6
Sukna was a very small town, and it was clear as they approached that they were not going to get any information there, even it was to be had. A small patrol of Syrian soldiers met them outside of town and quizzed them. Fouad handled it somewhat nervously, and Thera worried that the man was going to make the mistake of offering the Syrians a bribe. Close to the border that might be expected, but here it would be regarded as an insult and perhaps worse.
Rankin pressed his elbow into the Iraqi’s side, hoping to shut him up. Fouad blubbered on, talking inanely about the swarm of bugs that followed the truck, worrying that they were attracted by the souring milk in the back. Finally even the guards grew tired of him and waved them past the checkpoint.
“Why did you tell them that the milk was sour?” said Thera, leaning across Rankin.
The Iraqi shrugged.
“Talk less,” said Rankin.
“I have been in this business longer than you have been alive,” answered Fouad, though it had been many years since he had traveled undercover. The weather didn’t help his mood, and the flies were atrocious. He thought to himself that he should have insisted on going to Tripoli, where at least he might have been able to find a pool to cool off in.
“This doesn’t look like a good place to stop,” said Thera as they came to a cluster of buildings that marked the start of the town center. Soldiers stood on both sides of the road.
Rankin agreed. They drove through slowly but saw no hint of what was going on. There was a second checkpoint at the northern outskirts; this time the soldiers wanted to check their truck. The interior had been dummied up against just such a possibility with a mixture of brackish water and milk. One of the soldiers made the mistake of tasting some of the liquid as it poured from the back and spit it into the sand; his companions laughed at him.
“Obviously a new recruit,” said Rankin as they drove away.
“You think Khazaal’s in the town and that’s why they’re here?” asked Thera.
“Nothing can be completely ruled out,” said Fouad. “But the Syrian government would not want to be seen actively cooperating with the resistance at this time. If anything, the soldiers would be looking for him and others. You see how our truck was searched? They were looking for a person, not merchandise. They probably heard the helicopters yesterday or rumors of the gunfights. That is why they are here.”
Rankin waited until they were a few miles out of town, then used the sat phone to call Corrigan and tell him about the Syrians. “They didn’t look like a search party exactly,” he told him. “But I don’t know. Better tell Guns and the rest of them to be careful tonight.”
They made decent time on the highway, stopping once for diesel. Thera found herself nodding off as they continued north, fatigue and the heat lulling her to sleep. Green appeared on the horizon; the wind suddenly felt humid. Then she drifted, sliding somewhere near Houston, where she’d grown up.
Rankin let Thera’s weight shift against him. She had a compact body, not quite buxom enough on top to be a knockout but trim under the loose Arab clothes she wore. Her nose had the slightest hook to it, the sort of blemish that made a woman seem ugly at first but kept your eyes returning to her face until you realized that she was actually very beautiful. A curly strand of hair fell over her ear, drawing a line between the two post earrings.
He reached over and moved her against the side of the truck, not wanting his gun obstructed. He had a small Glock in his pants pocket; his Uzi was strapped beneath the dashboard.
“The woman is sleeping?” asked Fouad.
“Yeah.”
“Women can always sleep.”
“I guess.”
“I have not been to Deir Ex Zur in many years.”
“Makes two of us,” said Rankin, though in fact he had never been there.
“It is the most likely place in the area that he would come,” continued Fouad. “Everyone goes through it, and you can buy many things.”
“Yeah. You’re probably right.”
Deir Ex Zur sat on an important trade route that dated well into prehistory. During the French domination of Syria, it had been an important French outpost, albeit a small one. Like so many other places in the Middle East, the discovery of oil here had changed the city’s fortunes dramatically. It was now a relatively large city, by far the biggest in eastern Syria, with Western-style hotels and a smattering of Europeans on the streets. The Euphrates sat on the northern side of the city, less a boundary than a wide, rich vein of green and blue — and a gathering place for the squadrons of swarming bugs. They made their way to 8th Azar Street, one of the main thoroughfares. Rankin woke Thera when they found a lot to park in. They were a few blocks from the microbus station, which itself was several from the river and the heart of town.
“Time to go to work,” he told her.
The area around the river had changed considerably since the last time Fouad had been here. While it had always had its share of tourist traps catering to Western visitors as well as Arabs, they had multiplied tenfold in the last two years. The forest of English signs crowding out Arabic pained Fouad as well as disoriented him.
Their first stop was a cafe frequented by Iraqi exiles on the south side of the river.
“It looks exactly as it did when I first saw it twenty years ago,” said Fouad, surprised as well as relieved. “Wait for me.”
“You sure you’re all right?” asked Rankin.
Fouad, annoyed, put up his hand but said nothing.
When he had been gone five minutes, Rankin told Thera to come along.
“I thought you told him we’d stay out here.”
“I don’t trust him.”
“Ferg does.”
“I ain’t Ferg.”
Thera followed him inside. The influence of tourism had loosened local customs to the point that women were a sizable minority inside the cafe. If anything, Thera’s rust-colored
They ordered tea, Thera doing the talking. She had a pistol strapped to the inside of each thigh as well as her left ankle; on her right were three small pin grenades, miniature flash-bangs that could be used to divert attention if she needed to escape. A knife, spare ammo, and two more pin grenades, these with smoke, were strapped below her breasts. The weapons felt uncomfortable under the long dress, but it was something she’d have to get used to.
“Didn’t even talk to anyone,” grumbled Rankin as Fouad got up to leave.
They met Fouad outside after she finished her tea.
“We have to find a taxi,” the Iraqi told them. “I have an address.”
7
Ferguson had found that, as a general rule in life, it was best to simply show up at the place where you wished to be. Less questions were asked, more things assumed, if one simply walked out from the crowd. And so it was that Bob Ferguson made his appearance in Tripoli, striding out of the surf at the Palace, a recently built luxury
