First Team [First Team 01] Read online

  “Hey, Ferg,” said Corrigan, his face exploding onto the flat plasma screen.

  “What’s the puss about, Jack?” said Ferg. “It’s not payday.”

  “You’re not going to like this.”

  Without any other explanation, Corrigan’s face dissolved into Slott’s.

  “There’s a change in our organizational chart,” said Slott.

  “Auditors finally caught up with you, huh?”

  “One of these days, Ferguson, your wisecracks are going to catch you short. Today may just be the day.”

  “Gentlemen, if we’re through with the fun and games, let’s begin.” Corrine Alston’s face flashed on the screen.

  “Well, if it isn’t the White House lawyer,” said Ferg. “Don’t tell me you’re DDO now.”

  “As a matter of fact, Mr. Ferguson, I’m not. But I am in charge of the Joint Services Special Demands Project Office. And by some quirk in the legislation, it appears that while I have to inform the DDO of what I do, I don’t actually answer to him.”

  “Peachy,” said Ferg.

  “What are you drinking?”

  Ferg held the glass up. “Jack Daniel’s. Want some?”

  “This is government time,” she said frostily.

  “Yeah. I’m drinking in the line of duty.”

  “Yuk, yuk,” said Corrine. “I understand the oil tanker was a bust.”

  Ferg raised his hand. “Uh, Madam Lawyer? Actually, it was ethylene. And it was being outfitted as a covert minelayer. That information has been passed along and is of great value to the agencies responsible.”

  “The information could have been gathered through DRO.” The initials stood for the Defense Reconnaissance Office, which was responsible for satellite tasking.

  “Sure,” said Ferg. “And the Sisters of Charity might have stumbled across it during a fund-raising drive. But they didn’t. Now, if we could get timely data from DRO, that would be nice.”

  “You don’t get timely data?” asked Corrine.

  “We have trouble getting timely train schedules.”

  “I thought the entire idea was to do away with the bureaucracy fettering you.”

  Ferg snorted, and not just because of her somewhat naive notion about bureaucratic prerogatives. He’d never heard the word “fetter” used over a secure com net before.

  “The bureaucracy you’re referring to,” said Slott, rallying to the defense, “is a set of different departments and agencies working together to provide timely support.”

  “Or not,” said Ferg.

  “Improvements will be made,” said Corrine.

  “Hear, hear,” said Ferguson.

  “In the meantime,” said Corrine, “we have a new program.”

  “I like that. What the fuck is it supposed to mean?”

  She frowned slightly at the curse word, which was his intention. She could pretend to be one of the guys, but underneath it she was just another one of those Beltway girls, let into the game because of abstract principles that had nothing to do with reality.

  He sipped his drink as she continued, outlining a plan to follow a shipment of waste from Buzuluk in Russia.

  “Excuse me, didn’t you just suggest we use DRO? The satellites and monitors already keep tabs, and, besides, the Russians guard the trains.”

  “Maybe they don’t guard them very well.”

  “OK,” said Ferguson. “But you’re about a week and a half behind the times. Why fool around with the train anymore when we know the waste is going to Chechnya?”

  “You don’t know that at all.”

  “Excuse me. Strongly suspect. What’s Kiro say?”

  Somebody behind Corrine whispered something to her, bowing his head as if he were speaking to the queen. Ferg couldn’t believe they were all deferring to her already, waiting for her to speak. Slap the White House label on anything, and all of a sudden it rose to the top of the heap.

  “Corrigan,” he said, growing impatient. “What’s new with Kiro? We’re interrogating him, right?”

  “Nothing new, Ferg.”

  “Did you guys apply the screws?”

  “We’re not going to use drags,” said Corrine. “We want to bring him to trial.”

  “So?” said Ferguson.

  “Mr. Ferguson, there are certain legal constraints—”

  “Uh-huh.” Ferg got up and went over to the bar. His refill wasn’t going to be watered down.

  “We’ll launch our project from Moscow tomorrow evening,” said Corrine. “I’ll need three members of your team, Mr. Ferguson. I’d like at least one who’s already familiar with the operation.”

  Since he only had two people with him, Ferguson would have been stupid indeed not to realize she was trying to clip his wings. Dealing with her was going to be a serious pain in the ass.

  “Not a problem,” he said, turning and giving his best smile to the camera. “Give Corrigan the details. I’ll work it out.”

  “Will you be there?”

  “No, I’m due some R&R time.”

  “That’s fine,” she said sharply. Then her feed went blank.

