Thomas replayed the Global Hawk imagery at his workstation several times, watching again and again the destruction of the caravan. He was not so much interested in the event itself, a rather conventional, if spectacular, remote detonation of very large bombs in tractor-trailers parked along the road leading to the airport gate. What fascinated him, even unnerved him a little, was the fact that the Mossad operation had proceeded in parallel to the First Team’s without being detected.
In retrospect there would certainly be plenty of clues. They had practically tripped over it several times: Ravid, the airplanes. But they’d been so intent on their own operation that they hadn’t seen what was in front of their faces.
It was not, he reasoned, a bad thing from their point of view: while politically it would have been better to capture Khazaal and put him on trial, the ultimate goal was to eliminate him as a threat. And he had been eliminated.
But was there more to the picture now that they weren’t seeing?
The Russian hadn’t been at the meeting. Had he not been invited? Had his deal already been set?
Corrigan, who’d been standing over his shoulder for several minutes, became exasperated that he couldn’t get the analyst’s attention. “Thomas!” he said, practically screaming.
“More important, what was the deal supposed to be?” said Thomas, finishing his thought out loud.
“What are you talking about?”
“Why wasn’t the Russian at the castle?”
“Maybe he was due later. Listen, there are going to be all sorts of questions about the attack on the caravan. I need you—”
“Too busy,” said Thomas, waving his hand.
“What?”
“I have to go check something.”
He turned and left the area on a run. Corrigan shook his head, once more ruing the day he had recommended the eccentric for his job.
4
Vassenka wasn’t at the train station, or anywhere nearby. Ferguson decided it wasn’t worth spending any more time at the moment looking for him. As they rode back to the hotel, Guns berated himself for letting the Russian get away, angry that he had gone after the women rather than hanging back and waiting.
“Could’ve been a brilliant guess,” offered Ferguson. “And you could’ve ended up like the taxi driver.”
“Nah.”
“Even marines don’t win every battle,” said Ferguson.
“Yeah.”
“I can hum a few bars of ‘Halls of Montezuma’ if it’ll make you feel any better.”
Guns laughed, but it was a forced laugh, and Ferguson gave up trying to cheer him up.
By the time they got back to the hotel, Rankin and the others had gotten an update from Corrigan. Van Buren and the assault team had taken off, successfully eluding the Syrian authorities. Intercepts from the EC-130, still orbiting offshore, indicated that the Syrians’ preliminary guess was that the Israelis were responsible. There had been as yet no mention of the incident on Syrian TV, which was not unusual; the media was government controlled.
Not knowing what to expect, Rankin had stacked guns and ammo on the coffee table. The rest of their gear was packed and ready for express departure. Thera, sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the wall, monitored the video flies that were covering the lobby and street.
Ferguson changed from his black fatigues into Western-style civilian clothes, then sat down in one of the chairs in the common room, considering what to do. The odds heavily favored checking out now; the police were sure to come down on every foreigner in town. But the fact that Vassenka hadn’t been at the meeting interested him.
Had he been late for his date? Or was Khazaal supposed to pick him up on the way from the castle?
Or was he not involved at all?
That seemed like far too much of a coincidence.
Meles was planning something big; he was a big kind of guy. Did the fact that he was working with Khazaal mean he was going to help Khazaal in Iraq, or did Khazaal have something to help him elsewhere?
If it weren’t for the jewels, Ferguson would have figured it like this: Khazaal had several old Scuds and wanted to get the best deal he could for them. He hooked up with Meles. Vassenka would be brought in to fix them up once the deal was completed. The fact that he was already in town meant they wanted to move pretty quickly.
That scenario made sense, except for the jewels. Vassenka would be expensive, but three million bucks was more than he was worth.
Unless they were meant to buy something else as well. Like a few of the missiles Birk was selling.
Birk had claimed there was only one.
“Hey, Ferg. You know that Israeli undercover agent, Aaron Ravid?” said Rankin. “He’s walking on the street outside about twenty yards from the hotel entrance, staggering around. Looks like he’s been shot.”
5
Corrine placed a call through to the White House to alert the president to the situation. She reached Jess Northrup, the assistant chief of staff, whose main mission in life was to keep the president from falling more than a half hour behind his daily schedule.
He hadn’t succeeded yet.
“I’m afraid I have bad news,” she told Northrup. “I have to talk to the president personally.”
“All right.”
When the president came on the line, Corrine plunged into the situation, telling him everything she knew. Uncharacteristically, he didn’t interrupt her.
“Well, now, Miss Alston, I would say that this is less than optimum,” he said when she was finally done. “Reminds me of a bear harvesting a cornfield: not practical or pretty.”
“No, sir.”
“Although I suppose there is
“Yes, sir.”
“Does the State Department know?”
“We’ve informed them.”
“Very well. Let us move on,” said McCarthy. “Get the rest of your people out of danger. I will see you in Baghdad Tuesday, will I not?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be here.”
“Very good, then, Miss Alston. Keep me informed.”
6
