31
Rankin tightened his right hand on the truck’s steering wheel to fight off the pain as he drove up the trail. It came and went in odd bursts — his arm would feel numb for a while, then all of a sudden, without even being jostled or smacked, the pain seemed to explode.
“Truck coming,” said Guns.
“They’ll think we’re their friends,” said Rankin. “Until we’re close.”
Guns checked the AK-47, making sure he was ready to fire. Rankin took a deep breath as the other truck got closer. The winding path through the mountains was too narrow for both trucks to pass.
“Let’s do it,” said Rankin. He turned the wheel hard, throwing the truck into a slide perpendicular across the roadway. Guns brought the rifle up and blasted out the front of the guards’ pickup. Then he threw himself backward over the seat, following Rankin out the other side.
Both men crouched behind the pickup, waiting for more gunfire. When there was none, Guns started around the back end of the truck, while Rankin crouched near the front. He held the AK-47 in his right hand, cradling it against his hip, as he cautiously looked around the front of the truck.
“Damn!” yelled Guns from the rear, jumping up as he saw a dark figure running up the hillside. Guns fired a burst and then started to follow, but the man had too much of a lead.
Rankin checked the truck. Two men lay dead in the cab, their torsos riddled with Guns’ bullets.
“You are a pretty good shot,” Rankin said after Guns gave up the chase. “For a Marine.”
“You think we oughta try and catch him?” asked Guns.
“I don’t know. Took us damn long to get this far.” He glanced at his watch. It was past seven. “I think we let him go and keep trying to find the camp. Give Van the heads-up.”
“Call in.”
“I’m not calling Corrigan every five minutes,” said Rankin.
“Call in anyway.” Guns went up ahead, scouting the road for signs of the man who’d gotten away. He was somewhere nearby, but Rankin was right — they couldn’t both look for him and find the camp. They’d already lost several hours on the tangle of paths and half paths in the hills.
The road was too narrow to turn around. Guns got in the back of the truck they’d blasted while Rankin drove backward, looking for a safe spot to turn around. They found one about a quarter mile away, a pull-off around a bend — which also gave them a view of the canyon, and the camp at its end.
“There it is,” said Guns. He jumped out and worked his way down and around the ridge, trying to get a better view. By the time Rankin found him, he was lying on his stomach with his field glasses.
“No fixed guns or anything like that,” said Guns. It was getting dark; even with the glasses Guns had a little trouble making out the camp’s layout.
“Hold on; hold on,” said Rankin. He took out the phone and called Corrigan, then began relaying what they saw. Buses and trucks were clustered near a pair of small buildings at the northern end of the camp. People were lined up around a table near them. Torches were being lit, and their shadows flickered across the desert sand.
“What are they doing?” Rankin asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Rankin, are you sure you don’t see any missile posts?” asked Corrigan. “We need to know for Van.”
“There are no launchers around,” Rankin told him. “They got us with a shoulder-launched weapon. You tell them to jump from altitude and they’ll be safe.”
“Van and his people are less than a half hour away. Just hold tight.”
“Hey, Rankin, check this out,” said Guns. “Looks like they’re getting on the buses.”
32
Patrons entered Laxy’s by walking down a wide staircase made of long, flat stones. Water ran down a shallow channel at the center of the staircase, pooling on a landing at the middle where the stairs pitched around to descend into the cavernlike main room. A separate waterfall filled the entire right-hand wall of the stairs. The mist and sound made it seem as if you were entering a secret underground oasis in the middle of the desert.
Inside, the lighting was low and indirect. Couches and tables were located around panels faced with stone veneers, adding to the ambiance as well as privacy. A small orchestra played in the front corner, filling the space with strains of American music from the 1930s and ‘40s, songs that evoked an era of romance. As in most other places in Tripoli that catered to foreigners, liquor was served freely. The servers were all women; they wore low- slung miniskirts beneath sheer tops that teased patrons with a clear view of the fancy embroidery on the women’s bras.
The food, though overpriced, was excellent. It was almost very Western; it was said that one could not find a better filet mignon in all of northern Africa, and the salmon was flown in daily from Scotland.
Atha had been to Laxy’s two or three times before. He wasn’t surprised that the Russian had chosen it; Rostislawitch’s associate would surely think it was out of the way as well as exotic. Russians usually used hotels on the northwestern end of town for business, and with the FSB looking for them it would make very good sense to head to a place more often associated with Westerners.
The Iranian wasn’t as worried about the Russian intelligence service as he was about closing the deal. He was willing to give Rostislawitch what he’d originally been promised, but coming up with more money at this point would mean going to the minister. Worse, it could easily involve a delay of a day, if not more. The minister would like that even less.
But while Atha had every incentive to get the deal closed quickly, he had to project the image of a man who was not in a hurry. He ambled down the steps into the club, going as slowly as he possibly could, glancing around to see if he might recognize someone. He smiled at anyone who came close to making eye contact, throwing his shoulders back and forth as if he owned the place himself.
The act amused Ferguson, who went ahead to the table without him. It was clear Atha was worried about making a deal. As soon as the Iranian sat down, Ferguson began probing him for information.
“And when we complete the arrangements,” Ferguson said, laying his Russian accent over his English, “how do you plan on using our product?”
“That is none of your concern,” snapped Atha.
“Of course not. But one becomes curious.”
“Curiosity is not an admirable trait in our business.”
Ferguson gestured to the waitress, and told her to bring them a bottle of chilled vodka.
“I don’t drink,” said Atha.
“Some tea then?”
“Nothing.”
“Two glasses. He may change his mind.” Ferguson shooed the girl away. “My curiosity is not idle. I am asking because maybe we have an opportunity for other business.”
“Such as?”
“Lab equipment. It may be easier for us to obtain certain things than it is for you. You don’t want to arouse suspicions. Plus, our prices can be very competitive. We can arrange delivery to Tripoli, Tehran, or anywhere, practically. The desert? A seaport? Not a problem.”
Atha’s eyes flickered ever so slightly at the word
“I have no need for equipment now,” he said. “But in the future, if the price were right, I might be in the market for some things.”
“Such as?”
