“Rankin, Conners, what do you guys think?”
“I think I got to take a leak,” said Rankin.
“That’s helpful,” said Ferg.
“Can we use your boom to listen in?” asked Conners.
The boom was a long-distance microphone with several modes, including one that could pick up vibrations off windows. But it was rather bulky and could be easily spotted.
“Better to switch on the flies,” said Ferg. He’d hesitated doing so because there was a theoretical possibility that they could be detected.
“I say do it,” offered Rankin.
“Yeah, all right. I’ll go hit the transmitter. You know the routine, Dad.”
“Take a minute,” said Conners in the truck.
The flies transmitted to a receiver they’d placed in a sewer a short distance away, and from there would upload to the same satellite system the phone tap used. Corrigan could access the line from the Cube and relay it back via the secure sat phones. Conners would call and arrange for the relay while Ferg slipped out to activate the transmitter.
He was just getting up when the door opened at the front of the police station. Two policemen emerged, shouldering Guns between them to a police car down the block. A short man in a yellow sports coat followed outside, casting his eye up and down the block before getting into his own car.
“Shit,” muttered Ferg.
“I see it,” said Rankin.
“Meet me at the sewer.”
“Story of your life,” said Rankin.
By the time Ferg was close enough for his phone to turn on the transmitter, the car had a good head start. He jumped into the Zil as Rankin hit the gas.
“We lost ‘em,” said Conners, sitting between them.
“Fuck,” said Rankin.
“All right, let’s not get a speeding ticket,” said Ferg. “Rankin, slow down and take that left. I think I know where they’re going.”
Ferguson guessed that they were taking Guns to the detention facility in the basement of the old Soviet building at the end of town — a logical guess borne out by the fact that the car, or one that looked just like it, was double-parked in the street as they passed.
“Let’s hit ‘em now,” said Rankin.
“Relax, Skippy,” said Ferg, who knew the sergeant hated the nickname. “Let’s reconnoiter first.”
“We can’t leave Guns in there,” said Conners.
“We’re not going to,” said Ferg. “But we don’t want to be guests ourselves, right?”
Rankin turned the truck down a broad but empty street just past the building, going as slowly as he dared while looking out the side window. The building looked solid, and while there were no soldiers or guards outside, getting Guns out wasn’t going to be easy.
To Ferguson, Guns’s arrest represented a break, but it was difficult to explain to the others that the longer he remained in the Kyrgyz custody, the more information they were likely to gather. That was the downside of working with the SF people — they were bodacious in firefights and quick on their feet, but they tended to want to reduce everything to bangs and bigger bangs. Sometimes you had to put a little sweat in.
“What are we doing, Ferg?” asked Rankin as he took a second turn around the block.
“I think I have a spot where we can put the boom up, see what we get. Park the truck as close as you can get. Dad, did you set up the bug relay?”
“Didn’t have a chance.”
“Go for it as soon as you park. Let me out here.”
“Why?” asked Rankin.
“All that chay made me have to pee,” said Ferg.
“Fuckin’ officer material,” said Rankin, unleashing his worst slur as he stopped the truck.
Why are you interested in the Chechen?”
Guns gave the man in the yellow jacket a quizzical look. It wasn’t difficult — he had no clue what the SOB was talking about.
The man frowned. He’d told Guns that his name was Sergiv Kruknokov, that he was Russian, attached to the Federal Security Service or FSB, and that he had no jurisdiction here.
Then he urged him to cooperate.
Guns stuck to the story about being Belgian and working for an Italian waste company. He even rattled off a few words in Italian.
“The police won’t torture you,” said Sergiv. “But they will complicate your plans, whatever they are. Should we call your embassy?”
Guns didn’t know whether there was a Belgian embassy in Kyrgyzstan or not, so he shrugged and again insisted that he was who he said he was.
The Russian shook his head, took a cigarette from his pocket, and left him in the basement room alone. Guns sat back in the chair, looking at the walls. Any second, he figured, Ferguson and the others would come in guns blazing and rescue him.
It figures, he thought to himself. There’s finally going to be a little action, and I’m not in on it.
Ferguson walked up the steps, his weave just this side of sober. He reached for the door handle and pressed it open, pulling it open and starting inside.
He took about half a step before he found his way blocked by two rather large soldiers.
The soldier pushed him back. “Not here, asshole.”
“Where’s Misha?”
“Get the hell out,” insisted the soldier, and the door was slammed shut.
“You were lucky, Ferg,” said Conners, coming up behind him.
“What are you doing out of the truck?” asked Ferguson.
“I figured you were up to something stupid.”
“Just looking for a place to pee.”
“You like to push it to the edge, don’t you?”
“Always,” said Ferguson.
Rankin was getting antsy in the truck. He had the Uzi in his lap, trying to look nonchalant but so tense that when Conners pulled open the passenger-side door he nearly blasted him.
“What’s the story?” he asked.
“They don’t have any bathrooms,” said Ferg, climbing in behind Conners. “Bad sign.”
He pulled the door shut. “Let’s go someplace and get something to eat, take a breather.”
“A breather?” Rankin nearly slammed the machine gun against the dashboard. “Are you out of your fuckin’ mind?”
“They have soldiers inside. We have to get the layout before we can go in.”
“Fuck that,” said Rankin.
Ferg leaned across Conners to look at the SF sergeant. “When you’d get to be such an asshole, Rankin?”
“I’m not an asshole. I don’t want my guy getting killed.”
“Makes two of us,” said Ferg.
“Three,” said Conners. He hadn’t talked to Corrigan yet; he took out his sat phone to do so.
“See if Corrigan can get us a map of the place from the library,” Ferguson told him.
The CIA had an extensive database stocked with information about foreign buildings, kept for just such emergencies.
