the chartered plane was waiting.
She expected Tischler to make another try, this one in person. But he didn’t.
Once aboard the civilian Cessna Citation that had been leased to take her to Baghdad, she called Corrigan and told him what had happened. She also put in a call to Slott, deciding to personally update him on the meeting. She also felt it possible that Tischler would choose to deal with him rather than her. But Slott’s assistant answered the phone. The time difference meant that it was still quite early in the States. The aide asked her if it was worth calling and waking him at home; Corrine said no.
“Tell him that Tischler declined to say anything, and tell him to call me as soon as he can. I’m en route to Baghdad.”
She clicked off the phone. The copilot had come back to see if she was ready to leave.
“There’s some lunch in that fridge over there,” he said. “Sandwiches. They’re fresh.”
“Thanks,” she told him. “Maybe later.”
“We’ll be in the air in ten minutes.”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
She sat back in one of the plush seats. By the time the Citation’s wheels left the runway, she was fast asleep.
20
Rankin didn’t realize the stooped old man with thick glasses and cane outside the mosque was Ferguson until the man pressed his fingers into his forearm.
“You oughta cut your nails,” he grumbled.
“Let’s go say our prayers. I’m a little slow, and you’re deaf and dumb,” Ferguson told him.
“I know you can do dumb. It’s deaf I’m worried about.”
Always a wise guy, thought Rankin to himself.
Ferguson smirked at Rankin’s frown but noticed that he kept his reaction to himself. They’d done the deaf man routine on an earlier mission, and Rankin had pulled it off very well.
The pair made their way inside the compound, moving slowly toward the mosque. Rankin felt uneasy, not because of the mission — that was a given but because they were going into a holy place. It was the kind of thing that ought to be out of bounds; even if the crazy idiots didn’t respect that,
Not that he’d let it stop him.
Ferguson mumbled his prayers in sing-songy chat as they paused to take off their shoes.
“I’m gonna fall,” he told Rankin.
“Uh-huh.”
Ferguson crumbled to the ground. As Rankin knelt to help him, Ferguson pulled out a pair of shoes from beneath his long
“I’m all right,” Ferguson said in Arabic as others came up to help Rankin with the frail old man. “All right. My grandson is deaf, but a good lad. He didn’t mean to drop me.”
Several of the men close to Rankin shook their heads and berated him for not taking proper care of his grandfather. Rankin glowered at them, even though he was supposed to be deaf.
Ferguson babbled away as they walked inside. He told the others that they were pilgrims from southern Egypt, seeking to travel to as many holy places as possible before God called him to rest. His patter soon wore out his listeners, and they were left alone to purify themselves and join the faithful in prayer.
His cover now established, Ferguson played the role of devoted pilgrim and tourist after prayers. He examined the old pillars carefully; he wanted to find a second spot to plant a video camera if the first failed. Shimmying up them without being seen would be impossible, however, as there were at least four rather discreet guards milling through the hall, large men who probably had weapons hidden beneath their clothes. Ferguson managed to catch the eye of one of the men, nodding at him, but the man didn’t nod back.
“You oughta not get in their face like that,” Rankin said as they put their shoes on outside. “Guy looked like he wanted to kill you.”
“Can’t kill me for praying,” said Ferg.
“You weren’t praying.”
“Sure I was, Skip. You weren’t listening.”
They walked to the left of the interior courtyard, in the direction of the abandoned building, which seemed to Ferguson the most likely candidate to be hiding Khazaal. They got as far as the long, low step that led to the door before someone yelled at them to ask where they were going.
“Don’t stop,” Ferguson whispered, still shuffling ahead. “You’re deaf.”
“Umph,” said Rankin.
The person shouted again. This time Ferguson stopped and turned toward him. He raised his head slowly, looking up and down, and then started to turn back.
“You fool. Where are you going?” said the man, grabbing Ferguson’s cane.
Ferguson repeated his earlier story about being a pilgrim and tourist, exploring the holy shrines of Islam with his devoted though deaf and dumb grandson… A man who, alas, was not sharp in the mental department, perhaps as a result of being kicked by a Jew when he was young.
Even this last bit failed to win the sympathy of the man who had stopped them.
“This place is off limits to the likes of you,” said the man.
“Is it a shrine?” asked Ferguson.
“It is an empty building, fool,” said the man.
He pulled Ferguson’s cane from his hand. Rankin grabbed him. Fear sprang into the man’s face.
“No, no,” said Ferguson, tapping his ersatz grandson’s arm. “No, no. Peace be unto you, brother. Peace be unto you.”
Two other men came over. Both were dressed in business clothes. The taller of the pair began to speak, using calm tones and introducing himself as the imam’s son.
Then he started asking Ferguson about which mosques he had been to.
This was not a difficult question in and of itself, for as it happened Ferguson had been to many. He began with the expected, saying how the greatest experience in his life had been Mecca: an obligation for every able Muslim but, more than that, an experience of joy and faith impossible to duplicate elsewhere on earth. He then moved through Saudi Arabia, then to Yemen and then to Egypt. The Imam’s son still had not tired — in fact he seemed genuinely interested — and so Ferguson found himself in Beirut, where the Omari Mosque was incomparable.
“God must have been very pleased to take it from the nonbelievers,” said Ferguson.
“That happened here,” said the Imam’s son.
“So I’ve heard. But there was no trace.”
“Oh, yes. Come.”
By now, Rankin had a truly bad vibe about the Imam’s son. He tried to signal this to Ferguson by tugging at his arm, gently at first, and then more insistently. Finally his pull became obvious to everyone.
Rather than using it as an excuse to leave, Ferguson began berating his grandson, threatening to lash him with the cane and saying that it was not time to eat yet. Rankin did his best not to react, cringing like the long- suffering grandkid he was supposed to be.
The Imam’s son gently pulled Ferguson away, starting him toward the mosque. Ferguson wrapped his arm around his and planted a small audio “fly” and a tracking device on the man’s jacket.
