by Larry Bond
5
BAGHDAD
Corrine placed a call through to the White House to alert the president to the situation. She reached Jess Northrup, the assistant chief of staff, whose main mission in life was to keep the president from falling more than a half hour behind his daily schedule.
He hadn’t succeeded yet.
“I’m afraid I have bad news,” she told Northrup. “I have to talk to the president personally.”
“All right.”
When the president came on the line, Corrine plunged into the situation, telling him everything she knew. Uncharacteristically, he didn’t interrupt her.
“Well, now, Miss Alston, I would say that this is less than optimum,” he said when she was finally done. “Reminds me of a bear harvesting a cornfield: not practical or pretty.”
“No, sir.”
“Although I suppose there is something to be said for the fact that the individuals in those vehicles will not have to be dealt with again. I suppose that, down the line, we may even think that Israel did us a favah. But that would be fah down the line.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does the State Department know?”
“We’ve informed them.”
“Very well. Let us move on,” said McCarthy. “Get the rest of your people out of danger. I will see you in Baghdad Tuesday, will I not?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be here.”
“Very good, then, Miss Alston. Keep me informed.”
6
LATAKIA
Ferguson took a step out from the shadow as the man staggered past him, touching him lightly on the shoulder and then backing away. It was definitely Ravid, and the Israeli looked very much the worse for wear: he was bleeding from the forehead; the side of his face looked battered; and a patch of black blood stood out on his shirt beneath his jacket.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Ferguson asked him.
Ravid tried to focus. “You’re an American.”
“Yeah, cut the bull. I know you’re Mossad. One of my people saw you in Tel Aviv.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m not in a mood to play games tonight,” Ferguson told him. “For one thing, you guys just blew my operation. And for another it’s past my bedtime.”
“Police—”
“You don’t want the police.”
Rankin had circled around the block from the other direction. He raised Ferguson’s shotgun and steadied it against Ravid’s head.
“I could take that gun from your man,” said Ravid.
“Then I’d have to kill you,” said Ferguson.
“It’s clear, Ferg,” said Guns over the radio. He and Monsoon had checked the area to see if Ravid was followed. “Nothing, not even a wino or a cat.”
“All right. We’re going to take him upstairs. After we check him for bugs and see if this is blood or catsup.”
Ravid’s wounds were minor but real, scrapes that could have been from shrapnel or simply falling down, said Rankin. He wouldn’t say how he got them.
“Why did you guys take down Meles Abaa without telling us what was going on?” Thera asked. “We could have helped.”
Ravid looked at her as if she’d suggested the earth was flat.
“The real question is, why’d you come here?” Ferguson asked.
“I didn’t.”
Ferguson would have sooner believed that pigs could fly than that Ravid had simply wandered by. But there was no sense arguing with him; he was good enough that he wouldn’t say anything he didn’t want to.
“Go inside and lay down,” Ferguson told him.
“I want to leave.”
“Yeah, I know. Inside.” Ferguson thumbed at the bedroom; Ravid got up reluctantly and went in.
“Hell of a coincidence him showing up here,” said Rankin.
“Ya think?” Ferguson snorted.
“Maybe those aircraft we intercepted were supposed to take him out.”
Ferguson shrugged. He doubted it. And if they were, the Israelis would have had a backup, and a backup for the backup.
“Hey, Ferg, you better take a look at the feed from the video bug you planted in the lobby,” said Monsoon, who’d taken the watch. “Two plainclothes guys and a squad of soldiers just walked in the front door.”
* * *
Some people choose hotels because of the room service; others look for marble bathrooms and king-sized beds. For Bob Ferguson, multiple escape routes were the deciding factor. He sent Thera, Guns, and Rankin to the stairway, telling them to go to the roof and cross over two buildings before descending to an alley that ran to the next street over, where the team’s safe car had been parked. He and the others, with Ravid, took the elevator to the next floor down, where Ferguson jammed it so it couldn’t close. They went to the backup room, where the windows overlooked the side alley.
