administrative office, shadowed by Monsoon. Since Fouad hadn’t seen any weapons detectors, or guards for that matter, they went in with pistols under their flowing Arab-style clothes, along with bugs similar to the one Fouad had been given. They milled around the outside of the building for a moment, as if looking for someone, then Guns went to the office and, in Chechnya-inflected Russian, explained that he had just come to the city and desired guidance on a good place to stay.
The man at the desk didn’t understand a single word he said.
Guns repeated it, nearly word for word. The man shook his head.
Guns now tried, haltingly, to say in Arabic where he was from and what he wanted. Ferguson had told him not to worry about his pronunciation, for the important thing was to make clear that he was from Russia, which he did by taking his passport from his pocket and using it as a prop. He then asked if the man spoke French; this won him another blank stare.
“Englishki?” said Guns. “Speak Eug lush?”
“English?” said the man.
“Rooms?” said Guns finally.
“We are not a hotel, my brother.”
“Where? A hotel?”
The man wrote down the address of a place in town. As he did, the phone on his desk rang. He frowned, then picked it up. After a few moments his eyes widened in alarm. He hit the receiver button, then tapped the keys, talking quickly when someone came on the other line.
“I am very sorry,” he said, rising and handing the paper with the hotel to Guns. “I have an emergency.”
Guns followed the man out of the building, toward the mosque, where a crowd had gathered. A siren wailed above the walls. People began to shout. Guns turned and saw an ambulance backing through the narrow passage into the courtyard. A man was carried from the mosque as the rear of the ambulance was opened and a stretcher brought out.
The man they laid on it was Fouad.
13
Even before they came near her, Corrine realized that the two men in the terminal were the agents Corrigan had sent to trail the Russian. That, she decided, was not good; if she could identify them with just a glance, wouldn’t he?
She went back to reading the paper she’d bought. One of her two embassy guards sat in the chair next to her; the other was a row away, watching. “Ms. Alston?” said one of the men, standing next to her. The man smiled down at her. With a white shirt and tie, he looked more like a detective than a spy.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Are you Ms. Alston? Do you have something for us?”
Corrine glanced sideways at the guard, one of the Delta men who had escaped from the club with her. He had a perplexed look on his face. Clearly he couldn’t believe it either.
Corrine glanced at her watch. The Russian’s plane was due in twenty minutes.
“Plans have changed,” she said. “Give me a phone number where I can reach you.”
I’m sorry, Ms. Alston, I didn’t quite catch that,” said Corrigan.
“I said, who the hell were those guys?”
“Egyptians. They’ve done some work for us before. All of our people are tied up chasing down security leads related to the president’s visit and—”
“You’re serious? Those were legitimate agents?”
“We’ve gotten information from them. The Agency has, not Special Demands. Ferg didn’t give me much time. We have to take what we can get sometimes.”
“No. We don’t. I’ll take care of trailing the Russian myself.”
“Uh, ma’am, do you think that’s a good idea?”
“He’s only being trailed to the airport, right? In Latakia?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“I think I can handle that.” She killed the connection as he continued to protest.
Corrine saw the Russian come off the plane, watching as he walked toward the boarding area for the flight to Latakia. The small aircraft, an Embraer EMB-120 Brasilia, held only thirty passengers, and Corrine had already reserved places for herself and the two Delta bodyguards. In order to be prepared in case Vassenka changed his mind at the last minute, the men were outside in rental cars, poised in different spots in the lot. Corrine’s job was to watch him inside and to plant the tracking device.
Not difficult work, she thought. All she had to do was follow along, get behind him in line, and slip the tiny bug onto his sweater. The exterior of the device looked like a burr, the sort of thing you might pick up walking through a field in the fall. Corrine had it perched between her fingers but worried that she would drop it on the carpet. She had no backup.
As the Russian reached the main hallway, he stopped to get his bearings. Corrine started to stop as well, then realized this was the perfect opportunity. She raised her hand slightly, bug ready, and walked into the Russian’s hack. Pretending to be startled, she jerked her hand back, glancing at the bug to make sure it was planted before twisting and falling down.
“Ow,” she said.
The Russian spun defensively, nearly tripping over her. He sputtered something in Russian that Corrine didn’t understand, though she assumed he wasn’t asking for a date.
“Excuse me. I’m sorry,” she said. She got to her feet unsteadily, dragging out her rise as if she were uncoordinated. “I didn’t see you there.”
He frowned at her, said something else in Russian, and then in English told her she was a clumsy oaf. Then he realized how pretty she was and extended his hand.
“Are you OK?” he asked.
“I’m fine, yes. Thank you. It was my fault.”
“You are an American,” he told her. “Funny you should be in Syria.”
“Syria is a lovely country.”
“Not for Americans.”
“I’m on business.”
The photo she had gotten from Corrigan made him look a little older than he was in real life. He wasn’t unattractive, though the thick scent of vodka on his breath was a turnoff.
So was the grip on her arm.
“I have some time,” he said.
“You’re going to let go of me now,” said Corrine.
He smiled in a way that convinced her he wasn’t going to. Corrine smiled back and then stomped her heel into his instep. As he started to jerk hack, she kicked again, this time zeroing the heel into the ankle of his other foot. She shrugged as he fell to the floor.
Several Arab men passing nearby came up to assist her, but it was unnecessary. She thanked them, calmly rearranged her scarf, and walked across the concourse, trying not to smirk.
Corrine waited until the Russian had gone to the gate to call her shadows outside. “I think just one of you should come in and fly with me,” she said. “I don’t trust him not to bolt or get off the plane.”
“You’re coming with us?” said one of the men.
