Soul of the Assassin

1

It was as if a twister had come at him sideways, throwing Rostislawitch down and then pummeling him with debris and grit, turning the day black. He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t hear. A man had been dropped on him, a helmeted motorcyclist. Something had exploded — Rostislawitch felt the concussion and thought of Chechnya in the final days he’d spent there.

There was a humming sensation — not people singing, but a kind of vibration that came from inside him. He thought of his wife, of the little church where they had gone to marry in the days when worship was still officially outlawed, though the authorities looked the other way or even attended themselves. The sensation was the same as what he felt standing near the altar as the pipe organ played, the floor, the walls, vibrating with its sonorous tones.

Sweat poured from his body. Someone looked at him, stared into his eyes. They might be speaking, but he couldn’t hear.

Was he dying? He didn’t think so. He didn’t wish it, even if it would be an escape. To wish for death was wrong.

The sky suddenly turned very blue. Rostislawitch thought of the girl at the conference, Thera. He’d like to see her again.

And the Iranian?

Maybe he had done this. Or was it perhaps the work of the Russian FSB, trying to eliminate him?

The humming stopped; Rostislawitch heard a scream and then the sound of a siren in the distance.

After the initial shock of the blast cleared, Rankin froze, unsure whether to chase after the man who’d left the van or go for Ferguson, who’d been back on the other side of the van, closer to the bomb. Then Rankin’s instincts kicked in and he ran across the street, racing toward the prone figures curled against the side of a building. He started to touch Ferguson’s body, bracing himself for blood and worse; instead, Ferguson rolled over to his stomach and then jumped, unsteady but intact, to his feet.

Rostislawitch was a few feet away, dazed and breathing heavily, but seemingly OK. The nearby cars had taken the brunt of the explosion; one was on fire.

Ferguson pointed at Rostislawitch. “Is he OK?” he asked, his voice faint.

Rankin thought Ferguson’s helmet was muffling his voice. But as Rankin bent to check the Russian more closely he realized the explosion had temporarily damaged his hearing.

“He’s breathing,” said Rankin, straightening.

Ferguson pointed down the street. “Check and see if anyone’s watching,” he said.

“I saw a guy get out of the van.”

“Shit.”

“You sure you’re all right?”

“What’d he look like?”

Rankin described the glimpse he’d gotten — a man, five-eight, with a blue jacket and a green ski cap.

“Which way?” asked Ferguson.

“That way.”

“Go. I’ll talk to the Italians. Go. Go!”

2

Corrine Alston was in the middle of a meeting with lawyers from the FTC about the proposed language approving the merger of the two satellite radio companies when she got an alert on her Blackberry to call Daniel Slott. She stifled her angst, and waited a few seconds for the proceedings to reach a natural pause before excusing herself.

“Slott.”

“This is Corrine Alston.”

“There was an explosion in Bologna. Our people are OK.”

“T Rex?”

“Not sure. Not a bad guess, though. We’re still getting details. This was five minutes ago.”

“Does the President know?”

“I thought you’d want to update him yourself.”

“I will, thanks.”

Simple courtesy, Corrine wondered, or was Slott trying to make sure he wasn’t associated with a setback?

“I finally heard back from British MI6,” added the CIA’s Deputy Director. “They’ve promised to cooperate.”

“Will they?”

“Maybe,” said Slott. “They didn’t have much else about Atha. Some humint said he was worth watching in Italy. Human intelligence. The source was vague. That’s their story. I don’t think they’re lying, but it is thin.”

“I’m calling the President right now,” she told him, hanging up.

3

Atha took a deep breath as the elevator opened, then walked out into the hallway of Rostislawitch’s hotel. Unlike most large hotels, there were no signs to show which way the numbers ran; Atha had to check on the doors and then guess the right direction. The hotel’s hallways were laid out in an intersecting H pattern, with an occasional dead end due to an oversized suite, and it took him five minutes to find the room. By then, sweat had begun dripping down his sleeves to the palms of his hands, and running down his back. When he found the door to Rostislawitch’s room, the Iranian hesitated a moment, then knocked.

There was no answer. By now the scientist would be at the conference several blocks away. Atha knocked again, then reached into his pocket for the electronic room key.

The device was an emergency key card that could be used as a master key. The one downside was that, like any key card, it would leave an audit trail in the hotel system; depending on how the doors and locks were wired and what procedures the hotel followed, it could alert the main desk. Atha had posted his driver in the lobby as a lookout to warn him if they sent someone in his direction.

His talk with the minister had left Atha jittery, even fearful. He had never been under such pressure for a deal before. The rewards would be much greater — many times so — but the sharp beat of his heart made him think that even if he was successful, he had traded several years of his life for it.

Atha’s hands were so wet with perspiration that the card slipped and fell to the floor. He quickly scooped the card back up, slid it into the slot and then out, and pushed the door open.

The room was small, and empty. The bed had been made. There was a small briefcase next to the desk and an old piece of luggage on the stand near the window. Atha reached into his pockets and pulled on some rubber gloves. Then he began pulling open the drawers.

There was nothing in them. He went to the minifridge below the desk, kneeling so he could look inside. Some orange drink, water, a few beers, and wine. Atha looked at each bottle carefully, making sure they were legitimate.

The problem was he didn’t know how big the package with the material would be. Dr. Hamid, the expert who had helped Atha set up the project and who was now waiting for him to return with the material, had said the material could be contained in a relatively small vessel, and could be stored for several days at room temperature — one of the benefits of the design. But beyond that, his description was vague. The material, Hamid believed, could be carried in a liquid or in a gel. Since only Rostislawitch had seen it, any description was only a guess.

Atha rose and opened the suitcase. There were clothes, and two photographs — one of Rostislawitch with a woman, and another of just the woman herself. Atha assumed it was Rostislawitch’s wife, who the scientist had mentioned had died some time ago. She was a small woman, with a ruddy, darkish face and brown hair. A handsome face, despite her years.

The Iranian continued hunting through the clothes, placing them on the bed carefully to make it easier for him to look. There was nothing in the bag but clothes. The socks at the bottom had small holes in the heels; the pants next to them were frayed at the bottom.

It was useless. Rostislawitch was a brilliant man, a scientist, a genius. He would not keep the material with him. That was a simple precaution.

Had he left it in Russia? He had promised to make it available within twenty-four hours.

So it was a ruse. A trap. Maybe Russian intelligence was behind the entire thing. Atha’s own intelligence service had assured him Rostislawitch would be acting alone, but what did those fools know? They were guessing, telling him what they thought the minister wanted to hear.

Atha returned the clothes to the suitcase and smoothed out the bed. He started to leave, then remembered the briefcase.

He stared at its position against the desk, memorizing it. Then he picked it up and looked at it. Made of leather, it had a flap over the top secured by a simple lock; Atha pushed the center clasp; it sprang open, the case pitching down because of its weight. Papers and pens flew onto the floor. Once again, Atha began to sweat profusely, his hands trembling.

He put the briefcase on the bed and looked inside. There was one large book, in Russian; he couldn’t tell what it was about, but it looked like some sort of reference or textbook. There was a spiral-bound notebook next to it. Atha pulled it out, looked at a few pages; it was completely blank. A folder in another compartment had loose-leaf paper filled with what looked like notes for a lecture.

Atha replaced them, then knelt to look at the papers. They were travel documents, some in Italian, some in Russian — printouts of Web reservations, he thought.

He was beginning to translate the Italian when his mobile phone rang. Atha jumped to his feet.

“What?” he said, pulling the phone from his pocket.

“Something is going on. There are sirens. Did you hear the thud? An explosion?”

“No. What’s happening in the lobby?”

“Everyone’s looking out the window, and going into the street.”

“Keep watching. I’ll be down shortly”

Atha snapped the phone off, and slipped it back into his pocket. Then he picked up the travel documents.

Rostislawitch had taken the train from Moscow to Munich, and from Munich to Italy.

But not to Bologna, at least not according to the ticket information. He’d gone to Naples.

Why go that far south, only to double back and return?

Perhaps he had made a mistake, buying the ticket to the farther city, then getting off beforehand. But surely a man without much money, which Rostislawitch was beyond doubt, would have turned in the unused portion.

He would not have bought it in the first place. That was the sort of mistake one did not make; even a man unfamiliar with Italy’s geography would know to go no farther than Rome.

Atha went through the papers again. Was there a hotel reservation? What would Rostislawitch have done in Naples?

There were more papers indicating he’d taken another train from Naples, this time to Rome, and from there to Bologna. He’d had only fifteen minutes between trains in Naples, and five in Rome.

Fifteen minutes would not have been very long. But he must have used it to leave the material somewhere. Or to give it to someone.

Atha went back to the suitcase and searched it again, this time looking for a receipt or a key or some other clue that would tell him what Rostislawitch had done in Naples, or anywhere else along the route for that matter.

Atha couldn’t remember the train station there. It was relatively big, he thought. How long would it take to get from one train to another, to find the right platform? Five minutes, at least, if you weren’t familiar with it. Maybe more. Barely enough time to leave the station and get back.

Had someone been waiting there for Rostislawitch? The background information the minister had developed months before said the scientist had virtually no friends, and no foreign contacts; it was what made him such a likely target in the first place.

Hiring someone to take a package would not be difficult, but who would you trust? Naples was the sort of place where one could find people willing to do almost anything for a price, but there was always someone on the next corner willing to outbid you, then have your throat slit for a joke.

If the scientist handed the material off to someone, it could be anywhere. But if he had no accomplice, then it would have to be very close to the station.

Naples. Atha could go there himself: his backup plan for leaving Italy had been arranged around leaving from the port city, if flying out by air to Libya seemed too dangerous.

He was getting ahead of himself. The material might be at any stop along the way: the fact that the scientist bought the ticket did not mean that he had used it, or at least not all of the portions.

Still, a man on a tight budget would tend to economize where possible.

There should be a clue somewhere among Rostislawitch’s things. An address or a key, a phone number.

Atha went through the drawers and then back into the suitcase quickly; he found nothing.

Maybe the scientist had it with him. Well, in that case, finding it would be easy — though not a job for Atha.

His phone rang again. He snapped to on.

“Yes, what?”

“There are police cars, sirens, soldiers on the street!” said the driver.

“Calm down,” said Atha, though hardly calm himself. “Go outside. Move the car. Drive. I’ll tell you where to pick me up. Go.”

4

By the time he arrived at the hospital, Rostislawitch had shaken off the daze of the explosion and the resulting chaos. He checked his arms and legs carefully, and knew he was all right. But the nurse who saw him as he was wheeled in couldn’t understand what he said — his English had deserted him, and his Russian was very fast, fueled by adrenaline. She waved the gurney toward a warren of curtained rooms at the right. Two doctors came over, talking to him in Italian and then in unsteady English, but Rostislawitch failed to make them understand that he was fine. They flashed their small lights in his eyes, poked his chest, and ran their fingers around his forehead.

“Bones broken?” asked one in English, examining Rostislawitch’s legs.

He understood the words and said in Russian that he was OK, but English remained stubbornly beyond his tongue. He had no choice but to turn his body over to them for a few moments, allowing himself to be twisted and pulled. When he didn’t shriek, the doctors concluded that he was probably all right — but ordered X-rays and a CAT scan to be sure. Then they moved on to the next curtained cubicle.

Rostislawitch pushed himself upright on the bed. It had been a considerable time since he’d been in a hospital — not since Olga’s final days.

He remembered the large wardroom, the smell of death disguised as medicine.

And Olga’s face, staring up at him from a cowl of sheets, her life drained down into an invisible hole beneath the mattress, the last drops slowly seeping away.

That week he’d wanted the whole world to feel his grief.

And he still did. Take revenge against everyone.

Rostislawitch stared at the curtains in front of him, his eyes focused on the pattern of the folds, imperfect waving lines up and down. He had no choice but to go ahead with the Iranian. He’d kill him otherwise.

The curtain pulled open abruptly. A nurse appeared. Rostislawitch stared at her, confused, then saw there was someone behind her.

Thera, the girl from the conference.

Thera.

“Are you OK, Professor Rostislawitch? We heard — we thought — there was an announcement at the conference that you were dead.”

Her eyes looked puffy, Rostislawitch thought.

Thera switched to Greek, speaking rapidly, telling Rostislawitch that she’d been very concerned and come immediately.

“I am fine,” said Rostislawitch, in English. The first words seemed to break through a wall. The others were easier. “I am OK. How did you hear?”

Thera put her hand to her chest, explaining that the conference sessions had been temporarily postponed, and announcements made about the blast. His name had been mentioned.

She was lying, but for that moment her concern was real to her, and not one person out of a hundred could have detected any insincerity. She thought of what she would feel if her uncle had been hurt; he looked a little like Rostislawitch, though not as far out of shape.

“I was worried,” she repeated. “Concerned.”

Rostislawitch felt a surge of energy, then embarrassment over how he must look. “I am ready to leave,” he said, starting to get up.

“Are you sure? They said you needed X-rays.”

“X-rays?” He waved his hand, then pushed his feet over the side of the bed to the floor. “A good vodka. That is what I need.”

5

Miraculously, no one had died when the bomb exploded, but the attack had unleashed a firestorm of political and media chaos, with officials and newspeople descending on the city. Imperiati managed to stay behind the scenes, passing off the public face of the emergency to a deputy interior minister whose specialty was public relations. But the SISDE officer had no way of shucking the real responsibility, and he seemed to have aged several years when Ferguson finally managed to get to the police station in answer to several calls. Ferguson expected him to blame the U.S. for the attack, but instead his first words were, “It could have been much worse.”

Ferguson nodded.

“You were almost killed,” said Imperiati. “I thought you did not care about the Russian.”

“I don’t. I was screwing around with the bike and lost control.”

Imperiati processed the words, then raised an eyebrow. The American had an odd sense of humor.

“The police think this was a terror attack,” said Ferguson.

“And you don’t?”

“I think it’d be a pretty big coincidence,” said Ferguson. “We know T Rex is looking to strike his victim here, and make it look like a terrorist attack. And you didn’t encounter earlier intelligence of a group targeting the area.”

“How do you know that?” said Imperiati defensively.

“Because you would have told me the other day if you did. Not necessarily in words,” added Ferguson quickly. “But in the way you questioned me.”

Ferguson was correct, but the Italian intelligence officer resisted telling him so. “I have to keep an open mind,” he said.

“Sometimes that means resisting the obvious conclusions. T Rex has used a bomb like this before. Even though it wasn’t at one of the places his people scouted out, it has to be him. I can get some forensic people here to help you. Real quiet.”

“We have many experts. The work will be very thorough. The information your people have supplied has already been useful,” added Imperiati. “We will continue to share information of mutual benefit.”

Ferguson pulled the chair behind him out and sat down, studying Imperiati. He needed the Italian’s help, but he was uncomfortable saying so. He remembered something his father had told him once: it’s more difficult working with an ally than with an enemy.

When had he told him that?

Just before Moscow, where the Frenchman had screwed him, and Kiska had saved his life.

“There is something on your mind?” Imperiati asked.

“Yeah. Just before the bomb went off, I saw someone with a cell phone.”

“A cell phone was used for a trigger.” Imperiati knew this not because of any great forensic discovery but from simple police work — one of the first officers on the scene had found a portion of the bomb in a nearby yard.

Ferguson nodded as if he’d known, rather than merely suspected, this. The jammer in the art building wasn’t strong enough to affect the block where the bombing took place.

“Can you describe the person with the phone?” said Imperiati.

“I can do better than that. I know who she is: Kiska Babev. She works for the Russian FSB.”

“Is that your T Rex?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure why she would kill Rostislawitch.”

Imperiati clapped his hands together. “But of course it makes sense. The MI6 agent, Harrison, follows an Iranian who meets with him. The Russians must be following, too — they want to eliminate him.”

“Why wouldn’t they get the Iranian then? Or just arrest our guy? Killing him means they can’t question him, find out who might be helping him, that sort of thing. Plus it can be messy. Collateral damage, as we’ve seen.”

“He is in Italy. They cannot arrest him here.”

“True. But we think T Rex is a freelancer,” said Ferguson. He was still trying to work it out himself.

“You are sure about that? You told me — che cosa hai detto? — you said that you did not know who he might be. He could be anyone. Even yourself.”

“I think we can rule me out.” Ferguson rose. “If I get you information on Kiska Babev, background, aliases, can you find out where she is?”

“I would definitely appreciate the information,” said Imperiati. “As far as finding her, I cannot guarantee. Of course we will want to find her, if she was there as you say. A witness if nothing else.”

“That’s right.”

“I assume you’re hoping I will share.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

The SISDE officer nodded. “We will do what we can.”

“You’ll have the information in ten minutes. At your e-mail address.”

6

Thomas Ciello lowered his head toward his computer, determined to ignore Debra Wu, though he knew she was standing in the doorway a few feet behind him.

“Thomas, I’m not going away,” said Wu.

“I’m busy.”

“Do you have the information Corrigan needs or not?” She turned her right hand over, glancing at her fingernails, which she’d just had done in a rose shade to match her lipstick.

“I’m getting it. Information doesn’t just appear by magic, you know. I can’t just blink my eyes and get it.”

“Thomas, no one’s going to blame you for getting it wrong,” said Wu. “You have to just relax and move on.”

“I didn’t get it wrong!” Ciello jumped up from his machine. “I didn’t say it was going to be a gas attack. I said possibility. Pos-si-bil-i-ty. Maybe. Could be. Not definite.”

“Do you have the information on Kiska or not? Corrigan has to give it to the Italians now.”

“I’m getting it.”

“Cripes. All you have to do is pull it from the library.”

“There’s a lot more involved in intelligence analysis than calling up a file, Debra.” Ciello flailed his arms. “I don’t just pluck things out of the air.”