Ferguson tied a rope to the leg of the coffee table, opened the window, and threw it down.
“Monsoon, you go first. There should be a Dumpster down there. If it looks soft enough, we’ll throw Ravid here down.”
“I can climb,” said the Israeli.
“Come on, let’s go. The Syrians are used to chasing people. They’re pretty good at it.”
The Dumpster was there, which meant it was only a two-story climb. Ferguson sent Grumpy down next.
“What’s your game?” Ferguson asked Ravid.
“I’m not playing a game.”
“Can you climb, or should I throw you?”
“Climb.”
Ferguson watched him go down. Then he went and unhooked the rope, deciding they would do better not to leave any telltale signs of their departure.
Ferguson glanced down into the alley, where the others were waiting, then pulled out his sat phone and called Corrigan.
“Ferg, why are you using the phone? Is there a problem with the radio?”
“I don’t know. Ravid showed up at the hotel. The Syrian police just came in, and they look like they’re looking for him.”
“Aaron Ravid?”
“Yeah. Maybe you better see if Ms. Alston can ask Tel Aviv to figure it out for us. In the meantime, I’m going to assume he’s just too proud to ask for help and take him out with us.”
“You think that’s what it is? He needs a bailout?”
“I really doubt it.”
It was possible, of course. Maybe Ravid had been close to the airport when the bombs went off, expecting the planes offshore to pick him up there. Now he was desperate to get away.
Maybe.
“What are you guys doing?” asked Corrigan.
“Right now I’m jumping into a pile of garbage,” Ferguson said, dropping his backpack down into the Dumpster. “I’ll get back to you.”
When Ferguson got down, he found Monsoon and Grumpy but not Ravid.
“Where’s the Israeli?” he demanded.
Monsoon turned just as Ravid came out from around the corner, where he’d relieved himself. “Nature,” said the Mossad agent.
“Don’t let him out of your sight again,” Ferguson told the others. “Not even for ‘nature.’ Let’s go.”
* * *
Rankin led Guns and Thera across the block to a car he and Fouad had rented.
“Everybody stand back,” he told them, kneeling down next to the driver’s side and feeling underneath for the magnetic box that held the key.
“You think it’s booby-trapped?” asked Guns as Rankin rose with the key.
Rankin didn’t answer, just glanced to make sure they were back far enough. He didn’t think it was booby-trapped and hadn’t seen any signs that it had been tampered with when he checked it before the night’s operation, but you never knew.
After he got it started, he rolled down the windows and opened the other doors; you never knew. He’d seen a car in Iraq that had been set up to go off only when the rear passenger door was opened. Two Americans had driven around in it for days before the bomb was discovered. SOBs were journa
lists, and they bugged out the next day.
It was four a.m. and the streets were deserted. They headed in the direction of the Côte d’Azure de Cham, a well-known tourist hotel on Blue Beach or Shaati al-Azraq. Two truckloads of soldiers had cordoned off Palestine Square, and all the traffic that ran near it. They ducked it by going up one of the side streets. Figuring that there would be more patrols on the main roads in the middle of town, they crisscrossed their way toward the western part of the city. But this strategy could only get them so far. To get to the beach they had to get on the highway, where they were sure to run into another roadblock. Even though their papers were in order, they couldn’t take the chance of bluffing their way past tonight. The soldiers would be under orders to apprehend any foreigner they saw.
Or shoot them.
“Easiest thing to do is take a boat,” said Guns when they stopped to discuss it. “We can grab one near the water. It’s either that or walk up the railroad tracks.”
“Tracks are safer,” said Rankin.
“It’s ten kilometers,” said Guns.
“It’s not that far.”
“I think we ought to steal a boat,” said Thera. “It might come in handy later on.”
“If we’re in a boat, we have no place to hide from a patrol. The Syrians have a navy. They’ll be running up and down the coast.”
“It’s a risk,” said Guns. “But so’s walkin’.”
