“No more than you.”
“How much do you want?” asked Guns.
“Fifty grand. American. Small bills.”
“You’re out of your fuckin’ mind,” said Rankin, getting up.
“A thousand,” said Guns, tapping his partner.
“What is this, good cop, bad cop?” George Burns leaned back. “A thousand won’t even pay for my fuel. Fifty grand is a good price.”
Still standing, Rankin pushed his chair back with his leg and folded his arms. The guy seemed like all bluff. “Five thousand,” he told him.
“No way. You guys don’t realize what you’re getting into.”
“Tell us,” said Rankin.
“I ain’t worried about you.”
The waiter came over with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and four glasses.
“Where’s our apple juice?” Rankin asked.
“They don’t serve juice,” said Paul.
“Get us water then. Water?”
George Burns smiled. He took the bottle and poured himself four fingers’ worth of the sour mash Tennessee whiskey into his tumbler. Paul asked for the water in Arabic, then put about a shot’s worth of Jack into his own glass.
“Used to be this stuff was potent,” said George Burns, holding up the glass so he could gaze at the liquid. “Now it’s only eighty proof. Iced tea. Everything fades.”
He drank the glass in a gulp.
“We can get you ten thousand,” said Rankin.
“Fifty. Before I fly.”
“Can’t do it.”
“Oh, well.” George Burns picked the bottle back up and poured another four fingers’ worth into his glass.
“Maybe we could get you twenty-five,” said Guns. “But it would have to go into a bank account. We don’t carry cash.”
“We could figure out a bank account,” said George Burns. “That we could do. But it would have to be fifty.”
“You have no idea where he went,” said Rankin.
George Burns turned toward him, stared for thirty seconds without saying anything, then looked back at Guns. “Put the money in my account, and we take off.”
“You’re going to fly?” said Rankin.
“I’m not walking. That’s a real desert out there, Jack. A real desert.”
“You don’t have to fly us,” said Guns. “Just tell us where it is.”
“No. I take you there. I don’t want any fighters on my tail, either. No paratroopers, nobody but you.”
“My partner comes with me.”
George Burns made a face, but didn’t object. “We fly over their place once, come back. You mark the location with a GPS or whatever you want. Nothing else happens until I’m back, safe on the ground.
“Just tell us where it is,” said Rankin.
“I take you there or no deal.”
“You don’t know where it is, do you?” said Rankin.
“You’d better tell your friend his attitude is about to bump the price another ten grand.”
“We’re not doing fifty,” said Rankin. “Not even if you really do know where it is.”
Guns got up and walked away from the table. Frowning, Rankin went with him.
“I think we gotta take a shot,” said Guns.
“No effin’ way,” said Rankin.
“A flight of the Global Hawk probably costs twice that.”
“I don’t think he really knows,” said Rankin. “He’s a drunk.”
“Corrigan can figure out some way to put the money in an account and then get it back if it’s a bust, don’t you think?”
“How do they get us back?”
“I trust him for that. Ferg would do it.”
Rankin looked across the patio. George Burns had just downed his second glass of whiskey.
“Talk to Corrigan,” Rankin told Guns. “Let me stop this guy from drinking anything else before he gets too loaded to talk, let alone fly.”
7
Ferguson watched from the doorway as the three Fiats drove slowly up the street and stopped near the entrance to the factory. Two men got out of the first car and walked forward, scanning the area.
Ferguson waited until they had passed, then slipped out the door, his Glock pistol in hand.
“You find anything, let me know,” he said to them.
The man sitting in the passenger seat of the second car rolled down his window.
“You Ferguson?”
“Captain Heifers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know where the Ramada is?”
“No, sir, but the cars have Magellan units.”
“Program it in. Once we go, we don’t stop. All right? Nobody stops. Tell them.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ferguson went back into the building. Rostislawitch was still sitting on the cement floor, legs folded yoga- style.
“Come on, Rosty, time to hit the road,” Ferguson told him.
The scientist didn’t move. He was very tired, and still in shock.
“We have to go in case our friends come back,” said Ferguson. “We’re only a couple of blocks away. This isn’t safe.”
Ferguson slipped the gun into the front of his belt. “Thing is, Rosty, T Rex has taken two shots at you and missed both times. I’m sure he’s missed opportunities before, but I don’t know what the odds would be on your surviving shot number three.”
“Artur, it’s the only way,” said Thera, kneeling next to him. “Come with us now. At least you’ll be safe.”
Rostislawitch turned his head and looked into her eyes. It was possible, still possible, that they had staged everything for his benefit.
“I know it’s hard to trust us,” said Thera, putting her hand on his shoulder. “But come with us now. We can get you cleaned up, get you something to eat. Then you can decide.”
Rostislawitch rose. He’d already decided. He had to trust them. He just had to. Whatever doubts remained.
Ferguson was already out the door. The civilian-clothed Marines were now at either end of the block, scanning up and down. He opened the door to Captain Helfers’s sedan, then waited as Rostislawitch and Thera emerged from the building.
“You’re in the middle,” Ferguson told the scientist as Thera ran around the other side. After Rostislawitch was inside the car, Ferguson took a last look down the block, then got in and slammed the door. “Go; let’s go,” he said. “Just go.”
