“That like Sodium Pentothal?”
“Something like that.”
“It’s OK to use?”
“It works.”
“You have some?”
“No. They have it at Guantanamo, though. We’ll send him there.”
“Why didn’t they use it on Kiro?” asked Conners.
“Because the lawyer wants to put him on trial,” said Ferg. “If they shoot him up, she figures it’ll come out and queer the case.”
“That’s the only reason?”
Ferg shrugged. Sodium — TFh4 — the “street” name of the drug, whose chemical name ran about a paragraph long — would also do fairly serious damage to a person’s liver, but no one seemed to worry about that. “Daruyev doesn’t have to stand trial for anything he did in America. No objections to using the drags.”
“Lawyer told you that?” asked Conners.
“Not in so many words.” Ferg picked up his beer.
“If they’re building this thing in Chechnya, maybe they’re targeting the Russians,” suggested Conners.
“Could be,” said Ferg. “But you notice that the Russians weren’t all that concerned about Kiro until we blew up the commander’s car, right? You think we ought to count on them to stay on top of it?”
Even Ferguson realized that breaking a prisoner out of the Brown Fortress, as the Russians called the prison ten miles away, was impossible. So he had decided to let the Russians do it for him.
The idea had started to form when they were in Chechnya, as a hazy backup plan to the snatch of Kiro. The details remained slightly hazy, because a great deal of it depended on the Russians themselves. But it was already in motion.
Conners drove into Groznyy early in the evening, wending his way through the streets toward the address Rahil had given Ferguson in Baku. He now had a completely different cover story, one that accounted for his halting Russian — he was back to being an American, sent there as a sewer plant expert by UNESCO. Ferg assured him the cover wouldn’t be tested, though he had a folder on the car seat detailing various bacterial tests just in case. Rahil’s friend acted as if she had no idea who he was, and even mentioning Rahil — as Ferguson directed — brought no response. A hundred-dollar bill, however, got him a room with working electricity on the second floor of the small hotel.
Inside, he took out his pistol and sat in the armchair opposite the door, waiting.
The store looked more American than Russian, shelves crammed around a cash register at the side close to the door, displays of newspapers and candy in easy sight of the cashier. Ferg walked to the back cooler — it was filled with Coke — opening it as another customer came in. Then he let it snap closed and walked around to the right, where the door to the back room was ajar, a sagging chain lock holding it closed.
“I’m looking for Ruby,” he said in Russian. “Ruby?”
A tall, thin man with a black shock of hair hanging over his forehead stuck his face in the crack.
“I’m looking for Ruby,” Ferg said, this time in English.
The tall man said something in Chechen that Ferguson couldn’t decipher. Instead of answering, Ferg held up his wrist and slid off his watch.
“Where’s Ruby?” he repeated.
The tall man reached for the watch. Ferg drew it back. That brought a fresh spree of indecipherable Chechen. When the door did not open, Ferguson slid the watch back on his wrist and walked over to the cooler. He took out a Coke and walked toward the front of the store.
A gnomelike man with a closely cropped beard met him in the aisle. The man wore a long sweater that was so worn it looked like an old woman’s housecoat; thick as a brush, his short gray hair stuck up from his scalp as if he’d put his hand in an electrical socket.
“I’m Ruby,” he said. The accent was so thick that Ferguson at first wasn’t sure it was English. “Come.”
The man shuffled to the last cooler at the back of the store. He opened the door and slid the case rack back, passing into the storage area as if he were walking into the secret chamber of a haunted mansion. Ferg followed, waiting as Ruby slid the rack of soda back in place. His steps made a kind of snuffling sound as he went, not unlike the sound rough sandpaper makes as a craftsman finishes off the edge of a piece of furniture. Produce sat in wooden crates beyond the row of soda; behind them were large metal canisters for propane or some similar gas. At the very back of the space was a doorway; as he followed the gnome through it, Ferg slid the Glock down from his jacket sleeve and brought his hand up, and so both he and Ruby faced each other with loaded pistols in the dimly lit room beyond the store.
Ruby started to laugh. Ferg smiled.
Ruby pulled back the hammer on the pistol, a Zavodi Crvena Zastava.357 revolver that looked like a cannon in his tiny hand.
Ferg’s Glock, small for an automatic, permitted no such intimidating gesture, though at this range it would do sufficient damage to make the situation a draw.
“I think we can make a deal,” ventured Ferguson.
“Your watch is counterfeit.”
“No. It’s real.” Ferguson actually felt insulted.
“Bah.”
“Seriously. I got it in New York.”
“Now I know it’s fake.”
“I can arrange other payment.”
“Perhaps I will look at it.” Ruby held out his hand.
Ferg heard something behind him. His eyes and gun still frozen on Ruby’s face, he took a short step to the right, then another.
“I hope he’s coming back with a credit approval,” said Ferg.
Ruby shouted to the man outside, telling him to go back. The man outside began arguing with him. Ruby shook his head and lowered his gun.
“Children,” said the Chechen. He went to the door and leaned into the storage room, his body shaking as he unleashed a string of invective. The man outside — Ferg guessed it was the man he’d seen at the chained door, though he’d looked no more like Ruby than Ferg did — whimpered once or twice, then retreated.
Ruby returned to the room, gesturing wildly and mumbling to the effect that the world was a disappointing place, and there were no greater disappointments than sons. Without glancing at the American or otherwise acknowledging his presence, he walked to the only pieces cf furniture in the room — two large four-drawer filing cabinets, legal size, in the corner.
“Chay?” he asked, pulling open one of the drawers and removing a teapot.
“Good,” said Ferg. He kept his gun in his hand as Ruby removed the pot and two small cups from the drawer, then went back into the storage room and returned with a card table and an extension cord. Several more trips were needed before the kettle was bubbling with water and metal chairs had been unfolded around the table.
“Strong,” said Ferg, when he finally sipped the tea. The dark green liquid tasted as if it had been made of anise and cinnamon as well as tea leaves.
“Yes. There is no more good tea,” said Ruby, speaking in Russian. The Chechen had left his gun on the file cabinet and now had the air of a professor down on his luck. There was no hint in his voice whether he thought the liquid an exception to the rule, or proof.
“If anyone were to have good tea, it would be you,” said Ferg.
“It would. If anyone did.”
“I need weapons,” said Ferg.
“Why else would you be here?”
“Why else?”
Six AK-47s — Ruby would sell no fewer than that — and two RPG-18s, single-shot antiarmor missiles with a 64 mm warhead, were available for about three times what they should have fetched, according to the information
