26
Something about the way the van’s momentum shifted reminded Corrine of an accident she’d been in as a six-year-old. She hadn’t thought of that moment in years, but it came back to her now, and she pushed her neck down against gravity, hunkering in the van as she had in the sedan that had gone off a mountain road in a snowstorm two decades before. She felt the six-year-old’s mixture of horror and fascination, the fear when her mother didn’t answer right away. She heard the loud crack of the airbags and the long hush that followed, the incongruous silence as the car lay in the field, slowly being covered by snow.
And then she was back in the present, the van on its side, thrown off the pavement by the force of a two- hundred-and-fifty-pound bomb buried beyond the shoulder of the highway.
“Out! We have to get out!” said one of the bodyguards.
“Out, yes,” Corrine said. She grabbed at her seat belt latch and undid it, then pushed up against the door. The door flew from her hand. One of the soldiers who’d been riding in the rear Humvee reached in and grabbed for her, helping her pull herself out. She jumped down to the ground, pushing against the chassis to steady herself. Remembering where she was, she ducked down and took out her small Smith & Wesson pistol, holding it in both hands as she scanned the side of the road.
“In the Hummer! Everybody in the Hummer! Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” shouted the soldier who’d helped her out.
A helicopter whipped toward them.
The driver of the van had been lifted out and helped down to the pavement, moaning. The airbag had exploded in his face, and he was burned. Corrine grabbed his arm and led him toward the Humvee. She pushed him inside and then ran back to the van. The passenger on the far side of her had been cut by a piece of metal or glass in the door and was bleeding profusely. Corrine grabbed the sleeve of her shirt and ripped it off, trying to stop the blood.
“Into the Humvee,” said one of the soldiers. “Come on now. Out of here.”
“We need a medical kit,” she said.
“In the Hummer, ma’am. Come on.”
Corrine kept her hand pressed to the man’s neck as the soldier took him in his arms and carried him to the truck. She wedged herself into the back, where a medical kit lay open on the floor. She grabbed gauze and wrapped it over the sleeve and wound, pushing in tightly to try and staunch the flow of blood. She could feel the man’s pulse ebb and flow beneath her fingers.
“Hospital,” she said.
“We’re in! Go!” yelled one of the soldiers, and the Hummer jerked forward.
“This is one screwed-up place,” muttered someone. Corrine didn’t know who said it, but she certainly agreed.
27
Getting to Yanbu on the coast of the Red Sea at the lip of the Saudi Arabian desert was only half as hard as finding a serviceable boat there, finally Ferguson found a man who ran a diving business who agreed to rent them a vessel for the day, as long as they paid twice the normal rate in cash. Ferguson didn’t have that much cash; it was Thera who suggested the bracelet.
The man said he would take a credit card.
Once they cast off, Ferguson had Thera take the wheel. He unpacked their weapons from the duffle bags and called Corrigan for an update.
“I have a lot of stuff going on here, Ferg.”
“Gee, Jack. No kidding. I thought you were hanging out knocking down beers.”
“Rankin thinks he knows where the Scud missile is.”
“Good. can you get me a Global Hawk down here? The satellite image is pretty old.”
“Every available asset in the Middle East is over Iraq. There’s a satellite coming over your area in twenty minutes. A team is standing by to analyze it. That’s the best I can do.”
“Where’s Van?”
“They’re en route to back up Rankin.”
“All right,” said Ferguson. “The photo guys know what the
“They’ll do their best.”
“Call me back.” He snapped off the phone.
Thera looked over from the wheel. “What did he say?”
“Not much. I figure we have about twenty miles before we have to really worry. Open the throttle up and let her rip.”
“It could be a wild goose chase. The boats in the satellite photo aren’t necessarily the ones we’re looking for, and they might not have come this way.”
“I hope so,” said Ferguson. He was putting two and two together and coming up with forty-four: the most recent satellite photo showed a yacht like the
“Did you really think I stole the jewels?” asked Thera.
“I still do.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Nah. You would have plugged me in the back by now if you had.” Ferguson reached into his bag and took out a battered Boston Red Sox cap to shield his eyes from the sun. Then he took out his binoculars and began scanning the horizon in the direction of Mecca.
28
There were guards at the entrance to the lumberyard. Behind them, the fence was locked and chained. James told the men that they had business with the manager. The men told him the manager wouldn’t be in until ten or eleven, and the yard wouldn’t open until then.
“Tell them we’ll wait inside,” said Rankin.
James tried it, but the guards claimed not to have the keys.
“Have them call the manager.”
“No phone,” translated James. “I think they meant the manager. That’s very possible. Half the country doesn’t have working phones.”
Rankin looked at the men. There were four of them. They were separated well, positioned in such a way that they could pummel the vehicle if anyone inside opened fire. The fence to the yard opened on a set of barriers and a stationary forklift; it was impossible to simply crash the gate and get in.
“Tell them we’ll come back,” said Rankin.
“Ask for a place to have breakfast,” suggested Guns. “A good, long breakfast.”
“You hungry?” asked Rankin.
“If they think we’re having breakfast, they won’t be watching for us.”
“You got that from Ferg,” said Rankin. He turned to James. “Ask for an American-style breakfast.”
