“The only thing the Iraqis can sell are weapons. And most of those are toys that stopped working long ago. Why do you waste your time, Ferguson?”
“Is he hiding over at Oil City?”
“Bah. The Iraqis there all work for the government now. They are fat and lazy; why would they have him in their midst?”
“You tell me.”
“Bah. You have CIA agents in Iraq,” Romanski told Ferguson, refilling his coffee cup. “What do they say?”
“They ask who Khazaal is.”
“I would not be surprised. What do the Israelis say?”
“They say he’s going to Syria.”
“Then look there. Mossad is very good.”
“Big country.”
“There are only a few places to look.”
“How about you ask the Syrians for me?”
“A favor? You have the nerve to ask for a favor?”
“I have nothing but nerve.”
Romanski gave him a crooked smile. “Why are they meeting?”
“Not sure.”
“The Iraqis sell weapons and beg for money. For either of those things I would go to Latakia.”
Romanski took another sip of his coffee. Before Ferguson could decide whether that was an educated or uneducated guess, the phone at Romanski’s belt began to ring.
“Do you mind if I answer that?” asked the Russian.
“I wish you would.”
He took it out and held it up. His face flushed. “You set a trap for me?” he thundered at Ferguson.
“Let’s not do anything rash.” Ferg gestured with his pistol toward Kel and the grenade. “I didn’t set a trap. What’s going on?”
“Armed men coming upstairs. Americans.”
Great timing, Ferguson thought to himself.
“It’s just my boss. She’s here to chew me out.” Ferguson got up and walked to the terrace. They were on the third floor; jumping down would not have been a problem except for Romanski.
“I have a rope,” said Ferguson. “I’ll get you out.”
“This is a trap.”
“Aw, come on Romanski. Why would I bother?”
Ferguson got the rope from his bag and tied it to one of the bed legs.
“You, down,” Romanski said to one of his men. “See if the way is clear. Give me your gun first.”
He took the Steyr AUG/HBAR. The bodyguard hung off the terrace, then dropped down.
“How many of your men are outside?” Ferguson asked.
The Russian scowled. “I can handle the situation, thank you.”
“I thought you had all the police in town bribed.”
“You owe me, Ferguson. I will get a repayment.”
“I’ll double it for real information about Khazaal.”
Romanski slung the gun over his shoulder and climbed out the window. He got down to about the middle of the first floor, then let go, rolling on the ground. His last bodyguard bolted over the terrace and paid for his haste with a sprained ankle.
Ferguson went to Kel and took the grenade. It was wet with her sweat. He let the spring trigger snap open, setting the grenade to fire. He held it for a moment, then dropped it out the window, where it began spewing smoke.
“Don’t think I didn’t trust you with a real grenade,” he told Kel when she stopped screaming. “It was all I had handy.”
Someone pounded on the door before he could answer. A voice claiming to be the police told them to open up.
“Just a second,” said Ferguson in English. He took the large Glock and dropped it out the window into the billowing smoke.
“Aress, open the door, would you?”
Before she could reach the knob, the police broke it down.
16
Rankin, Thera, and Fouad stopped outside of Mansura a few hours before dawn and slept in a field until nearly noon. Several hours of rummaging in town turned up no trace of Khazaal. All of Fouad’s old contacts were gone, and Thera had trouble with the accents in the small restaurant when they bought lunch. Their bikes stood out, but Rankin didn’t want to leave them outside of town. Parking them in a lot near a bank didn’t help much. He had his Uzi stuffed into his pack on his back, but the pack probably made them look almost as suspicious as the gun would. Rankin felt uncomfortably out of his element, exposed and obvious. This was the sort of situation that Ferguson made look easy, the sort of place where a glib bullshit artist could parlay some vague lie into a plan of attack, wheedling information out of stones. But Rankin wasn’t a bullshitter. Never had been, never would be.
You had to be, maybe.
“Best thing is to go down the road a bit,” he whispered to Fouad when he noticed the stares as they walked through the old part of town. The Iraqi agreed. They went back to their bikes and got onto the highway, riding until they found a turnoff with a view of the river. It was postcard perfect. Thera oohed, and even Fouad was impressed. Rankin stared at the blue shimmer.
“Let’s see if we can turn up anything at the airport,” he said finally.
Fouad nodded.
“They’re probably not going to tell us anything,” said Thera.
“Then we’ll just have to figure out a way to bullshit them into it,” Rankin said, walking back to the bike.
17
The police were incredibly understanding, thanks partly to a suggestion to the sergeant in charge that a processing fee for the incredible amount of paperwork sure to be involved would probably be most appropriate if paid in advance. Kel’s timely rearrangement of the bedclothes didn’t hurt either. Aress swore she had seen one of the men going into a room down the hall; the police mustered after the fresh lead.
Corrine was not so easily dealt with. She and two of her guards appeared in the hallway, glancing through the open doorway as the police finished their interrogation. She gave Ferguson an evil glare.
“You look Irish,” he said loudly, giving his English a Dublin twist. “Tourist?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Corrine.
“Oh, excuse me,” he said, as if realizing he was wearing only his shirt and shorts. (He’d scooped off his pants and shoes under the cover of the blanket as the policemen entered.) “Can I buy you a drink?”
“I hardly think so.”
“In the bar. Right now. Come on. Soon as I get m’pants.”
“Thank you, no.”
“You have a big appetite,” he said, gesturing toward the men.
