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mean it is the best in the world.”
     
    The man called him a jackass and easy mark in Arabic, then said in English that he must have an appointment in order to get a suit.
     
    “Well, then I’ll make one,” Ferguson said.
     
    “Yes, yes,” said the man, who turned to the customer at his left and began a harangue about the importance of choosing the proper shade of gray.
     
    “Can I use your phone?” Ferg asked. “I want to check my itinerary.”
     
    The man waved at him dismissively.
     
    Ferguson stepped over to the desk, which was partly obscured by fabric and a pile of large, yellowing papers that proved to be customer invoices. He picked up the phone and punched the numbers rapidly, connecting with a local line that had been set up for the First Team. The line was being monitored by Corrigan.
     
    “Jack, how are ya?” he said brightly. “I’m standing here in Qasim’s Tailor Shop and looking to know—”
     
    Something prodded him in the ribs. Ferg turned and saw one of the assistants holding a Beretta.
     
    “It’s just a local call,” he said, but when the boy poked him again he thought it best to replace the receiver on the cradle.
     
    ~ * ~
     
    R
    ankin felt the phone vibrating in his pocket. He reached down and hit the “OK” switch. The unit was similar to stock iridium phones though smaller and with several customized features: besides the silent alert it had 128k encryption and plugs that would let him use his radio’s mike and ear set.
     
    “Ferg just called from a tailor,” said Corrigan. “Something’s up.”
     
    “Yeah, he needs a new pair of pants.”
     
    “You’re starting to sound just like him.”
     
    “I’m standing across the street from it. We got it covered.”
     
    ~ * ~
     
    W
    hy are you here?” the fat customer asked in the back room of the shop.
     
    “Best suits in Cairo,” said Ferguson. The man didn’t quite understand his English. “I got a message that said to come here. I follow directions.”
     
    The customer turned to the younger man who had pulled the gun. They spoke in Arabic so quickly that Ferguson couldn’t catch it all, but what he did catch wasn’t particularly encouraging: the fat man called him an “unnecessary nuisance” and berated someone named Ali for originally making contact with the “American idiots.”
     
    “In the car,” the fat man told Ferg.
     
    “Which car?”
     
    “In the back. Go.”
     
    “This is just business. We don’t need a gun. We’re friends.”
     
    “In the car.”
     
    “It would make me less nervous if he put that away,” Ferguson said, gesturing with his head toward the pistol. The fat man frowned but then told the younger man that Ferguson, being an American idiot, was harmless.
     
    Out in the alley, Ferguson stopped to tie his shoe. As he did, he activated the homing device in his heel and turned his radio on. The fat man grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him upward, pushing him in the direction of a white Mercedes S a few yards up the alley.
     
    “Nice,” said Ferg cheerfully. “This is the executive version, right? Got the bulletproof glass, armor on the side; must’ve cost you a fortune.”
     
    “Just get in.” The fat man opened the door with a key fob device.
     
    “Want me to drive?”
     
    “The back, idiot,” said the man, adding a string of curses in Arabic.
     
    Ferguson slid into the backseat and pushed over. He gave Fatman a goofy smile as he got in and slammed the door. The kid got into the driver’s seat.
     
    “What is your interest in Palestine?” asked Fatman as the car reached the street.
     
    “Does it matter?” said Ferg.
     
    The man made a snorting sound that reminded Ferguson of a choking walrus. He supposed it was meant to be dismissive.
     
    “You think the Prophet Jesus will come on a cloud,” said Fatman.
     
    “Well, I don’t know if it would be a cloud.” Ferguson looked out the window, trying not only to get a rough idea of where they