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 and 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 drunk 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?”