faith, one piece of interesting gossip,” added Birk. “First, a vodka.”
“Back to vodka?”
“One strays but always comes home. Drinking is like marriage.”
They shared a shot of an obscure Polish vodka that Birk claimed was the best alcohol in existence. To Ferguson it tasted one step removed from potato peelings — and a step in the wrong direction.
“Look for your friend Khazaal in a mosque,” said Birk.
“Which one?”
Birk shook his head. “You are supposed to be the spy. I cannot keep track of these mosques. They are all alike to me.”
Ferg got up, winking at Thera.
“Five hundred thousand, firm,” said Birk.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
11
DAMASCUS
THE NEXT MORNING…
Corrine tried twice more to get hold of Tischler without getting a response. When she told Ferguson about it, he didn’t seem surprised.
“His man may have already filled him in,” Ferguson told her.
“Wouldn’t it be polite to return my call? He doesn’t know what it’s about.”
“It would be smart to return your call, because he doesn’t know what you want, even if he thinks he does,” said Ferguson. “But Tischler doesn’t do polite. Think of it this way: he figures you’re going to tell him his man is a screwup.”
“How is he a screwup?”
“He should have skulked away without seeing you, taking the chance that you wouldn’t notice or might not remember, and knowing that even if you did, you’re supposed to be an ally and ought to know enough to keep your mouth shut. This way there was no chance that you wouldn’t notice him.”
“I thought Mossad people don’t screw up.”
“They’re human,” said Ferguson.
“If he’s not going to call me back, the hell with him.”
“I guess,” said Ferguson. He paused a moment, then changed the subject. “Listen, I need a million dollars.”
“What?”
“I can probably get the price down a bit, but it’s going to be in that neighborhood.”
“For what?”
Ferguson explained that he wanted to buy the Russian ship-to-ship missile Birk had for sale.
“I’ll have to talk to Washington,” she said doubtfully.
“They’re going to tell you it’s not in the budget,” said Ferguson. “The program to buy nuclear-capable cruise missiles ran out of funds eight months ago.”
“Well, then, why are you asking me?”
“Beca
use it’s an opportunity to take a pretty potent missile off the market,” said Ferguson. “And because it’ll make my next request seem much more reasonable.”
“Which is?”
“First, let me ask you: are you still ruling out an air strike? Van says he can get some Stealth Fighters overhead in a half hour. Personally, I prefer B-52s.”
“Absolutely, positively not. No aggression on Syrian soil. Nothing like that. We’re trying to improve relations, not end them for all time.”
“All right. I’m going to need a hundred thousand dollars, greenbacks, in the next couple of days. I can’t finesse it with local counterfeit or Euros.”
“For what? Another missile?”
“No. I need some mortars and some other weapons, along with some Semtex, and I’m going to have to overpay to get them.”
“Mortars? You’re out of your mind.”
“That has nothing to do with it,” said Ferguson. “The sooner the better. I’ll make the arrangements myself if you tell Corrigan it’s cool.”
“It’s not cool.”
“Look, I need the money. Otherwise I’m going to have to rob a bank, and I don’t really have time.”
“You wouldn’t rob a bank.”
“I will if I have to.” Ferguson gave her a brief rundown of what he needed the money for. “I know it’s a rip-off, but beggars can’t be choosers, and I want to make it look at least plausible that a rival group hit them. With Fouad’s help, I’ll start spreading the rumor tonight that there’s another group coming to town. We’ll make some rentals, set up a paper trail. All we have to do is give the Syrians a few little tidbits so they can claim it wasn’t the U.S., and we’ll be all right.”
“The U.S. government cannot condone the operation of an international outlaw, much less make a deal with him. You can’t go and buy mortars, for cryin’ out loud.”
