“No, not necessarily,” said Fouad.
“We being followed?” Rankin asked.
“I don’t think so, but maybe they have a nightscope in one of the buildings or someone watching us from up there,” said Thera.
“They wouldn’t bother,” said Fouad. “We’re not worth it. We’re small beans.”
“Potatoes,” said Rankin.
“Whatever we are, we aren’t important enough for them to follow. They don’t have that many people.”
“You don’t think the meeting is a trap?” said Thera.
“A trap it may be. Or not.” Fouad wasn’t sure. He wanted to know what they were shipping, and the only way to find out would be to show up. “There is a Kurd in this city who might be of help,” said Fouad. “If we can find him before nine, then we need not keep the appointment.”
“We’re not going to keep it, not all of us,” said Rankin. “You go. Thera and I will take the bikes and trail you.”
“A reasonable plan,” said Fouad.
They didn’t find the Kurd, and so Fouad drove the truck down Ben Whalid at exactly nine p.m. The street ran through the downtown area, and as he approached each intersection Fouad slowed, expecting to be signaled. But there were no men, no signs, no signals. He reached the western end of the street; unsure whether to go left or right, he turned right toward the river. As he did, something thumped against the left side of the truck. He turned to see what it was. In that brief moment Oda leapt from a hiding place between two cars along the road, hopped onto the running board of the passenger side, and opened the door. It happened so quickly that Fouad did not have time to feel fear.
“I thought I had gotten something wrong,” said Fouad.
“Nothing wrong,” said Oda, pulling himself inside the truck. “Drive on.”
Fouad wondered what would have happened if he had gone the other way, but the answer soon occurred to him: there was another man posted along the other street; they would have simply changed places. The other man would now be trailing, probably wondering where his companions were.
You see him?” asked Rankin. He was riding on the motorcycle a few hundred yards behind the milk truck.
“Not yet,” answered Thera. She’d gone ahead, turning down a side street, and was now doubling back.
“All right. Looks like we’re heading up along the river.”
“That’s not the river. The tributary.”
“Whatever.”
“I see him now. He’s got a guy in the cab with him.”
Thera passed the tanker, saw the car that Rankin said was trailing it, then passed Rankin. She rode a little farther then turned around. She’d changed from her long dress and put on coveralls and a helmet so she looked like a man, albeit a highly suspicious one.
“Turning,” said Rankin. “Going toward the river or tributary or whatever that is. Stopping.”
He killed the bike’s motor, coasting off the road near a thicket of grass and brush. The truck and car had stopped about thirty yards ahead. He let the bike down as quietly as he could, then slid the Uzi from his backpack, extended the stock, and walked in the direction of the truck.
Fouad was still in the cab.
“So where is my cargo?” he asked Oda.
“Where are the others?”
“They wanted to get dinner. And other things. You know how it is when you are young,” he said.
Oda wasn’t much for innuendo and responded by taking out his pistol. “Where are the others?”
It had been a long time since anyone had pointed a gun at Fouad’s chest, and the first thing that he thought of was: I do not want to die for the Americans.
“I’m not sure of the restaurant,” he told Oda. “Why do we need them?”
“You are cheating them?”
“No,” said Fouad. “I am an honest man.”
“For a criminal.”
“I merely make a living. If I am cheating the regime, who is the loser? The Americans who want our oil and manhood? If that is who I am hurting, you should congratulate me as a patriot.”
Fouad wanted to sound brave but even to his ears the note was too forced, too off-key to impress. Oda lifted his gun.
“Where are they?” he asked again.
“We can look for them, I suppose.”
“Out of the truck.”
“The cargo?”
“You are a genuine fool.”
“I am getting out of the truck,” said Fouad. As he reached for the door, he made a judgment. There was a gun tucked against the seat within easy reach, but he calculated that he could not swing it up and around before Oda could blow his brains out. And so he left it there, and started to pull open the door — which was promptly yanked from his grip. A pair of hands grabbed him, and he felt himself flying down from the truck.
As he landed, something flashed above him and the world reverberated with the sharp, loud crack of a grenade exploding.
11
Corrine’s plane was met by a staffer from the U.S. embassy, who arrived with four marines as bodyguards and a separate police detail. Two members of the Lebanese government’s trade committee also turned up, having heard that the Commerce Department fact finder was especially interested in how agricultural trade might be facilitated.
The trade issue was particularly difficult for President McCarthy; oranges were Lebanon’s major exportable crop, and he had narrowly carried Florida in the recent election. But the issue gave her more than ample reason to tour the country and to get over to Tripoli. The men were invited to come with her on the ride to the embassy to make their case.
Corrine nodded several times and even managed to praise the quality of the country’s fruit, mentioning that she hoped to further acquaint herself with different exportable items in preparation for a full report to the commerce secretary “at the most opportune time.” The men interpreted this as a positive sign, immediately offering to assist her. Corrine lamented that her schedule was not her own but that official help would be welcome.
Considerable dancing and a feint or two later led her to say that she planned to see the Mediterranean coast, mentioning that she was interested in tourism and the potential impact of the industry on “full” trade and relations. The men, of course, praised her decision and began working on an itinerary by cell phone. Corrine had a full slate of tours for the next day and a half by the time they reached the embassy.
Inside, she used the secure communications center to call Lauren, who was on duty in the Cube. “Where is Ferguson?”
“Tripoli, as far as I know. He should be checking in any second. Should I have him call you at the embassy?”
“No. I’ll be in Tripoli in the morning,” she said. “Tell Mr. Ferguson to find me.”
“What?”
“I’ll be at the Medici. Tell him if he doesn’t find me, I’ll find him. I assume he’ll find it much more expedient if he picks the time and place, but I am quite prepared to take matters into my own hands.”
