“Corrigan says the Riviera’s a tourist hotel, high class,” added Guns. “You think he’s there?”
“Maybe they’re giving him the corporate terrorist rate.”
“What about that hotel the guy at the desk suggested? You want me to check in?”
“No, that may he too dangerous,” Ferguson told him. “We’ll get some video bugs in the lobby and tap the phones and see what shakes down. Where’s our Russian missile expert?”
“Plane should be leaving from Damascus in about ten minutes. Corrigan’s still tracking it.”
“Once you get confirmation that he’s on the flight, take Monsoon and get over to the airport so you can track him. Be careful with this guy; he’s been around the block a few times and he served in Chechnya.”
“Will do.”
“One other thing: there should be an e-mail coming to one of my addresses in a few minutes. I want you to forward it to Corrine’s e-mail address. To do that you’re going to have to open it and cut and paste, because the address I’m using is good for one shot only. Ready? There’s a lot of numbers in this.”
Guns took the address down. “Will she know what it’s about?”
“No. I’ll have to tell her. I’m trying to figure something out, and I want to make sure I’m looking at the right person. All right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“My butt or your butt?”
“I don’t know how to forward e-mail.”
“You kidding?”
“No, this system—”
“All right. Have Rankin do it.”
“Thanks, Ferg.”
“Watch what he does, OK? It’s rocket science.”
The Riviera was a chic hotel catering largely to very well-off Europeans and Arabs. Located in the center of the city on 14 Ramadan Street (the number being part of the street name, not the address of the building), it had an extensive staff, including a private security force, one of whose members frowned at Ferguson’s scrub pants as he sauntered into the lobby, checking his watch and taking a seat as if waiting for a friend. A casual glance showed there was little possibility of getting beyond the lobby to the elevators without elaborate preparation; the way was guarded by two men wearing bulky sweaters over bulletproof vests.
Nor was Ferguson given much of a chance to assess the situation. Within sixty seconds of his sitting down, a squat clerk with a twitchy moustache came toward him to ask what he was doing.
Ferguson jumped up and took his hand in greeting, pumping vigorously.
“Dr. Muhammad,” he said in English, throwing an Irish lilt to it. “I am looking for Dr. Muhammad, who is going to the conference at the hospital. He is an old friend from Cairo I studied with many years before. I could not believe my good luck at finding him registered for the conference.”
The man replied — in Arabic and English — that the esteemed doctor was unknown to him as a guest in the hotel.
“No?” Ferguson scratched his chin. “Could you look? Muhammad.”
“That is a very common name. Like Smith in your country. But I assure you, he is not staying here. Our guests are all well known to us.”
“Smith isn’t common in Ireland,” said Ferguson, trying to establish himself as Irish, not American. “I come from the south and Smith would be British — English. English, you know?”
The man didn’t know, but finally went to the computer under the weight of Ferguson’s spiel. Ferg’s attempt to catch another guest’s name failed; the computer screen was small and turned from his view.
They had no Dr. Muhammad, and in fact no doctor at all. The clerk named several rivals. As Ferguson lingered, one of the men with the bulky sweaters came over and grabbed his arm. Ferg only just managed to stay in character, yelping but not pulling the man over his shoulder.
A good move, as it turned out, for the man was simply clearing the way for a phalanx of bodyguards who swept through the lobby. Ferguson stared at the men, who were all dressed in light brown fatigues, expecting to see Nisieen Khazaal in the middle of the group.
Instead, he saw a face he recognized not from this mission but from another a year and a half before: Meles Abaa, a Palestinian wanted for murdering ten Americans and two Israelis in an attack on a tourist bus in Ethiopia, and even more in another attack on an airliner headed to Rome from Israel three months ago.
The latter attack had taken place after Ferguson’s team, faced with a decision about whether to go after him or pursue their primary objective, had decided to bypass a chance to get Meles and concentrate on their objective, which was recovering several ounces of enriched uranium. Ferguson hadn’t made the decision — he wasn’t in charge of the mission, which took place before Special Demands existed — but he had agreed with it. Meles wasn’t on the “get” list at the time, and they needed approval to try and capture him, let alone assassinate him, which his presence on the list now entitled Ferguson to do.
The security man let go of Ferguson and walked hack to his post without an apology or even a glance toward him. Ferguson straightened his coat, said thank you to the man who had helped him, and went quickly outside. But Meles was gone.
Ferg took a turn around the block, sizing up the area and finding the telephone line into the hotel so they could set up a bugging operation once it got dark. The line came into the second floor, which was inconvenient. He was just deciding how inconvenient when his sat phone vibrated in his pocket.
“Ferguson,” he said, leaning against the wall to talk.
“Ms. Alston should be landing at the airport in about ten minutes,” said Corrigan.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“She’s following the Russian. They’ll be landing at the airport in ten minutes.”
“What the hell is she doing following the Russian?”
“There was a problem with the agents I lined up.”
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud, Corrigan. Jesus.”
“She’s not going out of the airport. I thought I better tell you, because Guns mentioned—”
“Yeah, all right. I’ll take care of it. Next time she tells you she’s going to do something like this, tell her no, OK?”
“She’s the boss.”
“That only means you can’t slap her,” Ferguson told him. “Unless you have a very good reason; and this would qualify.”
Corrine sat two rows behind the Russian, and she spent the entire flight watching him. Neither alcohol nor food was distributed on the flight, but he’d come prepared with a flask bottle, sipping at regular intervals. He didn’t look like a weapons engineer to her; he looked more like an alcoholic, and a classic one at that.
When they touched down, she stayed with him into the terminal, following as he headed to the baggage area, apparently to claim luggage that had already been checked through. By the time he got it, Charlie had hooked up with Guns. When the Russian passed her in the baggage area of the small terminal, Corrine made eye contact, stopped, and crossed her arms. The Russian laughed and grabbed for his foot as if it were all a joke, then continued past.
Corrine, playing her part, shook her head and walked around the side to where her suitcase was waiting. As she reached the end of the hall someone grabbed her from the side.
“Never turn your back on an asshole.”
“Ferguson!” she said.
“Not that I’m the asshole in question.” Ferg smiled at her, then noticed one of the attendants eyeing them. “Make like you’re happy to see me.”
“You’re not—”
He kissed her. As their lips parted, she reared back and slapped him.
“That was in the line of duty,” he said.
“So was that.”
“Step into my office, dear, so we can have a proper quarrel.” Still holding her elbow, Ferguson steered her
