though?”
“You saw the science reports—depends who you’re talking to. You have enough of it, and it’s a problem.”
Ferguson sat back, thinking about what they had: a discrepancy in a waste shipment, a Russian investigator with expertise in dirty-bomb investigations, a question about someone named Kiro who apparently operated in Chechnya, and an attempt to explode a dirty bomb nearly a decade before in Moscow. Shit.
“Was this ‘Kiro’ involved?”
“We haven’t ID’d Kiro yet. All the known conspirators are dead or in jail.”
“Those spurs connect to Chechnya?” Ferguson asked Corrigan.
“Uh, hold on, let me get the map up. Remember, Ferg, the satellites showed all the cars made it. Hell, if they had a car missing, that would have set off all sorts of alarms. This may all be a wild-goose chase.”
A waiter poked his head out from the doorway. Ferguson pointed to the bottle of water and asked for another, just to get rid of him.
“Ferg? You with me?”
“Just a distraction,” Ferguson said.
“You could get there by train, but it’s awful convoluted and far.”
“Truck?”
“Sure. Same thing.”
“Where’s Sergiv been lately?”
“The Russian?”
“No, my brother-in-law.”
“Don’t have a good line on it.”
“Find out. Because if it’s in Chechnya, that’s where I’m going next. And run down Kiro, okay?”
“I’ve been trying. Listen, Ferg, that’s not as easy as you think. If Nancy were still here—”
Ferguson smiled as Corrigan gave him his usual song of woe. Any second now it would segue into the terrible time he had had in Egypt during the Gulf War— Corrigan had been in PsyOp as part of USSOCOM during the conflict. His main claim to fame before coming to work for the Company had been placing anti-Saddam dialogue in Egyptian soap operas.
“Yeah, well listen, dude, I have to get rolling here,” said Ferg, cutting the performance short. “And listen, tell VB I may need an equipment drop.”
“Where?”
“Well let’s think this through, Corrigan. I just asked you to track down where a Russian FSB agent was in Chechnya, and to get information on a guy we think is a Chechen. Now do you think it’s possible that I might be going in that direction?”
“Yeah, OK. I get it now.”
Ferg clicked off the phone and sipped his water, waiting for the second bottle to arrive. He signed the bill, finished his glass, then took both bottles up with him to the room. The others had already gathered inside.
“Skip, Guns—how was the trip?”
“Brutal,” said Rankin. “Fuckin’ Marines drive like they screw—all over the place.”
“Sounds like a compliment to me,” said Conners.
Guns shrugged. “We got some stares, but as far as I could tell, nobody tagged along.”
Ferguson pulled out the laptop from beneath the bed and powered it up. Turning it on after leaving it alone a few hours was always an adventure—if someone had fiddled with it, the machine was hardwired to eat the hard drive. The bright double beep indicated it was all right; Ferguson entered his passwords and opened the file with the area map.
“There were twelve spurs where the train could have pulled off the main line after the last measurement, before it got down to Kadagac.”
“That’s it?” said Rankin. He wasn’t being sarcastic; he imagined that there would be many more sidings in the fifty-mile-or-so stretch.
“Yup,” said Ferguson.
“You sure it happened on a siding?” asked Guns.
“At this point, I’m not sure of anything,” said Ferg. “Corrigan got some NSA geeks into the computer system that our murder victim used in Kyrgyzstan, but they didn’t find anything except a lot of URLs for porn sites.”
“My kind of guy,” said Conners.
“So maybe he knew something and maybe he didn’t. We’re watching the
“You saw the science reports—depends who you’re talking to. You have enough of it, and it’s a problem.”
Ferguson sat back, thinking about what they had: a discrepancy in a waste shipment, a Russian investigator with expertise in dirty-bomb investigations, a question about someone named Kiro who apparently operated in Chechnya, and an attempt to explode a dirty bomb nearly a decade before in Moscow. Shit.
“Was this ‘Kiro’ involved?”
“We haven’t ID’d Kiro yet. All the known conspirators are dead or in jail.”
“Those spurs connect to Chechnya?” Ferguson asked Corrigan.
“Uh, hold on, let me get the map up. Remember, Ferg, the satellites showed all the cars made it. Hell, if they had a car missing, that would have set off all sorts of alarms. This may all be a wild-goose chase.”
A waiter poked his head out from the doorway. Ferguson pointed to the bottle of water and asked for another, just to get rid of him.
“Ferg? You with me?”
“Just a distraction,” Ferguson said.
“You could get there by train, but it’s awful convoluted and far.”
“Truck?”
“Sure. Same thing.”
“Where’s Sergiv been lately?”
“The Russian?”
“No, my brother-in-law.”
“Don’t have a good line on it.”
“Find out. Because if it’s in Chechnya, that’s where I’m going next. And run down Kiro, okay?”
“I’ve been trying. Listen, Ferg, that’s not as easy as you think. If Nancy were still here—”
Ferguson smiled as Corrigan gave him his usual song of woe. Any second now it would segue into the terrible time he had had in Egypt during the Gulf War— Corrigan had been in PsyOp as part of USSOCOM during the conflict. His main claim to fame before coming to work for the Company had been placing anti-Saddam dialogue in Egyptian soap operas.
“Yeah, well listen, dude, I have to get rolling here,” said Ferg, cutting the performance short. “And listen, tell VB I may need an equipment drop.”
“Where?”
“Well let’s think this through, Corrigan. I just asked you to track down where a Russian FSB agent was in Chechnya, and to get information on a guy we think is a Chechen. Now do you think it’s possible that I might be going in that direction?”
“Yeah, OK. I get it now.”
Ferg clicked off the phone and sipped his water, waiting for the second bottle to arrive. He signed the bill, finished his glass, then took both bottles up with him to the room. The others had already gathered inside.
“Skip, Guns—how was the trip?”
“Brutal,” said Rankin. “Fuckin’ Marines drive like they screw—all over the place.”
“Sounds like a compliment to me,” said Conners.
Guns shrugged. “We got some stares, but as far as I could tell, nobody tagged along.”
Ferguson pulled out the laptop from beneath the bed and powered it up. Turning it on after leaving it alone a few hours was always an adventure—if someone had fiddled with it, the machine was hardwired to eat the hard drive. The bright double beep indicated it was all right; Ferguson entered his passwords and opened the file with the area map.
“There were twelve spurs where the train could have pulled off the main line after the last measurement, before it got down to Kadagac.”
“That’s it?” said Rankin. He wasn’t being sarcastic; he imagined that there would be many more sidings in the fifty-mile-or-so stretch.
“Yup,” said Ferguson.
“You sure it happened on a siding?” asked Guns.
“At this point, I’m not sure of anything,” said Ferg. “Corrigan got some NSA geeks into the computer system that our murder victim used in Kyrgyzstan, but they didn’t find anything except a lot of URLs for porn sites.”
“My kind of guy,” said Conners.
“So maybe he knew something and maybe he didn’t. We’re watching the
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