by Larry Bond
“Oh.” She slid the gun down.
“You leave the safety on when you’re sleeping, right?” asked Guns.
“Why would I do that?”
Guns went back to his room. Thera, her eyes burning, sat up on the bed and pulled out her phone. She hit the preset combination for Ferguson, who answered on the first ring.
Not that he said hello.
“You still have that attaché case?” were the first words out of his mouth.
“Yeah.” Thera glanced at it. It had fallen on the floor right next to the bed.
“You feel like coming back to Latakia tonight?”
“Tonight?”
“Bring the jewels. Meet me at the Agamemnon, at the bar with the green marble, not in the Barroom. Wear something that will make the mullahs think they’ve found something better than Paradise.”
“Who am I dressing for?”
“Me.”
13
LATAKIA
Ferguson watched her come down the steps, her blue dress clinging to her hips, her hair held up on one side by a jeweled pin that made her look like royalty. He watched her looking for him, admired the way she gazed at the room as if she owned it. And she might have, he thought; more than a few of the men nearby were staring at her. Finally Thera saw him and acknowledged him with the slight upturn of the corner of her mouth: not a real smile, but it was pretty nonetheless.
“I’ve been looking for you,” she said, walking up to him.
“That the most original line you could think of?” Ferguson asked.
“It’ll do. What am I drinking?”
“Champagne?”
“What are you drinking?”
“Coffee,” said Ferguson. He held up the glass; he convinced the bartender to pour some into a tumbler with ice.
“Could I have a whiskey sour?” she asked the bartender.
“A whiskey sour?”
“I always wanted one.”
“Don’t fall asleep on me. I’ll feel obliged to take advantage of you.”
“Hmmph.” Thera had taken the precaution of downing a “go” pill, prescribed by Agency doctors for situations where a CIA officer had to stay awake no matter what. She wondered if Ferguson did; he didn’t seem to have had a chance to get any sleep.
“I see you brought our friends.” He pointed to the attaché case.
“You told me to. I was worried I would have to open it up at the door.”
“They don’t check for weapons here because of all the tourists. It’s downstairs where we’ll have a problem. I already got us a locker on the other side of the casino. We’ll put it there.”
“What are we doing downstairs?”
“Going to see Ras. We’re a bit early.”
“How early?”
“Early enough to finish your drink and tell me what happened with Ravid.”
Thera told him what she knew. It was almost word for word what Corrigan had said.
“How’s the drink?” Ferguson asked.
“Very sweet. Too sweet.”
“I know the feeling. Come on.”
Ras had someone with him, but he did his swoon act over Thera as they approached, and the guest was quickly forgotten. After Ferguson ordered his usual Perrier and twist, Ras asked to what he owed the pleasure of basking in Thera’s loveliness.
“Mr. IRA has finally decided to buy, perhaps?” he asked.
“Yes, and I want to buy something special,” said Ferguson. “Red-fuming nitric acid.”
Ras continued to sip his drink.
“What ship captain would bring it in?” Ferg added.
“I don’t even know why you would want such an item,” said Ras.
Ferguson leaned across the table and smiled. “You want to end up like Khazaal?”
Ras’s hand trembled slightly as he put down the glass. “You had something to do with Khazaal? The Syrians told me Mossad was behind it.”
Ferguson stared at him.
“It would be very bad business to betray a trust. Very bad business,” said Ras.
“Better bad than dead.”
Ras sat back, his face pale. “If I wrote down the name of a sea captain, could you find his ship?”
“I don’t know,” said Ferguson. “Could I?”
* * *
Now what?” asked Thera as Ferguson steered her out of the hotel.
“Now we go up to Versailles and meet Vassenka.”
“He’s going to meet you?”
“Supposedly. Somebody called my room and left some heavy breathing on the machine. I took that to mean he’ll be here.”
“You gave him your room number?”
“I gave him yours.” Ferguson smiled. “I left word with two dozen people that he should contact me. What I’m hoping is that Meles and Khazaal getting stomped on killed his deal.”
“What good will he be in that case?”
“We can still find out who he was dealing with and where the Scuds are. We’ll have this ship tracked down and find out how much fuel is on it. My guess is that there’ll be quite a lot. Which argues for a lot of missiles.”
Ferguson called Corrigan with the information from the beach. The Versailles was within walking distance; they made it into the casino with ten minutes to spare. There wasn’t a lot of leeway: Ferguson hoped to take the Russian out twelve miles in a small boat and get aboard a helicopter. The helicopter had to come all the way from Turkey, and would only be able to stay on station for about forty-five minutes. The backup plan was to take the boat all the way to Cyprus: not impossible, certainly, but not as convenient nor as quick.
“Are we running late?” Thera asked, noticing he was checking his watch after they took a seat in the lounge above the poker tables.
“We’re on time.”
Ferguson ordered a Turkish coffee. Thera scanned the room and searched for something to talk about. “Is Rankin always so angry?”
“Somebody took his bottle away when he was a baby and he never got over it.”
“Monsoon is nice. Sergeant Ranaman.”