“One of your little green men can’t whisper it in your ear?”

Ciello sharpened his stare into a death gaze. The world was filled with skeptics, people so narrow-minded they couldn’t see past their own lacquered fingernails.

“Just forward it to his queue, OK?” said Wu. “In five minutes.”

“I’ll do what I can,” said Ciello, though she’d already swept out of the office.

The analyst turned back to his computer. He actually had the information that Corrigan needed, a simple outline of who Kiska Babev was — he’d gotten that when Ferguson’s first text message came in. But Ciello knew that what the team really wanted was information proving or disproving that she was T Rex. And this was considerably more elusive.

Literally within minutes of the explosion that had sent Rostislawitch to the hospital, Ciello had begun looking for evidence that connected it to T Rex. The style precisely matched two previous T Rex assassinations, one in 2003 and the other barely twelve months ago. Details of those bombs were forwarded to the Italian investigators; several parallels had already been discovered, including the same detonation system, with the same wiring technique for the battery. At the same time, Ciello had noted that there was a distinct lack of parallels between bombings by “real” terrorists — most important, no uptick in monitored communications before the strike. The Italian investigators would have to collect considerably more information, of course, and would have several false leads- two separate groups had taken responsibility for the attack — but Ciello was reasonably certain that the bomb had been the work of T Rex.

What was much more difficult, however, was discovering T Rex’s identity. Ferguson’s information about seeing Kiska Babev using a cell phone just before the bomb exploded was tantalizing, especially since the Italians had quickly concluded that the bomb was set off by phone. But as far as Ciello was concerned, it was merely a hint about a possible direction his work should take.

Ciello had retrieved all of the Agency’s information about Kiska Babev, trying to find evidence that she was T Rex. He’d begun by looking at what might be called the Agency’s resume on her, a brief dossier about where she’d gone to school, where her family was, and what her specialties seemed to be as a member of the FSB.

The information in these resumes tended to be somewhat sketchy and at times unreliable, depending on the individual. The Agency did not have access to most FSB officers’ real resumes, and the information infrastructure in Russia — school and birth records, for example — was nowhere near as complete as in the West. Beyond that, the FSB, like the CIA and other intelligence agencies, often took steps to confuse anyone who happened to be watching, announcing divisions that didn’t exist and purposely confusing work assignments and job titles. So Ciello’s next job had been to assess how accurate this dossier was likely to be, and where the gaps were. He’d decided that it was at least in the ballpark; Babev appeared to be a colonel, relatively high up in the FSB structure, with an assignment that allowed her to travel despite her being based, apparently, in Moscow.

Besides the résumé, the Agency had a number of contact reports, mission briefings, and other documents containing information on different foreign agents. Only rarely did the reports directly contain anything useful about the subject — Ferguson’s, for example, were typically as terse as classified ads — but considerable information could be teased from them. Where the contact had been made, to take a simple example, not only revealed where the agent was assigned but often what part of the FSB he or she worked for and how high up the ranks he or she was. If there were enough reports, a pattern emerged showing the agent’s specialties. And the lack of certain types of reports — nothing showing attempts at recruitment, to again give a simplistic example — could reveal a lot about an agent’s function as well.

The portrait of Kiska Babev that had emerged was of a thirty-something overachiever — Ciello had three different sources for her birth date, all different — persevering against the traditionally male-dominated Russian intelligence structure. She seemed to have a specialty in science and had possibly started in the FSB’s Science and Technical Service. Seven years before she had worked in what was charitably known as industrial espionage, with a cover as an administrative assistant to Aeroflot, the Russian airline company. After that, she had been in Chechnya, then Georgia; at some point she switched from recruiting scientists to spy to helping track down terrorists. Her face had been identified in a photo of onlookers at a thwarted Chechnyan terrorist attack on a Russian school in 2004; she seemed to be working undercover there, and had not received any notice in the admittedly brief write-ups about the incident.

It was in her anti-terror role that she had met Ferguson in Moscow. Ferguson was working undercover on a project to stop the clandestine flow of items that could be used for nuclear bombs and “dirty” radiological weapons. His exact reasons for being in Moscow were not included in his report, nor did he say much about Kiska Babev. But he had clearly had some interaction with her, since he not only listed her name but also made a notation that indicated she had assisted him.

Having studied everything the CIA knew about Kiska Babev, Ciello had then tried to find a match between her dossier and what was known about T Rex. The Agency had generic profiles for the different sorts of miscreants one might encounter in intelligence work; Kiska’s background and personality did not mesh with what one would supposedly expect from an assassin. While Ciello considered the profiles little more than pop psychology, he nonetheless noted that there was no indication that Kiska had had any serious weapons or demolitions training. She had, however, been in Chechnya; one of T Rex’s favorite methods of killing people involved car bombs, a technique employed there against the Russians.

Hard evidence of a connection was even more difficult to find. Ciello tried to place her at or near the scene of the assassinations, trying to match her description with the descriptions of possible suspects or even witnesses, trying to find any connection, no matter how thin, between her and the deaths.

The police reports on the murders contained very little useful information, beyond the evidence that the assassin was extremely thorough and professional. At first glance, there was little to connect any of the crimes to each other. The victims ranged from political figures, to businessmen with Mafia connections, to the CIA agent. It was the CIA, not a police agency, that had made the link, tracing wire transfers that moved through an Austrian account before and after each murder. Those transfers were used to identify several other murders, and a rough pattern had emerged. From there, they had found the advance person, and the message using T Rex as a name.

The accounts the money had passed through had been closed long ago. Apparently T Rex had developed a better way of getting his pay, because there had been at least one assassination connected with the advance person where the transfer wasn’t detected. Most likely, said one of the analysts who had worked up the T Rex profile, he had adopted a system of multiple accounts and smaller transfers, but the efforts to discover them had not yielded any results.

Ciello had to go through channels to look for accounts in Kiska’s name at the banks that had been used for the transfers — a request that, even for a high-priority operation like Special Demands, took some time to process and involved considerable paperwork and bureaucratic maneuvering, even with the banks that the agency had a “special relationship” with. Results would take several hours, if not days.

The CIA had a limited ability to track credit card transactions made by Russians in Europe. In theory it should have been easy to connect Kiska with a transaction in Bologna and then work backward from there. But scans of data from the Russian banks the Agency had access to, as well as Western banks known to be used by the FSB, failed to turn up transactions in Bologna.

He next began looking through databases of airline tickets, extending back ten years. The rolls were the result of voluntary anti-terrorist projects, but the collection was useful for other purposes as well. Ciello, whose clearance gave him direct access to the databases, ran searches on Kiska Babev’s name and known aliases, and came up with a dozen different hits or matches. He’d been examining them when Wu came in.

It took him a few moments to get past her interruption and remember precisely where he was: correlating the flights with possible return trips to see if there was an alias that he didn’t know about. His theory was that Kiska might use one name for inbound or outbound flights and another for the other leg of the trip. Finding a match between a pair of flights would give him another name for the financial queries. It was a complex search, however, with a wide range of potential variables, and after a few false matches — similar names that proved to belong to different people — Ciello had to concede that he wasn’t getting anywhere. He went back to the flights themselves, trying to coordinate them with anything known about the assassinations. He found only one, but it was provocative: a trip to France a week before the American CIA agent Michael Dalton had been killed. She’d used her real name, with payment arranged through a Russian travel bureau known to be used by the FSB.

Tenuous, but definitely something. More than just the outline Wu had demanded.

Ciello typed up a quick summary and sent it to down to Corri-

Corrigan fought back a yawn as he queued up the segment from the surveillance bugs for Ferguson. It wasn’t that he was bored — the six-hour time difference between Italy and the States was killing him. He was in effect pulling two eight-hour shifts, with Lauren DiCapri filling the last. They needed another desk person, though finding someone with the proper training, clearances, and temperament — they had to get along with Ferguson — seemed impossible.

“You ready, Ferg?” Corrigan asked.

“Yeah, if I’m not keeping you awake.”

“I’m sorry.” Corrigan hit the key to upload the video snippet to the satellite. From there it was downloaded to Ferguson’s secure laptop.

“Yeah, that’s definitely Atha. How long was he in Rostislawitch’s room?”

“Ten minutes. I have a little bit of audio, but it’s muffled. The maid must have been in the room downstairs running the vacuum.”

“Let me hear it.”

“I can send you a transcript.”

“Fine, but let me hear it first.”

The audio was completely indistinguishable; only with the aid of a high-tech sound scrubber had they been able to get anything from it. But of course, Ferguson being Ferguson, he wanted to hear that for himself.

Corrigan sent the files, then put his hand over his mike and yawned again. As he did, his computer chirped, indicating he had something new in his priority e-mail queue.

It was the Russian report from Ciello. Corrigan opened it.

“So Atha goes into the room while Rostislawitch is away, probably to search it. He calls someone on the phone,” said Ferguson. “Can we get the phone number?”

“Come on, Ferg. Be real.”

“That’s a no?”

“By the time we set something up with the NSA for that, forget it. He’ll have a new phone by then. You’d have a better chance using a scanner to intercept his calls.”

“All right. Did you send that brief to Imperiati?”

“I just got it now,” said Corrigan, opening the file Ciello had sent.

“I asked for the brief hours ago.”

“These things take time,” said Corrigan. “And it was only a half hour.”

“I told you to get it together at least an hour before I met with Imperiati.”

“It takes time,” said Corrigan. He skimmed through the summary, then saw that Ciello had done a lot more than put together a standard Agency report on an FSB officer.

A lot more.

“Hey, Ferg, Ciello has Kiska in France when Dalton gets killed.”

Ferguson didn’t answer.

“Did you hear that, Ferg? He has her in France. Shit. It’s the smoking gun. She’s got to be T Rex!”

“Let me talk to him.”

“To Ciello?”

“No, Dalton. I want to know what the weather’s like up there.”

Ciello was a master at teasing information out of the intelligence agency’s databases and files, but when it came to making a simple phone connection on the in-house lines, he had a great deal of trouble. The procedure for using the encrypted line involved entering a department code as well as a personal code, which of course he could never remember without consulting the instruction manual he kept in his bottom desk drawer. This meant he had to find the key for the drawer; by the time he finally got Ferguson on the line, the op was beyond testy.

“I almost hung up on you, Ciello. Where have you been?”

“Um, here. I haven’t left the building since yesterday. I slept on the floor. Corrigan says it’s OK as long as I don’t tell Mr. Slott. It kinda helps my back.”

“Listen, Corrigan tells me you can connect Kiska Babev to Michael Dalton’s murder.”

“Um.”

“What’s um mean? Are you studying yoga or something?”

“Um, no. I have one flight record. He went to France a few days before.”

“She. Kiska’s a she.”

“I knew that.”

“That’s all you have?”

“I’m working on more information. To get data—”

“You look at credit card information?”

“In the works. To get access to the records, first we have to make—”

“All right. Kiska has a second cousin in a mental institution in Romania.”

“Um, sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. Her last name is Stronghauf or something along those lines — it’s German. The mental hospital is right outside Baja Mare. There can’t be too many institutions around. Find out the name, then give it to this guy whose phone number I’m going to give you, and he’ll find the accounts for you. Or if you’re really nice to him, he’ll tell you how to get them yourself. Save you a couple of hours, if not days.”

“Um—”

“There’s that um again. You sure you’re not practicing yoga?”

“The cousin isn’t named in any of the reports.”

“What a shock. Guy goes by the name of Fibber. Here’s his number—”

“Is this outside, um — strictly speaking, am I breaking protocol? Because the privacy laws, see there’s an internal counsel who’s supposed to review requests, even when they involve overseas—”

“ U tebya cho ruki izjopi rastut?” said Ferguson.

“My hands are where they’re supposed to be,” said Ciello.

The Russian expression — literally “are your hands growing out your ass?” — was generally used to deride an inept boob.

“Well, then do what I’m telling you,” answered Ferguson. “Use my name as soon as Fibber answers the phone. But don’t ‘um’ him; he’s not into that New Age crap.”

“Corrigan always says we should totally obey the procedures because otherwise—”

“Hooy tebe,” said Ferguson, using a Russian expression that meant “don’t mess with that,” though it was rather more emphatically put. Then he dictated the phone number; the country code indicated it was in Nigeria.

“Run your request through channels as a backup,” added Ferguson. “This way, no one will complain. You just don’t mention that you already have the information.”

“Oh.”

“You’re not as dumb as you sound, Ciello. I didn’t know you knew Russian.”

“Just curse words.” He’d made a study of them several years before; they helped break the ice when dealing with Russian UFO experts about the so-called Siberian Series Sightings.

“Otvai,” said Ferguson.

“Piss off yourself.”

Ferguson laughed. “Talk to you later.”

7

Thera hesitated before getting out of the cab, scanning the block in front of the hotel for anything suspicious.

“Maybe I’ll just go to bed,” said Rostislawitch, getting out on the other side.

“How about dinner?” Thera asked. “Are you hungry?”

Rostislawitch looked across the roof of the taxi. She was beautiful and concerned, and despite the difference in their ages — despite the fact that he knew, knew, that she would not be interested in him sexually — he wanted badly to make love to her.

Even acknowledging the thought to himself felt awkward. And yet many older men had younger women. Many. Why was he different?

They were handsome, and rich. He was neither.

“Professor?”

“You should call me Artur,” said Rostislawitch. “Artur is what friends call me. And I have never liked to be a professor. Research has been my true calling.”

“I’m sorry. I keep forgetting.”

“You deserve dinner for rescuing me. Let’s have something nice. Yes,” said Rostislawitch, suddenly sure of himself. “Come on. Let us see what we can find in the hotel restaurant. It is supposed to be very good.”

Ferguson moved the binoculars slowly, scanning the street. There were two Italian surveillance teams on the roofs near the hotel, and one more on the top floor of the hotel itself. But no sign of Kiska, or the Iranian.

“Thera’s on her way in,” said Guns, who was on the street a few yards behind her.

“Got it,” acknowledged Rankin, who was in the lobby

Ferguson continued to scan the buildings after Thera and Rostislawitch went inside. He assumed that T Rex would know by now that he — or she — had missed. Would the assassin try to finish the job quickly, or wait until some of the heat died down? Ferguson could make a good argument either way.

But Kiska Babev as T Rex? That still didn’t quite fit, despite what Ciello had found, and even though Ferguson had seen Kiska’s alabaster face, her thick black lips, and the cell phone: a bomb detonator. Or maybe just a cell phone.

“They’re going into the hotel restaurant,” said Rankin over the radio. “Maitre d’ is talking to them, I assume telling them they’re closed until seven. Going to the bar.”

“Give her some space,” said Ferguson.

“No shit.”

Guns checked in; Ferguson told him to circle the block a few times and then head over to one of their safe rooms and grab a nap: he decided T Rex would undoubtedly need some time to reload as well as let the pressure die down. If he’d been thinking of striking right away, he would have gone to the hospital.

Or she.

Ferguson was thinking about whether he might take a rest as well when his sat phone began to buzz.

“Yeah?” he said, making the connection.

“No funny jokes this time?” asked Corrine Alston.

“Lost my sense of humor when I crashed the Ducati,” said Ferguson. “Beautiful bike. Seat was a little uncomfortable, but I could live with that.”

“Are you OK?”

“Corrigan didn’t tell you?”

“No. Are you OK? What happened to you?”

“One of the spokes went through my liver,” said Ferguson. He picked up the field glasses and went back to scanning the street.

“Ferguson, are you pulling my leg?”

“I’m fine, Counselor. What’s on your mind?”

“I want to know what’s going on. Is the Russian agent T Rex?”

“What Russian agent?”

“Corrigan said you guys are looking pretty hard at a Russian FSB colonel as T Rex.”

“Corrigan wouldn’t know a Russian FSB colonel from his mother-in-law,” said Ferguson. Stinking Corrigan had a big mouth. “I saw a Russian op on the street just before the explosion. It doesn’t mean she’s T Rex.”

“Where is she now?”

“We’re working on it. The Italians are helping. Or we’re helping the Italians, depending on your point of view.”

“Do you think the Russian FSB wants to kill Rostislawitch?”

It was a possibility, but Ferguson didn’t think it was likely — they would have had a much easier time bumping Rostislawitch off in Russia. If Kiska was T Rex, this was a freelance assignment on the side.

In that case, the last place she’d want to clip him would be in Russia; there’d be too much potential to link it to her.

“I really don’t have enough information to get into theories right now,” Ferguson told Corrine.

“You thought the Iranians wanted to kill him. Could that theory still hold? Does this mean he’s given them something, or won’t cooperate with them? What does it mean?”

A cab pulled up front of the hotel. A woman got out, a blonde.

Kiska Babev.

“Ferg?”

“The answer is ‘D: all of the above,’“ said Ferguson. “I’m going to have to get back to you.”

8

Corrine hung up the phone. She was used to Ferguson’s quick hangups by now and knew it was usually because he was working. Still, it was clear he was holding something back.

Of course he was. Ferguson never told the whole story about anything.

Her intercom buzzed. “The chief of staff just called. The President wants to move the two o’clock up to twelve fifteen and make it a working lunch,” said her secretary, Teri Gatins. “I ordered you a Caesar salad. OK?”

Corrine glanced at her watch. “It’s twelve thirty.”

“He said he was running fifteen minutes late.”

That was so Jonathon McCarthy, thought Corrine, getting up.

Secretary of State Jackson Steele ran his fingers through his curly white hair, pushing it back on his scalp. It was thick and so bright that it reminded people of the cotton his ancestors had once picked, and Steele sometimes wondered if the Lord had given it to him as a warning not to forget his humble beginnings.

