by Larry Bond
No location, no time frame, nothing but those three words.
President McCarthy had gradually asserted more control, first by more narrowly defining the missions and, within the last few months, inserting Corrine Alston as the conscience and de facto boss of Special Demands. Slott hadn’t quite recovered; part of his frustration now was being expressed indirectly in his conversation with Rosenfeld.
“We have one of your people with us,” Slott told Rosenfeld, changing his tone to make the information seem almost incidental, though it was anything but. Bailing Ravid out — which was the only possible interpretation of what had happened, Slott believed — was a four-aces hand in the unspoken competition between the agencies. “Aaron Ravid. Or Fazel al-Qiam, as he’s known. We’ll take him to Cyprus. I don’t expect you to acknowledge him,” added Slott. “But you may want to make arrangements.”
Rosenfeld didn’t reply.
“I’m still not happy,” Slott said, realizing he was rubbing it in. He hung up, feeling vaguely unsatisfied.
A statue of a gargoyle sat in the corner of his desk, a Father’s Day gift from one of his sons after a visit to Notre Dame in Paris, where they’d admired the gargoyles in the heights. The boy had been fifteen at the time; now he was thirty, married, with a boy of his own.
Monsters in the shadows of the wall.
Gargoyles were common in medieval cathedrals, but according to the guide who’d led them on the tour that day, no one was actually sure why. There were many theories on what they were: devils denied access to the holy church, old gods, tokens to frighten demons away. It wasn’t even clear that the men who had carved and put them there knew exactly why they were doing so.
“There’s got to be a lot more here than they’re telling us,” offered Corrigan.
“That goes without saying.” Slott picked up the phone. “I have to relay this to Parnelles. If you’d stretch your legs for a minute, I’d appreciate it.”
8
LATAKIA
After the boat picked up the others, Ferguson went to the hotel to use the shuttle bus into town. Along the way he changed the jacket he was wearing for a longer coat he found hanging in a men’s room. In the lobby, he appropriated a cap. He didn’t look Syrian at all, but he could have been a Turk or Greek worker, and the policeman standing near the shuttle didn’t stop him. The ride down to town took less than a half hour. The checkpoints had been removed already.
The most logical place for the Russian to hide, Ferguson thought, would be the mosque, and so he made his way back there on foot from the center of town. But when he got to the block, he found it cordoned off, with a large contingent of soldiers on the street outside the wall. A few attempts to ask passers-by what was going on drew nothing but shrugs.
Ferguson walked back over to the hotel they had escaped from the night before. He didn’t go in; instead, he tried to figure out where Ravid had been before he passed by. It didn’t make sense that he had walked from the airport — the field was twenty-five kilometers or so from town — but clearly he hadn’t just materialized on the street either. The immediate area was mostly devoted to business; the residential section that began a few blocks away was solidly middle class. A bus line ran nearby, but there had been no buses at that hour of the night. No cars in the vicinity of the hotel bore any obvious signs of having been close to an explosion.
If Ravid hadn’t come there specifically to find them — by far the most logical explanation — then either he had been nearby to see someone or he had been dropped off by another agent as they escaped from the Syrians. Ferguson couldn’t rule either possibility out; he spent a frustrating hour wandering around before putting the quandary on hold and having a late breakfast. His clothing — and unshowered stench — drew some stares, and so his next stop was a nearby secondhand shop, where the proprietor was quite surprised to see the raggedy patron pull out a thick wad of cash to expedite the sale. Using his Irish passport, Ferguson then rented a car — the double take was milder here — and went up to the Versailles. It was still before check-in, but the man at the desk clearly preferred having him upstairs rather than in the lobby. He showered and after changing into his new clothes did a little additional shopping at the hotel mall.
Among his purchases were a pair of swim trunks and a snorkeling set, which he tested off the Versailles beach, far off the beach. So far, in fact, that he finally had to pull himself up on the side of the nearest boat he could find. Which not so coincidentally happened to be the Sharia, Birk’s yacht.
“Greetings,” he said to the two guards, who responded by leveling their submachine guns at him. “I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d say hello.”
The men were not particularly amused. Fortunately, Birk was sunning himself on the rear deck, smoking a fat Cuban cohiba.
“One of these days, Ferguson, you’re going to push things much too far. Much, much too far,” said the arms dealer, looking over from his chair. “Let him go.”
“Can I get a towel?” Ferguson pulled off his gear and sat in the empty seat across from Birk. He declined the offer of a cigar.
“They don’t make them as well as they used to,” complained Birk. “Standards have slipped since Castro got worried about lung cancer. Something to drink?”
“Water would be nice.”
“A bottle of Pellegrino for our guest,” Birk said. His brother-in-law scowled but went below to fetch it.
“I notice you hired a few new guards,” said Ferguson.
“Rough neighborhood. Why did you blow up Khazaal?”
“I didn’t. The Israelis did. They wanted Meles, and he happened to be nearby.”
