Angels of Wrath

she had — with everyone but the most important person, Ferguson. She was never going to win him over. In his eyes, she was always going to be the outsider, the “suit” he had to work around to get his job done. Which was baloney.

“You live dangerously, Bob. I respect that. And I appreciate the fact that you saved my life. But if you go too far here, I’m not going to be there to reel you in.”

“He who lives by the sword, right?”

She could just about see his smirk in front of her.

“I need you to do one more thing for me,” he added. “It’s a little dangerous, so I’ll understand—”

“What?” she snapped, angry that he was manipulating her so transparently.

“There’s a Russian coming into Damascus in a few hours. I was going to send Guns and one of the rentals I picked up from you down there, but I have him working another angle. If you could help out—”

“What do you need?”

“I’m going to use two people who are agents of ours in town, but I don’t want to give them more information than necessary, especially ahead of time,” said Ferguson. “All you have to do is point out who they have to follow, put them on the plane, and that’s that.”

“What if he doesn’t take the plane?”

“Same deal. They should be able to handle it. I’ll have a photo sent to the embassy.”

“All right.”

“One other thing.”

“Yes?”

“He’d be easier to follow if he had a tracking device. One’s being delivered to you personally in half an hour. You twist it to turn it on. Tell them not to twist it until they’re ready to leave it. The battery’s pretty limited. It’s a tiny little bug, smaller than your fingernail. Well, smaller than my fingernail.”

“I have small fingernails.”

“There’s nobody in the airport I trust to get it on his baggage behind the scenes, so it has to go on him.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Not you, them.”

“How are they supposed to do it?”

“They’ll figure it out. I don’t need to know operational details.”

“Very funny.”

“You sure you can do it? If not, I can get someone from the embassy. I just don’t trust the people there.”

Was this some sort of test, she wondered.

“I can handle it,” Corrine told him. “Look, I appreciate the fact that you saved my life.”

“Yeah, well, don’t rub it in. We all do things we regret.”

“You can’t turn it off, can you?”

“Would you respect me if I could?”

She killed the connection before he could hear her laugh.

12

LATAKIA

The operation Ferguson had sent Guns on was a long-shot play, one of those stabs in the dark that you made every so often in hopes of winning big time.

The mosque Thomas had linked to Khazaal was Al-Norui Khad in the southwestern corner of the city. Fouad’s brief foray into gossip made it seem possible; the mosque’s resident imam, or teacher, was considered one of the more strident in town, though whether that translated into support for the Iraq resistance was a fair question.

One way to answer that question, Ferguson thought, was to send in a visitor who spoke Russian and could be mistaken for Vassenka.

“It’s either you or me,” he told Guns. “Your accent’s probably better, and my face has been in town before.”

“I’ll do it.”

“We’ll send Fouad in with you. And Monsoon,” added Ferguson. “Because Monsoon’s Arabic is good, right?”

Monsoon ripped off a passage from the Koran.

“All right then,” said Ferguson, echoing his lines. “Blessed be to all of us, peace to the good people of the Book.”

Like many mosques, Al-Norui Khad was actually a collection of buildings interconnected and related, all gathered around an old wall. Though not a very large mosque, even for Latakia, Al-Norui Khad had a good-sized minaret, the tower traditionally used to call believers to prayer. A small dome sat over the sanctuary at the western end of the complex, and there were three other fair-sized buildings that extended inward from the walls. An old inlet from the sea extended in a lagoon along the southern wall. There was only one entrance from the street, which made it easy to watch the mosque. Rankin planted a pair of video cameras in lampposts on either side of the block.

Fouad rambled in first, unarmed but with a bug so they could hear any advice he gave. An elaborate mosaic with blue, yellow, and white stones marked the pathway through the gate and opened into a bricked space beyond the wall. A pair of two-story yellow stone buildings sat on either side of the entrance, looking as if they had grown out from the wall. One was being used as a school, infirmary, and social center; the other, much more dilapidated, seemed not to have been used for some time. Fouad kept up a running commentary, as though he were a crazy man talking to himself as well as others. There were a dozen or so men on the grounds, some on their way to pray and others on errands related to the school or other concerns. A man watched over a book stall; another handed pamphlets out to visitors. Fouad found an administrator’s office and mumbled the route as he retraced his steps. This was where Guns should go and mention that he had recently come from Chechnya and was looking for a place to stay.

The mosque itself sat just beyond the school building. Like several other holy sites in the Middle East, its stones had been converted to Islamic use from an earlier faith, in this case a small church built by Christians sometime around a.d. 600 or 700, which itself was erected over the site of a temple used by Zoroastrinns. The Muslim alterations had enlarged the basic footprint and raised the walls as well as added the dome. Had it not been for a plaque declaring that the building had once belonged to Christians, only an expert would have known. The qibla wall oriented the faithful toward Mecca when they prayed; the space around the courtyard or sahn was dominated by thick pillars that held the roof.

Fouad left his shoes and joined the others purifying themselves at the fountain before going to pray.

“God is greater,” prayed Fouad. “All praise be to Allah…”

He had learned the words as a child, but at many times in his life they came to him fresh, their meaning revealed again. Today was one of those times: as the prayers proceeded, so did his understanding. The words from the al-Talbiyah (“Compliance”) were like ringing truth: “Here I am, God, at your command. Here I am!”

What did God require of him? The men he was here to find invoked God. Was it the same God? How could they be so badly mistaken?

But they were mistaken. The Prophet (peace be unto Him) had preached only necessary war, had forbidden the killing of innocents, had offered peace to those who would live in peace with the faithful.

Sadness overcame Fouad, as if he were responsible for the others’ sins and mistakes in addition to his own.

“Glory to my Lord,” he said, flattening himself prostrate on the stones. “Glory to my Lord, Most High.”

* * *

Guns timed his arrival so that he came through the gates just after prayers. He headed toward the