resort that featured the self-proclaimed biggest and best sand beach in all Lebanon — not much of a boast in a country not known for sandy beaches but a slogan nonetheless.
Ferguson wiped the seawater from his eyes and looked around, peering left and right as if looking for friends amid the throng. He scanned up and down for a few moments, getting a feel for the crowd. Though it was past high season, there was a good number of people here. Finally he found what he was looking for: an unattended towel. As he scooped it up, a hotel employee approached. Ferguson smiled and, before it was possible for the man to say anything, asked if he could possibly have a martini. The man was flustered; Ferg repeated the question in French. He was a little rusty and the grammar came out wrong, but the employee was hardly in a position to correct it. The man asked him in Arabic if he was with the Ugari party. Unsure what the right answer would be, Ferguson replied in French that he wasn’t sure what time it was, as he had left his watch upstairs. After two more tries the man turned around and headed back toward the building.
Wrapping the large towel around his shoulders as a gesture to modesty, Ferguson set out in the direction of the catamaran concession, where ten slightly damp one-hundred Euro notes procured him the last boat on the dock, a craft that had been promised to a man who’d gone to gather his family just a moment before. Ferg hopped aboard as the man returned, running up his sail and pulling away as the concessionaire explained over the man’s loud protests that there had been a mistake.
Steering northward, Ferguson passed a second beach — from the water it looked just as big as the first one, but he wasn’t checking slogans for authenticity- and then a stretch of jagged rocks. Sail furled and anchor set in the shallow rocks, he slipped into the water, diving down and retrieving the pair of plastic torpedoes he had tied to one of the rocks below. Back in the boat, he opened one of the containers and slipped on a shirt and a pair of cargo hiking shorts. Then he took one of the small Glocks from the torpedo and stuffed it into his belt line, letting his shirt cover it. He took three magazines of 9mm bullets and put them into one of his pockets; a pair of pin grenades went into his other. The weapons, which looked more like oversized fancy metal pens than pins (or grenades for that matter), were downsized flash-bangs, useful for diversions and skipping out on bar bills. He debated taking out another gun but decided against it. Carrying one could always be defended as a matter of personal protection, but two bordered on ostentation. Ferguson got out his Irish passport and put it into his shirt pocket, along with a ticket stub indicating that he had arrived two days before in Damascus from Germany.
From the second torpedo-shaped container, Ferguson daubed a layer of cold cream to his nose and cheek, old-fashioned protection against sunburn. Wraparound sun glasses in place, he donned a pair of rubber gloves and applied a thick layer of gel to his hair.
The wind began to kick up, and by the time Ferguson was ready to go back onshore he had floated several hundred yards northward. That was fine with him; he didn’t want to go back to the hotel beach in case the waiter brought back more than a martini. He went where the wind took him, sailing until he found a familiar-looking dock jutting from one of the vacation villages that dotted the area. Tying the torpedoes together, he slung them over his shoulders and sauntered onto the dock, wandering up the pebbled path and around to the road.
The way, unfortunately, was barred by a security guard. The man demanded in Arabic to know who Ferguson was. Ferguson answered in Arabic that he was a guest of Muhammad Lassi, whom he was just going up to see.
Lassi was, in fact, a resident here, a fact Ferguson knew because he had visited Lassi the year before. Unfortunately, the guard had seen Mr. Lassi not too long ago: a week ago, in fact, at his funeral. He informed Ferguson of this as he pulled out his pistol.
8
Corrine spent a good portion of the morning meeting with the American ambassador, who wanted to talk about some of the nuances of the president’s upcoming trip. As part of her cover — she was supposedly working for the Commerce Department on a special assignment — she met with Israeli officials to discuss a proposed protocol for loan paybacks. In between she got an update on the Khazaal situation to the effect that there was no update. Ferguson had managed to call while she was in one of the meetings, leaving only a message that they should “catch up” when she got a chance. It was his only acknowledgment of her request that he meet her here.
Corrine had lunch with the Commerce Department negotiator, a pleasant enough middle-aged woman who missed her five- and six-year-old children dearly and spent the entire lunch talking about them. As they waited for the coffee to arrive, Corrine excused herself and went to call Corrigan and try Ferguson again. One of the Delta bodyguards assigned to her by the embassy followed her to the restroom.
“You’re not coming in with me,” she said to him.
The man looked embarrassed. “No, ma’am.”
Corrine felt compelled to tell him she was joking, but he didn’t noticeably relax. The restroom was a coed affair and not terribly clean, but it did have a lock on the door. She scanned the room and turned on the white noise box, then pulled out the sat phone. Corrigan was off-duty; Lauren Di Capri, his relief, told her there was nothing new.
“All right. Can you connect me to Ferguson?”
“He’s off the air right now. His phone’s off. When he checks in—”
“Where is he?”
“On his way to Lebanon. He should be there now.”
“Why?”
“He had a hunch on where Khazaal might be going.”
“Why the hell didn’t he check in with me first?”
Lauren didn’t answer.
“You tell him to call me. No excuses.”
“All right.”
Corrine slapped the phone off. Was it a coincidence that he had called when she was unavailable? The people at the Cube had access to her schedule. It wouldn’t take much to weasel out the best — or, rather, worst — time to call her.
The incident in Cairo had been explained away by the Egyptian police, largely because they were grateful that an enemy of the regime had been taken care of. But an incident in Lebanon would be something else again.
And, really, who did he think he was, blowing her off? She’d sent word for him to meet her in Tel Aviv; he hadn’t even acknowledged her.
Corrine had to straighten this out. She could give him some leeway — she’d given him plenty already — but major operations were supposed to be approved by her first. Especially now, with the president due in the region next week.
Ferguson was a walking time bomb: he was exactly what the president had appointed her to head off. She had to confront him directly. Waiting for him to call her wasn’t going to work.
9
“I didn’t realize you knew Lassi,” Ferguson told the guard holding the pistol on him. If ever there was a situation where the truth was called for, Ferg reasoned, this was it. “He was an uncle to us all,” continued Ferguson in Arabic. “Of course, now that his cousin owns the apartment, that is whom I am staying with.”
“Where is your identification?” demanded the man. He held the pistol in one hand and used his other to reach for the radio.
“Right here,” said Ferg. He took the Irish passport from his pocket, tapped it on his nose, and then swiped it
