Ravid did not understand at first, and by the time he realized what the soldier was after, the man had pulled the paper out from under his arm.
“Why do you have this?” demanded the guard.
Ravid stared at the soldier rather than answering. Silence was always safest.
The man took the paper and threw it into a nearby trash bag. “Go,” said the soldier, gesturing dismissively.
4
Van Buren tried hard not to glance at his watch. If he wanted to catch his son before he left for the weekend tournament, he had to call him before ten o’clock Eastern Time. It was now ten minutes to the hour. But the planning session was too important to interrupt, not the kind of thing you stopped for a personal matter.
“I don’t know whether the Israeli information is wrong or not,” said Ferguson. Ferguson got up and went over to the side of the large conference room to try some of the coffee. They’d been given the use of several rooms at the U.S. Air Force facility in western Turkey, where the First Team MC-130 and other support units were temporarily based. The location made it easier to fly near Syria and was less vulnerable to Iraqi resistance spies and possible attacks than a base in western Iraq would have been. Ferg, Fouad and the prisoners had transferred from the Chinooks to the MC-130 at a small airfield and come directly here the night before.
“The map we found with the money shows a route to Tripoli, Lebanon,” said Ferguson.
“Doesn’t mean Khazaal’s going there,” said Van Buren. “Or that he got past us.”
“The airplane was headed toward Beirut when the Israelis lost track of it. And the car that grabbed our friend came from Lebanon.”
There were holes in the intelligence supporting Ferguson’s theory, and he knew it. The vehicle had been stolen from northern Lebanon, not from Beirut or the western coast. And the Israeli surveillance plane that had managed to spot the plane had lost sight of it near Beirut. They weren’t even sure it was the same plane, only that it had come from the right direction, was the right size, and did not correlate with any known or filed flights.
But there was also circumstantial evidence to support the theory. Tarabulus esh Sham, more commonly known as Tripoli, sat on the Lebanese coast at the end of a long oil pipeline back to Iraq. There were many Iraqis in the city and region. Drug dealers liked the spot because of the port.
“What do you say, Fouad?” asked Van Buren.
“As Mr. Ferguson would have it, the fact that I don’t expect it makes it likely.”
“Not everybody’s thinking two steps ahead,” said Van.
“Khazaal does,” said Ferguson. “I know it’s a long shot, but at the moment it’s our best guess.”
“Assuming we missed him.”
“Even if we didn’t miss him. I can’t search all of Syria and all of Lebanon. I have to start making some guesses.”
“We can’t run an operation there,” said Van Buren. “It’s too urban.”
“I don’t expect you to,” said Ferguson. “Best bet is to go in by sea. This way I don’t advertise to the local security types that I’m in.”
“They know you?”
“I was there last year, briefly,” said Ferg. “One or two might have reason to remember.”
Van Buren liked the CIA officer a lot, though he tended to cut things a little too close to the bone. The First Team was a cooperative venture between the CIA and the Special Operations Command; the two men headed their respective halves, cooperating better with each other than anyone would have predicted before the program began. The arrival of Corrine Alston as the president’s direct representative — and, in effect, their boss — bothered Ferguson a great deal, because he saw it as political interference. Van Buren didn’t know it as fact, but he gathered that Ferguson believed his father’s career at the Agency had been sabotaged by similar second-guessing.
Van Buren’s take on Alston was different. As a colonel and career military man, he was used to dealing with bureaucratic politics, and Alston had been nothing but supportive. She had her own set of questions and priorities, but considering that the latter probably came directly from the president, she had been relatively easy to work with.
“We leave the scout mission at the border intact,” said Ferguson. “But we’ll start looking around in the cities nearby in case we’ve missed him already. Fouad can help Rankin and Thera handle that. Your guys stay on the border with Guns, ready to run a replay of last night. Hopefully with better results.”
“You’re just going into Lebanon by yourself?” asked Fouad.
Van Buren had the same question, though it was typical of Ferg. He had a knack for slipping in and out of places he didn’t belong.
“It’s a scouting mission. I’ll be in and out. If the meeting is going to be held there, I’m going to want as many clean faces as I can get, including yours. And maybe Van’s.”
“Thanks, but my job is with the troops.”
Ferguson laughed, then became more serious. “Once I see if anything’s up I’ll fall back and regroup. We just don’t have enough time to sit out in the desert and wait. This meeting’s supposed to take place in a matter of days.”
“Well, I agree we must try a chance,” said Fouad. “If this is the best of your information, it makes sense.”
“It’s the best at the moment.” One of the earliest lessons Ferguson had learned was to be prejudiced toward action; you didn’t accomplish anything by hanging out and drinking coffee.
Well, you might, but only if that was part of the plan.
“I know some people around town,” Ferguson told them. “Maybe if nothing’s happening, I’ll head down to Beirut. It’s not as bad as you think. Really.”
“How friendly are these people to Americans?” asked Van Buren.
“To Americans, so-so. But I’m going as an Irishman.” Ferg winked. “Everyone loves Irishmen.”
“You have to talk to Alston about this, you know. She’s still worked up about the fact that you went to Cairo without briefing her. Even I heard about it.”
“I’ll take care of her.”
“She’s only trying to do her job.”
“Go make your phone call. I’ll deal with Alston,” Ferg told Van Buren. “But first I have to rustle up a milk truck.”
5
Rankin listened to the heavy crush of the Chinook’s propellers as the massive chopper approached from the east. The desert reverberated with the big bird’s distinctive sound, and though they’d scoured the area for insurgents with the UAV and even sent a pair of patrols toward the road, Rankin worried that a
He’d noticed that a lot lately. He didn’t fear for himself, but he worried about others getting hurt, almost like a father worried about his kids; or so he imagined. He personally had no experience of being a father, and his time with his own had been extremely limited, his parents divorcing when he was three.
