“We should’ve done that in the first place.”
“Yup. You want to stop and get something to eat?”
“Not really,” Rankin told him.
“Well, I have to stop anyway.”
“Go for it, Marine.”
“I never know how to take you, Rankin,” said Guns.
“What do you mean?”
“You making fun or me or what?”
Rankin bent over his seat belt and looked at him. “No.”
“You sound like you’re trying to bust my chops.”
“Jesus, Guns, I got a fuckin’ headache, and I feel like I’m being jerked around on yet another wild-goose chase. What the hell you want me to do?”
“Your problem is you need to get laid. I’ll tell you, at the infirmary, I met this nurse. First thing I did…”
“Oh Christ,” said Rankin, leaning his head back against the rest.
5
Baku was an oil town, the center of one of the most prolific producing areas in the world outside the Middle East. It was also a place where other things could be had and arranged; the Caspian washed its shores with the rhythmic sound of possibility, and if a foreigner didn’t find hospitality there, it was surely because he wasn’t trying hard enough.
Ferg and Conners sat at a table overlooking the sea, waiting to meet Ferg’s contact, who was running about an hour late. Rahil — Rachel in English — was a raven-haired beauty, the daughter of a smuggler who had inherited the business from her father. Ferguson had had occasion to do business with her once before, and so he wasn’t surprised or disappointed by the fact that she hadn’t yet shown up at the cafe. He nursed a coffee while Conners sipped at a vodka, staring through the yellowed plastic panel at the edge of the porch.
“My darling, you are here already,” said Rahil. She floated to them across the porch, her hand trailing across Ferguson’s shoulder. He rose; she kissed him. Four men in black pants and sweaters fanned out across the room behind her — the family business had not thrived for three generations without taking certain precautions.
“Your friend?” Rahil said.
“Dad,” said Ferg, pointing to him.
“Your father? But he’s so young.”
“Just a nickname.”
“Ma’am.”
“You must watch Mr. Ferguson,” Rahil advised him. “He will go light on the paycheck.”
“We merely deducted for expenses,” said Ferg. She was referring to their last encounter, which had involved smuggling a set of hard drives out of Russia. The disks had “been damaged — probably because Rahil had tried to have her people read them — and Ferg’s supervisors had insisted on delivering only partial payment.
“You will make it up today?”
“Maybe.”
Rahil let a waiter pull over a chair for her, then ordered champagne. She began telling Ferguson about how beautiful the sea was this time of year — how beautiful it was at all times of year.
Conners sipped his vodka, taking in only enough to sting his lips. Rahil looked to be about thirty, though like a lot of women he’d seen there she put her makeup on so thickly it made her look older. She had a thin body, but she moved it the way a dancer would, thrusting it around as she spoke. Her bodyguards eyed them jealously, and Conners guessed that she herself had at least two weapons, including a barely concealed pistol at the belt of her flowing skirt beneath her black blouse, which was not tucked into the waistband.
“I’m going to Groznyy,” said Ferg
“Yes?” she said. The waiter arrived with the champagne, a Tattinger brut, 1995.
“I’d like to stay in a convenient place there,” said Ferg, who took a glass of the wine.
“There are many hotels,” she told him.
“You know my tastes.”
“Expensive.”
“Not necessarily. Just discreet.”
“As I said, expensive. The authorities.” She shook her head. “Groznyy is not a nice place these days.”
“When was it ever?”
“True. The Chechens are a dirty people. Why go there? Stay here with us. Baku is a very rich place.” She turned to Conners. “You are not drinking my champagne?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Ferguson is paying.” She laughed.
“Thanks anyway,” said Conners.
The waiter reappeared. Rahil called him over and ordered some blintzes, then told him to see to her men. There were three dozen tables on the veranda, more than half of them occupied, but the waiter had no trouble figuring out whom she meant.
“So, a place to stay. That’s it?” said Rahil. “The CIA needs my services as a travel agent?”
“I’d like some contact among the rebels.”
Rahil shook her head. “No.”
“No one who owes you a favor?”
“These sorts of favors would have me dead in a week,” she said. “We do not deal with the Islamic madmen.”
“They’re not all mad, are they?”
“The crazy ones are the sanest. Of course they’re mad. They’ve been mad for centuries. But now they are worse. In the past two years…” She waved her hand in the air, as if brushing away smoke. “Drink more champagne, Ferguson. Drink, drink.”
“They may have something I want to buy,” suggested Ferg.
“Such as?”
“Things,” he said.
“Stay away from them. Better to deal with the Russians.”
“I deal with them all the time.”
“See? I knew you were a wise man. Here, let me write you an address that may come in useful.”
Interesting woman,” said Conners, as they rode in a taxi toward the dock. Ferguson had hired a boat to take them north to Machachkala, where they’d hire a car to go to Groznyy. They were supposed to be German representatives from an oil company, though it didn’t seem as if anyone particularly cared. “Pretty, too.”
“Drug smugglers usually are,” said Ferg.
“We going to stay in her hotel?”
“Nah.”
“You wanted the guerrilla contact?”
“No.” Ferguson pointed out the dock and had the driver let them off. When the car had pulled away, he told Conners to grab his bag and follow him.
“Where?”
“There’s a ferry we’re taking. It leaves from that pier up there.”
“I thought you hired a boat.”
“I did,” said Ferg.
“You sharing information these days?”
“Only on a need-to-know basis.”