“All I’m asking for is a week. Less. We’re almost there. The Iranian ayatollahs have already signed off on the agreement. Give me a week and we’ll have a full commitment. The bombs will be eliminated and inspections will begin.”

“What sense does it make to let them have a biological weapon?” asked Defense Secretary Larry Stich. “It’s potentially as devastating as a nuclear bomb. More so.”

“I didn’t say we should let them have it. I’m saying we should put off any overt action until the treaty is signed,” said Steele.

“The Revolutionary Guard is threatening a coup if the treaty is signed,” said Stich.

“That’s not going to happen. They don’t have the power. There’s a reason their leader is only education minister. If he was truly powerful, he would be the Prime Minister, or at least defense.”

Stich found the comment ironic — he didn’t feel particularly powerful at the moment, given that he clearly was failing to carry the argument.

“If we move too forcefully, there’s always the potential that word will get out,” said Steele. “That could change the balance in Iran. We have to keep things calm until the treaty is signed. Observe, yes. Act, no.”

“If the treaty is signed,” said Stich. “In the meantime, they may get away.”

“Ignoring a germ warfare program just to get this treaty signed seems like a very poor idea to me,” McCarthy said. “A very poor idea.”

There was a knock on the door.

“That will be either our food or Miss Alston,” said McCarthy, rising. “I doubt it will be Tom Parnelles. He is worse about schedules than I am.”

It proved to be both their food and Corrine Alston, who apologized for being late.

“Oh, you are not late, Miss Alston,” said McCarthy, settling back into his chair as a steward set down a tray for him. “We were taking advantage of a hole in the Secretary of State’s schedule to digest the situation vis-a-vis Iran.”

“There’s a joke in there somewhere, I’m sure,” said Steele. “Probably at my expense.”

“Well, I was about to call you a holy man,” said McCarthy, winking at Corrine. His mirth was short-lived. “Am I to understand that you have an update from Italy?” he asked Corrine.

“Yes, sir, I do.” Corrine explained quickly what she had been told, adding that their “people” — she never named the members of the First Team, of course — believed a Russian FSB agent might have been involved.

“The Russians are working with Iran?” said Steele.

“No. The thinking is that T Rex is freelancing. They’re still trying to work out what’s going on.”

That point was reinforced by the CIA Director, who made his appearance a few minutes later. Thomas Parnelles told the others what Slott had learned from MI6- that the Iranian operative, Anghuyu “Atha” Jahan, was a supposed Iranian businessman who had arranged relatively minor deals in the past. One or two had been related to the nuclear program, though most involved getting around the economic boycott instituted because of the program. The Iranian seemed to be fairly close to the government’s education minister, Parsa Moshen — who was also the head of the Revolutionary Guard.

“Moshen opposes the nuclear treaty,” said Steele. “But his star is on the downside.”

“Maybe not if he can start up a biological warfare program,” said Parnelles. “This would give him a chip to come back with.”

“So they buy a scientist?” asked Steele.

“More likely they’re buying information from him,” said Parnelles. “Techniques, DNA sequences. Otherwise, they would have no need to kill him. We think we know who the killer is — a Russian FSB agent, probably freelancing for Iran. She may not even know who she’s working for. In any event, if they’ve authorized the murder, then the scientist has already given them what they want.”

“Excuse me, Tom,” said Corrine, “but our people — your people — aren’t convinced that the Russian is T Rex. They’re still looking for more data.”

Parnelles, annoyed by the “our people — your people” faux pas, snapped back.

“Nonsense. The Russian is the killer. And we have to take her into custody”

“Why don’t we just let the Italians handle that?” said Steele. “Have them apprehend her for this bombing, get her out of the way. You go on and follow these people, apprehend them after the treaty is signed.”

“They’ll be back in Iran by then.” Parnelles had little confidence in the Italians. He was also annoyed with Corrine, for undercutting him.

And with Ferguson, since clearly that’s where her information came from. Parnelles had reviewed the report from the desk man, Corrigan, himself; it looked pretty obvious.

“Given what we have discovered here,” said McCarthy, “this assassin is a side issue. We can let the Italians deal with her for the time being.”

“It’s not a side issue.” Parnelles struggled to keep his voice civil. “Jonathon, it’s not a side issue. This agent — this woman — killed one of our best people. One of my people. We need to bring her to judgment. Killing a federal officer is a capital crime.”

“I’ll have no trouble pulling the switch on her personally,” said McCarthy. “But I do not believe she is our first priority. Now that we know that there is a program to develop biological agents — germ warfare if you will — that is where our assets should be directed. We need more information about it. The First Team is in position to gather it. That is what they should be doing.”

“They can do both,” said Parnelles.

McCarthy looked over to Corrine.

“I agree,” she said.

“But we shouldn’t do anything that will disrupt the treaty,” said Steele.

“Let’s send the horse across that bridge when we come to it,” said McCarthy. “Now everyone eat up, because I’m going to have to kick y’all out in a few minutes so I can meet with the head of the National Restaurant Association. I wouldn’t want him thinking we’re not doing our share to support our nation’s restaurants.”

9

Ferguson ran down the stairs from the second-floor room, slowing to a brisk stroll as he reached the lobby. Kiska Babev was standing in the middle of the reception area, glancing around at the bright yellow sofas and blue sideless chairs as if she were looking for someone.

He did an exaggerated double take when she turned her head toward him.

“Of all the people in all the gin joints in all the world,” Ferguson said, riffing on Bogart. “Kiska Babev.”

“Robert Ferguson.” It had been quite some time since Kiska had seen Ferguson, but she remembered him well. “How are you, Bob?”

“Good as ever. You?”

“Very good.”

“They let you out of Moscow?”

“Once or twice a year,” she told him.

“And you’re in Bologna. Italy. Of all places.” Ferguson twisted around examining his surroundings, as if he’d been dropped here. “What brings you to Bologna?”

“It’s a lovely city.”

“So is Moscow.”

“I needed a little break.”

“You needed a break? Work got to you?”

“You’re the one who lives a dangerous life, Bobby,” said Kiska. “What brings you to Bologna?”

“Renaissance art. I’ve always been fascinated by it.”

Kiska smiled. She suspected that Ferguson was here for the same reason she was here — Artur Rostislawitch. But there was no sense asking; Ferguson was a consummate liar, better than she was.

A very attractive one, handsome and intriguing in his own way, but still a liar.

“Want to get a drink?” Ferguson asked. “Or are you busy?”

“I’m never too busy for an attractive younger man.” Kiska rose. Best to find out what he was up to now. “Where would you like to go?”

“There’s a bar through that hallway over there.”

“I think perhaps another place. Quieter. Where we can find a corner alone.”

“Even better.”

Rankin wondered what the hell Ferguson was doing as he watched him walk out the front door with the blonde. She didn’t seem his type — sophisticated rather than trashy, in her thirties, with a scar on her right cheek. It wasn’t until they were out the door that Rankin realized she might be the Russian assassin, T Rex, the woman who had dialed in the explosion.

Was Ferguson out of his mind?

Rankin went upstairs to the room they were using to watch Rostislawitch, got out the laptop, and after punching in the security codes and sliding his thumb over the reader brought up the file.

It was Kiska Babev.

Christ.

Prosecco, perpiacere,” Kiska said to the waiter, ordering a bottle of the bubbly Italian wine.

“Italian. I’m impressed,” said Ferguson.

“Don’t be,” said Kiska. “That’s about all I know.”

“Your English is even better than the last time we met.”

“And your Russian?”

Ferguson told her in Russian that he would like to thank her by sleeping with her, the sooner the better.

“You are just as fresh as you always were, Bobby,” she said. “But you must work on your accent.”

“Now?”

“Later. I get so little chance to practice English these days.”

The waiter brought the wine, opening it with a flourish, popping off the cap with a bottle opener.

“Cheers,” said Kiska, holding up the glass.

“La’chaim!” said Ferguson, holding his up as well.

“Speaking Yiddish now?”

“Is that Yiddish or Hebrew?”

“Yiddish.”

“You’ve been to Israel lately.”

Puzzled, Kiska took a sip of her wine. “Why do you think that?”

“I thought maybe you were doing some side work with the Israelis,” said Ferguson. The theory had just occurred to him — the Israelis, seeking to keep Rostislawitch from helping the Iranians, hired T Rex to kill him. It made sense, though he thought from her reaction he was wrong.

Unless, of course, she wasn’t T Rex.

“The Israelis — I would think they would be very picky about whom they worked with,” said Kiska. “But you would know better than I.”

“Mossad can be very professional. You might not even know you were working with them.”

“But you, Bobby, you would know. You would know everything.”

“I didn’t know the man with the gun was at the end of the alley”

“I was happy to help.” Kiska thought about that day as she sipped her wine. She could easily have let Ferguson go, let him get killed — it would not have hurt her in the least. On the contrary: as things turned out later, it would have been better.

But she had warned him, and instead of the mafiya thugs killing him, he killed them. They were slime and deserved to die, but that hadn’t entered into her calculations, either.

No, it was as her section head had said later, accused her later: You were in love with the American. Not a lot, but a little. Just enough.

Just enough. Yes. And not love but infatuation. Mild. A kind of lust. Very different. And temporary, fortunately.

“So what were you doing on Via Bola,” said Ferguson.

“Via Bola?”

“When the truck exploded. You were nearby.”

“Was I?” Kiska put down her wine. “And how would you know that?”

“I saw you,” said Ferguson.

“You were there?”

“More or less.”

“I guess you could say the same for me.”

“You should talk to the Italians about it.”

“Why would I talk to the Italians, Bobby?”

“Maybe you saw something.”

“Are you working with them?”

“We have some common interests.”

“And would those include Artur Rostislawitch?”

“They’re not interested in Rostislawitch. Why are you interested in him?”

She’d thrown the name out, trying to see what his reaction would be. She expected a diversion — but that was what an ordinary operative would try. Ferguson had always been much more subtle, accomplished beyond his age.

It was a great shame that he worked for the U.S. He would have made an excellent protégé. And lover. For a bit.

“We have an interest in all good Russian citizens,” said Kiska, sipping the wine.

“That would leave him out, wouldn’t it? Wasn’t he involved in some political scandal?”

“Ah, he was a pawn. An unfortunate in the wrong place at the wrong time. This happens.” Kiska drained her glass. “I’m on my way to talk to Dr. Rostislawitch right now. Would you like to come?”

It was a move right out of Ferguson’s own playbook — push the confrontation as far as possible; make the other side withdraw.

“You’ve gotten better,” Ferguson told her.

“Thank you.” Kiska rose. “Coming?”

“Unfortunately, I have some other business to attend to. Maybe we can trade notes later.”

“Gladly.” She reached into her pocket and took out a business card, pushing it on the table. “Call my mobile. Or send an IM.”

“Only for business?”

Kiska smiled, but said nothing else as she turned and left.

See if you can get a bug into his room.”

“Ferg?” said Rankin.

“No, it’s Santa Claus.”

“I thought it was too risky to go into his room.”

“Do it. Kiska Babev is on her way back over to the hotel. I want to hear what she says to him.”

“You don’t think she’s on her way to kill him?”

“If she is, we’ll have the whole thing on tape, right? Get a bug in there.”

“Ferg, Thera’s with him in the restaurant.”

“Yeah, I know. Go bug the room.”

“But—”

“Skippy. Just do what the hell I tell you, all right? I don’t have time to bullshit.”

The line went dead. Rankin snapped the phone off. One of these days he was going to slam Ferguson’s head into a wall.

10

Somehow, he started talking about Olga. Rostislawitch couldn’t help himself. The words just began pouring out, unbidden. Several times he asked the girl if he was boring her; she insisted he wasn’t.

He thought she was fibbing, but he was grateful for it.

In truth, Thera wasn’t lying at all. The scientist was genuinely fond of his wife. It fascinated Thera, his devotion, his love. How could someone who felt so deeply about another person develop a weapon that would kill thousands and thousands of people?

Thera could ask a similar question of herself. She was prepared to kill people if necessary. There was a disconnect between the job and who she was, a deep line that let her function and remain human at the same time.

Was it that way for him? Or did he simply not think about the implications of his work?

Thera couldn’t ask those questions, of course. She tried to think of possible surrogates, considered steering the conversation to a topic like Bosnia or Chechnya, but there was no substitute that would really satisfy her curiosity. So mostly she just listened.

At seven, the dining room opened and they went in and sat down. Rostislawitch continued to talk, laying out much of his history as a young scientist. They both ordered spaghetti and sole in a vermouth sauce.

Suddenly everything began to remind Rostislawitch of his wife. He told Thera about a dinner he and Olga had had just like this on their first anniversary. He could taste the meal again, the memory was so vivid.

Thera excused herself between courses and went to the ladies room’ so she could check in with the others.

“About time you checked in,” said Rankin.

“I’ve been with Rostislawitch.”

“T Rex is on her way over.”

“What?”

“Kiska Babev.” Rankin had had doubts about her before, but it suddenly seemed very obvious — and Thera was in danger. “She’s going over to the restaurant right now.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m putting a bug into Rostislawitch’s room. Get the hell out of there.”

“Is she coming to kill him?”

“Crap, Thera, just go.”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t? She’ll kill you, too.”

Thera popped off the phone. She didn’t have a weapon with her — she’d left it at the hotel when she knew she was going to the hospital; they had a metal detector at the door and she didn’t want to risk getting stopped.

But she couldn’t leave Rostislawitch to die.

What was Ferg thinking?

11

Ferguson made sure that Kiska was on her way back to the hotel, then crossed the street and went into a small store specializing in knick-knacks for tourists who thought they were above the normal kitsch. There were fake statues and miniature artworks, pretend easels with Renaissance replicas. Ferguson walked swiftly through the place, pushing aside the curtain to the back room and walking in. The woman who owned the store began to yell, asking what he was up to, but he ignored her, continuing through the storeroom to a back hall that led to a bathroom and an exterior door. He slipped open the lock and went out, where he found his way barred on all sides by the walls of the neighboring buildings, including the hotel to the store’s immediate left. He glanced upward, thinking at first that he would climb to the roof and go down. But he saw that one of the hotel’s second-story windows was wide open. He pulled the small wooden bench over, tipped it onto its side, and used it to climb high enough on the wall so he could grip the ledge. Then Ferguson scrambled up and jumped into the room. He sprinted to the door, barely noticing that the room was unoccupied. The zigzag layout of the interior confused his ordinarily impeccable sense of direction, and when he turned into a stairwell he thought led to the basement he found he was wrong. He had to backtrack, racing up the stairs and around to a second doorway before finding the right one.

When they’d checked the building out the other day, the team had discovered that the basements were connected. The dimly lit passage between them was cluttered with boxes and cleaning supplies; Guns had carefully rearranged them to make it easier to get through. Unfortunately, someone had put another box on the floor in the interim; Ferguson tripped over it and flew headfirst into the side of the wall, tumbling into the shadows.

Something scurried nearby. Ferguson started to get up, then noticed a pair of red eyes staring at him from a few feet away.

Then something ran across his back.

Suppressing a yowl, he scrambled to his feet.

Rankin slapped the video bug to the base of the lighting sconce on the far side of the bed in Rostislawitch’s room. He scanned the room quickly to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, then left. Out in the hall, he ran to the elevator.

He punched the button. The indicator said it was on the twelfth floor. He was on the sixth.

Rankin pulled out his radio. “Ferg?”

No answer.

He pulled out his sat phone and called Thera back. She didn’t answer, either.

Rankin felt a rush of anxiety, worried that Kiska or T Rex or whoever the hell she was would simply go into the restaurant and blow it up, killing Thera in the process.

Not to mention him.

He glanced up at the elevator’s floor indicator. It was still on twelve.

Cursing, he bolted for the stairs.

When Ferguson reached the landing at the rear of the hotel restaurant, he realized that his knee felt a little wet. He glanced down and saw that he’d landed in some water when he’d fallen; both legs were drenched nearly to his crotch. He’d fallen into a puddle in the basement without realizing it.

Clearly a faux pas in fashion-conscious Italy. He’d have to make it work for him.

He pulled the small Glock pistol he had at the back of his belt around so that it would be easier to grab when he was sitting; then he pushed through the door, walking swiftly through the kitchen of the restaurant and out into the bar area, where he swung onto a stool. He could see Thera and Rostislawitch in the other part of the room, to his left, but ignored them.

“Ciao,” he said to the bartender. “Peroni, per favore.”

The bartender nodded and put a beer glass to the spigot. He seemed to take an inordinate time to pour the beer, as if it were an arcane art in a country that greatly preferred wine.

But his timing was impeccable — the glass arrived just as Kiska entered the restaurant.

“Whoa!” yelled Ferguson, making the beer spill and jumping up as if it had gotten all over his pants.

“Bobby, what are you doing here?” asked Kiska, coming toward him.

“It’s happy hour,” Ferguson told her, grabbing a napkin and daubing his pants.

“Are you drinking or bathing?”

“Little of both,” said Ferguson. “Care to join me?”

Rostislawitch turned back from the confusion at the bar. He was suddenly very tired, though he was only halfway through his meal.

“Would it be all right if I called it a night?” he asked Thera. “I don’t feel like dessert.”

“Are you OK?”

“Just tired.”

“Sure,” said Thera.

“I’m going to go up to my room.” Rostislawitch reached into his wallet, carefully sorting through the bills.

“I’ll pay my half,” said Thera, putting her hand on his as he started to leave enough for both of them.

“No, no,” said Rostislawitch.

Thera managed to convince him to let her cover the tip. She got up with him, and walked out, studiously avoiding looking at Ferguson and the woman with him.

“Good night,” Rostislawitch said at the elevator. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Thera hesitated, worried that she was sending the scientist to his doom. But she had no choice. Impulsively, she stretched up and gave him a peck on the cheek.

