“Let me give you a hint where to look: heading for Iraq.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Well, get on it, Jack.”
“I am. Say, when do you sleep, anyway?”
Ferguson laughed at him and went back to Thera at the table.
They gave the Russian another half hour. Ferguson decided they would hit some of the other clubs to see if they could drum up some information about him, but first they had to stash the jewels, which Thera had in the case. So they went upstairs to Ferg’s room. Thera tapped on the wall of the elevator all the way up.
“You took a ‘go’ pill, right?” Ferguson asked, waiting for the door to open.
“I was afraid I’d fall asleep. I’m OK, really.”
“No driving for you. Come on. I’m down the hall.”
The room Lauren had reserved was small, with only a bed and a table too small to spread a napkin. Thera kicked off her shoes and sat back on the bed.
“Is that piece in your hair from in here?” he asked.
“Of course not.” Her face turned deep red. “It’s glass.”
“Don’t get offended. I was just asking. It’d be all right if you borrowed it.”
“I don’t borrow things. I didn’t even open the briefcase.”
“Why not?” asked Ferguson. He opened the small in-room safe. The case was a little too wide to fit.
“You trust a safe?” Thera asked.
“Of course not. But I’ve never believed that ‘Purloined Letter’ stuff. You leave something out; it’s gone. The safe will keep the amateurs at bay.” He took up the case, set it down, and took out his picks. He opened the case and though he continued to smile at her, he realized immediately something was wrong: there weren’t as many jewels, and it struck him that they weren’t the same.
He snapped it closed. “Your turn,” he told her, as if he’d noticed nothing. He flipped it over to her on the bed. “You open it.”
“Why?”
“I want to make sure you can.”
“All right.”
Ferguson watched as she took the picks. She hadn’t had much practice, that was clear, but she didn’t act like she was completely incompetent either; she snapped it open in about a minute. Thera handed it to him.
“I should make you do it again. You’re a little slow.”
“Are we going to play locksmith or look for Vassenka?”
“Vassenka,” said Ferguson. He started scooping the jewels into the safe.
There was definitely a different mix than the last time he’d seen them. Or was it, Ferguson wondered, just that he was tired now and he’d been in a rush then?
The sat phone rang as he closed the door on the safe. “I hope this is room service.”
“Ferg, they found Vassenka in a shower in a dump off 14 Ramadan Street,” said Corrigan.
“The police raided him while he was taking a shower?”
“No. He reached for a bar of soap and got a grenade instead. He’s in pieces.”
ACT VI
They are the spirits of devils, working miracles…
1
Abu al Hassan, the new Iraqi prime minister, was about as physically different from Saddam Hussein as possible: tall and thin, bald, with no facial hair and a soft whisper of a voice. The State Department briefing papers presented him as a “dynamic individual” and a “political survivor.” But the CIA duty officer Corrine befriended in the communications center rolled his eyes when she asked for his opinion, and Corrine saw why as soon as she met him. Hassan studiously avoided meeting her gaze while they spoke; his answers to even simple questions were so convoluted and hedged that Corrine wondered if the point wasn’t to make her forget what she had asked. To a man, his staff’s body language made it clear they didn’t have any better an opinion of him. He and his government weren’t going to survive their first political crisis. A five percent dip in world oil prices — already forecast after the run-up of the past few years — would be enough to upset the country’s loan payment schedule and threaten the social and rebuilding programs necessary to keep the economy moving ahead. But it wouldn’t take something nearly that severe: if violence stoked up again around Baghdad, if Iran rattled its sabers, if the Kurds complained that their semiautonomous state was too semi and not autonomous enough, the fractious parliament would divide. Hassan, Corrine now realized, had only been chosen because he was such a nonentity the different factions couldn’t object. Under any sort of pressure he would wilt.
Not a good situation, she thought as he led her on a tour of the new government building. Corrine made the proper admiring noises as they walked through the building, which was architecturally quite impressive, then left with the ambassador to continue the scheduled tour of a hospital in the city.
“I have to leave Iraq for a day or so,” she told Bellows. “Something’s come up.”
“More important than Iraq?” said Bellows, surprised.
“It’s trivial, really,” she lied. “But I have to take care of it. Can you drop me off at the embassy?”
The ambassador leaned forward and lowered the window separating them from the driver. He gave him the new instructions but left the window open. As he started to lean back, Corrine gestured toward the window. Bellows trusted his driver a great deal — a former Delta Force bodyguard, the man had been with him for six years, through many different assignments — but he closed the window to make her more comfortable.
Corrine closed it so they could talk.
“What do you think of Hassan?” she asked.
“A very solid man.”
“He’s a milquetoast.”
“Appearances can be deceiving,” said the ambassador lightly. “He’s very astute politically and very strong.”
“Are you telling me that because you think it’s what I want to hear? Or because you believe it?”
“I’m not sure how to answer that,” said Bellows.
“Is it me? Are you just not taking me seriously?”
“Corrine, of course I take you seriously,” said the ambassador, shocked that she thought that. “Why wouldn’t I take you seriously?”
“Can Hassan survive a crisis?”
“He’s strong. He has a lot of support throughout the country.”
Corrine gave up, and they drove back to the embassy in silence. She still hadn’t decided whether he was deliberately trying to mislead her or had deluded himself by the time she reached the secure communications center.
“Where’ve you been?” Ferguson asked her.