“Ranaman, yeah,” said Ferguson. “You like him?”
“Yeah, I like him a lot. He’s…”
Her voice drifted in a way that made it obvious to Ferguson that like meant something more than he wanted it to mean. He glanced at her face, turned away from him in profile. The curls came down behind her ear so gracefully, it was as if a painter had placed them there with a brush.
“Yeah, Monsoon’s a great guy,” said Ferguson, finishing the sentence for her. “Maybe we should have him work with us more. It’s hard to get Arabic speakers, good Arabic speakers.”
“You got me.”
“I rest my case.” Ferguson smiled at her and leaned hack to survey the room.
* * *
An hour later, Vassenka hadn’t shown up. Ferguson gave him ten more minutes, then another five, then went to the men’s room and called Corrigan. The helicopter had already gone back. They’d arranged for the EC-130E to fly off the coast again; Ferguson wanted an early warning if the Syrian police decided to raid all of the Western hotels. They hadn’t heard anything.
“Find my ship?”
“You were right about Tripoli. It was there a few days ago.”
“And now?”
“I can’t just snap my fingers and get information, Ferg. It’s not that easy.”
“Let me give you a hint where to look: heading for Iraq.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Well, get on it, Jack.”
“I am. Say, when do you sleep, anyway?”
Ferguson laughed at him and went back to Thera at the table.
They gave the Russian another half hour. Ferguson decided they would hit some of the other clubs to see if they could drum up some information about him, but first they had to stash the jewels, which Thera had in the case. So they went upstairs to Ferg’s room. Thera tapped on the wall of the elevator all the way up.
“You took a ‘go’ pill, right?” Ferguson
asked, waiting for the door to open.
“I was afraid I’d fall asleep. I’m OK, really.”
“No driving for you. Come on. I’m down the hall.”
The room Lauren had reserved was small, with only a bed and a table too small to spread a napkin. Thera kicked off her shoes and sat back on the bed.
“Is that piece in your hair from in here?” he asked.
“Of course not.” Her face turned deep red. “It’s glass.”
“Don’t get offended. I was just asking. It’d be all right if you borrowed it.”
“I don’t borrow things. I didn’t even open the briefcase.”
“Why not?” asked Ferguson. He opened the small in-room safe. The case was a little too wide to fit.
“You trust a safe?” Thera asked.
“Of course not. But I’ve never believed that ‘Purloined Letter’ stuff. You leave something out; it’s gone. The safe will keep the amateurs at bay.” He took up the case, set it down, and took out his picks. He opened the case and though he continued to smile at her, he realized immediately something was wrong: there weren’t as many jewels, and it struck him that they weren’t the same.
He snapped it closed. “Your turn,” he told her, as if he’d noticed nothing. He flipped it over to her on the bed. “You open it.”
“Why?”
“I want to make sure you can.”
“All right.”
Ferguson watched as she took the picks. She hadn’t had much practice, that was clear, but she didn’t act like she was completely incompetent either; she snapped it open in about a minute. Thera handed it to him.
“I should make you do it again. You’re a little slow.”
“Are we going to play locksmith or look for Vassenka?”
“Vassenka,” said Ferguson. He started scooping the jewels into the safe.
There was definitely a different mix than the last time he’d seen them. Or was it, Ferguson wondered, just that he was tired now and he’d been in a rush then?
The sat phone rang as he closed the door on the safe. “I hope this is room service.”
“Ferg, they found Vassenka in a shower in a dump off 14 Ramadan Street,” said Corrigan.
“The police raided him while he was taking a shower?”
“No. He reached for a bar of soap and got a grenade instead. He’s in pieces.”
ACT VI
They are the spirits of devils, working miracles…
— Revelation 16:14 (King James Version)
1
BAGHDAD
THE NEXT MORNING …
Abu al Hassan, the new Iraqi prime minister, was about as physically different from Saddam Hussein as possible: tall and thin, bald, with no facial hair and a soft whisper of a voice. The State Department briefing papers presented him as a “dynamic individual” and a “political survivor.” But the CIA duty officer Corrine befriended in the communications center rolled his eyes when she asked for his opinion, and Corrine saw why as soon as she met him. Hassan studiously avoided meeting her gaze while they spoke; his answers to even simple questions were so convoluted and hedged that Corrine wondered if the point wasn’t to make her forget what she had asked. To a man, his staff’s body language made it clear they didn’t have any better an opinion of him. He and his government weren’t going to survive their first political crisis. A five percent dip in world oil prices — already forecast after the run-up of the past few years — would be enough to upset the country’s loan payment schedule and threaten the social and rebuilding programs necessary to keep the economy moving ahead. But it wouldn’t take something nearly that severe: if violence stoked up again around Baghdad, if Iran rattled its sabers, if the Kurds complained that their semiautonomous state was too semi and not autonomous enough, the fractious parliament would divide. Hassan, Corrine now realized, had only been chosen because he was such a nonentity the different factions couldn’t object. Under any sort of pressure he would wilt.