  ~ * ~

  2

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Slott’s reaction to being supplanted was so professionally cold that Corrine couldn’t decide whether it hid anger or relief. She saw no sign that he was in on the president’s game, though she was starting to realize that was no guarantee he wasn’t.

  Slott claimed to have no free CIA personnel to assign to the Team; in fact, he told her, the Agency was desperately undermanned in all areas—a hint that perhaps she might use her influence to free up personnel lines. She did so, but all her phone calls succeeded in doing was shaking loose a previously approved but budgetarily frozen slot for a high-level analyst to help the Team. Corrine finally decided that the SF people could undertake the surveillance mission themselves without Ferguson or another Agency minder. The mission was relatively straightforward, with the Team members expected to stay out of harm’s way and simply gather intelligence.

  Back at her White House office, she tried sorting through some of the other work that was piling up for her. She hadn’t gotten very far when the president summoned her by phone; he had left a few hours before for Chicago.

  “How is Russia?” he asked when she picked up.

  “Russia?”

  “Well now, isn’t that where you are?”

  “Mr. President, you know very well where I am. You called me.”

  “Generally when I ask to speak to someone, the call is put through without bothering me with minor details such as the location of my callee,” he said. “But now that I reflect upon it, the line does not seem to have the usual Russia twang. There’s more a kind of static in the background, the sort of electronic fog I associate with Washington, D.C.”

  “Why do you want me in Russia?”

  “I want you running Special Demands. You outlined a project for the Team, and I expected you to see it through. In person.”

  “But I’m not qualified—”

  “I do wish you’d stop putting yourself down, young lady.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  McCarthy dropped his playful tone. “They have to respect you, Corrine. Make them see you’re a tough ol’ gal. As tough as me. I know you are.”

  “Tough young gal.”

  “Get.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, hanging up.

  ~ * ~

  3

  QATAR, PERSIAN GULF

  “I’ll give the nuns one thing,” said Conners, slapping the beer mug down on the polished blond wood bar. “They taught you how to do arithmetic, and grammar. They were hell on you, but you learned.”

  “Yeah?” Rankin reached for the bowl of pretzel nuggets, selecting one and holding it up for examination. He turned it over and over, as if he were looking at a diamond. Both men had had a few shots to go with their two beers. The Foreign Club was an American-style bar, insulated from the Islamic masses by a squadron of security people an
d a hefty “membership fee.” The very expensive foreigners club would have been normally off-limits and out of reach for American soldiers, but Ferg’s unlimited connections and moxie had gotten them in. Even Rankin would have had to admit the CIA officer knew the meaning of R&R.

  “You’re drinking too much,” Rankin said, as Conners pushed the shot glasses forward for another round.

  “Yup,” said Conners. Rankin reminded Conners of a kid he’d known since grammar school, Peter Flynn. Flynn was an only child and a bit of a priss, and when in sixth grade he announced that he was going to be a priest no one was really surprised. Girls—and probably Flynn’s father—soon put an end to that, but Flynn always seemed a little angry about it, mad that he couldn’t fit into that square hole.

  “I’ll be but drank in good company,” said Ferguson, slapping them both on the back.

  “Hey, it’s the devil himself,” said Conners.

  Ferg pointed at the beer for the bartender, ordering one for himself.

  “What was that you said?” Rankin asked Ferguson.

  “A quote. From Shakespeare.”

  “He was an Irishman, you know,” said Conners.

  “I’ll ne’er be drunk, whilst I live, but in honest, civil, godly company,” said Rankin, supplying the proper lines from Merry Wives of Windsor.

  “Whoa, Skip—you know more than you let on.”

  “Screw you, Ferguson.”

  “How’d it go?” Conners asked.

  “Peachy,” said Ferg, taking his beer. It was a Dortmunder export from Germany, “DUB” or Dortmunder Union Brauerei, which had a dryer, slightly stronger taste than the “normal” German lager. Ferguson drained the mug, then pushed it forward for a refill. “Drink up today, boys, for tomorrow we fly. That’s not a direct quote.”

  Conners glanced over his shoulder, making sure that no one was nearby. The crowd was mostly rich businessmen, but a spy might easily mingle, and of course a good portion of the staff would be in the employ of some intelligence agency or another. “Where we going?” he asked Ferguson.

  “Hither, thither and yon. Skip, here, is going to Moscow.”

  “Moscow?” said Rankin.

  “Russia, not New York. You’re meeting our new boss.” Ferguson pulled over the refilled mug. “Guns’ll meet you,” he said, taking a more sensible sip this time. “I have another SF guy going as well, out of the States. They call him Frenchie—he was on loan to French intelligence for a while and has an accent. Thinks he’s a frog.”