“I say we walk.” Rankin got out of the car, reaching into the back and taking his pack.
Thera and Guns looked at each other. “I think he’s just tired,” said Guns.
“He’s going to be even more tired when we get up there.”
* * *
Ferguson planned to go south along the main road, cut across the railroad tracks, and then go down the beach about a half mile to an old jetty, where a small rigid-sided inflatable boat had been stowed as part of their emergency escape package. But as they reached the tracks he heard a train whistle and got a much better idea.
“Here comes our ride, boys,” he yelled to Monsoon and Grumpy. “Got your tickets?”
“We need tickets?” said Grumpy, his timing so perfect it sounded rehearsed.
“I can tell you’re a marine. Ravid, you’re with me.” Ferguson pointed to a spot to their right. “He’ll come around the bend down to our left and start up the hill here. It’s not too steep, but it should slow him down. Don’t lose your packs. If we get split up, drop off up near the hotel, Côte d’Azure de Cham.”
“How will we know it?”
“It’s the first big building you’re going to see once we’re out of town. Big building,” Ferg told him. “Come on. We have to cross the tracks so we won’t be seen from the road.”
The train was loaded with empty automobile carriers and going faster than he’d thought, but not so fast that they couldn’t jump it. They spread out and Monsoon went first, followed by Grumpy, who pulled himself up against one of the support beams.
“Let’s go Ravid,” yelled Ferguson, pulling the Israeli agent up from his crouch.
“I don’t know if I can.”
Ferguson gave him another push. Ravid picked up his speed, swung his hand tentatively, then finally grabbed on to the ladder at the rear of one of the cars. Ferguson waited until he was sure he was on, then turned and grabbed hold of the ladder of the next car. He swung his feet up, hung off for a moment, then flattened against the train as it headed under a highway overpass.
The train swung out toward the Mediterranean, then banked back inland. There were troops posted at several of the road intersections as they passed, and others down by the river.
Ferguson worked his way over to Ravid.
“How far?” asked Ravid.
“Six or seven miles,” said Ferguson. “Be there in no time. How’d you know where to find us?”
“I didn’t.”
“Why didn’t you guys tell us you were alter Meles? Wo could’ve helped.”
Ravid said nothing, he had narrowed everything down to the space immediately in front of his eyes; he knew nothing beyond that. For the next twenty-four hours — for eternity if he had to — he would focus only on that space.
“You come to me so I can drag your butt out of here in one piece, and you’re going to be ungrateful?” said Ferguson.
“I didn’t come to you for anything.”
“Jump off the train then.”
Ravid stared at him, but made no move to get off.
* * *
An old Russian army truck sat near the front of the hotel when Ferguson got there, but he couldn’t see any soldiers.
That didn’t mean some weren’t around, but he guessed that if there had been a decent-sized contingent they would have at least set up a checkpoint in and out of the hotel and probably stopped traffic through the local tourist area as well. Not that there was much traffic at five o’clock in the morning.
Ferg didn’t see Rankin’s car in the parking lot. He left the others outside and went into the building through a service entrance near the back. Walking through the back hall, he checked the stairwells and then came out into the lobby as if he were a guest on his way out to a morning appointment. On the way out he spotted a soldier who’d presumably come with the truck sipping from a ceramic coffee cup and chatting with the nightman at the desk.
The car still hadn’t shown up. Ferguson walked to the side of the building and pulled out his sat phone to check in with the Cube. Instead of Corrigan he got Lauren.
“Hey, beautiful, what happened?” he asked her. “Corrigan had a date?”
“No, he went down to talk to Slott at Langley. The Mossad connection has everybody torqued.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty torqued myself.” He glanced at his watch. “How’s the Dayliner doing?”
“We can pick you up within a half hour. Just say when.”
“You know where Rankin is?”
“He just checked in. They’re two kilometers from the hotel.”
“Are they crawling?”
“They ran into trouble with patrols. They walked up the train tracks.”