Caught off-guard, Rostislawitch managed a smile, then got into the elevator.

12

MI6 agent Nathaniel Hamilton stared at the leaves of the fake fig tree in the hotel suite. It was a very good fake, so close to real that even Hamilton, who spent much of his spare time gardening, hadn’t been able to tell it was fake until he touched the undersides of the leaves. They’d even put real dirt in the planter. There were certain things the Italians were very adept at.

Blast forensics was another one, mostly because of their experience with the mafiya. They were not in the same class as the Israelis, of course, or even the British, but already the investigators had correctly identified the type of explosive and the general manner of the bomb’s construction, linking the design to weapons used in Chechnya. This was no small matter; it would have been very easy to look for a link to organized crime, to either the Mafia or one of the Balkan gangs that had lately begun to foolishly try to move into the country.

The general population, of course, would immediately suspect Al Qaeda, though the bombing had none of its typical earmarks. The spokesman for the Italian police had carefully explained this at the televised press conference a few minutes before, but Hamilton had no doubt that the news stories would continue to speculate that terrorists had been involved — especially since at least one group had claimed responsibility for the blast.

Hamilton folded his arms. The Italians and their investigation into the truck bomb was not really of concern to him; it wasn’t even clear that Rostislawitch was a target, after all. No, Hamilton’s bloody problem was the Americans, or one in particular: Bob Ferguson, a royal pain in the arse, as the chaps back at the pub would put it.

The MI6 agent found Americans to be annoying as a general rule, but Ferguson took it to a high art. He had some ability as an operative, Hamilton had to admit, but surely Ferguson owed a great deal of his career to fortunate blunder and judicious bluster. Like all Americans, he refused to admit this to anyone, most especially himself, and was therefore exceedingly hard to stomach, let alone deal with.

But deal Hamilton must. The main office had just made this clear in a terse IM:

Cooperate with the Americans. Highest authority.

Highest authority, yes. No doubt this had been agreed over tea and scones at the American embassy in London. Or Scotch and rocks at the British embassy in Washington.

Hamilton sighed, then erased the message from his mobile.

Best to get it over with as soon as possible. He tapped the number he had been given into the phone. With any luck, he’d get voice mail.

13

Rankin reached the lobby just as Thera was turning away from the elevator. He froze for a half second, unsure what was going on, then tried to nonchalantly walk past her. But he was panting, out of breath from the long run.

“Hello,” said Thera. “Don’t I know you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Ferg’s in the restaurant,” she whispered.

“With Kiska?”

“He’s with a woman. I didn’t get a good look at her face.”

“Where’s Rostislawitch?”

“Went up to his room.”

“Come on,” said Rankin, backing toward the stairs. “We’ll go upstairs. I put a bug in Rostislawitch’s room.”

“We can’t leave Ferg alone with her, if she’s T Rex,” said Thera.

“I wouldn’t worry about him. He’s probably talking his way into her pants right now.”

The conversation in the bar did concern pants, though they were Ferguson’s, not Kiska’s.

The Russian agent realized that Ferguson had shown up specifically to keep her from Rostislawitch. The Americans must be trying to woo him away; the attractive woman he’d been having dinner with was undoubtedly part of the plan.

If this had been the old days, during the Cold War, Kiska’s task would be clear: she’d call in backup, grab Rostislawitch, and return him to the Soviet Union. But the Cold War had ended when she was in grade school, and Russia was no longer the Soviet Union. Citizens, even those with classified clearances and important specialties like Rostislawitch, were in theory free to do what they wanted, and had to be treated carefully, especially in a country with a scandal-hungry media.

Which meant she had to be subtle.

“You really surprise me, Bobby,” she said, balling a beer-soaked napkin into her hand. “I didn’t think you did these sorts of cheap escapades.”

“Yeah, I’m a klutz sometimes.”

“I’ll see you around.”

Ferguson caught her hand. “Sure you won’t stay for a drink?”

She looked down at his pants. “I’m afraid of where it might go.”

Ferguson smirked, then watched her leave. He pulled out his sat phone, pretending to call while turning on the radio.

“Rankin, dove vai?”

“What?”

“Where’d you go?”

“Thera and me are in the second-floor room. Rostislawitch is upstairs in his room.”

“Kiska just left the bar. She may be going up there.”

“We’re watching.”

“Where are the Italians?”

“They have two people in the car down the street, one guy on a roof watching the front of the building. Other guys knocked off. They’re not coming in, right?”

“Imperiati says they have to keep their distance. He’s not a suspect in the bombing.”

“Ferg, what’s going on?” asked Thera. “Is she going to try again?”

“You’re assuming she’s T Rex.”

“Well, is she?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t have it all together. I’ll be up in a minute.”

He had just flipped down the phone’s antenna when a call came through. It was Corrigan.

Ferguson glanced down the bar; the bartender was still at the far end, serving whiskeys to two Americans trying to look younger than they really were.

“Hey, Wrong Way,” Ferguson said to Corrigan. “What’s happening?”

“Wrong Way what?”

“You never heard of that? Pilot who flew the wrong way?”

“Listen, Ferg, I need an update. Mr. Parnelles wants to know what’s going on. He’s pretty hot.”

“Hey, I like the old guy myself, Corrigan, but I don’t think he’s much to look at.”

“Stop busting my chops, Ferg. He’s really leaning on me. He wants a report.”

Ferguson laughed. Corrigan had no clue what real pressure was like — especially from Parnelles.

“That’s all you called about?”

“The MI6 guy is trying to get ahold of you. He called your backup number. Message says he’s been told to cooperate with you. Doesn’t sound real overjoyed about it.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Wait; don’t hang up. Tell me what to tell Parnelles.”

Ferguson glanced down at his slacks. “Tell him my pants are wet.”

“What?”

“Did Ciello get that credit card information on Kiska?”

“That may take days, Ferg. You know the legal red tape.”

The bartender came over, pointing at Ferguson’s empty beer glass. Ferguson nodded. The man pushed the sodden napkins off the bar into a wastebasket, then went to get him a refill.

“Why do you want him to dig into that for? Don’t you think the Russian is T Rex?”

“No.”

“Who else could it be? She was in France when Dalton was killed. The Italians say the bomb is similar to ones used in Chechnya. Kiska worked in Chechnya. Bingo.”

“Completely settled, Corrigan. You’re a genius.”

Ferguson took the new beer from the bartender and took a swig; it shot immediately to his head. Then he realized it wasn’t the beer at all. He’d forgotten to take his pills that morning. No wonder he was speeding — missing a dose of the replacement hormones had the odd effect of boosting his energy level temporarily.

The doctors, of course, didn’t believe him; in theory it should do the opposite. But he knew a rush when he felt one.

He reached into his pocket for his pillbox and slipped the little pills onto the bar counter next to the glass.

“I’ll get after Ciello,” Corrigan was saying. “In the meantime, what can I tell Parnelles?”

“Tell him she wouldn’t sleep with me, but I still have hopes.”

“Ferg, come on. Be serious.”

The bartender was hovering nearby. “Talk to you later, Wrong Way,” said Ferguson, hanging up.

“What are those?” asked the bartender, pointing at Ferguson’s pills.

“Viagra,” said Ferguson, popping them into his mouth.

“I thought Viagra was blue.”

“This is the placebo edition.”

Looks like Kiska called a cab,” Rankin said, watching the feed from the video bug on the laptop in the second-floor suite. He had the screen split; the left side showed the lobby, the right side Rostislawitch’s room upstairs.

“You sure she didn’t sneak a booby trap up there?” said Thera. She was pacing near the door.

“I would have seen her. Chill, would you? You’re making me nervous.”

There was a double knock on the door, followed by a buzz at the lock. Ferguson walked in.

“So?”

“Kiska is getting a taxi. Shouldn’t we be following her?” asked Rankin.

“Nah. She’s not T Rex.” Ferguson went to the minibar and took out a water.

“You sure, Ferg?” asked Thera.

“Pretty sure. How are you?”

“I’m OK. If she’s not T Rex, why did you go into the bar?” Rankin asked.

Ferguson shrugged. He was willing to bet his life that Kiska wasn’t T Rex, but not Thera’s. He let his eyes linger for a moment, memorizing how she looked: jeans and a sweater, no makeup, hair pulled back, consciously trying to look plain so she’d fit in easier undercover. But she couldn’t hide how beautiful she was.

What would he trade if he could change the circumstances? Money? He had plenty of that.

That was the first thing people thought of — money. Oh, the brothers would laugh at him, wouldn’t they? An abject lesson. Stand before the throne of Saint Peter, they’d say, and talk of money. See where it gets you, Mr. Ferguson.

Would Saint Peter have a throne? Or even a gate? And why was it Saint Peter, anyway? Why wasn’t it James or John?

“What are you thinking, Ferg?” asked Thera.

“I’m trying to think why someone would pay so much money to kill Rostislawitch. I can’t come up with an answer. He’s just not worth the expense.”

“I thought you said the Iranians would do it.”

“Why bother? Who’s he going to tell?”

“I think it’s pretty obvious,” said Rankin. “The Russians are going to kill him because he’s double-crossing them and dealing with the Iranians.”

“Then why not just arrest him in Russia?” said Thera.

“There’s probably some reason they can’t that we don’t know,” said Rankin.

“Maybe.” Thera straightened. She caught Ferguson staring at her, giving her a look as if she’d done something wrong.

“Hey, look at this,” said Rankin, pointing at the laptop screen.

Two young women in short dresses were in the corridor in front of Rostislawitch’s room. They knocked on the door.

“What’s going on?” Thera asked.

“Hookers, I’ll bet,” said Rankin.

“They’re going to kill him,” said Thera.

“Maybe,” said Ferguson.

“Jesus — we can’t let them.”

“Yeah, we can,” said Ferguson.

“Ferg!”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “Relax and watch the screen.”

14

Rostislawitch lay facedown on the bed, unable to sleep even though he felt very tired. All he could think of was Thera’s kiss on his cheek.

What had she meant by that?

Nothing, surely. It was the sort of innocent gesture that women sometimes made, young women especially, free with their emotions. It didn’t mean anything but I’ll see you later, thanks for dinner, you’re a nice old guy even if you bore me.

It didn’t have to mean that. If he went through with the deal with the Iranian, he would have plenty of money. Money was the great equalizer; he’d seen young women attracted to older men because of it all his life.

But Thera wasn’t like that. She wasn’t swayed by money. She was a scientist — young, not sure of herself or her work, but ambitious no doubt, or she wouldn’t be here. If he were to offer her a job, praise her work, that would be the way to seduce her, not telling her they would run away together and live on a desert isle.

A knock on the door jerked him upright.

“Yes?”

“Professore?”

Thera? Rostislawitch got up and went over to the door. “Who is it?” he asked.

“Professore?”

It didn’t sound like her. And yet his desire was so great that he had to see. He opened the door, letting it catch against the clasp.

Not Thera. Two girls.

“What do you want?” he said in English.

The women did not understand. “Atha sent us,” they told him in Georgian-accented Russian.

Atha, the fool: these must be whores.

Rostislawitch started to close the door.

“Wait, wait, professore,” said the girl closest to the crack. “If you don’t let us in, we won’t get paid.”

“Please,” said the other. “Take pity on us. We are Russian like you.”

“You sound Georgian.”

“My mother was from Moscow.”

Rostislawitch closed the door. Before he could turn away, the girls were banging on it, and crying.

“Please, please, professore. You don’t have to do anything. Just let us in so we can say we were there. Please. We won’t get paid.”

“Go away.”

Something bumped against the door. One of the girls began to moan; the other sobbed loudly.

Rostislawitch opened it again, but kept the clamp in place. The girl he’d spoken to was now sitting on the floor, her back against the door, crying.

“Why is she crying?” he asked the other girl, who was kneeling next to her.

“She needs the money for her boy,” said the other woman. “I need the money, too. Please. You don’t know how difficult it is for Russian girls in this country. Please let us in.”

Sighing, Rostislawitch pushed the door closed, then opened it.

“Get in before someone sees you,” he told them.

The woman who had been sobbing rose, rubbing her eyes with her arm as she came in. Her companion followed.

“It is just that your friend promised to pay us well, but only if you had a good time,” she told him.

“Is he watching?”

“He’s sure to be nearby somewhere.”

“Well, get in,” he said, though they were already inside. “Not there.”

The girl who was crying had thrown herself spread-eagle on the king-size bed. Her friend ran her hand on Rostislawitch’s shoulder.

“We can make you feel very good,” she said.

Rostislawitch pushed her hand away. “Stop or I will throw you out.”

“Don’t yell.” She took a step back. “I am Francesca. That is Rosa.”

“Francesca. Rosa. Those aren’t Russian names. Or Georgian.”

“They’re the only names we use for this business.”

“What are you doing in Italy? You should go back home.”

“To do what? To be poor cleaning ladies?”

“Why did Atha send you?”

“To have a good time.” The girl’s collarbone poked out from the top of her dress. Her midsection was pinched — Rostislawitch would not be surprised if either of them hadn’t eaten properly in months.

“Are you drug addicts?” he asked.

“Drugs?” Francesca shook her head. “No drugs. We have no drugs for you.”

“No. Do you take them?”

“Professore.”

Rosa slipped off the bed and came around to confront him. She had a tattoo of a green rose on the side of her neck, and a small snake on the top of her left breast. She was not overly endowed, but her boobs seemed as if they would burst out of the material. She told him in Italian that he had a lot of nerve talking about drugs when it was clear that he was such a dead dick he needed friends to find him whores. Rostislawitch understood none of it, though her anger was clear enough.

“Rosa, Rosa. Relax,” said Francesca. “Just relax.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” Rostislawitch said. “Here. We’ll get something to eat. Call for room service.” He pushed over the menu.

“Are you sure you don’t want to relax?” said Francesca, once more touching his sleeve.

“No, thank you.” Rostislawitch pushed her away again, more gently this time.

He was tempted. How could a man not be tempted?

But no. He would not have sex with a whore, Russian or otherwise.

“Professore? Can I use your bathroom?” asked Francesca.

“Go right ahead.”

Rosa had retreated to the chair, where she sat cross-legged, her dress showing much of her thighs. She was pouting.

“How long have you been in Italy?” Rostislawitch asked.

“Too long,” said Rosa.

“You are high on something, aren’t you?” said Rostislawitch.

“If I was high, I would be jumping around. Am I jumping around, professore?”

He shook his head, but he wasn’t convinced.

“You should let us give you a good time. Your friend will be mad,” she told him.

“He’s not my friend.” Rostislawitch sat on the edge of the bed. “He’s a business acquaintance.”

“All the more reason,” said Rosa. “You do your business; we do ours.” Her face brightened as Francesca returned to the room. “Perhaps you would like to watch?”

Rostislawitch didn’t understand.

“Francesca, come here,” said Rosa in Italian. She stood up and kissed her.

Francesca resisted at first. Rosa ran her hands across the other girl’s back, down to her butt. She cupped both cheeks, raising the dress with fingers before slipping them into Francesca’s panties. Francesca began kissing back. The two girls pushed into each other, their breasts rubbing. Rosa slipped downward, pulling Francesca’s underwear down and nuzzling into her crotch.

Rostislawitch stared, mesmerized.

“Stop,” he said finally. “Stop.”

But they didn’t. Francesca slipped her hands to the back of Rosa’s dress, unzipping it. Then Francesca hooked her fingers around the top and pushed it down. Rosa let her arms fall and the dress slipped down, revealing a pink lace push-up bra. In a moment this, too, was unhooked, and Francesca began licking the other girl’s nipples.

Rostislawitch tried to push them apart. Rosa reached for his hands, grabbing at him to join them.

“No,” he told her. “No.”

“Professore, come on. Live a little.”

Rostislawitch pulled back. Rosa fell onto Francesca and they collapsed giggling onto the bed.

The scientist felt completely out of place. As a young man at university, he’d seen clandestine nudie shows and been turned on by them, but somehow now either his age or the setting had the opposite effect. He felt as if he’d walked in on the middle of an argument between two friends rather than a sex act.

The two women were now completely naked.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he told them finally. “And when I come out I hope that you will be gone. Tell Atha that I appreciate — thank him for his generosity.”

“Join us, professore,” said Francesca, looking up from the bed.

Rostislawitch felt a last twinge of temptation, the slightest urge to be caressed. If he closed his eyes, he might be able to convince himself that they were not hookers bought by an Iranian who was trying to make a deal.

But who would they be? Not Olga, certainly. And not the girl, Thera, who had been so kind to him.

If she were here, he would make love to her. He’d been a fool not to invite her upstairs.

“Professore,” said the woman.

Perhaps it was a trap, Rostislawitch thought. Maybe Atha thought he could blackmail him.

“When I come out, I hope you will be gone,” said Rostislawitch, going to the bathroom and locking the door.

15

“Hell of a show,” said Rankin, watching.

Thera crossed her arms. She felt embarrassed for Rostislawitch, and angry that he had let the girls in in the first place.

Ferguson, meanwhile, sat in the overstuffed chair opposite the couch, considering what the girls had said about having been sent by Atha. If the Iranian was behind the botched assassination, why would he now send two whores up to Rostislawitch’s room? To throw him off the trail? To keep him in the room? Clearly the girls weren’t assassins themselves, since they were unarmed. Unless they intended to kill the scientist by giving him a heart attack.

Ferguson got up and went into the bedroom, where a small carry-on bag held some of their backup equipment. He took a new SIM card for his local cell phone; after installing it, he dialed the number Hamilton had left and got the British MI6 agent’s voice mail.

“So we’re having fun,” Ferguson said. “What are you doing? Call me back at this number.”

Ferguson grabbed a new pair of pants to change, but was interrupted when his sat phone began to ring.

