“Uh—”
“Now.”
The line clicked.
“What’s going on?” Corrine demanded.
“We’re working it out. We don’t know, exactly.”
“Did we do this?” said Corrine.
“No.”
“Where’s Ferguson?”
Corrigan hesitated, but then said that Ferguson and the other members of the First Team who had gone into the city to rescue Thera were still at the hotel.
“They’re still there?” Corrine asked.
“I’m trying to figure it out. This is all happening right as we speak and—”
“Connect me to Colonel Van Buren.”
“With all due respect—”
“Do it, Jack.”
Once again the line clicked. The connection now had a slight buzz of static, and there were background sounds.
“Ms. Alston?” Van Buren sounded subdued.
“What’s the situation?”
“All of the vehicles in the caravan were destroyed. Khazaal appears to have been among them. There were no survivors.”
“You’re sure? This isn’t a trick?”
“It isn’t a trick. Someone came and checked all of the vehicles.”
“It had to be the Israelis,” said Corrine.
“Wouldn’t be a bad guess,” said Van Buren. “The Syrian army has responded from their part of the base, and I’ve been told by the EC-130 to expect the local police force. We’re going to get out. My men are boarding the 737.”
“What about Ferguson?” asked Corrine.
“Our contingency called for them to find another way out. I think it would be safer for them to stay away from the airport at this time.”
“What happened to those two Israeli planes? Were they involved?”
“The last I checked, they were still offshore. Ma’am, at the moment—”
“Yes, I realize you have a lot to do. Please proceed.”
“Thank you.”
Corrine leaned back in her seat.
It had to be the Israelis.
Or Ferguson.
Certainly it had been the Israelis: they had aircraft offshore, a deeply covered agent in the city…
So why was she so mad at Ferg?
2
“There was an explosion at the airport,” Corrigan told Ferguson. “The caravan with Khazaal was targeted. There was at least one bomb, probably several.”
“The Israelis,” said Ferguson. It was a statement, not a question. He finally understood what Ravid was doing here, what had been going on all around him. It was the sort of puzzle he should have figured out, could have figured out, if only he’d taken a step back.
“Why would they hit Khazaal?” Corrigan asked.
“They didn’t. They wanted Meles,” Ferguson said. “He hit the Israeli airliner bound for Rome, remember? Just like we were willing to take him if he went along with Khazaal for a ride, they got our guy, too. They’re probably going to want to be thanked.”
“I don’t think Corrine liked it much.”
“Tell me about those planes we spotted off the coast. Where are they?” Ferguson shouldered his backpack and picked up his bike. Thera and Monsoon were standing next to him. Guns had grabbed his bike and ridden after the Russian. Ferguson switched the radio to Rankin’s direct channel and told him what was going on. “Don’t go to the airport. Meet us back at the hotel.”
According to Corrigan, the Israeli aircraft had stopped orbiting and were now flying southwestward, back out to sea.
“They were backups in case the bomb missed,” Ferguson told him. “We probably messed up their timing. Ravid must have figured out somehow that Meles was going with Khazaal on the airplane. Pretty good work. They must have a bunch of people sprinkled around, enough to spot the caravan and ignite the bomb.”
“Why didn’t they tell us, Ferg?”
“Maybe they did, and we just didn’t understand.”
“When?”
Ferguson started to pedal without answering. The most likely scenario, he guessed, was something along these lines: Mossad had been targeting Meles and stumbled across Khazaal. They felt an obligation to tip off their American allies but withheld enough information — which meant just about everything — so they wouldn’t jeopardize their own show, which was a takedown of Meles. They tracked Khazaal first, or tried to — the First Team operation probably crossed them up then, too — then came here and got him.
Parnelles had probably been informed or at least given some sort of indication.
And Corrine?
Corrine had probably told him everything they had told her. Whether she should have been able to read more into it or not was another question.
He rode up toward Souria, where the taxi had stopped. Guns was waiting; the Russian was long gone.
The driver and the man he’d grabbed were not. Both had rather large bullet holes in their heads.
“I lost him, Ferg. I’m sorry,” said Guns.
“It’s all right.” Ferguson unzipped his backpack and fished out the small attache case. “Take this back to our hotel,” he told Thera and Monsoon, who’d ridden up behind him. “Guns and I are going to ride up to the train station on the traffic circle. We’ll meet you in the room. Be ready to rock. You can pack the nonlethal stuff away.”
Ferguson handed the briefcase with the gems to Thera but didn’t let go.
“Give us exactly two hours,” he told her. “You don’t hear from us, you leave. The blue boat at the Versailles Marina is ours. You go fifty miles due west, exactly due west, and there’ll be a cruiser waiting for you. That’s our lifeboat. Corrigan knows. You got it?”
“Two hours,” she said. “Blue boat.”
He could tell from the way she was looking at him that she wouldn’t go. He turned to Monsoon. “Two hours. You got me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You drag her if you have to.” He turned back to Thera. “If something goes wrong and you don’t leave, I’m going to personally smack that pretty cheek of yours, you got it?”
“Suck an egg,” she said, grabbing the briefcase away.
3