“I might believe that,” said Birk. “But no one else will.”
“Did you pay the men for the trouble I caused?” said Ferguson as Brother-in-Law came over with the Pellegrino. He made sure his voice was loud enough for the others to hear.
“I wouldn’t cheat my men. Not very good business,” said Birk. He signaled that Brother-in-Law should leave them.
“So everyone thinks I killed Khazaal?” asked Ferguson when they were alone.
Birk shrugged. “What other people think, I couldn’t say. The Syrians are looking for Jewish spies. But they are always looking for Jewish spies.”
“The Syrians weren’t in on it, were they?”
“The Syrians and Israelis working together? That would be interesting. Very interesting.” Birk didn’t laugh.
“Was Khazaal here to sell or buy a Scud?” Ferguson asked.
“Bah. Neither, I would think. Obsolete equipment.”
“You’re not answering my question.”
“Ferguson, truly, if you want junk, talk to Ras.”
“You couldn’t get me a Scud if I wanted one?”
“I can get you a real missile.”
“How would I get a Scud?” Ferguson asked.
Birk sighed. “You wouldn’t.”
“If I wanted one.”
Birk studied his cigar. “I suppose that if you honestly and truly wanted one, it could be had.”
“From?”
“The Koreans. You could perhaps purchase a Scud-D SS-le, seven-hundred-kilometer range. The design is not actually the same as the Russian… I’m afraid I don’t retain details I’m not interested in.”
“Why aren’t you interested?”
“No one wants to buy such a missile. The liquid fuel is very difficult to obtain and to handle. The weapon I can get you, much better.”
“The Siren?”
“I have another buyer. You’ll have to act fast. The price is going up.”
Ferguson took this as a ploy and was annoyed. “I want a Scud.”
“Perhaps the Iraqis can help you. You should reconsider about the Siren. I have a genuine offer on the table. Five million.”
“Right.”
“But I would give you a very good deal for old time’s sake,” said Birk, deciding he would much prefer to sell to the American CIA. “Two million.”
“Two million is a bargain.”
“What happened to one million?”
“One million,” repeated Birk. No, he decided; that was too much of a discount.
On the other hand, considering what the Israelis had done…
“Perhaps, for old time’s sake,” said Birk. “Perhaps for a million.”
“I need a few more days,” said Ferguson.
“Oh,” said Birk, genuinely disappointed now. But here was the consolation: he would make four million dollars more, and more than likely the Jews were buying it anyway. Yes, this must be so. They did not fool around the way the Americans did.
“Who’s your other buyer?” Ferg asked.
“Oh, there are always buyers.”
“Come on, don’t try and bluff me,” said Ferguson.
“I have other buyers,” said Birk. “You will see I am serious, Ferguson.”
“Right.”
“We’ll see then.”
“You’re not a very good liar, Birk. That’s your one flaw as an arms dealer.”
“It isn’t a flaw; it’s a reason to do business with me: I’m honest.” Birk once more looked at the tip of his cigar, frowning as if there were something wrong with the gray ash.
“Tell me about Vassenka,” said Ferguson.
“Again?”
“Who was he here to meet?”
“I didn’t even know he was here,” said Birk, protesting a bit. “You told me.”
“I’d like you to do me a favor,” said Ferguson, taking a swig from the bottle. “I’d like you to pass a message to him. Tell him I’m ready to make that deal.”
“To Vassenka? He would never talk to me.”
“Sure he would. Professional courtesy.”
“No. I doubt this.”
“Try. Tell him I’m ready to make that deal.”
“He’ll know what you’re talking about?”
“If he has a good memory. Tell him I can get him out of the country. Vouch for me.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re a great guy.” Ferguson rose.
“Are you sure he wasn’t killed?”
“I know he wasn’t killed, and I know you know every Russian in town, even though you hate their guts. Tell him my offer stands. And I’ll get him out.”
“If you need a Russian—”
“I need that Russian,” said Ferguson, pulling on his flippers. “I’ll check with you tonight, in your office.”
“I’m always there.”
9
APPROACHING CYPRUS
Ravid said nothing the whole way to Cyprus, shaking his head and not answering when asked if he wanted anything to drink. He sat alone, walked the deck alone, and in general kept to himself. After watching him for a while, Rankin decided that the Israeli felt humiliated that he’d had to go to the Americans to escape. It was possible that something had gone wrong in the operation, as well: how had he gotten injured? But Rankin decided he wasn’t in the mood to question the guy. If he was going to be a jerk and not say anything, well, the hell with him.
Maybe if he’d been in the same position, he’d’ve kept his mouth shut, too. The boat that had picked them up was a nice-sized yacht, the sort of toy Rankin had seen a lot of in Miami and fancy places like that on vacation. The crew had obviously been briefed to ask no questions. There were bunks below where they could sleep if they wanted; only Thera took the offer. The others sat on the deck, drinking coffee and looking at the view. Except for the reason that they were there, it would have been a hell of a little vacation.