It was Parnelles.

“Hey, General.”

“What’s going on, Robert? Corrigan tells me you were with T Rex in a bar. Did you grab her?”

“Corrigan’s wrong. I wasn’t with T Rex. I was with Kiska Babev.”

“Robert, I’ve seen Corrigan’s report. There’s good evidence there.”

“One possible coincidence. Some parallels. We’re still working on it.”

“If she’s not T Rex, who is?”

“I’m not sure yet. It may be me for all I know.” Ferguson laughed.

“This isn’t something to joke about,” said Parnelles sharply. “This is good information about the Iranians,” he continued, softening his tone. “It’s good. You should develop it. But I want you to get T Rex. That has to remain a priority.”

“I don’t think Kiska Babev is T Rex. And even if she was, at this point I can’t just haul her back. She’s not going to come easily.”

“Don’t let that be a problem. You know how to take care of this.”

“You want me to shoot her?”

Parnelles cleared his throat. Ferguson could picture him, sitting at his desk, his face tinged slightly red. His brows would be low on his forehead, a look of disappointment on his face.

Was that how they did it in the old days? The Deputy Director of Operations, or maybe someone even lower on the chain of command, would call his dad and say, Take care of this guy?

Ferguson didn’t like to think of his father as a killer, though he knew that his father had killed people.

Less than Ferg had.

“Robert, I’m counting on you to do the right thing,” said Parnelles finally.

“I try.”

Parnelles hung up. Ferguson turned off the phone and once again grabbed the fresh pair of jeans, but Rankin was calling him from the other room.

“They’re going through his stuff,” said Rankin, pointing at the computer screen as he came out.

“Turn up the volume,” said Ferguson, squatting down to get a better view of what was going on. One of the girls, naked, was standing by the bathroom, talking softly. The other was going through Rostislawitch ‘s wallet.

“She’s got something,” said Rankin.

“We don’t need the play-by-play,” said Thera.

They watched as Rosa examined a small piece of paper in the wallet. She opened the desk drawer and took out a pad, copying something from it.

“Zoom this,” Ferguson told Rankin.

Rankin had already started to try. He selected the area of the screen and then the zoom tool, but the girl’s naked back blocked the view.

“Has to have something to do with what the Russian wants to sell the Iranian,” said Rankin. “That’s got to be it.”

“Yeah. Did you scan that room for bugs when you went in?”

“Yeah. It was clean. Why?”

“Just wondering who I have to share this with.” Ferguson sat back down, considering what to do.

Were the girls working for the Iranian, as they said? It would be clever of Hamilton to tell them they were, a kind of misdirection play while he had them look for information.

Ferguson would have to trail them to find out.

“All right, here’s what we’re gonna do,” Ferguson told them. “Thera, you’re going to get some sleep. Use the other room. But go to sleep. We’re going to need you later. Rankin, you watch Rostislawitch. If you need backup, call Imperiati’s people. Here’s his number.”

“I got it already.”

“What are you going to do?” Thera asked.

“Change my pants,” said Ferguson.

16

Hamilton’s phone beeped, telling him he had a message. He waited until the Iranian had parked his car before dialing in to find out who it was.

Ferguson finally had gotten back to him, cheeky as ever. He hit the redial.

“Well, Mr. Ferguson, I’m told I should cooperate with you fully,” Hamilton said when Ferguson answered.

“Always a pleasure to be working with our allies,” said Ferguson. He seemed a bit winded, and there was a clicking sort of mechanical sound in the background, gears moving.

“Whatever are you doing?” asked Hamilton. “Working out?”

“Riding my bike.”

“In this cold?”

“It’s not that cold.”

Crazy Yanks. All of them.

Hamilton watched Atha leave the parking garage and walk in the direction of the Moroccan restaurant. It was no surprise; he’d gone there the night before as well. Yesterday Hamilton had gone in and watched from the bar. Tonight he thought he’d stay in the car; the smell of the food sometimes bothered his stomach.

“So do you have anything new?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Maybe we should get together and trade notes,” said Ferguson.

“I don’t really see the point,” said Hamilton, switching off his motor. Maybe he would go in after all. “I am in the middle of something and—”

There was a knock on his car window. Startled, Hamilton turned and saw Ferguson grinning at him.

“What the hell are you doing?” asked Hamilton, lowering the window.

“Following those two women getting out of the cab over there,” Ferguson said. “My bet is they’re going to see Atha.”

“Bloody hell.”

“You have that place bugged, or should we go inside?”

Atha saw the waiter giving the two girls a hard time. He raised his hand. Francesca saw it and pointed. Reluctantly, the waiter let them through.

“Here, a receipt, just as you predicted,” said Rosa, unfolding a piece of paper on the table. “Left baggage.”

“Excellent.”

More than excellent, he thought — better than he could have wished for. But he warned himself not to get too optimistic.

“Is it at the bus station?” said Francesca. “We can go and get it if you want?”

“No, that’s fine,” said Atha. “How about a drink? Some wine?”

“How about our money?” said Francesca. She held out her hand.

“Oh, ladies, don’t be so quick. The night is young.”

“That’s extra,” said Francesca.

Rosa ran her fingers across the back of his neck. “But we are willing to negotiate.”

Yes, we have these sorts of things,” said Hamilton, holding up the tiny bug. “Probably made in China.”

“I think you can get a better deal out of Thailand,” said Ferguson, taking out a receiving unit disguised as an MP 3 player. “Drop it on the floor as you pass.”

“Why should I drop it?”

“Because I’m picking up the bar tab.”

“In that case, I will be right back.”

Hamilton got up and made his way toward the restrooms, choosing a course that would take him near the Iranian. By now the two hookers were hanging all over him. Atha seemed oblivious to the disapproving glare of his neighbors, let alone Hamilton. The MI6 agent let the small bug slip from his fingertips. It bounced on the floor, coming to rest under Atha’s chair. It was tiny, as small as a fly. But the thing that impressed Hamilton — and horrified him, if truth be told — was the fact that Ferguson treated it as a throwaway device. It would be crushed underfoot within an hour, and he didn’t care. It was all very incredibly wasteful. How could you compete with people with those sorts of resources to burn?

By the time Hamilton got back to the table, the waiter had deposited a bucket of ice and a bottle of Asti. Ferguson was listening to the conversation at the other end of the room, sipping the wine.

“Italian pseudo-Champagne?” asked Hamilton.

“What did you want?”

“Cognac at the very least.” He held up his hand and tried catching the waiter’s attention. “So?”

“He’s telling them about Paradise.”

“No doubt.”

Ferguson took one of the earphones out and held it toward him.

“That’s quite all right,” said Hamilton.

“Afraid you’ll get cooties?” Ferguson let the small earphone dangle while he sipped his wine. “So tell me about our friend Atha. How long have you been following him?”

“I really did tell you everything earlier, I’m afraid. I wish I could get a bloody drink.”

Ferguson raised his right hand, pointing toward the ceiling. Within moments, the waiter appeared.

“A cognac for my friend. Something nice,” Ferguson said in Italian.

“Hmmmph,” said Hamilton.

“Refresh my memory. How long have you been watching Atha?”

“I suppose for many months. Not myself. I have better things to do with my time.”

“Because you’re an important man,” said Ferguson.

“I have other ways of wasting my time.”

“You just got on the case?”

“That’s right. I was working in Africa and then this came along.”

Hamilton told Ferguson about Anghuyu “Atha” Jahan’s background, giving a more detailed version than he had earlier. Atha had been born in 1969 to a family that had once been fairly prominent in Iranian politics, but had fallen out of favor with the shah and in effect been banished to the city of Mashhad in the far eastern portion of the country. The problems with the shah helped the family when he was overthrown; though they were hardly part of an inner circle, they were well-off enough to send Atha to school in Great Britain. He studied engineering and finance; in the nineties he had helped arrange loans for the construction of docks and oil pipelines. The British believed that he had profited greatly from the loans; in any event, by 2004 he was traveling through Europe, where his main task was arranging for the purchase and shipment of prescription drugs through gray-market channels. He bought some equipment for the nuclear program as well, though nothing major; Hamilton had been told he was a “pinch hitter,” filling in for more prominent deal makers. But he was also close to the Revolutionary Guard and the Iranian education minister.

“Unclear whether he was working for the government or as a freelancer,” said Hamilton. “Immaterial really. And then he had a falling-out with someone, and returned home for two years.”

“And suddenly he’s back.” Ferguson turned his gaze toward Atha’s table; the two girls were playing with Atha’s hair.

“And my assignment was to find out why. The Russian is obviously the answer.”

“When did he first make contact with him?”

Hamilton’s cognac finally arrived. He swirled it in his glass, then took the slightest of sips.

“My superiors do not tell me everything. I am not sure. I was only given the assignment recently.”

“When you were in Africa.”

“That’s right.”

“You heard about him there?”

“Wouldn’t have known him from the odd lion, I’m afraid.”

“What else are you supposed to do?”

“At this point, simply gather whatever else I can. And share with you, I suppose.”

“What about Rostislawitch?”

“What about him?”

“Are you trying to eliminate him?”

“Why would I do that?”

“To keep him from working for the Iranians.”

“I’m not with that section.” Hamilton took another sip from his cognac. “Who tried to kill him?”

“I think the bomb earlier today was aimed at him,” said Ferguson.

“I heard some group already took credit.”

“Some people are always taking credit for others’ work.”

Hamilton assumed — correctly — that Ferguson was making an oblique reference to his own behavior, but he laughed nonetheless.

“Blowing up an entire block would not be a very effective way of killing one man. And if that was the intention, they missed.”

“True.”

Ferguson noticed that Atha was getting up from his table.

“Looks like your man is about to show himself a good time.”

Ferguson started to get up, intending to go outside and trail Atha’s car. Hamilton stopped him.

“Your turn,” said the MI6 agent.

“How’s that?”

“I would like to know a bit more about the Russian.”

“He’s a scientist who’s worked in germ warfare. I think the Iranians are trying to recruit him.”

“That much I already know. Come on, Ferguson. I’ve given you background. I’m trying to cooperate. Is he working for the government? Is Rostislawitch involved in a network? Is he just giving information? Is he going over to them? Tell me.”

“I’m not sure yet.”

Ferguson sat back down as Atha and the girls began making their way toward the door.

“The Iranian is small fish,” said Hamilton. “If the Russians are trying to export biological weapons, that’s a major problem.”

“Could be.” Once again Ferguson started to leave, and once again Hamilton grabbed his arm.

“What are you doing?”

“Following Atha. You can help.”

“I rather think you’re the one helping,” answered Hamilton.

“Good. Pay the bill. I’ll call you when he gets to wherever it is he’s going.”

17

Rostislawitch remained in the bathroom of his hotel room, sitting on the floor for more than an hour after he heard the girls leave. He realized he was being silly, even foolish, but he could not manage to get to his feet.

He stared at the bottom of the mirror above the vanity, where the very top of his head was reflected. Once thick and black, his hair was now a thinning splatter of gray and black, the gray looking like speckles of paint scattered by someone working on a ceiling as he passed by.

As Rostislawitch stared at the mirror, it occurred to him that it was not the head of an old man. Not a young man, certainly. But the hair was not that of a man entirely past his prime.

Rostislawitch got to his feet, bringing his face into view. He leaned over the sink to get a closer look.

A worn face in need of a shave, and a good night’s sleep. A tired man.

But not one who was spent. Not at all.

Yet he acted as if he were dead. This whole scheme, this whole plan — it wasn’t so much to make money as to get revenge on the world for taking his wife, a last act before going to the grave himself.

Which he would have done, stepped in front of a train or found some pills. He’d never consciously admitted it to himself, but as he stared now into his eyes he knew it was true, knew that would have been the next step — not taking the train to Turin, not flying to India and disappearing as he had planned. The next step would have been to shrivel into nothingness.

He didn’t want that. He wasn’t ready for death.

He could take Atha’s money and do a great deal with it. He could live a life of leisure, with a new identity.

Or he could simply go back to Russia, forget about the Iranian and his whores.

Assuming he got rid of the material. If it were found by someone, the results would be catastrophic.

The baggage ticket. It was in his wallet. If it was stolen, he’d never get the bag back without telling the attendant what was in it. That was as good as signing an arrest warrant.

Rostislawitch undid the lock and pulled open the door, rushing to the bureau where he’d left his wallet and watch earlier. He grabbed open the trifold, surprised that the whores had left it.

His two credit cards were in their pockets. His money — rubles at the back, euros in front — still there.

And the baggage ticket, folded neatly in half. Still there.

Still there.

Rostislawitch put the wallet down. What he needed to do was to sleep, to rest. In the morning he would have more energy. In the morning he would be able to think more clearly about his future, about what he should do.

And in the morning he would see the girl, Thera. She probably didn’t like him romantically; he couldn’t flatter himself. But the fact that she took an interest, the fact that she might look up to him as an older scientist — that was something worthwhile.

He would think about that in the morning.

Rostislawitch took off his pants and shirt and climbed into bed. It smelled of the whores’ perfume.

Perhaps he should have made love to them after all. It would have been a story to tell friends years from now.

He could still tell it, though he would be the butt of the joke.

Why not? A good story was a good story, Rostislawitch mused, closing his eyes and drifting off.

18

“Guns, what are you doing?”

“Ferg?”

“No, it’s your fairy godfather calling to tell you that you just won the lottery.”

Ferguson was standing next to a post in the Bologna train station, watching Atha as he counted his change at a newsstand. It had taken more than twelve rings to wake Guns; Ferguson had begun to worry that something had happened to him.

“I’m sorry, Ferg. I was pretty deep in sleep.”

“Listen, I need you to get up and get dressed. Rankin’s on his way over to pick you up. You guys are catching a train to Naples. I think.”

“Uh, OK.”

“You’re going to have to move. The train is leaving in thirty minutes. I’m going to buy you tickets now.”

“Sure.”

“You’re not going to fall back to sleep, are you?” Ferguson asked. “You sound pretty tired.”

“I’m with you, Ferg. I’m with you.”

Twenty minutes later, Ferguson spotted Rankin and Guns walking in the side entrance to the train station. He circled behind them, then picked up his pace to catch up.

“Hey,” he said in a stage whisper as they paused near the sign showing the departing trains and their tracks.

“What’s going on?” Rankin asked.

“I don’t think we’re being watched,” said Ferguson, looking up at the board as he spoke. “But I couldn’t sweep the place. The train is on track four. Hamilton is on board, in the second car. I got you guys first-class tickets.”

“Hey, thanks, Ferg,” said Guns.

“Don’t mention it. It’s all they had. The train is packed from Rome south. You’re going to Naples.” Ferguson pointed up at the board, as if he were helping them, then let the tickets fall from his hand. Guns stooped to pick them up, then pretended to hand them back to Ferguson but palmed them instead.

“You’re getting good at that, Guns,” Ferguson told him. “Next I want to see you pull a quarter out of your nose.”

“I’m working on it.”

“So what’s the deal with Hamilton?” asked Rankin. “We trust him or what?”

“As far as you can throw him,” said Ferguson. “He’s following Atha, and we’re following Atha, so we might just as well do it together. I don’t know how much he’s holding back. Maybe nothing. Whatever the hookers copied out of Rostislawitch’s wallet got the Iranian excited,” Ferguson said. “He missed sleeping with them to make sure he could catch this train.”

“What whores?” asked Guns.

“You snooze you lose,” Ferguson told him. “Go; your train is leaving in about five minutes.”

“Ferg, are you and Thera going to be OK by yourselves?” Rankin asked. “T Rex will take another shot for sure.”

“We’ll be all right. After he gets the luggage, steal it from him.”

“What’s in it?”

“If I knew, you wouldn’t have to grab it from him, would you?” said Ferguson. “Probably work papers and computer disks. It may just be clothes. If you can get it without Atha figuring out we’re on to him, that would be great. If not, that’s the way it goes. If things start getting too tight, you can call the Italians in.”

“Guns and I can handle it without them.”

“Just think what I would do, and try not to do the opposite.”

“Screw yourself, Ferg.”

Aboard the train, Atha stretched his feet and shifted against the window, trying to get comfortable. He planned to sleep on the train — he’d have little time to do so later if the material was in the left luggage area, as the luggage check-in rooms were called.

If it wasn’t there, then he’d have to grab a flight back to Bologna and continue working on the scientist. There’d be little time to sleep then, either.

The girls had claimed Rostislawitch had been quite randy. Obviously, sex was his weakness; Atha should have realized that from the start.

But what man wasn’t vulnerable to a ripe breast thrust in his face? Even Atha had succumbed.

Seat taken?”

Hamilton looked up at a tall, wiry man, an American, standing in the aisle.

Surely one of Ferguson’s people, Hamilton thought, though he looked more like a soldier than a spy. CIA agents tended to look like down-at-the-heels salesmen, Ferguson being a notable exception.

“Please, sit,” said Hamilton.

“Jack Young,” said Guns, holding his hand out. “People call me Guns.”

“I see,” said Hamilton, concluding that here was a man who had made his fetish work for him.

“You’re Hamilton?”

“Please. Have a seat.” Hamilton glanced around the coach. It was empty except for an older couple near the door, though the ticket seller had predicted it would be full by the time they pulled into Naples.

“Ferg talked to you?” asked Guns.

“Oh yes.”

“You think Atha is going all the way to Naples?”

“That’s where his ticket is for,” said Hamilton. “I would not take a bet either way.”

“Rankin is a few seats behind him. That’s my partner.”

“Jolly good.”

They sat together silently for a while, Hamilton wishing the man would get up and go to another car. Finally Hamilton took out his mobile phone.

“I have to make a phone call,” he told Guns. “And I rather value my privacy.”

