people and a hefty “membership fee.” The very expensive foreigners club would have been normally off-limits and out of reach for American soldiers, but Ferg’s unlimited connections and moxie had gotten them in. Even Rankin would have had to admit the CIA officer knew the meaning of R&R.
“You’re drinking too much,” Rankin said, as Conners pushed the shot glasses forward for another round.
“Yup,” said Conners. Rankin reminded Conners of a kid he’d known since grammar school, Peter Flynn. Flynn was an only child and a bit of a priss, and when in sixth grade he announced that he was going to be a priest no one was really surprised. Girls — and probably Flynn’s father — soon put an end to that, but Flynn always seemed a little angry about it, mad that he couldn’t fit into that square hole.
“I’ll be but drank in good company,” said Ferguson, slapping them both on the back.
“Hey, it’s the devil himself,” said Conners.
Ferg pointed at the beer for the bartender, ordering one for himself.
“What was that you said?” Rankin asked Ferguson.
“A quote. From Shakespeare.”
“He was an Irishman, you know,” said Conners.
“Whoa, Skip — you know more than you let on.”
“Screw you, Ferguson.”
“How’d it go?” Conners asked.
“Peachy,” said Ferg, taking his beer. It was a Dortmunder export from Germany, “DUB” or Dortmunder Union Brauerei, which had a dryer, slightly stronger taste than the “normal” German lager. Ferguson drained the mug, then pushed it forward for a refill. “Drink up today, boys, for tomorrow we fly. That’s not a direct quote.”
Conners glanced over his shoulder, making sure that no one was nearby. The crowd was mostly rich businessmen, but a spy might easily mingle, and of course a good portion of the staff would be in the employ of some intelligence agency or another. “Where we going?” he asked Ferguson.
“Hither, thither and yon. Skip, here, is going to Moscow.”
“Moscow?” said Rankin.
“Russia, not New York. You’re meeting our new boss.” Ferguson pulled over the refilled mug. “Guns’ll meet you,” he said, taking a more sensible sip this time. “I have another SF guy going as well, out of the States. They call him Frenchie — he was on loan to French intelligence for a while and has an accent. Thinks he’s a frog.”
“What new boss?” said Rankin.
“Long story, Skip. We’ll get into it later. Any girls around here?” Ferg asked, turning around to survey the room.
“They don’t allow women,” said Conners.
“Well, then, we’ll just have to go somewhere that they do, eh?”
4
Rankin’s head throbbed as he made his way off the Airbus A330. He turned the wrong way and found himself staring into the stern face of a Russian policeman. He went back and found the route to the baggage area, though he already had all of his luggage, a small carry-on.
The signs were in English as well as Russian, but the glare hurt his eyes, and he squinted until he finally managed to find the proper Customs line. He unfolded his blue passport — it was his “real” passport, not the diplomatic one he could use in an emergency — and after presenting the lengthy Customs form answered a dozen questions about his stay for a twentysomething woman with hair nearly as short as his. Cleared through, he walked around the building, waiting for whoever was supposed to meet him — it hadn’t been worked out when he left — to do so.
“Yo,” said someone behind him on his third circuit. “What the hell are you doing?”
Guns was standing at the side, shaking his head. He was dressed in a black brushed-leather jacket and jeans and wearing an earring; he looked like a British soccer fan sizing up the country for a round of hooliganism.
“What are you doing?” Rankin said. He’d thought the Marine was in the hospital.
“Looking for you.”
“You OK?”
“Good as ever.”
“Where’d you get the earring?”
“Car’s out this way,” said the Marine.
“Where’d you get the earring?” repeated Rankin, following him outside. The light stabbed at his eyes, and he felt a quick wave of nausea, yesterday’s whiskey rumbling in his stomach.
“Like it?”
“No.”
Guns put his fingers up to it. “It’s a transmitter. I’m being tracked as we speak.”
“Get out.” Rankin grabbed the Marine and looked at his ear. The earring was a simple gold-colored post.
“You kiss me, and I’ll slug you,” said Guns.
“That’s no fucking tracking device.”
“Join the twenty-first century,” said Guns. “There’s our car.”
They got into a small Fiat at the far end of the lot. It was a manual; Guns stalled it twice getting out of the spot, grinding the gears when he finally got it into the lane. He managed to work the clutch right at the gate, however, and once they were on the highway he felt comfortable.
“How was Iran?” Guns asked Rankin.
“A fuck-up. Ferg got shitty intelligence and almost got himself wasted in a pirate-DVD operation. They made porn movies.”
“Yeah? Right there?”
“No, they just made copies. We gave a bunch to the submarine crew and the SEALs. They had a great time.”
“Did we get one?”
“You don’t want that shit,” said Rankin. He glanced at his watch, already set for Russian time. He still had an hour to go before he could take more acetaminophen for his hangover. “Where we going?”
“Another airport called Domodedovo.”
“Why?”
“ ‘Cause we’re flying out to someplace called Orenburg. Or actually near there. I’m starting to lose track.”
“Why?”
“Man, you ask a lot of questions.”
“How was Paris?” said Rankin, following along.
“Busy. We didn’t stay. We drove out to talk to somebody in Reims.”
“You see the cathedral?”
“There’s a cathedral there?”
“Guns, there are cathedrals in every city in Europe. Yeah. It’s pretty famous. Fantastic stained-glass windows.”
“How about that.”
“What’s the new boss like?” Rankin asked, changing the subject.
“New boss is a serious piece of eye candy, but a bit of a bitch,” said Guns. “Ferg don’t like her.”
“Yeah, well, that’s one thing in her favor.”
Guns laughed. “We’re going to track a shipment of waste to Kyrgyzstan.”
