“That’s my question for you.”
“I’m about an hour out of Tripoli. You hear about Rankin and Guns?”
“Corrigan told me. They say they’re OK.”
“Rankin’s not that good a liar, so maybe it’s true.”
“You have a rescue operation lined up to coincide with your grabbing Atha?”
“Yup.”
“OK. Good.” She paused for a moment, long enough for Ferguson to guess what was coming.
“I have another request,” she said finally. “MI6 wants in.”
“I don’t know that song. Is it Irish?”
“Mr. Parnelles called and asked that you play nice with them.”
“Yeah, see, it’s not Irish. I only do Irish folk songs. I can give you a very good ‘Finnegan’s Wake.’“
“It’s your call, Bob. And Mr. Parnelles says he owes you an apology.”
“It’s a really funny song. This guy dies, and they give him an Irish wake. Whiskey brings him back to life. A lot of puns, see, through the whole song. I’ll sing it for you sometime.”
“Thanks for the update, Ferg.”
Ferguson checked his watch. It was a little past three, Tripoli time. He pressed the quick-dial for the Cube.
“Corrigan.”
“No shit. Call that number I gave you the other day for Hamilton. Tell him to be on the five-thirty flight out of Naples for Tripoli.”
“You sure, Ferg?” Only an hour before, Ferguson had told Corrigan that if he even mentioned Hamilton again he’d stuff a dozen stale British scones down his throat when he got back to the States.
“There are only two more flights today, Jack. He either gets that one or waits until midnight.”
“Slott’ll be happy.”
“Yeah, well, make the call anyway.” Ferg saw his seatmate returning, and pushed the button to hang up.
21
“How long you figure before they send somebody else out to look for these guys?” Guns asked Rankin after he had finished dragging the last body into the plane.
“Hour, maybe two. We got the radio. We listen for them.”
“Radio transmissions won’t get through the hills. We had better radios than this in Afghanistan and it was always a problem,” said Guns. “By the time we hear them, they’ll be pretty close.”
“Yeah.” Rankin looked around the desert.
“We got two choices — we drive out further so they can’t find us, or we go up into the hills,” said Guns.
“Then there’s door number three,” said Rankin. “We scout the place for the landing team.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“We scout the place, figure out where the defenses are. We’re just sitting here, Guns. We might as well do something that’ll make a difference. Shit, we’ll be sitting on our butts until what? Nine, if we’re lucky. By the time they’re wrapped up and come looking for us, it’ll be dawn.”
Guns looked Rankin up and down, trying to decide whether he was really up to moving around or whether it was just the sedative — aka Jack Daniel’s — talking.
Maybe a little of both.
“I’m OK,” insisted Rankin. “Let’s finish getting the bodies in the plane and go. We’re sitting ducks out here anyway. Our best bet is to get closer to the camp.”
“I’m not sure about this,” said Guns.
“Come on, Marine. Don’t be chicken.”
Guns laughed. A blanket hugger calling a Marine chicken. Some things were just too funny for words.
Rankin got up. His head felt light, because of either the Jack Daniel’s or the fracture.
“I’m just bustin’ on ya,” he told Guns. “We’d better get into the hills before they come for us, right? We don’t know if it’s one road or two roads or what.”
“OK,” said Guns.
“You’re all right for a Marine,” said Rankin.
“And you’re all right for a jerk.”
Rankin cracked up.
Definitely the whiskey, thought Guns.
22
Fresh off the airplane at the Tripoli airport, Ferguson strolled to the nearest bank machine, Rostislawitch’s ATM card in his hand. He angled his head so the machine’s camera couldn’t get a clear shot of his face, then fed the card into the slot and punched the PIN code. He tried to withdraw a hundred dollars’ worth of Libyan money — which didn’t work, since the account was down to five rubles. He checked his balance, took the card, and slid away to the left, again being careful not to let his face be seen.
“It’s so easy to put your money in, so hard to get it out,” he said to an Egyptian woman waiting in line. She nodded in sympathy, even though she didn’t understand all his words.
Outside, Ferguson got a taxi to the Alfonse Hotel. He handed over Rostislawitch’s credit card to the clerk, reserving the room.
“Send some coffee up for me, would you?” Ferguson asked in Arabic.
“There are coffeemakers in the rooms,” said the clerk, trying to sound helpful.
“Oh, I’m not going to drink that. You do have room service, right?”
“We do. Your accent — you’re from Egypt?”
“Moscow. I spent time in Cairo as a boy.”
“Ah. Very good,” said the man, handing over Ferguson’s card key.
The room was on the large size, with a thick gold bedspread ornate enough for Gadhafi to have worn as a robe, and plush velour-covered chairs. Ferguson scanned for bugs, then unhooked the cable from the television and hooked a receiver up so he could use it to monitor the two he’d left in the lobby and hallway. Before he was finished setting up, there was a knock at the door.
“Room service.”
Ferguson went to the door, opened it a crack, and saw a waiter in the hall. His uniform made him look part Arab, part African; he had a long shirt with wooden beads around his neck, and an ornate, red tasseled cap on his head.
Ferguson unlatched the chain and stood back. As the waiter wheeled the cart across the threshold, Ferguson dropped a twenty on the floor.
The server glanced at it; the next thing he knew, he was facedown on the floor, Ferguson’s knee in his back.
“Don’t move.” Ferguson reached under the man’s tunic and pulled out the waiter’s gun, a Walther P88 Compact.
“Nice weapon. I prefer Glocks myself, but you can’t go wrong with a German gun,” said Ferguson, getting up.
“Jeez, Ferg, quit horsin’ around, huh?”
“You think anybody’s buying that disguise, Ferrone? You don’t look any more local than I do.”
