Angels of Wrath

“Part of the package.”

“Are there other guidance systems? I might be interested in buying a few.”

“What missile would you like them for?”

“How about a Scud?”

Birk made a face. “An inferior product. I would not sell you one.”

“The guidance system or the missile?”

“Either. The Scud is a piece of junk.”

Not, thought Ferguson, if it were guided by a GPS system, though admittedly this would take a bit of tinkering. “Who would you sell it to?”

“I have no Scuds. Today, I’m selling the Siren. Tomorrow, who knows? Are you a serious buyer?”

“I’ll talk to my superiors and see what we can do.”

“You have a superior?” Birk laughed. “I don’t believe it. Not even God would be your superior. As a show of good faith, one piece of interesting gossip,” added Birk. “First, a vodka.”

“Back to vodka?”

“One strays but always comes home. Drinking is like marriage.”

They shared a shot of an obscure Polish vodka that Birk claimed was the best alcohol in existence. To Ferguson it tasted one step removed from potato peelings — and a step in the wrong direction.

“Look for your friend Khazaal in a mosque,” said Birk.

“Which one?”

Birk shook his head. “You are supposed to be the spy. I cannot keep track of these mosques. They are all alike to me.”

Ferg got up, winking at Thera.

“Five hundred thousand, firm,” said Birk.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

11

DAMASCUS

THE NEXT MORNING…

Corrine tried twice more to get hold of Tischler without getting a response. When she told Ferguson about it, he didn’t seem surprised.

“His man may have already filled him in,” Ferguson told her.

“Wouldn’t it be polite to return my call? He doesn’t know what it’s about.”

“It would be smart to return your call, because he doesn’t know what you want, even if he thinks he does,” said Ferguson. “But Tischler doesn’t do polite. Think of it this way: he figures you’re going to tell him his man is a screwup.”

“How is he a screwup?”

“He should have skulked away without seeing you, taking the chance that you wouldn’t notice or might not remember, and knowing that even if you did, you’re supposed to be an ally and ought to know enough to keep your mouth shut. This way there was no chance that you wouldn’t notice him.”

“I thought Mossad people don’t screw up.”

“They’re human,” said Ferguson.

“If he’s not going to call me back, the hell with him.”

“I guess,” said Ferguson. He paused a moment, then changed the subject. “Listen, I need a million dollars.”

“What?”

“I can probably get the price down a bit, but it’s going to be in that neighborhood.”

“For what?”

Ferguson explained that he wanted to buy the Russian ship-to-ship missile Birk had for sale.

“I’ll have to talk to Washington,” she said doubtfully.

“They’re going to tell you it’s not in the budget,” said Ferguson. “The program to buy nuclear-capable cruise missiles ran out of funds eight months ago.”

“Well, then, why are you asking me?”

“Because it’s an opportunity to take a pretty potent missile off the market,” said Ferguson. “And because it’ll make my next request seem much more reasonable.”

“Which is?”

“First, let me ask you: are you still ruling out an air strike? Van says he can get some Stealth Fighters overhead in a half hour. Personally, I prefer B-52s.”

“Absolutely, positively not. No aggression on Syrian soil. Nothing like that. We’re trying to improve relations, not end them for all time.”

“All right. I’m going to need a hundred thousand dollars, greenbacks, in the next couple of days. I can’t finesse it with local counterfeit or Euros.”

“For what? Another missile?”

“No. I need some mortars and some other weapons, along with some Semtex, and I’m going to have to overpay to get them.”

“Mortars? You’re out of your mind.”

“That has nothing to do with it,” said Ferguson. “The sooner the better. I’ll make the arrangements myself if you tell Corrigan it’s cool.”

“It’s not cool.”

“Look, I need the money. Otherwise I’m going to have to rob a bank, and I don’t really have time.”

“You wouldn’t rob a bank.”

“I will if I have to.” Ferguson gave her a brief rundown of what he needed the money for. “I know it’s a rip- off, but beggars can’t be choosers, and I want to make it look at least plausible that a rival group hit them. With Fouad’s help, I’ll start spreading the rumor tonight that there’s another group coming to town. We’ll make some rentals, set up a paper trail. All we have to do is give the Syrians a few little tidbits so they can claim it wasn’t the U.S., and we’ll be all right.”

“The U.S. government cannot condone the operation of an international outlaw, much less make a deal with him. You can’t go and buy mortars, for cryin’ out loud.”

“Jeez, Madame Counselor, where have you been for the last century? Even Washington bought arms on the black market.”

“You are not George Washington.”

“You were just going to check on a cruise missile.”

“You said it could carry a nuke.” Corrine sighed. “Tell me you’re not going to kill Khazaal with these mortars.”

“Never mind. I’ll rob the bank.”

“Ferguson, don’t blackmail me.”

“Now there’s an approach I hadn’t thought of.”

“Are you going to kill him?”

“Not if I can help it. And not with the mortars.”

“Every cent better be accounted for. Every cent.”

“I’ll get the invoice in triplicate.”

“Be serious, Ferg. You can’t cause an international incident here. You cannot.”

“That’s why I need the money. Look, this is basically what we did to get Kiro in Chechnya.”

“That was in Chechnya. No one cares what happens there.”

“The Russians do.”

Corrine realized that he had her checkmated at every turn. Once again, she felt like a complete amateur and not, she had to admit, without reason. She thought that she had proven herself in the dirty-bomb operation. And