a separate satellite circuit. He closed the case and switched the radio to the team frequency. “Our guys are leaving,” he said. “Guns? You ready to dance?”
“Always.”
“Coming out,” said Corrigan. “Truck one is going north. Truck two… south.”
“They split up,” Rankin told the others as he put the laptop into his pack. “Guns, they should be past you in about sixty seconds. We’re just following,” he added. “Keep far back. And remember that’s a Ford you’re driving, not an M1A1.”
8
Birk’s most serious competitor in Latakia was a Syrian who had grown up in Germany and went by the name of Ras. He tended to lie more than Birk but had better connections with the Syrian police. Unfortunately, a good deal of what they told Ras were lies.
Ras generally spent early evenings in the Agamemnon, a small, plush hotel on the Blue Coast north of Latakia. He owned a table in a room they called the Barroom, a lavish, nineteenth-century dining room with crystal chandeliers and tuxedoed waiters. Ras usually had a ship captain or two at his side; a good deal of his arms were sold to foreign concerns and traveled through Latakia’s port. But this evening he was sipping a vodka martini alone. He frowned when he saw Ferguson but brightened considerably when he realized Thera was with him.
“Mr. IRA,” Ras said to Ferguson in German-accented English as he approached the table. “Your wife?”
“I wish,” said Ferguson. He pulled out the chair for Thera. Unlike Birk, Ras believed the cover story Ferguson had used on his last visit.
“A most beautiful woman,” said Ras, standing and taking her hand to kiss it.
Thera played along as Ferguson had coached her, saying nothing and sitting down; the strong, silent type intrigued Ras and left him howling for more.
“Perrier,” Ferguson told the waiter.
“Is that all?” said Ras.
“With a twist. Thanks.”
“I will have a bourbon on the rocks,” said Thera. She wore a flowered two-piece skirt set whose silk was too tight for her to hide more than one small pistol on her inner thigh.
Ras’s face lit up as he pushed his drink aside. “The same for me. Good bourbon. American. Your best.”
The waiter bowed and went off.
“I hear you had some excitement in town the last time you were here,” Ras told Ferguson, even as he stared at Thera.
“Every day is an adventure.”
“I had nothing to do with it.”
“Guilty conscience?” Ferguson leaned back in the chair, observing the rest of the room. Besides the Syrian intelligence agents on semipermanent assignment here, he thought he recognized someone from the French military intelligence agency and a Czech who sold information to the Russians.
“If I had wanted to kill you, I assure you I would not have missed,” said Ras.
“Everybody tells me that.”
Their drinks arrived. Ras made sure to clink glasses with Thera, who took the tiniest possible sip.
“So who was gunning for me?” Ferguson asked.
“You have many enemies here. Many.”
Thera watched as the two men boxed around a bit, Ferguson letting Ras steal long glances at her before prodding the conversation along. When he finally got around to why they had come, it seemed like an afterthought, catching up on gossip: he’d heard the Russian Vassenka was in town.
“Vassenka?” Ras’s face momentarily blanched. “An idiot. I hope not.”
“Doesn’t like you much, does he?” said Ferguson, going with the reaction.
“An idiot.”
“Well, you should have paid him,” said Ferguson.
Thera thought it was a guess, but it was a masterful one. Ras shook his head and held up his glass for another drink.
Ferguson now moved in for the kill, still subtle but more aggressive. Given that Ras believed his old cover story, it was natural that he was interested in Vassenka as a competitor. But even before Ras’s refill arrived, he could tell that the Syrian had no useful information. He lingered a bit, finishing his seltzer before rising to go.
“Leaving so soon?” asked Ras.
“At some point, perhaps we will be interested in rifles,” said Ferguson. “A few days.”
“I can offer so much more,” said Ras, looking at Thera.
Ferguson took her arm proprietarily.
“Didn’t get much from that,” said Thera as they made their way to Buenos, another casino nearby.
“Sure I did.”
“Like?”
“Vassenka’s not here yet, and no one around town has been talking him up. Ras doesn’t know about the meeting, probably because the Syrians haven’t told him. He’ll tell the Syrians about Vassenka, and they’ll be looking for him. If they find him, they’ll tell Ras, and Ras will tell me. If I need him to. That enough for you?”
“It’s OK.”
“You get all the credit,” added Ferguson. “Dress looks good. I’m starting to get a little sweet on you myself.”
She laughed, thinking he was joking.
9
The first truck made a U-turn soon after heading onto the highway, which left both trucks going south in the same direction, separated by about a half mile. Alerted by Corrigan, Rankin delayed leaving his hiding place, guessing that the idea had been to catch anyone following the second SUV. It was absolutely the right move, but it would make it more difficult to track them closely if they split up later on.
Both the U-2 and the Global Hawk that alternated with it used an integrated sensor suite built by Raytheon for surveillance work. The sensor set had an active electronically scanned array (AESA) that allowed moving targets to be identified and tracked at long range. The multihyperspectral electro-optic infrared sensors (in layman’s terms, a very good digital camera that could see in the dark) transmitted a stream of images to the satellite unit and from there back to the Cube and the team’s laptop. More refined though similar to the units that had been used for battlefield and bombing assessment during the 2003 Iraq War, the system provided a commanding view of what was going on in the city. But no matter how advanced, technology had its limits, as became apparent when the trucks pulled into a lot containing similar vehicles just outside the city.
A car lot, where the vehicles had been borrowed or stolen from hours before.
“There’s a bus coming,” said Corrigan.
Rankin cursed and stepped on the gas, but by the time he got close enough to see the bus the men were aboard and it was moving.
“We’ll tag along, see if they get off together,” said Rankin, though he knew it was hopeless. “Best we can do.”
