Angels of Wrath

“A little early.”

“Not by the time we get there.”

“We’re going to Iraq?”

“No. I think Rankin can handle that all right. I have another wild goose chase for us. Grab your gear. Pack some sensible shoes.”

“Always.”

“And a bathing suit.”

“I have my diving suit.”

“Bathing suit. It may come in handy.”

18

BAGHDAD

LATER THAT NIGHT …

The security people had already heard about the Russian missile and Vassenka by the time Corrine spoke to them. They were skeptical, especially when they heard that the missile had supposedly been delivered to Tikrit.

“It’s well out of range,” an Air Force major told her. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“The idea was that they would move it,” she said. Corrigan had arranged for Rankin to give her a briefing an hour before. They were following a lead on Vassenka, though she had gathered from Corrigan that it was a long shot.

“We’ll have coverage around the clock,” said the major. “If they come out to set it up, we’ll see them. It won’t be a problem, believe me.”

“I’d like to,” said Corrine.

The others looked at her, waiting for her to add something optimistic, but she didn’t.

19

TEL AVIV

The marina where Thatch’s credit card had been used catered to very well-off locals and a few extremely wealthy tourists, providing general services and specializing in week-long rentals of cabin cruisers. From the amount of the charge on Thatch’s card, it appeared that the account had been used for one of the latter: a deposit equivalent to a thousand dollars had been charged, along with a fee close to five hundred entered separately.

Ferguson wanted more information than the simple line in the account would give. When he and Thera arrived, the marina’s business office had just closed, which was perfect, actually.

“How do you figure that?” asked Thera as he walked back up the road toward their rental car.

“I am pretty hungry,” he told her. “Let’s go have some dinner and come back later.”

“Later?”

“I prefer to do my breaking and entering at night.”

A half hour later, having not only talked his way into the exclusive Ile de France restaurant several blocks away but also secured a table with a superb view of the Mediterranean, Ferguson ordered a bottle of Les Bressandes, a Burgundy red that was both obscure and tres expensive. He was not quite the wine snob that the choice implied; he chose the wine as well as the restaurant primarily because of the price. He watched Thera as she studied the menu, trying to gauge her reactions to the place, the prices, and the ambience. He was back to looking for context, though he remained aware that there were limits: a person might be comfortable with wealth or uncomfortable, envious or indifferent; none of those things made him or kept him from a being a thief. Or her, in this case.

“Here’s mud in your eye,” said Ferguson, clinking glasses with Thera after the wine was poured, scandalizing the overly pretentious wine steward who had hovered nearby.

“Wow, this is good,” said Thera, taking a sip. She looked around the restaurant. “You eat in places like this all the time?”

“When the job calls for it.”

“And it does here?”

“Absolutely.” Ferguson picked up the menu. “I’m going to have a lot of food: soup, salad, the whole nine yards. Get a good feed bag going.”

Thera saw the look of disdain on the waiter’s face as he overheard Ferguson’s American slang. But when he asked Ferguson in a rather forced French accent whether Monsieur was prepared to order, Ferg ripped off his order in French so rapid and fluent that the man — who came from the Ukraine, not France — was lost.

“You love doing that to people, don’t you?” Thera asked. “You just love riding them.”

“He was pretty pretentious.”

“But you would have ridden him anyway.”

“Probably.” He reached into his pocket and took out the bracelet. “Look what I found on the beach.”

Thera took it. “Wow.”

“You can have it, if you want,” Ferguson added.

“Where’d you get it?”

“Told you. I found it on the beach.”

She took it in her hand, unsure exactly what to say. “Ferg… Listen, Bob, I don’t want to be part of this.”

“Part of which?”

“Part of whatever it is you’re doing. You’re skimming money, right?”

“What if I were?”

“God, you can’t. That is so—” She folded her arms in front of her chest, surprised that he was so blatant about it. Then she worried what he might do.

“That’s from the briefcase, isn’t it?” she said. “And you didn’t turn the money in from the car in the desert.”

“Why would I take money?” he asked her.

“You tell me.”

“Why would you do it?”

“I wouldn’t.”

She’d been a little too loud. From the corner of her eye she saw heads turning in their direction. Thera reached for her glass and took a slow sip.

“You think I held that money?” he asked her. The idea that someone might question his honesty had never occurred to him.

“Yes.” Thera stared at his eyes, trying to decipher what was going on. Was he testing her?

“Why would I hang on to that? It was counterfeit.”

“No.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“Really?”

“Check.”

“Should I call Corrigan?”

“Corrigan wouldn’t know counterfeit money if he printed it himself. Call Van Buren. We’re due to check in anyway. Give him our location and say ‘Oh, by the way, that fifty g’s Ferguson found in the desert…’”

“But maybe you lied to him.”

“I guess. And I swapped it out with counterfeit money I just happened to have with me.”

“I will ask him.”