“Often I am looking for spare parts. Items for airplanes. Special ones that can be hard to obtain.”
“I have more sources than you can imagine.”
“Let us see how this goes first. Then, maybe, some more business.”
The drinks arrived. Ferguson turned his glass around, then drained it.
“How far do you have to transport the material?” he asked.
“Not very far.”
“It has to be handled carefully, you know. If you’re taking it by car—”
“I’m well aware of the precautions. Where is the scientist?”
“Scientists are on their own schedule.” Ferguson took the second glass, twisting it on the table once more before downing it.
Atha sensed that the Russian was simply stringing him along. He thought back to the hotel, examining what he remembered, trying to decide whether it had been staged. He didn’t think so, and yet it was certainly possible.
Was the Russian working for the FSB?
It was possible. But in that case he would simply have arrested him at the hotel.
Or kidnapped him. The Russians had no authority here, though that never stopped them.
“I hope he comes soon,” Ferguson told Atha, using the phrase he and Thera had settled on as a signal. “I have some other business to attend to.”
“What sort of business?” asked Atha.
“Personal business,” said Ferguson, refilling his glass.
33
As Rankin and Guns scrambled back toward the truck, another vehicle came up the road toward them from the camp. When he saw the truck, the driver stopped, and another man got out to inspect it.
Guns raised his rifle to fire.
“No,” said Rankin, stopping him. “They’ll hear the gunfire. We won’t make it down to the camp.”
The man who’d gotten out of the truck examined the broken window, then called to the other man. One walked up the road; the other came in their direction.
Crouching by the side of the road, Guns tried to calculate if he could reach the other man before he managed to grab a gun. He was only fifteen yards away, but the rough terrain would slow him down.
“Cover me while I charge him,” Guns told Rankin.
“Listen, that’s not going to work. I’m having a lot of trouble using just one hand to fire,” said Rankin. “I have a better idea. Go back that way and cut up behind him. I’ll moan.”
“What?”
“I’ll pretend like I’m hurt. When he comes down to investigate, jump him.”
“What about the other guy?”
“He’s too far away. It’s dark. Come on. Go.”
Guns slid down a few feet, then began backing around the curve.
Rankin turned around so his face wouldn’t be visible from above, and then began to moan. It took several loud “args” before the man who was on the road heard Rankin and decided to investigate.
“What are you doing?” yelled the man in Arabic. “What happened?”
Rankin continued to moan. Finally the lookout started climbing down to see what had happened.
Guns launched himself at the man, clipping his head and pushing him over. He lost his balance and tumbled into him, and together they slid down the ravine. Rankin, worried that Guns would roll all the way down into the cavern below, dove at them but missed. Jarred, Rankin’s arm shrieked with pain, and he began to groan for real.
Guns got his feet in front of a rock and stopped his slide. He leapt up and hooked the lookout by the back of the neck, hauling him to his feet. The man kicked at Guns but got mostly dirt; he launched a roundhouse that caved in part of the guard’s cheekbone. Then Guns picked him up and threw him back against the rocks, knocking him out.
Guns and Rankin scrambled up to the roadside. The first man was nowhere in sight.
Guns started to walk up the path.
“Forget him. Come on, let’s go,” said Rankin, trying to shake off the pain as he climbed into the truck that had just stopped. “We have to stop the buses and trucks now. Come on. Get the other truck. Come
34
Kiska Babev was huddled with the head of the Russian FSB’s Libyan office when a young clerk knocked on the office door and entered with a folded piece of paper. Impatient at the interruption, Kiska rose from her seat, intending to get herself a cup of tea from the sideboard. As she turned, she found the clerk standing at her side.
“It just arrived for you, Madame Colonel,” said the young woman. “A fax. We’re trying to trace it.”
Puzzled, Kiska unfolded the paper. The message was printed in large block letters:
LAXY’S.
SIX P.M.
— FERG
“Is it important?” the head of the office asked.
Kiska crumbled the paper and threw it into the wastebasket at the corner.
“What is Laxy’s?” she asked.
35
Thera had the driver go around the block twice, making sure that it was clear. When she finally decided they could go in, she took one last look at Rostislawitch, fixing the bulky suit over his frame.
“OK,” she told him, but as he started to get out of the car she pulled him back. “Take this,” she said, passing a small pistol into his hand. “Put it in your pocket. If you need to, use it.”
“I’ve never fired a gun,” said the scientist.
“Use two hands. Hold it like this. There’s a safety catch here. Slide it before you shoot. All right?”
He nodded, staring at the gun. Thera considered moving the catch off for him, but worried that he would accidentally shoot himself when grabbing for the pistol.
“In you go,” Thera said, nudging him from the car. “Walk all the way to the back. Ferguson will be at the far table on the right. Remember the video — he has a beard and glasses now. If there’s a problem, I’ll be very close.”
The scientist nodded.
“Don’t worry,” added Thera. “Ferg has everything under control. He always does.”
Rostislawitch felt the blood rush from his head as he got out of the car. He started walking slowly, gradually gaining speed, though not composure, as he reached the door. He was sweating profusely under the bulletproof