“Sure.” Guns got up slowly, then walked to the front of the car, pausing at the vestibule before passing to the next coach.

Hamilton was already working on a text message:

Cooperating as told. New opera more interesting. Request permission stay with it. Yanks will take old show on road.

Would the desk recognize that “new opera” meant the Russian scientist? Or even that the Iranian was the “old show”? They could be intolerably dense at times.

He’d just have to hope they would. The text message was encrypted, but he’d learned years ago not to put too much stock in such things, and spoke in riddles whenever possible.

Years ago, indeed. Hamilton turned his head to the window. The Italian countryside was so dark he could see only his face and the interior of the coach.

I’m quite ready to retire, he told himself, noticing the furrows in his brow. After this, I’m done. Done.

19

Ferguson stood in the doorway, watching Thera sleep. She was curled up around her pillow, her arms covering her face as if shielding her from the light.

He was tempted to climb in with her.

His lust was going to wear him out.

“Up and at ‘em, beautiful; the day is ready to dawn,” he said, clapping his hands. “Come on, Thera; let’s get going.”

“Ugggh.”

“Want me to make you some of that lousy coffee?” Ferguson said, squatting down at the side of the bed.

“What time is it?”

“Just about four a.m. Come on. Get up; take a shower. I want to grab about two hours of sleep before Rosty is on the move.”

“I thought it was Guns’ turn,” said Thera, still not fully awake.

“Guns and Rankin are following the Iranian. Come on, up, up, up.” He rose and started for the door. “Nice jammies by the way.”

“Screw you,” muttered Thera. She was wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, and knew she looked like hell.

The coffee was indeed terrible, so bad that Thera stooped to putting in two packets of sugar and even a bit of powdered milk in an attempt to make it palatable. She sipped it, then took a quick shower, not bothering to wash her hair. Ferguson was waiting when she was done, standing so near the door she bumped into him. Thera felt herself flush.

“I’m giving myself two hours,” he told her. “But if Rostislawitch gets moving before then, you wake me up, you hear? You don’t go anywhere without backup. All right?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t ‘sure’ me. ‘Yes. I will wake you up or I will forfeit my first, second, and third child to you.’ Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Don’t forget, I sleep in the nude, so if you have to come in for something, be prepared.”

“Ha, ha.”

Ferguson smirked and then disappeared into the bedroom. Thera knew from experience that he did not sleep in the nude, and in fact sometimes kept his shoes on in case he had to get up quickly. But that was Ferg — busting and semi-flirting, dead serious about his job but little else.

Thera took her coffee and went over to the desk, where the laptop display showed the feed from the video bug Rankin had planted the previous evening. Rostislawitch was sleeping, arms and legs spread-eagle beneath the covers.

She checked her watch. It was a little past four, ten p.m. back in the States. Unsure when Ferguson had last checked in with the Cube, she called herself.

Lauren DiCapri greeted her with a complaint about some of the video bugs they’d planted two days ago; their batteries had run down and the units were no longer feeding images to their boosters.

“We’ll take care of it when we can,” Thera told her.

“We can’t see what’s going on.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I don’t mean now.”

“Neither do I,” said Thera, annoyed by Lauren’s tone. For some reason the desk people tended to act like the ops worked for them, rather than the other way around.

“Where’s Ferg?”

“He’s sleeping,” said Thera.

“What’s up with him and the Russian agent? Is he sleeping with her?”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone here knows she’s T Rex, but he won’t admit it.”

“Do you have anything useful to say?”

“You don’t have to defend him,” said Lauren.

“I’m not.”

“OK, Thera. I’m uploading the new keys for the phone encryptions. Use them if you have to use pay phones.”

Thera got up from the desk and stalked over to the coffeepot. She splashed some of the coffee onto the table, then burned her fingers as she daubed at it with a napkin.

Aside from her snarky tone, Lauren did have a point. Why didn’t Ferg think Kiska Babev was the assassin? He hadn’t really explained.

He rarely explained anything, did he? Pretty much he did what he pleased — including sleeping with people he was spying on, like T Rex’s advance “man.”

God damn him.

Thera finished cleaning the table and went back to the desk. She’d been gone so long that the screen saver had popped on.

She set the coffee down and tapped one of the arrow keys. She had to enter a password and use the thumbprint authentication before the screen would clear.

When she did, she saw that the light was on in Rostislawitch’s room. He was no longer in his bed.

Thera backed the feed up, hoping to see him going into the bathroom, which was just out of range of the camera. Instead, she saw him get up, take his shoes and coat, and go out of the room.

“Ferg! We have a problem!” she yelled, switching the feed to look at the other bugs.

20

Atha made his way from the train platform through the station, letting the businesspeople and students rush past him. It wasn’t quite five — the train had been about a half hour late — and the station was not entirely awake yet. He walked past a row of gated stores, then found the left luggage room; the sign said that it didn’t open until eight.

There was no sense waiting at the station. Atha decided he would find some place for breakfast, then conduct a little business by phone. There were many arrangements to be made.

Atha didn’t think it likely that he’d be followed, but he decided to take a turn around the station just in case. Glancing at the departures board, he realized an Italian military policeman near the ticket counter was staring at him. Atha’s skin was not noticeably darker than that of many native Neapolitans, but somehow the policeman seemed to have identified him as a foreigner. He had his thumbs in his belt, ready to pounce.

Under other circumstances Atha might have confronted the man, but now he decided his best course was to simply leave without creating a fuss. He spent a few more moments checking the board and consulting his watch, pretending to mentally calculate his time between trains. Then he moved to his right, making sure to keep his gaze well away from the policeman.

It seemed to work. Atha reached the row of closed stores before turning sharply right, aiming toward the side exit to the station. No one bothered him, and he thought he had escaped notice when two carabinieri suddenly appeared at the side of the archway that led to the exit.

“Miscusi, signore. Dove va?” asked the shorter of the two men. His tone was polite, and the accent northern rather than Neapolitan. His hand rested on the butt of a submachine gun slung over his shoulder.

“Where am I going? I was hoping to find a place for breakfast. My train doesn’t leave for several hours,” replied Atha in Italian.

“May we see your ticket?”

“I haven’t bought it yet,” Atha told him. “I thought I’d get something to eat first.”

“You are going where?” asked the taller policeman.

“Salerno,” said Atha, sharpening his tone in response to the man’s own gruffness. “Why?”

“Let us see some identification,” said the first man, still conciliatory.

“But of course.”

Atha reached into his pocket and took out his diplomatic passport. The carabinieri examined it, leafing through the pages and then coming back to the cover where his picture was posted. They pretended not to be impressed by the diplomatic stamp, though in theory it meant he should have special treatment — or at least lip service in that direction.

“There is a train to Palmero in fifteen minutes,” said the taller man.

“True. But then I would arrive too early. And Palmero — it is not Naples, is it? I would expect to get a better breakfast here.”

The man chortled, then took Atha’s passport from his partner to check it himself.

“I wonder where a good place to eat breakfast would be,” said Atha. “A place with fine coffee but not too expensive.”

“Nowhere in Naples,” said the shorter man good-naturedly. Then the two carabinieri began debating the various merits of a handful of small shops in the immediate area.

What the hell are they doing?” Rankin said, griping behind a bottle of orange drink as he stood near the newsstand, as far as he could tell the only place open in the station besides the ticket window.

“The police don’t trust Arabs,” said Hamilton, next to him. “Even though they make up half the city’s population.”

“He’s Iranian. That’s not Arab.”

“Even worse.”

“You sure your driver’s outside?” asked Rankin.

“Americans take very little on faith, do they?”

“One of us oughta get out there, in case the police stop us, too.”

“They won’t stop us,” said Hamilton. “But very well. I’ll go.”

Rankin put his hand out. “I’ll go.”

“The driver won’t recognize you.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

Hamilton closed his eyes and turned his head downward. It was a gesture of disappointment he had learned from his first master in grade school — appropriate, Hamilton thought, given that he was working with Americans.

“If we’re going to work together, you’re going to have to trust me,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” said Rankin, heading toward the door. He gave Guns a slight nod. They’d worked out the plan on the train: Guns would stay in the station, watching the left baggage area, while Rankin and Hamilton followed Atha wherever he went.

Hamilton took out his mobile phone to call Jared Lloyd, the operative waiting in the car. He described the American, telling Lloyd to pick him up and wait.

“He’s quite a crank, with a nasty disposition,” added Hamilton. “Never fear — if he gets on our nerves too much, we’ll throw him in the bay.”

21

“I’m really sorry, Ferg. I spilled the coffee and I wasn’t paying attention,” said Thera as she reran the video captures. “It was only for a minute or two. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Ferguson. He hunched over the screen, their shoulders touching. Rostislawitch had gotten out of bed, pulled on his shoes, taken his coat, and left in less than ninety seconds. The video bugs caught him in the hall, and then the lobby going out.

“He must have been lying in bed awake for a while,” said Ferguson.

“There were no calls or anything. Maybe he has an appointment to meet someone for breakfast.”

“Maybe.” Ferguson scratched at the stubble on his chin. “All right. Take the radio and some bugs. You check the little cafés and whatnot to the north; I’ll go south. Take the red moped. It goes with your face.”

“I’m sorry, Ferg. I know I screwed up.”

“It’s all right. I doubt he went far. Don’t worry.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Hey, relax. It’s really not that big a deal. We all slip sometimes. OK?”

She nodded, but somehow his compassion made her feel even worse.

Rostislawitch pulled his coat closed against the wind, continuing down the narrow street. He’d slept for several hours, but in his restlessness he felt as if he hadn’t gotten any sleep at all. He was filled with a nervous energy, unsettled and anxious.

He was almost glad to feel it, though. It was a positive thing, a rambling of forces he hadn’t felt in years. It was as if he’d been going through the world with a thick wool blanket over his head, secured there with coils of heavy rope. Now the rope had loosened, and he could see bits of daylight coming through the folds. Maybe, if he kept fighting, he would lose the blanket entirely.

The weather had been relatively warm in Bologna, at least to someone like Rostislawitch used to Russian winters. But this morning the wind was biting and there was a cold, near-freezing mist. Rostislawitch decided he would find a place to warm up for a while, a place where he could sit and think. The first place that presented itself was a church.

A small group of parishioners had gathered for the five a.m. mass. Rostislawitch walked inside and sat at a pew at the back of the chapel where the mass was held, not wanting to intrude. His ancestors had been Russian Orthodox, and despite the Communists’ prohibition against religions, Rostislawitch had been raised in that tradition and even married in an Orthodox church. But between habit and science, his belief in God had dwindled; he looked at religion now as mostly a quaint relic of a time when people needed to blame the supernatural for things they could not control in their lives. He had not been in a church in many years.

The Roman Catholic mass seemed plain, almost stripped-down, compared to the Russian Orthodox celebrations Rostislawitch remembered. He watched as the priest moved swiftly about the altar, consecrating the bread and wine into the body and blood of Jesus Christ. This part of the mass was common between the two branches of Catholicism, the central mystery that the brother faiths shared. Rostislawitch leaned back in the pew, considering how the two branches had become estranged. It was the story of mankind entirely — from the Bible’s Babel to the present day, small differences becoming a wedge, members of the same family then drifting away, until only the animosities were what was remembered.

How could you kill a brother?

That was what his work with the bacteria was aimed at doing. He could rationalize and say that he was trying to prevent deaths, trying to develop a weapon that would guarantee that others would not strike Russia. But at its core his work was aimed at killing many people indiscriminately, no matter what justifications he gave.

And if it was difficult to defend his work for the government, how much harder then was it to defend what he had planned to do — give the material to Atha?

There was no defense. Rostislawitch wanted to kill people, and expected it to be used.

That was the simple truth. He had come to hate his fellow man. And himself.

It was a terrible, horrible plan, fully intentional, a great sin.

That was what he had gotten up early to do? To seal the deal? To become a murderer?

Tears ran down his cheeks.

Rostislawitch heard rustling nearby He looked up into the brown face of a young nun, standing in the pew in front of his.

“Signore, are you well?” she asked in Italian.

Not quite sure what she was saying, but realizing she was concerned for him, Rostislawitch smiled and stood up.

“Are you OK?” the nun asked in English.

“Thank you, Sister, yes,” said Rostislawitch. “I was thinking about my wife.”

“Is she ill?”

“Dead.”

The nun’s face knitted into a concerned frown. “She is with God then,” she said, patting his hand. “I will pray for her.”

“Thank you.”

The nun nodded, then turned back toward the altar to pray. The mass was over, and the congregation had dispersed. Rostislawitch bowed his head, as if in prayer, then sidled out of the pew and began walking around the church, contemplating the saints on their pedestals, considering what he must do.

22

The strong coffee helped Atha think, and by the time he had finished breakfast he had concocted a plan for getting whatever was in the locker with a minimum of exposure. It was still very early, but the vendors had begun setting up their wares on the streets near the station, and Atha had no trouble finding a good price on a piece of cheap luggage. More difficult was finding a street person whom he could provisionally trust. They were all thieves, of course, hardly a handicap under the circumstances; the difficulty was to find one who might be counted on to return the bag — or whatever was in the locker — to him for a sum approaching what they had agreed on. Atha finally settled on a man in his early twenties who walked with a limp; in the worst case he should be able to chase him down.

Atha gave the man a small advance and told him to meet him near the train station at precisely nine a.m., then went to a small osteria or restaurant to make some phone calls. His first was to the minister, who had left several messages on his voice mail demanding to know what was going on. Atha called and told him that he was in Naples and not to worry; they would soon have the material as planned.

“Why are you in Naples?” demanded the minister. “Where is the Russian?”

“The Russian is not important,” said Atha. “The material is here.”

“Everything is waiting. You are a day late already.”

“These things take time. When I obtained—”

“That’s immaterial. We must move quickly. The timetable is not our own.”

The barely suppressed rage in the minister’s voice made Atha tremble.

“I will need to make some new arrangements concerning my transportation. I had originally arranged for a merchant ship—”

“The arrangements will be made,” said the minister. “You are behind schedule.”

“Actually, Minister, I said that—”

“Do not argue. Just get it done!”

Atha pulled the phone from his head as the receiver was slammed down on the other end.

Still on the phone?” Rankin asked Hamilton.

“Bloody hell he hasn’t left, has he?”

Rankin folded his arms. “I could have bugged the damn place and we’d know what he’s saying.”

“We’re not taking risks, Yank. This is my show, remember?”

Rankin pushed back against the seat. Ferguson might be a jerk, but he sure as hell knew what he was doing, unlike this British bozo.

“He’s off the phone,” said the driver. “Coming out.”

Rankin pulled his baseball cap lower on his head, shielding his face as the car pulled out of its space. The Iranian walked out of the store and turned right, heading in the direction of the train station. Traffic had picked up considerably and within half a block they had lost sight of him.

“Shit,” said Rankin, banging on the dashboard.

“Calm down,” said Hamilton. “We know where he’s going.”

“Do we?” snapped Rankin.

Someone up ahead began honking their horn. The road ahead, barely two lanes wide, had four cars abreast, all trying to get into an intersection that seemed jammed as well. Traffic came to a complete halt.

Rankin grabbed the door latch.

“What are you doing?” asked Hamilton.

“I’ll follow him. Keep your phone line free.”

“Americans,” muttered Hamilton as Rankin slammed the door.

The cars were packed so tightly that it was difficult to get through. Rankin finally decided that the only way he could get to the side was to climb on bumpers, which elicited curses and even more horn blowing. When he reached the sidewalk, he had to duck around a fully loaded garbage Dumpster that smelled as if it hadn’t been emptied since the Second World War.

He pulled the radio’s earbud up from beneath his shirt collar. “Hey, Guns, you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here, man.”

“Atha’s coming your way”

“I’m ready.”

“I’m on foot. Hamilton’s stuck in traffic with Jared.”

“OK. You get something to eat?”

“No.”

“I’m sitting in a pastry shop. I can get you something. They have these very nice cheese danish things. Don’t know what they’re called, but they’re killer.”

“No thanks.”

“Hey, I see him.”

“All right. Don’t get too close.”

Rankin began trotting, ducking around a pair of businessmen who were themselves ducking a vendor selling umbrellas. When Rankin reached the main entrance, a nine-year-old boy stepped in front of him and asked if he wanted his shoes shined. At that moment, someone bumped into Rankin on the right. As he started to duck out of the way, a third man attempted to take Rankin’s wallet.

Rankin plunged his elbow into the first man’s stomach, then swung his left hand out and grabbed the man trying to take his wallet, throwing him to the ground. The first man took a swing at Rankin, who managed to push him off. Rankin reached for the Beretta at the back of his belt, then stopped, a policeman running through the door of the station.

“Get the hell away from me,” Rankin told the would-be pickpockets. “Go!”

But instead of running off, the first man made a run at him, plunging his head into Rankin’s midsection. Rankin smacked the side of the man’s head with his fist, then punched him in the gut with his other hand. The man crumbled to the ground, out of breath.

The policeman had paused to figure out what was going on. Now he sprang into action, blowing a whistle and unholstering his weapon. Rankin looked for a way to sneak away without having to deal with the authorities, but a police motorcycle had managed to find a way through the traffic jam behind him and was riding up on the sidewalk. He stepped back, watching as the pickpockets began pleading that they were the victims, calling Rankin a brute and saying that he was the one who should be arrested. A plainclothes detective approached Rankin, and asked in Italian what he had seen happen.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian,” said Rankin.

“Non parla Italiano?”

“I only speak English.”

“I see. Wait un momento, please.”

“I have to get a train.”

“Un momento, please,” repeated the man, gesturing to someone on the now-crowded steps. “A moment.”

“How come this kind of stuff never happens to Ferg?” Rankin muttered to himself.

23

Ferguson was having his own problems in Bologna.