A CIA handler met them at the dock in Cyprus, along with two men in civilian clothes who were actually PMs-in-training, paramilitary CIA employees doing grunt work as part of their initiation rites. Ravid, still not talking, followed along passively and didn’t object when the handler — he claimed his name was Paul F. Smith, emphasizing the “F” as if that would make them believe him — said they’d like to debrief him before sending him on his way.
Ravid didn’t argue. Smith took them all to a British clinic to be checked out by a doctor. Ravid, the only one among them who was injured, went into the nurse’s area to take off his clothes and have his wounds attended to. When the doctor came for him five minutes later, he was gone.
“We can use the tag,” said Thera, reaching into her bag for it.
“Waste of time,” said Rankin, pointing to Ravid’s shirt on the changing bench. The two tags Ferguson had placed on him were there.
10
CIA BUILDING 24-442, VIRGINIA
Thomas stared at the e-mail from Professor Ragguzi, which had come on his “blue computer,” a unit used for nonsecure communications with the outside world. (All communications and other use were subject to strict monitoring to make sure security rules weren’t violated.)
He had hoped for a response, but could not have guessed that it would be quick. Or so blunt.
You’re wrong.
That was it. No explanation, no hedging. Thomas’s own e-mail, which he had carefully vetted with two internal security officers and Corrigan, had filled two screens. Without citing any classified information, it made a careful argument calling the Turkey sightings into question, politely wondering if perhaps the professor could clarify.
Thomas felt as if his entire foundation of knowledge of UFOs, carefully built over decades, had been thrown into doubt. If Ragguzi was wrong — worse, if he refused to acknowledge that he might be wrong — what could Thomas believe?
The CIA analyst tried to concentrate on his work. He rose and began pacing around his office. He had no sense of what time it might be: somewhere in the morning or afternoon, he thought, though perhaps it was midnight.
How could he be wrong?
If he’d overlooked something, perhaps. That was possible. It had happened in Latakia, surely, since they had missed the Mossad operation completely.
Not completely. They had seen pieces but failed to put it all together.
Thomas sat down at his computer and began rummaging through the various lists he had compiled. Corrigan had asked him questions about Vassenka and his abilities; they’d checked into the Scuds, of course. It was logical because of Iraq, though there seemed no possibility, no possibility whatsoever, of there being any remaining in the country. Or, if there were, they would be in pieces. Worse, they would lack the rocket fuel.
Fuel.
Thomas keyed over to the satellite photo of the city. One of the things that made Latakia unique in Syria, and in the Middle East in general, was its train line.
Exactly the sort of thing that you would need to move rocket fuel.
Thomas pulled his chair closer to his desk. Wrong, indeed.
11
LATAKIA
Ferguson had just gotten back to the beach outside the Versailles when his sat phone rang. He stared at it cross-eyed for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure what it was, then pulled open the antenna.
“Talk to me.”
“I have a weird Thomas theory,” said Corrigan. “Can you talk?”
“Better let me get upstairs,” said Ferguson. “I’ll call you back.”
Fifteen minutes later, Ferguson rested his head against the outside of the bathtub, listening to Corrigan talk about rocket fuel formulations as the room filled with steam, the by-product of an impromptu white noise system, otherwise known as a running shower. Thomas’s theory, in a nutshell, was that Vassenka hadn’t been hired simply for his expertise; he was supposed to supply the fuel for the Scuds as well. The Americans had looked for the rocket fuel fairly carefully during the occupation, literally checking every tanker and railcar capable of holding it in the country and using special ground-penetrating radar to look for hidden underground tanks. The thorough search didn’t mean there wasn’t some hiding somewhere, but the stuff was not particularly easy to store. Highly toxic, it ate through metal and could spontaneously catch fire when it came in contact with organic material.
Bringing a fresh batch in from outside the country would be the way to go, especially if you had many rockets.
And two or three million dollars’ worth of jewels would buy fuel for quite a number.
“The thing is, we can’t find a railcar with either red-fuming nitric acid or inhibited red-fuming nitric acid,” said Corrigan. Those were the main ingredients in the rocket fuel used by all but the very earliest Scud missiles. “Thomas has gone over every lading notice, shipping document, you name it. He’s been all over it.”
“I’ll bet he has,” said Ferguson.
“Is it a false lead?”
“No. It’s just not in a railcar.”
12
CYPRUS
The men had to double up, but Thera got her own room at the hotel near the British base. She lay down on the bed in her clothes and fell fast asleep, plunging into a thick unconsciousness that felt like burrowing into the ground beneath the dirt.
Several hours later, she heard the phone ring and ignored it. A few minutes later, someone knocked on her door. She ignored that, too. Then she heard the door open.
She grabbed for the pistol she’d slid under her pillow.
“Hey,” said Guns, “it’s just me. Ferg needs to talk to you. He’s been calling on the sat phone and the room phone.”
