28
The alarm on Ferguson’s watch beeped incessantly, growing louder until its owner finally found the button to turn it off. He stared up at the ceiling, momentarily disoriented.
Did I take my stinking pills, or not?
He couldn’t remember. The need to travel lightly had simply made the compartmentalized pill minders impractical, but there were times when even he could have conceded they were useful. Ferguson, still not sure, took a dose just to be sure; better to be a little hyper than seriously dragging, which was the effect missing even one round of the T3 replacement had on him lately.
Outside in the common room, Rankin was dismantling the remote-control cars. “I assume there are going to be explosives to go with these,” he said by way of greeting.
“Yeah, I have to go pick them up. You didn’t take apart my airplane, did you?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Why the hell don’t we use a real setup instead of this cobbled together crap?”
“Two words:
“Sounds like bullshit to me.”
“That’s one word,” said Ferguson. “But it’ll do.”
Ferguson intended that the weapons that he used would suggest the tactics favored by some of the insurgents in Iraq, specifically the southern Shiites who had access to some of the British equipment left behind in the war. His visit to Ras was intended to introduce the name Suhab Majadin to the local authorities. Ras hadn’t recognized it, but the Syrian intelligence service would. Suhab was the leader of a faction that hated Khazaal and vied with him to head the insurgency. A thorough investigation would show that Suhab was back in Iraq and had in fact been paid off by the present government to tone down his activities. But a thorough investigation was unlikely in Latakia.
“Where’s Thera?” Ferguson asked.
“Still sleeping.”
“Wake her up, will you? I have another errand for her and Grumpy.”
“Why don’t you wake her up?” said Rankin.
“ ‘Cause if I go into her room I’m not sure I’ll come out,” said Ferguson.
Forty-five minutes later, Thera and Grumpy found themselves in the casino of the Versailles, playing the slots with bogus slugs and watching for Birk. Thera’s appearance had changed considerably: most notably her hair was now fiery red and stretched well down her back. The effect was startling, even with the black lipstick. Unfortunately these changes were accompanied by one far less flattering: she had gained what looked like fifty pounds, the smooth curves now considerably rounder under her long skirt.
Even disguised, Ferg had warned her that Birk might recognize her if she got too close, and so she let Grumpy do the hard work, betting colors on the roulette wheel, where the video bug that had replaced the button in his shirt could get a good view of Birk, who was testing his skill at calling sevens on the nearby craps table.
From what Thera could see across the room, Birk was alone, except for his bodyguards. Ferguson wanted to know who he was meeting here. He suspected Ravid, since he was staying at the hotel, though Thera wouldn’t have been surprised to see Khazaal or Meles or even one of the men from the mosque.
Birk was still alone when Ferguson’s phone call came. Birk took the call, listened, said something, then hungup and continued playing. Ten minutes later, he cashed out his chips — he was ahead — and went into one of the lounges. Thera followed, with Grumpy right behind her. The lounge was tiered; they took a table together on the top tier, diagonally across the room from Birk and positioned so that Grumpy’s video bug would catch the face of anyone sitting at his small table.
“I was in the middle of a run, you know,” said the marine. “A few more rounds and I could have retired.”
“Don’t even joke about that,” said Thera, surveying the room. She realized from his silence that he’d taken her seriously. “I was kidding. What would you do if you won a fortune? Go fishing?”
“I hate fishing. Too boring,” said Grumpy. “I’d learn how to play golf and play every day.”
“Golf?”
“I always thought that would be a good thing to waste time on.”
Across the room, a woman approached Birk. Thera turned to summon a waiter so she could get a better look. The woman was tall and with light features, almost surely a Westerner, and, thought Thera, vaguely familiar. “You getting that?” she asked Grumpy when she turned back.
“I think so.”
“Keep watching,” said Thera. “I’m going to the restroom.”
She got up and took a circuit of the lounge area and bar, and even went back into the casino and the hotel without seeing Ravid or any of the others she might have suspected. By the time she returned to the table, the woman who had been meeting with Birk was gone and the arms dealer was on his cell phone.
“Talked for a few minutes, then said bye-bye,” said Grumpy. “Didn’t look all that happy. What do you think? Unsatisfied customer?”
Thera shrugged. The image would be looked at by analysts back in the States, who would compare it to known agents and others on their watch lists. Most of the players in international arms smuggling were male; Thera guessed the woman was a go-between for someone, maybe even a stranger picked at random to deliver a seemingly innocuous message or help check surveillance.
They had another hour and a half before they had to meet Ferg. Until then, they’d stay with Birk as long as he was in the hotel. Birk had ordered a bottle of champagne and clearly wasn’t going anywhere. “Let’s get ourselves another round of Cokes,” said Thera, signaling to the waiter. “And then maybe you can explain what’s so interesting about whacking a defenseless little ball into a black hole all day.”
After he called Birk, Ferguson rented a car from a rental agency in the center of town and took it to a shipping company in the port area. At the start of the operation he’d had a “goodie box” sent up with different tools of the trade, mostly obscure items that were impractical to carry around but potentially of use. The box did not include any explosives or weapons, since they would have likely been detected by X-rays or more sophisticated scans.
The shipper was reasonably secure and reliable, but most of the companies in the port area were subject to occasional scrutiny by the local police, with everyone in and out noted. There was no way around this, and so Ferguson decided to take the job himself, figuring he was the most likely to be able to bail himself out of trouble. He dropped Monsoon two blocks away, and told him what to look for. Sure enough, he saw the pair of Syrian plainclothes security types sitting in their battered sedan as he drove up.
But things went quickly at the counter inside, without the telltale frowns and eyeblinks that typically gave away an undercover operation. Ferguson took the box — it was the size of a microwave, though not quite as heavy — boosted it up on his shoulder, and carried it outside to the car. He’d gotten it into the trunk when he heard an approaching muffler that had a vaguely official rattle to it. When he slammed the trunk and turned around, the two plainclothesmen he’d spotted were getting out of the car, which they’d positioned to make it impossible for him to leave.
Neither man smiled. Ferguson switched to English, putting his Dublin-laced brogue into it. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. How are y’today?”
“Passport,” said the man nearest him.
Ferguson took out his Irish passport and presented it, smiling brightly. Monsoon had stopped across the street and was looking on.
“Your visa is not in order,” said the man.
“I got it at the embassy,” said Ferguson, acting surprised. “I must have made a mistake somehow.”