Neither he nor Thera had been able to find where Rostislawitch had gone. He wasn’t in any of the small cafés and coffee bars within ten blocks of the hotel, nor had he gone over to the conference building early. Ferguson finally conceded to himself that they’d lost Rostislawitch, at least temporarily; he planted some fresh video bugs and booster units, then met Thera in a hotel restaurant near the art building.

“I’m sorry, Ferg. I’m really sorry,” she told him as he sat down. “I’m really sorry.”

“He’ll turn up. I’ve lost people before.”

“I checked the hotel. He’s still registered. I left him a message on his voice mail, saying he should call me.”

“Great.”

The waiter came over. Ferguson ordered a caffèllatte, then sat back in his seat, watching the people pass outside.

“The old guy really likes you, doesn’t he?” said Ferguson.

“He’s not that old.”

“So you like the mature type, huh?”

The waiter appeared with Ferguson’s coffee.

“He seems very nice,” said Thera.

“Sure, for a guy who’s perfecting ways to mass murder people,” said Ferguson, stirring his coffee.

“I didn’t say he was perfect.”

“Unlike me, huh?”

Thera flushed. “You’re always fooling around,” she said angrily.

The air drained abruptly from Ferguson’s lungs, as if he’d been punched in the stomach without any warning.

Oh, Christ, he realized, she loves me.

He tried to think of something to say, something to tell her — he wanted to say how he felt, but to temper it with reality, with their jobs and what was happening to him, the cancer, everything — but before he could think of what to say a face loomed in the crowd passing by the window.

“Rostislawitch,” hissed Thera. “He’s going to the conference.”

“Get over there,” said Ferg. “I’m right behind you.”

“Ferg—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go.”

24

Guns spotted Atha coming into the train station, walking briskly with a shiny black carry-on bag rolling at his side. Taking out his fake MP3 player, Guns tuned to the channel for the bug he’d planted near the luggage area. Then he drifted toward the men’s room near the baggage check-in counter, listening as Atha walked up to the attendant and asked to check his bag. Guns thought it must be part of an exchange, but the suitcase didn’t contain wads of cash; the clerk opened it and found only a pair of sweaters.

Atha took his receipt, then left, walking up in the direction of the train platforms.

Guns checked around, trying to catch anyone who might be trailing Atha, then slowly started in that direction himself.

“Rankin, what’s going on?” he asked, switching his “player” back over to the radio circuit.

“I have a problem. Stay away.”

“Huh?”

“Pickpockets tried to roll me. I’m with the police. I’m going to have to give up my cover.”

“Are you kidding?”

“I don’t sound like I’m making a joke, do I?”

Rankin said something Guns couldn’t make out to a policeman.

Guns wanted to ask Rankin what he thought was going on — why would Atha check a bag rather than retrieve one? But obviously Rankin was in no position to answer.

Probably he’d be just as baffled as Guns was.

Ferg would know — he always knew. He had some sixth sense about things that none of them quite shared.

Atha, meanwhile, went into a small store that sold mineral water, bought himself a bottle, then walked across to a magazine kiosk, where he got a copy of the newspaper, then went and sat down on a bench at the far side of the station. He dug into his pocket for the luggage receipt, then took out the slip of paper with the numbers the prostitute had copied for him.

The luggage ticket was a simple piece of white paper, with the word scontrino — ticket — stamped above a black line where the clerk wrote the letter and number of the locker or bin where he had placed the bag.

Rostislawitch’s number was only one digit different from his — 4 rather than 8 — and Atha considered simply altering the number with a pen. But he decided to stick with his original plan and, after satisfying himself that the carabinieri were no longer watching him, walked back toward the exit. There he saw the policemen in the process of arresting a pair of pickpockets; rather than walking close by, Atha went out the side. Avoiding the police entirely, he circled around the block until he came to the Hotel Naples. There he walked through the lobby to the business center. Within a few moments he had a photocopy of the baggage ticket. A pencil eraser lifted the original claim number; he made another copy, put in the right number, and then used the center’s paper cutter to fashion a scontrino di bagaglio that looked so much like the original that after folding it and putting it into his pocket he had to pull out the prostitute’s note to make sure he had the right one.

The war against pickpockets and other scammers at the Naples train station had been going on for over a hundred years. The policemen detaining Rankin were therefore somewhat resigned to the fact that there would be many battles, and knew they would have to husband their resources for the long haul. The repeated protests of the American finally convinced them that he would never do as a witness, and thus they released him, even as they pushed the miscreants into a car for a ride to the station, where their names would be recorded and their photos taken. It was of some consolation, the policemen thought, that the criminals had chosen a victim willing to fight back; both of the would-be pickpockets looked considerably worse for wear, and were likely to take at least a few days off nursing their wounds.

Rankin went inside and grabbed a table at one of the small food kiosks. Guns had followed the Iranian into the hotel, where Atha had created a new luggage ticket, then turned him over to the two British MI6 agents so he could go and rent some scooters in case they needed more transportation.

In a dark mood, Rankin sipped his coffee and waited for Atha to return to the station. The incident with the pickpockets had thrown Rankin off. Until then, he’d thought he had everything under control.

His cell phone rang.

“All right, Yank. Atha just gave something to a ratty-looking man who walks with a limp,” said Hamilton.

“When he comes out with the bag, brush into him, then call for the police,” Rankin told Hamilton. “I’ll come up behind you and grab the bag. Worst case, the police will end up with it, and we can examine it at the station.”

“We don’t want the Naples police involved in this,” said Hamilton. “They’re too corrupt. It will be better to grab him on the street. We’ll be closer to the car.”

“The traffic sucks.”

“Relax, Stephen. I’ve done this sort of thing before.”

Rankin ground his teeth together.

A man with a limp and a tattered sweater headed toward the luggage check. Rankin started toward him, then spotted Atha only a few feet behind him. He put his cell phone back to his ear.

“Hamilton, Atha’s right behind this guy. He’s going with him to the luggage check.”

“Very good, very good. I’m just coming in the door.”

Rankin stayed back, expecting Hamilton to close in. But the British agent stayed back as well. The video bug showed the Iranian getting a bag and then standing nearby as the other man got a similar bag. In seconds, they were both outside the luggage area, moving in opposite directions.

“I have Atha,” said Hamilton. “Take his accomplice. Don’t cause a stir.”

Rankin followed the man as he wheeled his bag toward the ticket counter. Rail-thin, with a beard several days old, the Italian dragged his right foot as he walked, his shoe’s metal heel scraping on the floor. Rankin had no trouble closing the distance between them, standing with only one person between him and the man. It was tempting to grab the suitcase and simply run off, but there were so many policemen around that he was sure to create a commotion. The man took the suitcase with him to the ticket window.

The man was exchanging a ticket, or at least trying to. They were arguing about something — Rankin’s Italian wasn’t good enough to let him know about what.

It had to do with an exchange. The man was trying to get money for an unused train ticket.

Rankin thought about what he was seeing — an unkempt, possibly homeless man, trying to come up with cash. He wasn’t the sort of person that would be a regular Iranian agent.

But that fit: Atha had hired prostitutes in Bologna, using them to do jobs he couldn’t do himself.

The person behind Rankin prodded him. A window had just opened up.

“I made a mistake,” Rankin told her. “You go.”

He moved away, standing to the side as the man who’d taken the bag came away from the counter, his ticket still in his hand.

“Where’s it to?” asked Rankin.

“Che?” said the man.

“The ticket.” Rankin pointed. “I’ll buy it from you.”

The man eyed him suspiciously. The man didn’t seem to speak English, so Rankin decided to make do with the universal language — money.

“Fifty euros,” said Rankin.

“Cento” said the man immediately.

“Screw you. The ticket’s worthless to you,” said Rankin, turning away. He wasn’t sure how long to play it; he took two steps, then turned back around.

“Throw in the bag and you’ve got a deal,” said Rankin, pointing.

The man didn’t understand.

“The bag. Luggage.”

The man squinted, still unsure what he meant.

“Ecco,” said Rankin, touching the bag. “Here. This.”

“Cento? Si,” said the man.

His quick agreement told Rankin everything he needed to know — the bag was worthless — but he paid the man anyway.

Hamilton closed in behind Atha. He was tempted to grab the bag and toss it to Jared in the car. But if he did that, he’d be tipping Atha off to the fact that they were on to him, and the Iranian would undoubtedly flee. Hamilton’s assignment was to delineate whatever network Atha was part of; if he grabbed the bag or even Atha now, he would in fact fail to fulfill his objectives.

So he let Atha go, following him down the street to a cab. Guns, nearby on the rented Vespa, zoomed in close to follow while Hamilton got in with Jared.

They followed the taxi to the port area, a long pilgrimage over crowded streets through colorless clouds of carbon monoxide and the relentless rant of Neapolitan curses. Hamilton liked Italy, but not this part of it — garbage strewn and smoggy — even the air smelled rancid, the stench of dead fish and factories wafting in the breeze.

“Take a right there,” Hamilton told Jared. “It’s shorter.”

“We’ll get stuck at the cross street.”

“Take the right. It’s shorter.”

Jared turned at the last minute, tires screeching. For two blocks, it appeared as if Hamilton was correct; there was no traffic on the narrow road. But the deep potholes made it hard to go too fast, and midway down the third street they found themselves once more embedded in traffic.

“You might do better by walking,” said Jared.

“Guns is with him,” said Hamilton. “There’s no need to go crazy.”

Guns watched from a block away as Atha’s cab stopped in front of a row of dilapidated brick buildings near the docks south of the city’s main port area. Instead of going into one of the houses across the street, Atha crossed to the waterside, climbing up a set of concrete steps and disappearing down the side. Guns drove down the block far enough to see Atha clambering down a wooden ladder to a narrow dock and over to a small fishing boat. A burly man came out from the wheelhouse to help him board. The Iranian held on to the suitcase he was carrying for dear life, refusing to give it to the other man even though his balance was precarious. Finally, he managed to tumble onto the deck. The other man laughed, and they both went inside.

Hamilton and Jared drove up a few minutes later. Rankin, on the scooter Guns had left for him, rode up almost on their tail.

“About time you got here, Yank,” said Hamilton, as if he’d been waiting for Rankin all morning.

“Why didn’t you grab the suitcase?” Rankin asked.

“Because my job is to investigate the man, not what he’s carrying.”

“He’s got plans for a bacteria that’ll kill people in there.”

“That’s Ferguson’s theory.”

“More than just Ferg’s.”

“Listen, Mr. Rankin, I’m in charge here.”

“Bullshit. If you didn’t want to grab the suitcase, you should have told me that at the station. Ferg said I shouldn’t trust you.”

“Ferguson is not one to talk on the issue of trust. There’s no harm done. He’s down in the boat.”

“He’s going to sail the fucking boat out of the harbor.”

Rankin looked down at the water. The fishing boat was tied up by itself, but there was a small marina about fifty yards away.

“I think it might be a meeting,” said Guns. “Or maybe they’re waiting for somebody.”

“One of us is going to have to go down there and bug the boat,” said Rankin.

“Are you daft?” said Hamilton. “They’ll see you.”

“He’s got a point, Skip,” said Guns. “We might just as well go grab the suitcase ourselves, like we’re robbers.”

“No!” said Hamilton.

“Then we’re going to have to get the Italians involved,” said Rankin. “It’s the only way we’ll find out what he took from the locker.”

“Guns’ idea might work,” said Lloyd. “You and I could stay back and follow them afterwards.”

Hamilton was about to object when they heard the tug’s engines turn over and pop to life with a deep rumble. All four men looked at one another; then Rankin reached to his belt and took out his Beretta.

“Back me up, Guns,” he said, starting for the stairs. He reached them just in time to see the burly man Guns had spotted earlier casting off the line. “Stop!” Rankin yelled. “Stop!”

He fired a round just in case the man didn’t speak English. The man dove back to the wheelhouse. Rankin began clambering down the steps. He was almost to the wood dock at the bottom when the Italian reemerged from the cabin, a Skorpion submachine gun in his hands.

Guns, at the top of the steps, screamed a warning, but it was drowned out by the rattle of the small Czech weapon blasting through its twenty-bullet magazine.

25

Ferguson’s tip about Kiska having a cousin with a German last name in a mental hospital somewhere in Romania — and the suggestion that she used the cousin’s identity for her credit card accounts — wasn’t the most stellar piece of intelligence Ciello had ever received. But the analyst persevered.

His first problem was the fact that he did not speak Romanian. That was easily overcome; when the Agency Romanian language expert proved unavailable, Ciello stole a page from Ferguson’s book and went for outside help, in this case a UFO expert he knew who lived in Craiova and had recently published a moving though overly assonant sonnet sequence on UFO abductions there. Craiova was a long way from Baia Mare — opposite ends of the country, in fact — but his fellow UFO buff had his own network of informants, and within an hour or so had obtained a list of all of the patients at the two mental institutions near Baia Mare.

The fact that there were two, not one, gave Ciello a bit more work to do; he ended up with five possible names of women who might be related to Kiska Babev. A preliminary search of the names turned up nothing, but this wasn’t surprising. Ciello sent his formal requests for information on possible bank and credit card accounts over the CIA system; he got an automated response informing him that he would have the results “as soon as humanly possible” — an odd comment, he thought, given that it was generated by computer.

Then he called Ferguson’s friend in Nigeria.

“Ah, you called. Very good. Just about lunchtime here,” said the man. His English had a slightly exotic accent. “Mr. Ferg promised you call before lunch.”

“I have five names I need to check out for bank accounts.”

“Five? Mr. Ferg said only one. Five — that was not what he said.”

“Well, five is just five ones put together,” said Ciello, not sure what other explanation he could give.

“But it is more than one. This is the key point.”

“Well, shit happens.”

The man thought the expression was uproariously funny, and began laughing so hard that Ciello had to hold his phone away from his ear.

“Shit happens. Yes. Yes. I think this all the time. Shit does happen. A-ha.”

“Can I give you the names?”

“My friend, today, for you, because you are the friend to my friend, and because it is lunchtime, I am going to save you very much work. You will look the names up yourself. Today only — because you are friend to Mr. Ferguson.”

“Great,” said Ciello.

“One name, five names, a hundred names. Today you do what you want. Because, my friend, shit happens.”

“Sure does.”

The man gave Ciello a Web site and an access code; all would be revealed when he signed on.

“Look in an hour. If not there, then, no information can be found.”

“An hour?”

“Give or take. Lunch comes first. Shit happens, no?”

Fibber was still laughing when Ciello hung up the phone.

26

The Czech-produced Skorpion was more a machine pistol than a submachine gun; its light weight and poor balance made it hard for a novice to handle, especially one who was trying to shoot with one hand while on the run. The bullets had the intended effect, however: they sent Rankin diving for cover. Since the narrow wooden dock offered none, he dove into the water, barely escaping the spray of 7.65mm bullets. As the water roiled, he pushed himself away, doing his best to stay underwater until finally his lungs felt like they were about to burst. When he surfaced, he realized that the rumble he’d felt nearby had come not from the bullets but from the propellers pushing the boat from the dock. The fishing boat was already some thirty yards away; Rankin took a few strokes after it but saw it was hopeless. He turned back and found Guns and the others gaping at him from the railing above the dock.

“Why the hell didn’t you shoot back?” Rankin yelled. “Crap. He’s getting away.”

Guns — who had not only shot back but hit the gunman while Rankin was underwater — said nothing. Hamilton shook his head.

Rankin climbed up on a dilapidated tire and pulled himself out of the water. He’d lost his pistol when he jumped in; he gave a cursory look around the dock though he knew it was hopeless, then climbed up the ladder to the stairs and the street.

“You should have grabbed the bag on the street when you had the chance,” Rankin told Hamilton.

“Don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t have done, Yank,” answered Hamilton.

Cursing, Rankin went through his pockets. He still had his radio and headset, plus his sat phone and his wallet.

Guns, meanwhile, took a photo of the boat with his small camera, then pulled out his phone to talk to Corrigan back in the Cube.

“We’re going to need the Italian coast guard,” he told him. “Atha got away with whatever the Russian scientist sold him. They’re in a fishing boat; it’s not that big, fifty-something feet. It didn’t have a name. I’ll upload a photo.”

“Screw the coast guard,” said Rankin, pointing toward the marina. “Let’s grab our own boat.”

“We can’t steal a boat,” said Hamilton.

“One more word out of you and I’ll throw you off the side,” said Rankin. “Then you’ll smell as bad as I do.”

27

Atha dragged the injured sailor to the cabin, trying to be as gentle as possible. He’d been struck twice, once in the chest and once in the stomach; blood covered both sides of his sweatshirt, and a trail led back to the stern of the boat. Atha tried to put him into the bunk, but the man was too heavy for him to lift, and he decided the sailor was better off on the floor.

“I’m going to get something for a bandage,” Atha told the man.

The man grunted in response. Foam slipped from his mouth, blood and spit mixing together. The sailor grabbed at Atha’s arm, wrapping his own around it.

“I’ll be back. I need to get you a bandage,” said the Iranian, pushing the hand away. The man fell back against the deck.

Up on the bridge of the small boat, the captain was staring at the sea ahead, both hands on the large wheel.

“Are they following us?” Atha asked.

The man did not respond.

“Are there bandages somewhere? A first-aid kit?”

Again, the captain said nothing. Atha spotted a box marked by a white cross next to the fire extinguisher; he grabbed it off the bulkhead and went back to the cabin where he had left the wounded sailor. Opening the box, Atha saw a few pads of gauze, far too small to staunch the flow of blood. He took one anyway, then went down on his knee and tried to find the man’s wound. As he did, he realized the man had stopped breathing. Blood was no longer spurting from the wounds. Atha touched the man’s face; it felt like wet putty, slick with the man’s sweat and the spray from the water. For a moment, he thought of trying artificial respiration, even though he knew it would be useless. Then he pushed down the sailor’s eyelids, said a quick prayer, as much for himself as for the dead man.

