Angels of Wrath

“Bring the jewels. Meet me at the Agamemnon, at the bar with the green marble, not in the Barroom. Wear something that will make the mullahs think they’ve found something better than Paradise.”

“Who am I dressing for?”

“Me.”

13

LATAKIA

Ferguson watched her come down the steps, her blue dress clinging to her hips, her hair held up on one side by a jeweled pin that made her look like royalty. He watched her looking for him, admired the way she gazed at the room as if she owned it. And she might have, he thought; more than a few of the men nearby were staring at her. Finally Thera saw him and acknowledged him with the slight upturn of the corner of her mouth: not a real smile, but it was pretty nonetheless.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she said, walking up to him.

“That the most original line you could think of?” Ferguson asked.

“It’ll do. What am I drinking?”

“Champagne?”

“What are you drinking?”

“Coffee,” said Ferguson. He held up the glass; he convinced the bartender to pour some into a tumbler with ice.

“Could I have a whiskey sour?” she asked the bartender.

“A whiskey sour?”

“I always wanted one.”

“Don’t fall asleep on me. I’ll feel obliged to take advantage of you.”

“Hmmph.” Thera had taken the precaution of downing a “go” pill, prescribed by Agency doctors for situations where a CIA officer had to stay awake no matter what. She wondered if Ferguson did; he didn’t seem to have had a chance to get any sleep.

“I see you brought our friends.” He pointed to the attache case.

“You told me to. I was worried I would have to open it up at the door.”

“They don’t check for weapons here because of all the tourists. It’s downstairs where we’ll have a problem. I already got us a locker on the other side of the casino. We’ll put it there.”

“What are we doing downstairs?”

“Going to see Ras. We’re a bit early.”

“How early?”

“Early enough to finish your drink and tell me what happened with Ravid.”

Thera told him what she knew. It was almost word for word what Corrigan had said.

“How’s the drink?” Ferguson asked.

“Very sweet. Too sweet.”

“I know the feeling. Come on.”

Ras had someone with him, but he did his swoon act over Thera as they approached, and the guest was quickly forgotten. After Ferguson ordered his usual Perrier and twist, Ras asked to what he owed the pleasure of basking in Thera’s loveliness.

“Mr. IRA has finally decided to buy, perhaps?” he asked.

“Yes, and I want to buy something special,” said Ferguson. “Red-fuming nitric acid.”

Ras continued to sip his drink.

“What ship captain would bring it in?” Ferg added.

“I don’t even know why you would want such an item,” said Ras.

Ferguson leaned across the table and smiled. “You want to end up like Khazaal?”

Ras’s hand trembled slightly as he put down the glass. “You had something to do with Khazaal? The Syrians told me Mossad was behind it.”

Ferguson stared at him.

“It would be very bad business to betray a trust. Very bad business,” said Ras.

“Better bad than dead.”

Ras sat back, his face pale. “If I wrote down the name of a sea captain, could you find his ship?”

“I don’t know,” said Ferguson. “Could I?”

* * *

Now what?” asked Thera as Ferguson steered her out of the hotel.

“Now we go up to Versailles and meet Vassenka.”

“He’s going to meet you?”

“Supposedly. Somebody called my room and left some heavy breathing on the machine. I took that to mean he’ll be here.”

“You gave him your room number?”

“I gave him yours.” Ferguson smiled. “I left word with two dozen people that he should contact me. What I’m hoping is that Meles and Khazaal getting stomped on killed his deal.”

“What good will he be in that case?”

“We can still find out who he was dealing with and where the Scuds are. We’ll have this ship tracked down and find out how much fuel is on it. My guess is that there’ll be quite a lot. Which argues for a lot of missiles.”

Ferguson called Corrigan with the information from the beach. The Versailles was within walking distance; they made it into the casino with ten minutes to spare. There wasn’t a lot of leeway: Ferguson hoped to take the Russian out twelve miles in a small boat and get aboard a helicopter. The helicopter had to come all the way from Turkey, and would only be able to stay on station for about forty-five minutes. The backup plan was to take the boat all the way to Cyprus: not impossible, certainly, but not as convenient nor as quick.

“Are we running late?” Thera asked, noticing he was checking his watch after they took a seat in the lounge above the poker tables.

“We’re on time.”

Ferguson ordered a Turkish coffee. Thera scanned the room and searched for something to talk about. “Is Rankin always so angry?”

“Somebody took his bottle away when he was a baby and he never got over it.”

“Monsoon is nice. Sergeant Ranaman.”

“Ranaman, yeah,” said Ferguson. “You like him?”

“Yeah, I like him a lot. He’s…”

Her voice drifted in a way that made it obvious to Ferguson that like meant something more than he wanted it to mean. He glanced at her face, turned away from him in profile. The curls came down behind her ear so gracefully, it was as if a painter had placed them there with a brush.

“Yeah, Monsoon’s a great guy,” said Ferguson, finishing the sentence for her. “Maybe we should have him work with us more. It’s hard to get Arabic speakers, good Arabic speakers.”

“You got me.”

“I rest my case.” Ferguson smiled at her and leaned hack to survey the room.

* * *

An hour later, Vassenka hadn’t shown up. Ferguson gave him ten more minutes, then another five, then went to the men’s room and called Corrigan. The helicopter had already gone back. They’d arranged for the EC- 130E to fly off the coast again; Ferguson wanted an early warning if the Syrian police decided to raid all of the Western hotels. They hadn’t heard anything.

“Find my ship?”

“You were right about Tripoli. It was there a few days ago.”

“And now?”

“I can’t just snap my fingers and get information, Ferg. It’s not that easy.”