“Skippy.” Ferguson shook his head. Rankin was dependable, extremely good with his hands, and a dead shot but very cautions. Ferg glanced at his watch. “All right. Let’s say six-thirty on the pickup, Get me a room somewhere, will you?”
“A room?”
“Yeah, I’ve never been much for sleeping on the beach.”
“Slott wants you out. Corrine, too.”
“Uh-huh. You know what? Make it the Versailles. I like the view from their beach.”
“What’s going on, Ferg?”
“I’ll tell you when I figure it out.”
Ferguson found the others sitting on rocks near the water, looking very much like day laborers waiting for the start of work. He told them that their boat was on its way, then went down to the sea, where he dipped his hand into the surf and used it to down his pills. The tang of the salt felt good and he splashed some over his face and hair.
“Stuff’ll kill you,” said Monsoon.
“If I’m lucky,” said Ferg.
“You want me to go find Rankin?”
“Nah, they’ll find their way. How’s our guest?”
“He wants to leave,” Monsoon said, thumbing toward Ravid. “I told him not to while you were gone. I promised to break his legs if he did.”
“A promise is a promise,” said Ferguson. “Maybe we’ll get lucky, and you’ll get to keep it.”
He climbed up the shoreline to where Ravid was sitting. The Israeli narrowed his eyes as he approached, watching him the way a hawk might focus on a mouse in a field before pouncing.
“What’s your story?” asked Ferguson. “You don’t want to be rescued?”
“I haven’t been rescued. I told you, I didn’t want to go with you.”
“There’s a Syrian inside having a cup of coffee. You want me to turn you over to them?”
Ravid didn’t even bother answering. He stare
d ahead, intent on his course.
“How’d you know where we were?” asked Ferguson.
“I didn’t.”
“We’ll save you anyway. You don’t even say thank you.”
Rankin, Guns, and Thera appeared a short time later, directed by Lauren to their location. Ferguson told them to keep an eye on Ravid after the pickup.
“You sure he’s really Mossad?” asked Rankin. “Maybe he works both sides.”
“A possibility,” said Ferguson, though lie doubted it. “I put a locator lag on him when we cleaned him up. If he really wants to run, let him go.”
“Figures. They screw us, and we save their butts,” said Rankin.
“Way of the world, Skippy. Way of the world.”
7
CIA HEADQUARTERS, VIRGINIA
Corrigan had just started to explain what had happened for the second time when the phone behind Slott’s desk rang. The deputy director for operations of the CIA guessed it was his opposite number at Mossad returning his call.
“This will be Adam,” Slott told Corrigan. He reached over and picked up the phone. The CIA telephone operator confirmed that indeed Adam Rosenfeld was on the line. “Put him through,” Slott said.
Corrigan, unsure of the protocol, started to get up.
“No, no, stay,” Slott told him. “This won’t take long.” Slott wanted Corrigan to hear his end of it to emphasize that he fought for his people, even if he had been effectively angled out of First Team operations.
“Adam, what the hell were you doing in Syria? Excuse my French,” said Slott as soon as the other man came on the line.
“I might ask the same question.”
“We alerted you to our interests. You should have done the same.”
“We made it possible for you to pursue your interests,” said the Mossad official.
“Oh, don’t give me that. And don’t trot out your luncheon speech about living in a complicated world either.”
Corrigan stared at his hands as Slott scolded his opposite number in Israel, claiming that the Mossad operation had not only sabotaged a delicate mission by the U.S., but had put the lives of his people in danger. Corrigan had joined the CIA only a year before, coming over specifically to work in the newly created job of “desk coordinator” for First Team operations. It was a jack-of-all trades job, running interference for the First Team in the field, helping coordinate missions, and arranging support. As originally conceived, the real power rested with the field officer in charge of the mission, who had almost unlimited authority once given an assignment. The missions were supposed to flow directly from a finding signed by the president. In the last administration, the findings had consisted of language so brief and open-ended that Corrigan had been shocked by the first one he saw: Recover illegal arms.
