OUTSIDE YOPURGA, KYRGYZSTAN
Rankin took a sip of the bottled water, swishing it through his teeth. The train had been parked on a siding about two miles out of town, waiting for reasons that weren’t obvious, at least to him. The guard had been increased and now included two helicopters, which he could hear hovering a short distance away. Kyrgyzstan had supplied two truckloads of soldiers, and the Russians had a helicopter working along the track, checking for sabotage, another new development.
Rankin took another swig of the water, trying to stay awake. The waste receiving station lay about ten miles to the south; his operation was just about done. Obviously, the missing boxcar had contained the smuggled material, but he had to hang in until the bitter end.
Then he could sleep.
He ran his fingers across his scalp, digging in with his fingernails. Scratching was supposed to increase the blood flow, make your brain work better.
He could always take a pill if he had to. Ferg called them “pseudobenz”—though they worked like pep pills, they were chemically different and allegedly nonaddictive. Rankin didn’t trust that, and had never actually taken one, not even to
familiarize himself with the sensation. As far as he knew, Ferguson hadn’t either, nor did he push the pills very much—one of the Team leader’s few redeeming characteristics.
Actually, Ferguson had a few positive characteristics, but Rankin didn’t like him anyway.
Rankin reached for the door handle, deciding to stretch his legs. He was just getting out of the car as the sat phone beeped.
“Rankin.”
“Alston,” said Corrine on the other end. “What’s it look like there?”
Rankin gave her an update.
“I think we should pull the plug on the surveillance,” she said. “We have some action going down.”
“OK,” he said.
“Corrigan will get you transportation,” she said.
The line went dead before he could say anything else.