Angels of Wrath

“Well, good. Then I won’t have to worry that you might be prejudiced.” McCarthy’s lips turned up in a half smile. “I’d like you to go on to Baghdad ahead of me and make an assessment. I know Mr. Bellows’s resume is impressive. And I know he’s personable. He and I even get along, for which there is something to be said. But that’s not what I truly need to know.”

“Jonathan…Mr. President—”

“Jonathan is fine when we are alone. Go ahead, tell me what I don’t want to hear but must hear.”

“You’re putting me in a difficult position.”

“Now I thought that was your job description.” McCarthy smiled again, and this time traces of it lingered on his face as he continued to speak. “You might find an excuse to visit Tel Aviv and Palestine and the other countries in the region as well, ahead of my visit. Take their pulse, as it were. I suspect that you should be in the area as this Special Demands project runs its course.”

“Yes, sir, of course,” said Corrine, who hadn’t been thinking that at all; she had plenty of work to do in Washington, and her role was to supervise the First Team’s operations, not take part in them. Then again, she was looking for an opportunity to talk to Ferguson in person. He could blow her off too easily on the phone and made a regular habit of it.

“I’ll leave as soon as I can,” said Corrine.

“Now, now. No need to rush,” said McCarthy. “Give yourself twenty-four hours to wrap things up. And make sure that your secretary knows how to get in touch with you.”

“I will.”

McCarthy started to leave but then turned back. “Now you remember one thing. If you get hurt, I’m going to have to be the one to tell your daddy. And neither one of us wants that. So you be careful, heah?”

2

CAIRO

THE NEXT AFTERNOON …

“Before you blow your top,” Corrigan told Ferguson, “listen to the whole deal. This is a good one, Ferg. A real good one.”

“Corrigan, I don’t blow my top. Your top, maybe.” The old wooden chair creaked as Ferguson leaned back. It felt so rickety, he thought it was going to send him in a tumble to the floor at any minute. Ferguson, Rankin, and Guns were sitting in a secure communications facility in the Cairo embassy, a room within a room with an encrypted communications link back to Washington. They had the option of using video and seeing Corrigan as they spoke, but the vote not to do so had been unanimous.

“So tell me what the story is,” said Ferguson. “Why are we being jerked off one wild goose chase and put on another?”

“How’d you know there was a new assignment?”

Ferguson rolled his eyes for the others. “Spill it, Jack,” he told Corrigan.

“Khazaal. Nisieen Khazaal.”

“That’s it?”

“The name doesn’t mean anything to you? Jesus, Ferg, where have you been? This is only the most infamous Iraqi scumbag going. I bet Rankin knows who he is.”

“Yeah, he’s at the top of the Who’s Who of World Scumbags,” said Rankin.

“Where did we get this?” asked Ferguson.

“Mossad. Came from the top. I think Parnelles huddled with Ms. Alston, and here we are.”

Corrigan gave them everything he knew about Khazaal, which wasn’t all that much. The Israelis either didn’t know or wouldn’t say where exactly he was going. The Agency had several indications that he had moved west from the Tikrit area — a favorite of Rankin’s — and theorized that he was near the border, though not yet across. Several groups tied to his organization had transferred funds into bank accounts used by smugglers, and Iraqi intelligence had several leads about where he was in the western desert.

“Yeah, Iraqi intelligence,” said Rankin. “Hajjis with IQs equal to their shoe sizes.”

“The assignment is to locate and apprehend,” said Corrigan, ignoring him. “Apprehend as in arrest, as in bring him back alive.”

“And what do I do when he tells me to get bent?” said Ferguson. “Rhetorical question, Jack,” he added quickly. “Mossad involved?”

“No. They’re tied up.”

“Where’s Thera?”

“I put her on a plane to Athens. We’ve asked for a liaison from the Iraqi security service. Where do you want him?”

“Paradise,” said Rankin.

“I don’t know yet,” said Ferguson. Mossad’s posture struck him as odd; if they bothered to pass something along, they almost always provided a complete dossier and at least a liaison to feed back notes. “Listen, I want to talk to Parnelles.”

“Why?”

“I’m having some trouble with my 401K.”

“We don’t have a 40IK plan.”

Guns and Rankin both started to laugh. Ferguson grinned, relaxing a little. “Get him for me, will you?”

“I can’t just snap my fingers and get him on the line.”

“Use the bat phone, Robin.”

“Come on Ferg. Parnelles is traveling. I don’t know where he is. I can leave a message.”

“Tell him I want to talk to him, not you. Say it’s important.”

“OK. Listen, Corrine wants you to meet her in Tel Aviv. She wants to talk to you. She’s pretty upset about Cairo.”

“What about it?”

“You didn’t run the operation by her. She wants you in Tel Aviv—”

“I’m not going to Tel Aviv.”

“Hey, Ferg, you can’t blow her off. She’s the boss.”

“All right. Let me talk to her.”

“She’s not here, Ferg. It’s the middle of the night over here. Like four a.m.”

“The way you’re calling her Corrine and everything, I thought you were at her apartment.”

“Ferg.”

“Go wake her up.”

“Come on.”

“Look, I’m not going to Tel Aviv. Why should we go to Tel Aviv from Cairo?” He looked at his watch. “Thera’s going to Athens?”

“Yeah.”

“Hold her there. Tell her I’ll be in tonight or maybe tomorrow.”

“What should I tell Cor — Ms. Alston?”

“Tell her I’ll be in Athens. Actually, probably Incirlik, with Van and the Ranger boys.”

“She really wants to talk to you.”

“My phone is on twenty-four/seven.”

“What about Rankin and Guns?”

“They can get their own girl.”

“Ferg, listen. Alston is going to be pissed.”

Ferguson tossed the phone on the table. The others looked at him. Ferguson folded his arms across his chest but then reached across and picked it up.

“You OK, Ferg?” asked Corrigan. “Maybe you need a rest.”