“Why would an American be in Syria?” said the other policeman.
“I’m from Ireland,” said Ferguson. “Dublin. I’m on vacation.”
“If you are on vacation, why are you accepting a package for business?”
The dimensions of their scam — or, more specifically, their demand for a bribe — were now clear: the policemen would charge Ferguson with violating his tourist visa unless he offered to make up the difference between what the document cost and what an imaginary short-term business visa would. This could be quite expensive, but the real cost to Ferguson was time; he had a number of things to do this afternoon. So there was a slightly testy note in his voice as he expressed surprise and assured the men that he wanted always to comply with the law.
“Then you will let us search the car,” said one of the policemen.
“The car? Why not?” said Ferguson, holding up his hands. “Go to it.”
Across the street, Monsoon leaned against a car watching as Ferguson dealt with the police officers. He had a small Taser in his hand. The basic guts were similar to the weapons he and Thera had used to subdue Birk’s guards, but its range was limited to a little over twenty feet because the dart it shot was attached to the device via wires. More important, he’d only be able to take out one of the policemen.
But Ferguson seemed to have it under control. Monsoon watched as the Syrians went through the rental, which of course was clean since they’d just gotten it.
“What are you doing?” asked a man in Arabic behind him.
Monsoon scratched his ear and turned slowly. A Syrian almost exactly his height glared at him from a few feet away. The man had expensive shoes and a shiny watch; Monsoon guessed that he was the owner of the car he’d been leaning against and apologized in Arabic.
“What do you have in your hand?” the man asked, pointing to Monsoon’s crossed arms.
Monsoon rolled his eyes but decided it was best to make a discreet exit. As he took his first step, however, the man identified himself as a customs agent and reached to the back of his belt. As it turned out, he was only going for an ID, but Monsoon couldn’t afford to take a chance. He brought up the Taser and fired point-blank into the man’s neck, jolting him to the ground.
Ferguson had seen the little fiasco developing across the street. He was ready, therefore, when the police officer nearest him reached for his gun. Ferguson dropped him with an elbow to the side of the head, barely having to move. The blow was hard enough to pry the gun from the policeman’s hand. Ferguson caught it in midair, barrel first, and used it as a hammer to make sure the policeman would stay down. By then the other man had scrambled around the adjacent car, fumbling for his radio as well as his gun. Ferg took one of his mini tear-gas grenades from his belt, pulled the pin, and threw it under the car.
“Take the car,” Ferguson shouted to Monsoon as the canister exploded. He threw the keys to the Delta boy then jumped in the police car and backed it up far enough to move the other car. As he did, the policeman began emptying his service pistol into the vehicle; the tears in his eyes hurt his aim, but he got close enough to the car to send bullets through all of the windows. Ferguson dove out on the passenger side, rolled, and jumped to his feet, running to the rental car as Monsoon pulled out. He managed to get the back door on the driver’s side open before the policeman could reload. They raced down the block, then had to pull a U-turn and go back because it was a dead end. The policeman managed to get one shot in the trunk.
Six blocks later, Ferguson told Monsoon to pull over and pop the trunk; even if the cops hadn’t gotten a good description of the vehicle, their compatriots would soon be stopping every rental in the city.
“We’ll walk to the minibus station up the street,” Ferg shouted as he went to grab the box.
“You sure that’s a good idea?” asked Monsoon.
“Probably not. Let’s run instead.”
29
The president’s voice sounded almost tinny on the secure communications system when Corrine spoke to him from the basement of the Yellow House.
“Miss Alston, I trust that you are well,” he said after an aide had made the connection for him.
“Fresh as a peach,” she said, throwing one of his expressions at him.
“Well put, Counselor.” She could just picture his grin. “And how is Baghdad?”
“Ready for you, such as it is.” She gave him a quick summary of what she had seen around town yesterday, along with the highlights of an informal briefing from the ambassador. “I didn’t get into security matters about your trip,” she added when she finished.
“That’s quite all right. The Secret Service will see to that. They’ve already blabbed my ear off.”
Corrine wanted to tell him to stay in the States. She knew he wouldn’t take her advice, but she felt as if she ought to say that, ought to somehow go on record with him that she was concerned for his safety. Not that Iraq was as dangerous as it had been even a year before, just that he was such a huge, tempting target. If fanatics could try and kidnap or blow her up in Lebanon, imagine what they might do to him in Iraq.
Or Jerusalem and Palestine when he went there.
But she couldn’t tell him any of that. If she did he’d say something along the lines of
So why was he allowed to act like a fretful hen on her behalf?
“And the personnel matter related to our representation in the region?” the president asked.
“I’m working on it.”
“I’d like to know one way or another when I arrive.”
“I’ll try, Mister President,” she said.
“That’s all I can ask,” he said, hanging up.
30
Unlike the vehicles that Meles had used to check out the castle, Khazaal traveled in SUVs owned by the mosque. After analyzing the video recorded over the past few days, the gurus back at the Cube had realized that Khazaal used two specific trucks, probably because they were armored. The trucks were kept in a parking lot across from a police station several blocks from the mosque. The lot was guarded only at the entrance, which made it easy to penetrate: a chain-link fence covered the hack and front, and the lot was deep enough that the vehicles could not be easily seen by the guard. It would be a simple matter to go over the back fence and tamper with the truck, at the same time preparing a diversion for the guard if his suspicions were aroused. It would take little more than ten minutes to tune the vehicles to first Team specifications, said specifications including a radio-controlled device that would choke off the flow of exhaust through the tailpipe, thereby making the engine run slower or stop completely.
While customizing the electronic ignition or fuel system would be more efficient, tampering with it would be much more involved. Placing an electromagnetic unit designed to interfere with the system would also work, but was likely to be spotted during a bomb check. The inserts, included in the “goodie box” Ferguson had retrieved, had diaphragms that would mechanically expand on command. Inserted into the tailpipe with the help of a flexible stick that looked like a tightly coiled spring, the devices were impossible to see without taking the exhaust system off or X-raying it.
The flexible stick had a grapple at the end that gave Rankin a hard time on the second truck: it failed to release after he had positioned the unit. He started to pull the stick out but something snagged. He pushed the stick in and tried again, only to have it stick farther in, just at the edge of his fingertip.
“Got movement at the door of the station,” said Grumpy, who was acting as lookout. “Four guys coming in