Not a good situation, she thought as he led her on a tour of the new government building. Corrine made the proper admiring noises as they walked through the building, which was architecturally quite impressive, then left with the ambassador to continue the scheduled tour of a hospital in the city.
“I have to leave Iraq for a day or so,” she told Bellows. “Something’s come up.”
“More important than Iraq?” said Bellows, surprised.
“It’s trivial, really,” she lied. “But I have to take care of it. Can you drop me off at the embassy?”
The ambassador leaned forward and lowered the window separating them from the driver. He gave him the new instructions but left the window open. As he started to lean back, Corrine gestured toward the window. Bellows trusted his driver a great deal — a former Delta Force bodyguard, the man had been with him for six years, through many different assignments — but he closed the window to make her more comfortable.
Corrine closed it so they could talk.
“What do you think of Hassan?” she asked.
“A very solid man.”
“He’s a milquetoast.”
“Appearances can be deceiving,” said the ambassador lightly. “He’s very astute politically and very strong.”
“Are you telling me that because you think it’s what I want to hear? Or because you believe it?”
“I’m not sure how to answer that,” said Bellows.
“Is it me? Are you just not taking me seriously?”
“Corrine, of course I take you seriously,” said the ambassador, shocked that she thought that. “Why wouldn’t I take you seriously?”
“Can Hassan survive a crisis?”
“He’s strong. He has a lot of support throughout the country.”
Corrine gave up, and they drove back to the embassy in silence. She still hadn’t decided whether he was deliberately trying to mislead her or had deluded himself by the time she reached the secure communications center.
“Where’ve you been?” Ferguson asked her.
“You wouldn’t want to know. What’s the situation?”
“Vassenka’s in the morgue. On the bright side, we found the ship we think has the rocket fuel. It’s about twelve hours from Basra.”
“Stop it.”
“You think so?” said Ferguson, in his familiar mocking tone. “I was toying with the idea of letting it sail into the horizon.”
“Bob—”
“It’s Ferg. Even my enemies call me Ferg. Rankin and Guns are on their way to give an assist to the navy team that’s going to board the ship.”
“You think of me as your enemy?”
“Depends on the day. What’s with the Israelis?”
“I have a meeting tomorrow with Tischler to iron this out. Parnelles suggested I talk to him in person.”
“How is the general?”
“I don’t know. Slott passed the message along.” Corrine knew Ferguson meant Parnelles, of course, but she wasn’t sure why he called him “general.” As far as she knew, the CIA director didn’t have a military background. But this wasn’t the time to ask him about it. “Ferg, I’d like you in Tel Aviv for the meeting.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Don’t you think you ought to be?”
“If it fits into my schedule.”
“Make sure it does.”
He didn’t answer.
“The meeting is at nine a.m.,” she continued. “You want to meet at the airport, or—”
“I’ll meet you at the building. I have some stuff to do.”
“So do I.” She clicked off the phone, then went upstairs to change into less formal clothes.
2
OFF THE SYRIAN COAST, NEAR LATAKIA
Judy Coldwell sat with the handbag between her knees, pressing her hands together as the small boat approached the yacht. Her chest began to tremble, and for a moment she feared she was having a heart attack. She closed her eyes and took a long breath, trying to calm herself.
She could
do it. She would do it. It was all ridiculously easy. All she had to do was have faith.
Finally the boat drew alongside the yacht. Birk came to the side as she climbed over the ladder, extending his hand and helping her aboard.
“Ms. Perpetua, how are you this early morning? Well, I trust.” He positively beamed. “Come. Have some champagne.”
“Thank you, no,” she said.
“Bottled water, then. Or tea, perhaps tea?”
“Some coffee, maybe.”
“Coffee, yes. Of course. Coffee.”
Birk led her into the cabin sitting area, where a bottle of Dom Pérignon was on ice. He opened the bottle and poured himself a glass as he ordered one of the bodyguards to make some coffee.
“Do you have the weapon?” said Coldwell.
“Of course,” he told her.
“Is it aboard?”
This was one difficulty of dealing with amateurs, thought Birk: they did not understand the protocol. Still, they did overpay.
“It is accessible,” said Birk. “That is not a problem.”
“Is it aboard? I’m told it’s very big.”
“The crates that carry it are large, yes,” said Birk. “No, it is not on board.”
“Where is it?” Coldwell clutched her handbag, fearing that she had been swindled somehow.
“It’s not far. Your agents can pick it up as soon as I give the order.”
“We must pick it up before I pay.”
“You have the money?”
“Jewels.”
“Yes, jewels. Forgive me. Do you have them?”
“I will get them as soon as the transaction is completed.”
“I’m afraid that is not how it works,” said Birk. “You will tell me where they are now. I will retrieve them. Then you will be directed to the missile.”
“You don’t have it on the ship?”
“It would clutter the deck. Now. Where are the jewels?”
Coldwell opened her bag. For a moment Birk thought she might actually have them with her, but she — or more likely the person she was working for — was not quite so foolish. She handed him a man’s wristwatch.
