Rankin felt the phone vibrating in his pocket. He reached down and hit the “OK” switch. The unit was similar to stock iridium phones though smaller and with several customized features: besides the silent alert it had 128k encryption and plugs that would let him use his radio’s mike and ear set.
“Ferg just called from a tailor,” said Corrigan. “Something’s up.”
“Yeah, he needs a new pair of pants.”
“You’re starting to sound just like him.”
“I’m standing across the street from it. We got it covered.”
Why are you here?” the fat customer asked in the back room of the shop.
“Best suits in Cairo,” said Ferguson. The man didn’t quite understand his English. “I got a message that said to come here. I follow directions.”
The customer turned to the younger man who had pulled the gun. They spoke in Arabic so quickly that Ferguson couldn’t catch it all, but what he did catch wasn’t particularly encouraging: the fat man called him an “unnecessary nuisance” and berated someone named Ali for originally making contact with the “American idiots.”
“In the car,” the fat man told Ferg.
“Which car?”
“In the back. Go.”
“This is just business. We don’t need a gun. We’re friends.”
“In the car.”
“It would make me less nervous if he put that away,” Ferguson said, gesturing with his head toward the pistol. The fat man frowned but then told the younger man that Ferguson, being an American idiot, was harmless.
Out in the alley, Ferguson stopped to tie his shoe. As he did, he activated the homing device in his heel and turned his radio on. The fat man grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him upward, pushing him in the direction of a white Mercedes S a few yards up the alley.
“Nice,” said Ferg cheerfully. “This is the executive version, right? Got the bulletproof glass, armor on the side; must’ve cost you a fortune.”
“Just get in.” The fat man opened the door with a key fob device.
“Want me to drive?”
“The back, idiot,” said the man, adding a string of curses in Arabic.
Ferguson slid into the backseat and pushed over. He gave Fatman a goofy smile as he got in and slammed the door. The kid got into the driver’s seat.
“What is your interest in Palestine?” asked Fatman as the car reached the street.
“Does it matter?” said Ferg.
The man made a snorting sound that reminded Ferguson of a choking walrus. He supposed it was meant to be dismissive.
“You think the Prophet Jesus will come on a cloud,” said Fatman.
“Well, I don’t know if it would be a cloud.” Ferguson looked out the window, trying not only to get a rough idea of where they were going but also to watch Fatman in the reflection at the same time. The nearby buildings were covered with large, colorful billboards featuring popular entertainers, each proclaimed as the spirit of his or her generation.
I don’t like this,” Guns told Rankin over the radio as they followed northward in the direction of Shubra, a working-class suburb. “Maybe we should call in the Egyptians.”
“Ferguson knows what he’s doing.”
“What do you think?” Guns asked Yeklid, who was driving the car.
“I have no idea. This is your gig, man.”
“How long will it take to get help out here?”
The officer shrugged. “Ten minutes or never. Nothing in between.”
How did you know to contact us?” said Fatman as they turned off the main street toward a row of closely packed buildings dressed in white tiles and yellow bricks.
“It was all done for me,” said Ferguson. “I just follow directions.”
The car drove up a hill, then turned abruptly down a narrow street that wound down toward an area of small factory and warehouse buildings. They took another turn and then another, finally driving up a tight alleyway.
Four men were waiting near the back door of a brown brick building. The men were fairly nondescript; their AK-47s were not.
“So this is where we get out?” Ferguson said.
“You’re an amateur, Mr. Thatch. And a meddler. We don’t like you, and we don’t need your money,” said Fatman. He turned to the driver.
Under ideal circumstances, Ferguson might have noted how ironic it was that someone who hadn’t bothered to frisk him was calling him an amateur. But these weren’t ideal circumstances, and besides, he was too busy sliding his hand down to the back of his pants to grab the small Glock 23 pistol hidden there. He put one bullet into the head of the driver, then turned to Fatman, who made the incredibly bad decision of reaching for his own weapon. Ferguson put two slugs into his head, then dove forward over the car seat as the men with the AK-47s began to fire at the bulletproofed car. Ferguson pulled the driver’s body to the side — like most Egyptians he didn’t wear a seat belt — and flung himself behind the wheel as the first bullets cracked but did not pierce the windshield. He jammed the car into reverse, turning to see where he was going. As he did, one of the guards fired point-blank at the rear window’s shatterproof glass.
Which, to Ferguson’s great surprise, shattered.
The range finder on the tracking device showed they were a half block away when Rankin heard the stutter of automatic rifle fire.
“Damn it,” he yelled, reaching down to the floor where he’d stashed his Uzi. “There! Stop!”
Yeklid jerked the wheel of the car and hit the brakes just in time to miss the Mercedes as it shot out of the alley and rammed into a car parked across the street. Rankin threw his door open in time to empty his submachine gun at the men running from the alley with AK-47s. Guns ran up behind him with a grenade launcher and pumped a tear gas canister into the alleyway, not realizing it was too late now to do any good.
The crash had deployed the Mercedes air bags. Ferguson pitched himself down as the guns erupted, reaching to his sock for his other hideaway. He rolled out of the car onto the ground, a gun in each fist.
“Ferguson, get the hell out of there!” screamed Rankin.
“Yo, Skippy! Don’t hit me,” yelled Ferguson.
“Come on, get the hell out of there,” said Rankin.
Guns pumped another tear gas grenade into the alley. The acrid smoke drifted back toward the car.
“Get out of here, come on!” yelled Yeklid.
Ferguson got up and trotted to the car. Two men with assault rifles came from down the block; Ferguson spun around and cut them down.
“Trail car! Trail car!” he yelled, seeing their way blocked.
They clung to the second as Yeklid backed out into the main street, barely missing a truck.
“I called the Egyptians, but I think it’s better if we lay low for an hour,” Yeklid told Ferguson when they collected themselves several blocks away. “I’m going to call one of the senior people I know. This may end up being a real pain.”
“You’re good with understatement,” said Ferguson. “I like that.”
