north and then west to a residential area at the edge of the city. He’d taken Brother-in-Law along not as a gofer but as an insurance policy in case Birk had been lying about dealing with the Iraqis or otherwise became curious about the Americans’ location in town; the trucks were a misdirection play that would keep someone hunting for them busy while Ferguson set up the operation.
“Hungry, comrade?” asked Ferguson as Brother-in-Law climbed into the cab. He said it in Russian, and the other man reacted immediately, practically spitting as he said in English that all Russians were dogs and he would do well to wash his mouth out after using the language.
“Don’t like them, huh?” said Ferguson.
“Phew.”
“Something personal, I hope.”
Brother-in-Law didn’t reply. Ferguson took the road to the coast, then instead of going south took a right on the highway.
“You look hungry,” he explained. “We’ll get something to eat.”
Brother-in-Law grunted, but then told Ferguson that there was a decent place for breakfast a mile up the road, one where there weren’t too many Russians or Syrians.
“If you don’t like Syrians and you don’t like Russians, why are you here?” Ferguson asked. “Family obligations?”
This drew a long, convoluted story about the need for the family to recover a farm it had lost during World War II because of the Russians. To Brother-in-Law, Syrians were Russians with head scarves and robes (even if the majority in Latakia didn’t wear them).
“How about the Iraqis?” asked Ferguson. He ran his fork through the scrambled eggs. Apparently Brother- in-Law liked runny yolks and potatoes so crisp they endangered fillings.
“All Iraqis are idiots,” said Brother-in-Law.
“But Birk deals with Iraqis all the time.”
Brother-in-Law made a face but didn’t answer.
“Sometimes?” said Ferg.
Brother-in-Law knew better than to say anything, but if Birk had a deal going with Khazaal he either didn’t know about it or didn’t realize Khazaal was Iraqi. The latter seemed pretty far-fetched; the former remained a possibility.
After breakfast, they drove to a bicycle shop in the center of town where he bought a dozen used bicycles and had them loaded into the back, from there they went back to the dock where he’d tied up the boat.
“Give my regards to Birk,” Ferg told Brother-in-Law as he handed him the promised money and another hundred for goodwill. “You probably ought to tell him I gave you a hundred to help. Knowing Birk he’ll want a cut.”
The Brother-in-Law smiled and slammed the door.
Thera and Monsoon returned to their hotel with an armload of toys and a large bag of batteries. By the time Ferguson returned — he’d stashed the bicycles in several strategic locations and parked the second truck near the first — Guns and Grumpy were racing two of the cars around the suite.
“I have to go check in with Van,” Ferg told them. “Then I’m going to catch some z’s. Give those to Rankin when he wakes up. And don’t wreck them; he needs them to make some bombs.”
27
Colonel Van Buren had just come back to his office when the call from Ferguson came through. He checked his watch. It was a little past ten a.m.
“You’re up early,” he told Ferguson after he picked up the phone.
“Haven’t been to bed,” said Ferguson.
“No wonder you sound tired.”
“Nah, must be the connection. Listen, Van, I’ve been thinking. I can’t blow them up when they’re meeting, right?”
“Right.”
“But they don’t know that.”
“OK,” answered Van Buren, not entirely sure where Ferguson was going.
“So what I do is, I make them think they’re being attacked, which gets them the hell out of there on our time schedule. We follow Khazaal, who probably heads back to the mosque—”
“You can’t take him there either, Ferg.”
“I’m not going to. We’re going to set up so that it looks like we will, though. Move people in and out of the area, make sure they’re seen.”
“Then what?”
“He’s going to do the logical thing and go for his airplane. I take him there. We compromise the air conditioning so it shoots dope into the cabin. The only question in my mind is whether we do it on the ground or in the air.”
“Ground is easier and safer,” said Van Buren. “I can put two platoons of Rangers at the airport, land them near the plane. We’ll use the civvy 737 you guys dropped out of. I think it can land on that field.”
They worked out the arrangements and contingencies, talking over the various options. While taking him on the ground at the airport would be easier than doping him in the air, it was likely to lead to political complications if things went wrong, since there would be plenty of people around to notice. But as they worked the possibilities back and forth, it still seemed a better bet.
“I have to separate him from the jewels in case this doesn’t work,” added Ferguson. “That’s the tricky part. I have to do it before the meeting starts.”
Ferg explained that the Iraqi kept the jewels near him but not with him, clearly not trusting any of the people he was dealing with. Ferguson needed a plan to separate the cars before the meeting, while he still knew where the jewels were.
“What if he changes the way he does things before the meeting?” asked Van Buren, sensing from Ferguson’s dismissively breezy tone that he hadn’t finished thinking the mission through. “Maybe that’s the one time he brings them with him.”
“It’s possible,” said Ferguson.
“What are they trying to buy?” Van Buren asked.
“That’s what has me beat. There’s at least one serious cruise missile on the market here, and a Russian expert who should know how to use it is in town. But the guy who has access to them claims he hasn’t been approached.”
“Like an arms dealer never lies, huh?”
Ferguson laughed. He was tired; the laugh was way too loud. Van Buren worried that Ferg was pushing himself too far. You had to be a little reckless to do what Ferguson did, but it was a controlled kind of recklessness, and despite his goofy veneer Ferguson was one of the most controlled people Van Buren had ever met, much more deliberate even than the anal drill sergeants who had introduced him to the army a million years before.
Recklessness, controlled or uncontrolled, left little room for mistakes.
“You OK, Fergie?” Van Buren asked.
“I’m more than OK. I’m the best.”
“Yeah, I know all that. You OK?”
“I’m all right. A little tired. I have to take a nap. How’s your kid? Signed with the Red Sox yet?”
“He’s got to go to college.”
“I’d tell him to take the money and run.”
“That’s why you’re not his dad,” said Van Buren.
“Lucky for him.”
