“He was very impressed with Ms. Alston,” Parnelles continued. “He had something he wanted to share, but she was in transit, to Palestine, and he didn’t know where to get a hold of you.”
“So he called you?”
“As a matter of fact he did. I was surprised,” said Parnelles, in a tone that suggested the opposite. “They had a radar plot of an aircraft taking off from the Latakia airport two nights ago.”
“Funny, the Syrians said it was closed.”
“I heard that as well. The airplane went northward, toward Turkey, before it was lost on radar.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have a time on that, would you?”
“Only that it was very late. You can’t have everything.”
“No, but you can ask.”
They were telling him about Vassenka, Ferguson guessed. Too bad he’d already figured it out.
“You called me the other night, Bobby. Was something wrong?”
You tell me, thought Ferguson, but he said, “I think it’s resolved itself.”
“That’s very good to hear. I have a great deal of confidence in you. And Ms. Alston. She’s the president’s representative on Special Demands.”
Yeah, thought Ferguson. She’s the designated guillotine victim if something goes wrong.
“I have to be going now, Bobby. You take care of yourself. We should have a drink when you get back. I have a new single malt I’d like to try.”
“I’ll be there.”
10
If the airplane had gone directly to Iraq, it would have been easy to trace. The fact that it had gone to Turkey made things slightly more difficult. Thomas had already requested access to all of the radar and other aircraft intercepts over the border. He could look not only at the summaries but also at the raw data and could call on three different people to help interpret them. But all of the flights over the Iraq border had departed from Syria. It seemed pretty clear from the Israeli data, which he had by now verified with separate NATO intercepts off Cyprus, that there had been a flight out of Latakia to Turkey — Gaziantep, to be specific; not the largest airport in the country but not a dirt strip either. It had its share of regular flights, mostly to other places in Turkey but in about a dozen instances to countries around the Middle East.
Thomas’s mind drifted to Professor Ragguzi and his theory about the Turkey sightings or rather, to Professor Ragguzi’s two-word response to his query. It was unbelievably arrogant. Because he was right, wasn’t he?
Of course he was.
Thomas went back to the list of flights. There were none into Iraq. So either Ferguson was wrong about the plane having Vassenka, or he was wrong about Vassenka going to Iraq. Either way, wrong.
Not that it would bother Ferguson, probably. Thomas knew him only from what Corrigan told him, but it seemed like nothing would bother him.
Unlike Professor Ragguzi, obviously.
The plane was a four-engined turboprop, probably an An-12BP “Cub,” though someone had erroneously called it a Hercules C-130. Obviously, the plane had taken off again, nearly right away. But where was it? Not in any of the intercept sheets. A plane that large would be relatively easy to detect unless it flew very, very low. Frankly, it wasn’t a good choice for sneaking across a border, unless you had to carry something pretty heavy. It was more the sort of airplane you might use as an airliner or heavy commercial transport.
Did Professor Ragguzi know something he didn’t know? Nonsense. Thomas had a record of
Even an extraterrestrial one?
Was
In “plane” sight?
Thomas began hammering his keyboard, realizing where the plane had gone.
Corrigan winced when he saw Thomas coming through the door. The analyst looked even more wild-eyed than normal, assuming there was a normal.
“Ha! Ha!” shouted Thomas.
“Are you all right?” asked Corrigan, carefully positioning himself behind the monitor.
“Ha!” he yelled even louder.
“I really don’t have time to guess what’s going on,” said Corrigan.
“In plain sight. Hiding in plain sight.
Corrigan knew that if he could remain calm and not overreact, Thomas would soon calm down enough to tell him what it was he had discovered. But staying calm while a man was yelling “Ha!” at the top of his lungs in an ultrasecure bunker was a task that would try a Zen master. And Corrigan wasn’t a devotee of Eastern religion.
“Ha!” shouted Thomas.
“No more. What have you found?”
Thomas shook his head. Corrigan could be so slow at times. “The UFOs used the spy missions to hide their flights.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“It was a scheduled flight. The plane from Syria landed in Turkey. Eight hours later, it took off for Iraq. Tal Ashtah New,” he added. “Took off a few hours ago and is back in Turkey. It’s a scheduled flight. The one from Iraq wasn’t; that’s what threw me off. I thought smuggler, and that’s what I looked for. It was a regular flight. A big plane. Four engines.”
“Great,” said Corrigan, who wasn’t about to open Pandora’s box by asking what that had to do with flying saucers. “Let me get Ferg.”
“Tell him Thatch used his credit card this afternoon in Tel Aviv.”
“What? Thatch? The Seven Angels suspect who was blown up in Jerusalem?”
“Ha!”
11
Jean Allsparte gave Ferguson a look of mock horror as the American CIA op slid in at the end of the table at the King Saudi Casino, putting down a stack of chips and pointing at the dealer. The game was blackjack, and Ferguson’s luck ran hot for the first five hands; he won four of them. Now armed with a decent stake, he began betting more strategically, keeping better track of the hands and adjusting his wagering accordingly. After a dozen or so hands, his pile of chips had grown considerably.
Allsparte was both amused and annoyed at this, and kept glancing at Ferguson. He began betting haphazardly. Ferguson waited until Allsparte had a particularly lucky win — he hit sixteen and got a five — then announced in a very loud voice, “I can’t believe you’re counting the cards. And so blatantly.”
“I don’t count cards,” said Allsparte in Algerian-accented French.
The dealer stepped back to take a sip of water. A manager came over and had a word. A larger card chute was ordered over and more decks added to the deal. This annoyed Allsparte immensely: the desired effect. He tried
