he had to succumb in the end?
Ravid tried to ward it off. He returned to the plot to take Khazaal’s gems, but its elaborate twists no longer interested him. He thought of his wife and his son, forced his mind’s eye to reconstruct their pictures. He thought of revenge, the need to annihilate his enemy. He wanted justice —
No, all he wanted was a drink. He didn’t even care if it damaged his cover. Why would it? Many Muslims, especially those who had tasted the luxuries of the West, sinned by drinking. It might even be argued that it helped his cover, for what spy would dare to sin openly?
He didn’t care. He wanted a drink.
Ravid turned around as if he were here to meet someone.
Who? One of the arms dealers. Birk, the notorious Pole. Andari, the half Italian, half Armenian whom everyone thought was a Jew.
Perhaps he would go up to one of them, just as a diversion, just to keep himself from giving in.
But if he didn’t want a drink, why didn’t he just leave? He was free to walk out. He could easily walk out.
He should walk out, he told himself. And yet he felt he couldn’t.
The bartender tapped Ravid’s arm from behind. Ravid jerked around, as if jolted by lightning.
“Drink, sir?” asked the man in English.
Ravid stared at him for twenty seconds, thirty. “Vodka,” he said.
As soon as he pronounced the word, blood rushed to his head. He felt warm, almost hot. Relieved and ashamed at the same time.
A woman brushed by him. Ravid turned quickly, his eyes following her as she made her way toward one of the arms dealers, Birk.
The bartender put the vodka down behind him. Ravid forced himself to stare after the woman, ignoring the greater temptation.
He would never stop at one drink. His mission would be lost. Very likely he would lose his life. Tischler would have nothing to do with him. Any chance of revenge would be lost.
What chance, though, did he have of revenge? He knew several people, many people, men in similar situations, who would help. He could form an army of the wrathful, he thought. Together they could take their revenge.
If he had the strength. Not to gather them — that was nothing, that was a child’s task. The strength he needed was to not drink. Not to remember his wife and child. Not to remember but to stay focused on the present.
The smell of alcohol rose around him, overwhelming everything else. He put his hand to his face, closing off his nose, trying to force the scent away. He wanted to leave yet his legs seemed glued to the spot. Finally he got himself moving, eyes riveted on the woman who had just bumped into him. He began following her, telling himself she was attractive and reminded him of his wife. A lie, but useful.
The woman — Judy Coldwell — stopped at Birk’s table. It had taken her much longer than she had thought to find him, and now she had to screw up her courage just to speak. But with the first word, the rest flowed; it was if she were an actress, playing a part, and that made it easy.
“Do you remember me?” she said first in Arabic, then in English. Her Arabic was still rusty — far too rusty, really, to be properly understood — but Caldwell knew that using it before English was generally helpful.
Birk didn’t know quite what to make of her. She was attractive, and while he thought it possible she was some sort of journalist, he decided he might amuse himself for a few moments while it was still relatively early. He swept his hand across the table, inviting her to sit.
“Do you remember me?” she repeated as she sat.
“I should, with a face as lovely as yours,” said Birk. “But I’m afraid I do not.”
“Three years ago, I worked for a firm that needed to equip its security workers,” said Coldwell. “We needed to get around some inconvenient regulations and some nosy officials. You were able to sell us some items.”
“Of course,” said Birk. He didn’t remember the transaction, but that was unimportant. “And now you find yourself in need of more. I have to say that inflation has taken quite a toll—”
“I’m here for something else entirely,” said Coldwell. “I’m taking the place of Benjamin Thatch. He’s been delayed.”
“His name is unfamiliar.”
“Perhaps not with others. I was hoping perhaps you could mention it.”
“Mention it?”
“Some people may be looking for Thatch instead of me. Of course if this is inconvenient, we could arrange to pay for your time.”
Birk could tell from her accent that the woman was an American. Could this be a hopelessly lame attempt by his friend Ferguson to trick him?
“You’re a reporter?” he asked.
The woman’s face blanched. “Absolutely not.”
“CIA?”
“No. I am with a group called Seven Angels. We assist different people.”
Birk laughed. “A charity?”
“Not exactly, no.”
A few yards away, Ravid slid back in toward the bar. The bartender saw him and approached once more, holding the drink out this time. “No, thank you,” said Ravid. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few bills. “For your troubles. And if I might have a seltzer, no alcohol.”
The bartender shrugged. Ravid straightened, straining to hear the conversation at the table. He could hear no more than a few words,
They struck him because they were the name of a group mentioned in the background briefing as he brought himself up to date. An American group had made some contact with a number of Islamic groups, including members of the cells meeting in Latakia. Seven Angels wanted to provoke some sort of apocalyptic dawn by funding attacks in the Holy Land. It had been rolled up completely by the Americans following a freak event in Jerusalem around the time he had been recalled.
Ravid leaned closer, trying to hear, but the interview was over; she was already getting up.
Ravid began to follow, slowly first, then quicker, pushing toward the exit, and his future.
23
When Peter Bellows saw Corrine at the airport, he shouted to her. He felt almost as if he were her uncle, though he hadn’t seen her more than once a year over the past decade.
For her part, Corrine didn’t feel like a niece; Bellows was her father’s friend, not hers, and since receiving the president’s instructions had tried to distance herself even further mentally, thinking of him as the “American ambassador to Iraq,” not her father’s old chum. She smiled bashfully and put out her hand, but Bellows wrapped his arms around her and kissed her cheek.
“It’s been so long, Corrine,” said Bellows. “How are you, hon?”
“Very well, Mr. Ambassador. Yourself?”
“Oh, stop that Mr. Ambassador stuff. Peter’s fine.” He winked at her, indulging in an almost fatherly pride at how far his friend’s little girl had come. “Your father says hello,” Bellows added. “I spoke to him just last night. He claims you never call.”
“He always says that.”
“God, you look good. Now I don’t mean that in a sexist way.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” she told him.
“Would you like to freshen up back at the embassy or look around town?” he asked.
“I’m fresh enough.”