  “What new boss?” said Rankin.

  “Long story, Skip. We’ll get into it later. Any girls around here?” Ferg asked, turning around to survey the room.

  “They don’t allow women,” said Conners.

  “Well, then, we’ll just have to go somewhere that they do, eh?”

  ~ * ~

  4

  SHEREMETROV 2 AIRP0RT, MOSCOW—

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON

  Rankin’s head throbbed as he made his way off the Airbus A330. He turned the wrong way and found himself staring into the stern face of a Russian policeman. He went back and found the route to the baggage area, though he already had all of his luggage, a small carry-on.

  The signs were in English as well as Russian, but the glare hurt his eyes, and he squinted until he finally managed to find the proper Customs line. He unfolded his blue passport—it was his “real” passport, not the diplomatic one he could use in an emergency—and after presenting the lengthy Customs form answered a dozen questions about his stay for a twentysomething woman with hair nearly as short as his. Cleared through, he walked around the building, waiting for whoever was supposed to meet him—it hadn’t been worked out when he left—to do so.

  “Yo,” said someone behind him on his third circuit. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Guns was standing at the side, shaking his head. He was dressed in a black brushed-leather jacket and jeans and wearing an earring; he looked like a British soccer fan sizing up the country for a round of hooliganism.

  “What are you doing?” Rankin said. He’d thought the Marine was in the hospital.

  “Looking for you.”

  “You OK?”

  “Good as ever.”

  “Where’d you get the earring?”

  “Car’s out this way,” said the Marine.

  “Where’d you get the earring?” repeated Rankin, following him outside. The light stabbed at his eyes, and he felt a quick wave of nausea, yesterday’s whiskey rumbling in his stomach.

  “Like it?”

  “No.”

  Guns put his fingers up to it. “It’s a transmitter. I’m being tracked as we speak.”

  “Get out.” Rankin grabbed the Marine and looked at his ear. The earring was a simple gold-colored post.

  “You kiss me, and I’ll slug you,” said Guns.

  “That’s no fucking tracking device.”

  “Join the twenty-first century,” said Guns. “There’s our car.”

  They got into a small Fiat at the far end of the lot. It was a manual; Guns stalled it twice getting out of the spot, grinding the gears when he finally got it into the lane. He managed to work the clutch right at the gate, however, and once they were on the highway he felt comfortable.

  “How was Iran?” Guns asked Rankin.

  “A fuck-up. Ferg got shitty intelligence and almost got himself wasted in a pirate-DVD operation. They made porn movies.”

  “Yeah? Right there?”

  “No, they just made copies. We gave a bunch to the submarine crew and the SEALs. They had a great time.”

  “Did we get one?”

  “You don’t want that shit,” said Rankin. He glanced at his watch, already set for Russian time. He still had an hour to go before he could take more acetaminophen for his hangover. “Where we going?”

  “Another airport called Domodedovo.”

  “Why?”

  “ ‘Cause we’re flying out to someplace called Orenburg. Or actually near there. I’m starting to lose track.”

  “Why?”

  “Man, you ask a lot of questions.”

  “How was Paris?” said Rankin, following along.

  “Busy. We didn’t stay. We drove out to talk to somebody in Reims.”

  “You see the cathedral?”

  “There’s a cathedral there?”

  “Guns, there are cathedrals in every city in Europe. Yeah. It’s pretty famous. Fantastic stained-glass windows.”

  “How about that.”

  “What’s the new boss like?” Rankin asked, changing the subject.

  “New boss is a serious piece of eye candy, but a bit of a bitch,” said Guns. “Ferg don’t like her.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s one thing in her favor.”

  Guns laughed. “We’re going to track a shipment of waste to Kyrgyzstan.”

  “We should’ve done that in the first place.”

  “Yup. You want to stop and get something to eat?”

  “Not really,” Rankin told him.

  “Well, I have to stop anyway.”

  “Go for it, Marine.”

  “I never know how to take you, Rankin,” said Guns.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You making fun or me or what?”

  Rankin bent over his seat belt and looked at him. “No.”

  “You sound like you’re trying to bust my chops.”

  “Jesus, Guns, I got a fuckin’ headache, and I feel like I’m being jerked around on yet another wild-goose chase. What the hell you want me to do?”

  “Your problem is you need to get laid. I’ll tell you, at the infirmary, I met this nurse. First thing I did . . .”

  “Oh Christ,” said Rankin, leaning his head back against the rest.

  ~ * ~

  5

  BAKU, ON THE CASPIAN SEA