Angels of Wrath

hard not to be flustered, but the larger deck threw off the Algerian’s system, for contrary to what he told Ferguson, he did count cards. After a string of losses, he could no longer contain his impatience. He grabbed his drink from the table and stalked up to the tiered lounge area a short distance away.

Ferguson played two more rounds, collected his chips and went up to the table.

“What do you want?” asked Allsparte in his native French. He did not use the polite pronoun.

“Birk,” said Ferguson. His sat phone, set on vibrate, began to buzz, but he ignored it. “I’m looking for him.”

“You ruin my night because of him?” said Allsparte, using even less polite pronouns.

Ferguson scratched the side of his temple.

“I need to find him.”

“What was he going to sell you? I will get it ten percent cheaper, just to be rid of you.”

“Missiles,” said Ferguson. “Scuds.”

Allsparte made a face and picked up his drink, but at last he was being serious. Ferguson watched the Algerian calculating what to say.

“The Polack is not so crazy as to sell Scuds,” said Allsparte finally. “And not to you.”

“To who then?” Ferguson mixed real questions with dodges, making it more difficult for anyone to follow his trail.

“He has none. Birk would never sell a Scud.”

“Did Vassenka buy from someone else?”

“Which agency do you work for? MI6? Or the Americans?”

“I have my own interests.”

“Which are?”

“I’m looking to blow up something very big.”

“The only thing that Birk had that would interest you was a cruise missile,” said Allsparte. “He mentioned to me that he would sell it soon.”

“An American missile?”

“Don’t be absurd. A Russian weapon.”

“Where did he keep it?”

“Around.”

“In the port?”

Allsparte shrugged. “I don’t inquire too deeply.”

“Did you transport it for him?”

Allsparte shook his head.

“Is it still for sale? Or did Vassenka buy it?”

“You should know that Vassenka is not a user of missiles.”

“Khazaal.”

Allsparte shrugged.

“Did Khazaal buy some rocket fuel or Scud parts?”

“You have an obsession with Scuds; you must work for the Americans.”

“I can pay a good price for Scuds.”

“You should talk to Birk. He is the seller, not I. I move things at his request.

“What have you moved lately?”

Allsparte shook his head. “Very little.”

“You know where he is?”

“I do not keep track.”

“What about the Siren missile. I want it.”

“Really, you should address your questions to him.”

“I need a serious missile,” Ferguson told Allsparte, deciding to push things as far as he could. “Birk was going to sell me a Siren missile. But Birk disappeared.”

“A shame.”

“Where can I find something similar?”

“Have you spoken to Ras?”

“Claims he can’t help me,” said Ferguson, which was true.

“Well, then, neither can I.”

“Did Birk sell the Siren to Khazaal?”

“What would an Iraqi do with a cruise missile?”

“Same thing I want to do.”

Allsparte shook his head. “If I knew where Birk was, I would tell you just to get you away from me. I can’t stand your odor. But I do not.”

Ferguson leaned very close and lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “If I find out you’re lying, it’s not going to be pretty.”

Allsparte stared at him for a moment, then nodded almost imperceptibly. “I don’t know where he or the missile is.”

* * *

The aircraft the Israelis had tracked and that Thomas had traced was large enough to carry a Siren cruise missile and its associated hardware. Which suggested to Ferguson that whoever had helped Vassenka had purchased the missile from Birk and taken the weapon with the expert to Iraq. Birk might even have sold the weapon to Vassenka himself, provided the Russian would pay the undoubtedly steep premium he would ask. Birk complained a great deal about Russians, but in the end money was stronger than his prejudices.

Ferguson plied the casinos for another two hours, but failed to hear anything about where Birk was. Nor did the bugs pick up activity in Coldwell’s room. The video image had been tentatively matched against a driver’s license picture. The match was not perfect, but for Ferguson the ID was synched by the fact that Coldwell had disappeared from her Chicago-area home. He didn’t think she had bought Birk’s weapon and wasn’t surprised that she was missing again: Coldwell had probably approached someone with a less well-developed sense of propriety or humor than Birk and paid for her insanity with her cash and life.

“I have been wondering when you would show up again,” said Ras when Ferguson walked into the Barroom. “But where is your wife?”

“She has a headache,” said Ferguson.

They bantered back and forth a bit, Ras noting that the town had been quiet of late.

“Funny you should mention that,” said Ferg. “I hear your competition is hiding out.”

“What competition?”

“Birk.”

“Why would he hide?”

“Supposedly because he supplied the Israelis with the weapons that were used to blow up the Iraqis at the airport.”

“Birk? Never.”

“It’s what I hear.”

“I would not believe that.”

“Someone told me he’s hiding out in the yacht he sold to buy the Sharia. It’s called the Saudi King and anchored near Jezira,” said Ferguson.

“Why would he hide there? Everyone knows he sold it.”

“I think that was the idea. Then again, maybe not.” Ferguson poked the lime twist in his drink. “People tell me things, and I believe them. I’m just a gullible fool.”

* * *

An hour later, Ferguson slid a small speedboat around the ships moored off Jezira, a floating dock large enough to earn the Arab name for island. Corrigan’s photo analysts had not been able to find Sharia anywhere off Syria. Clearly the yacht was gone, but was Birk? Linking him to the attack at the airport was the surest way Ferg could think of to find out if Birk was or wasn’t in Latakia; if the authorities came looking for him here, then clearly he was nowhere else to be found.