Rising, Atha realized he was covered with blood. He went to the head, a small, crowded restroom that barely fit a tiny sink and toilet. The soap in the sink was gray, covered with oil; he dug his fingernails through it, revolted by the grime but determined to cleanse the blood away. The faucet produced only a slight trickle. Atha washed his hands and arms as best he could, but even after ten solid minutes there were still red streaks up and down his arms. Bits of blood had coagulated on his fingernails and in the ridges of his hands. He picked at them for a while longer, then gave up.

Out on the deck, he retrieved the small submachine gun and looked to make sure that no one was following them. There were at least a dozen boats between them and the shoreline, but none were particularly close.

He wasn’t sure who the men were who had tried to stop them. He guessed Italian secret service agents, though they hadn’t identified themselves. It was also possible they were confederates of the man he’d hired to retrieve and swap the bags. In any event, he’d have to assume they were the former, which meant the Italian coast guard and navy would soon be looking for them.

Where the men had come from was another good question. Most likely they’d been following him from the train station, though he hadn’t seen anyone. That was his fault — once he had the bag he’d simply moved as quickly as possible, not taking his usual precautions because he wanted to get to the boat.

Atha took the gun inside, reloading it before going to see the captain.

“I think we are all right,” Atha told him. “How long?”

The captain didn’t acknowledge him. Atha was tempted to hold the gun at his head and demand an answer, but he realized that would serve little purpose.

“Your man is with Allah, blessed be his name,” said Atha, laying his hand gently on the captain’s shoulder.

The captain said nothing. He was an Iranian by birth and spoke Farsi fluently, but he had lived in Italy since he was seven and felt more Italian than Iranian. He was brooding on the fact that it would now be difficult for him to return to Naples for several weeks. He made a good living by smuggling items for the local Mafia and other “businessmen,” but everyone had a certain territory, and he would not be able to operate from another port. Atha, though he paid well, employed him very rarely, and had just cost him a great deal of money. Not to mention the problem of disposing of his deckhand.

Atha left him to his business. He went back to the cabin where the sailor had died, kneeling over Rostislawitch’s suitcase. In his haste as the shooting began, he had neglected to zip it shut. Instead of closing it now, he opened it again, reexamining the contents — twelve flat, sealed glass cases, no larger than a child’s yo-yo. They looked like flattened jelly jars or the bottoms of the glass honey pots he remembered from childhood.

The brown, jellylike liquid inside might very well be honey for all he knew. It might very well be a scam.

Or perhaps the Italian secret service had made a substitution.

There was nothing he could do about that now. He had to trust that Allah, all praise due to him, had a plan.

Atha zipped the suitcase, grabbed the rest of the bullets for the machine pistol, and went on deck to keep watch.

28

Ferguson twisted around as he walked, scanning the second-story windows on the small block, trying to make sure the knot of scientists ahead weren’t being followed by anyone other than the pair of undercover Italian policemen Imperiati had assigned.

Ferguson didn’t see anyone, but that didn’t make him feel any more comfortable. Rostislawitch and Thera — Rostislawitch really, with Thera agreeing — had decided to skip the first morning session and join a small group of scientists for brunch at a restaurant three blocks from the art building. Ferguson hadn’t had time to check out the place beforehand. He trailed along now as the group found the door and tromped up the steps to the second-floor dining room, exchanging jokes in the pidgin English they all shared.

Ferguson walked past the stairs that led up to the restaurant, continuing to the end of the block and crossing over. He stayed under the arched promenade, pretending to window-shop while glancing around. Finally convinced that there was no one watching, he doubled back toward the restaurant. He slipped two video bugs in to cover the street, then went upstairs.

The room was shaped like an L, with tables lined up together along a narrow passage to the deeper part of the room. Ferguson glanced at the maitre d’, then saw Kiska Babev sitting by herself about halfway down the long row.

“That’s my date,” Ferguson told the maitre d’, walking over to her.

“Ciao, baby,” said Ferguson, pulling out the chair. The maitre d’ rushed to push it in for him.

“You’re late,” she said.

“I wanted to make sure we weren’t followed. Don’t want people talking.” He turned to the waiter, who had just appeared at his elbow. “House red.”

“A little early for wine, Bobby.”

“I like to get a head start on the day.”

Kiska had persuaded one of the scientists in the group to suggest the place for breakfast, and to try to bring Rostislawitch along. The man didn’t know she was an FSB agent — he thought she was with the Science Ministry, her cover — but was happy to oblige when she assured him that she would sign for the tab. She needed to confer with the scientist about a grant offer from a drug company, she explained, but wanted to do so discreetly.

“I knew you would be here,” Kiska told Ferguson. “Because I knew that Dr. Rostislawitch would be. Why did you tell Signor Imperiati that I was involved in the bombing yesterday?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what he heard.”

“His English isn’t that good.”

“His English is better than mine.”

“Nah. His accent is all wrong.”

Kiska found it difficult to control her anger at the accusation. “You caused a great deal of trouble for me,” she said. “I suspect I am still under suspicion. All because of a lie you told for fun, I suppose.”

“Who says it’s a lie?”

Kiska reached across the table and slapped his cheek. Though he saw it coming, it still stung.

“I am not playing your American wise-guy games anymore, Bobby.”

“You’re making people stare.”

“I don’t care if they stare,” she said, switching to Russian.

“Well if you don’t care, I don’t care,” answered Ferguson, also in Russian.

The waiter, Ferguson’s wine on his tray, approached cautiously. Ferguson gave him a smile that said, Women, what can you expect? The Italian put the glass down, raised an eyebrow in sympathy, and retreated.

“Why are you in Bologna?” Kiska demanded, still speaking Russian.

“We went through this yesterday.”

“I will tell you, Bobby, I do not like being accused of being a terrorist,” she said. “I do not like this charge being made to my embassy.”

“All I told him was that you were a possible witness. Which you were.”

Kiska was not sure how much of that to believe, but she needed to move past her own anger, or she would never find out what the Americans were doing, or what was really going on here.

“I will tell you in truth why I am here,” she said. “And I expect truth from you in return.”

“I’m as truthful as they come.”

“Artur Rostislawitch works in a sensitive area regarding bacteria that can be used as weapons.”

“Against international law?”

“There is nothing preventing his research, as you very well know,” said Kiska. “Your scientists work on similar projects. He has had access to very sensitive materials. His career — he has suffered professional setbacks which are none of my concern. Politics. In any event, it is conceivable that he is disgruntled, which I believe you know.”

“Doesn’t look like the happiest guy in the world,” said Ferguson, shooting him a glance.

Someone had just told a joke and Rostislawitch was laughing.

“Then again, you never know,” said Ferguson.

“Some days ago — just before he came to Bologna in fact — one of the safety indicators at a lab where he worked was tampered with. There are some who believe he took material, a culture of bacteria that might be used as a weapon.”

“There’s a question about it?” said Ferguson.

“There are many questions. Nothing may have been taken; he may not have been the one.” Kiska paused. She did not like the ambiguity herself. “The material was something that he worked on himself. It is an old culture, from a program that is no longer sanctioned. He comes here, and you are watching him. Why, I wonder. Has my friend switched from tracking down nuclear material for his government to recruiting Russian scientists? Usually that is a job for an academic, or perhaps a lower-level officer. But then there is a bomb, and though my friend is near it when it explodes, I am blamed. So what is going on, I wonder. What is going on, Bobby?”

“If you keep talking loud enough, Rostislawitch will hear you and you can ask him yourself.”

“I intend to. Why are you in Italy?”

“I’m trying to catch the person who wants to kill Rostislawitch.”

Kiska could not entirely cover her surprise. “Who is it?”

“Some people think it’s you.”

“I told you, no games.”

“I’m being honest.”

The waiter started to approach, but one glance from Kiska sent him scurrying back to the kitchen.

“Why would I kill him?”

“Maybe to keep whatever it is he took from coming to me,” said Ferguson. “Except I wasn’t the one buying it.”

Needing a moment to process everything he had said, Kiska changed the subject.

“The girl you have cozying up to him — she wouldn’t have taken it?”

“She doesn’t look like the double-crossing type, does she?”

Kiska leaned back in her seat. “If you are not buying the material from Rostislawitch, who is?”

Ferguson shrugged. “I haven’t heard that anything is for sale.”

“Why would someone want to kill him? It must be related to material, or his research.”

“You know better than me. I’d love to find a motive. Then I’d find out who it was. I don’t really care about the scientist.” Ferguson leaned ever so slightly over the table. “I care about the murderer.”

“Why?”

“He killed one of my people.”

Kiska’s anger had dissipated. There was something about Ferguson that made him difficult to stay mad at. More likely it was her own flaw, some hard-to-map chink in her personality that wanted to forgive handsome men their sins.

A deadly flaw, she thought.

“And you don’t know who the murderer is?” Kiska asked.

Ferguson shook his head.

“Waiter, we’re ready,” Kiska said, using English as she raised her hand to summon him.

“I don’t have a menu,” said Ferguson.

“Have the lamb omelet,” she told him. “It’s very good.”

“Lamb omelet?”

“It’s very good.”

Kiska ordered for both of them. Ferguson, meanwhile, tried to decide if what Kiska was telling him was actually true. It was certainly alarming, but the FSB wasn’t known for volunteering information like that. Even in their earlier encounter, Kiska had never been this forthcoming.

But what possible angle could she be playing? Get him to do something that would lead her to the scientist?

Maybe Rostislawitch wasn’t her target at all — maybe the First Team and its infrastructure was: give them a lead and see how they reacted.

Was he overthinking it?

“So you know that someone is trying to kill him, but you do not know who,” said Kiska. “Where did you get such information?”

“It’s complicated,” said Ferguson.

“Then you may have the wrong target.”

“I may.” Ferguson took a tiny sip of wine. “So tell me about the material that’s missing. What was it?”

“It’s a bacteria, a type of E. coli. That’s all I know.”

“E. coli is the stuff in our stomachs.”

“Some is. There are many, many varieties. Some harm us; some don’t.”

“And this one does. Why?”

“I honestly don’t know. That is not my specialty.” She waved her hand. “I’m told that the material may have been the subject of a weapons program at one time in the distant past, but that it was decided to be too… inappropriate. Difficult to use.”

“Why?”

“Bobby, you look for answers that even I do not have access to. You haven’t changed.”

“Who would he sell to?” asked Ferguson.

“If not you?”

“If not me.”

“I see someone from Bundesnachrichtendienst, covered as a commerce attaché. Clumsy, for the Germans.”

“BND is so unimaginative,” said Ferguson.

Bundesnachrichtendienst — BND — was the German intelligence service.

“I assume there are others,” said Kiska, who had put her assistant in Moscow to work vetting the names of the scientists enrolled at the conference. “I don’t get out of Moscow that much.”

“A shame.”

Kiska looked over in the scientist’s direction. She couldn’t see him from where she was sitting, but she imagined that he would be smiling, happy — perhaps he had already completed the deal and was on his way to becoming rich.

Or maybe not. She had been on cases where a string of circumstances led to great suspicions, all of which later proved unfounded.

But Ferguson’s presence told her there was something real. How much of what he said was a lie she couldn’t tell. In the past, Ferguson had not so much lied as left things out. He was certainly doing that here, but what details was he omitting besides the information on how they had tracked the killer? Did he actually know who it was? Was Rostislawitch even the target?

“We’re watching the scientist’s accounts,” Kiska said.

“Probably he has one you don’t know about.”

“It’s possible.”

“We could compare notes.”

“Give me the list that you have and I will tell you if it’s correct,” said Kiska.

“Nice try,” said Ferguson. “I don’t think we have any, actually.”

“That I don’t believe.”

“We’re not as omniscient as you think.”

“I don’t think you’re omniscient, Bobby,” she said, looking into his eyes. “I’ve worked with you before.”

“Touché,” said Ferguson, raising his glass.

“I’m going to talk to him after lunch. I don’t want you to interfere.”

“Fine with me.”

Ferguson’s face was still red where she had struck him. Kiska reached across the table and touched his cheek. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I’ve been slapped before. You expect that from Russian women.”

“Always with a joke.”

She ran the side of her finger down his cheek. He was a very dangerous man, but a handsome one. She nearly said something she would have regretted, but fortunately the waiter approached with their meals.

Thera excused herself from the table and walked in the direction of the ladies’ room. As she did, she saw Ferguson sitting with the Russian FSB agent, who was running her hand down his cheek.

He just couldn’t resist, could he, Thera thought to herself, pretending not to see.

29

Rankin, Guns, and the Brits didn’t steal the boat. Renting — albeit at an exorbitant rate — was easier and faster.

The fishing boat Atha had boarded was an old vessel, weighed down by rust and caked crud. Their boat was much newer — a large cabin cruiser about half the size of the other craft and, while not the speediest vessel on the water, capable of 30 knots.

Corrigan told Rankin that the Naples harbor patrol — actually part of the police force — was sending its three launches out. The Italian Guardia Costiera — the coast guard — had a patrol boat about eight miles to the south and another to the north; both were on their way as well.

“You think that the Italians can really help?” said Hamilton derisively. “You’re really a novice at this, aren’t you? At least Ferguson knows where to butter his toast.”

“Ferg ain’t here,” said Rankin, moving toward the bow.

Guns, standing against the rail with his binoculars, pointed toward a boat in the distance.

“That it, you think?”

Rankin took the glasses. Shaped like a small tug, the boat had a large stack directly behind the small wheelhouse. There was a boom at the back.

“Yeah, I think so,” he agreed, handing the binoculars back.

“You gonna apologize?”

“For what?”

Guns looked at him for a second, then raised the glasses to his face.

“I’m not Ferg,” Rankin said. “I’m not perfect.”

“Ferg ain’t perfect, either.” Guns put down the glasses. “I shot the son of a bitch while you were in the water.”

“Oh.” Rankin realized, belatedly, that Guns hadn’t been criticizing him; he was angry because Rankin had yelled at him for not firing at the gunman. He should have realized that, and would have, had he not been obsessed with measuring himself against Ferguson. It wasn’t his fault that the Iranian had gotten away, even though he was blaming himself.

“Hey, listen, I got a little hot back there,” said Rankin. “I’m sorry. I know you probably did your best.”

“Yeah. None of us are Ferg,” added Guns.

“A good thing,” muttered Rankin.

Rankin had the captain cut the motor when they were about a mile from the fishing boat. No one seemed to be on deck. The boat was moving at about 4 knots due south; it had obviously slowed down at some point, but its pace now remained steady.

“Maybe the Iranian was wounded as well,” suggested Hamilton as they took turns examining the boat through Guns’ binoculars.

“Maybe.”

Rankin took out his sat phone. “Corrigan, where is that coast guard boat? You know?”

“To your southeast. It’s still a good half hour away.”

“Thanks.” He turned to Guns. “What do you think? Wait for the Italians?”

“If he’s got papers in the suitcase, he could be destroying them,” said Guns. “There’s smoke coming out of the smokestack.”

“We don’t want to wait for the Italians,” said Hamilton. “We don’t want them involved.”

“Why not?” said Rankin.

“Because the more people involved, the more things go to hell.”

You can say that again, thought Rankin.

“We can take the rigid-hulled boat over and find out what’s going on,” said Guns. “The only thing is, we only have one gun, right?”

He looked at Hamilton. Neither of the MI6 agents was armed.

“Figures,” said Rankin.

“I say we go,” responded Hamilton.

“Thanks.” Rankin turned to Guns. “I’ll take the point if you want.”

“No, it’s OK. I’m a better shot.”

Rankin didn’t think so, but he let it pass.

Hamilton had Jared Lloyd stay behind. The three men climbed into the cruiser’s small rigid-hulled inflatable and sped over to the fishing boat, which was still moving at a slow but steady pace. Rankin took the boat up against the port side of the fishing craft; Guns leapt aboard and moved swiftly toward the smokestack, ducking behind it as he tried to peer through the open doorway in front of it. As Rankin started to follow Hamilton out of the boat, he saw an emergency kit at the side. He opened it, and took the flare gun, figuring it was better than nothing.

The door to the rear of the fishing boat’s small superstructure was open. Guns and Rankin crouched on either side as Hamilton moved around toward the front. Neither man could see what was going on.

The Beretta felt tiny in Guns’ hand. In a perfect world, he’d have something considerably bigger — a shotgun would have been nice.

“Stay behind me,” he whispered to Rankin as he stepped into the gray space. He had both hands on the Beretta, his finger pressed against the trigger — anything that appeared was getting blasted.

The space was divided by a narrow corridor, with a cabin on each side and the bridge at the front. Guns moved to the left, ducking into the first space, trying to stay out of the direct line of fire from the front and search the cabin at the same time. It held lockers and a pair of benches, bolted to the floor, an assortment of gear and boxes piled randomly at both sides. It took him several seconds to scan them all, to make sure that the lines he saw were straight and unmoving.

“Come on,” hissed Rankin, who’d checked a similar space on the opposite side. Rather than waiting for Guns, he moved forward, through a small hallway, then ran forward, looking for the bridge.

Guns ran to keep up. He saw Rankin run forward, shouting something. Guns plunged into the space after him, throwing himself to the right, sure that they would both come under a hail of bullets.

But the vessel’s bridge was empty, the wheel tied by a rope into position.

“Shit,” said Rankin.

Guns moved his Beretta around the space twice, using it to direct his gaze. Then he went back to the cabins they’d bypassed. A figure lay on the deck in the cabin at the port side. Guns slid over to him on his knee, weapon ready; the man was dead.

“Guns!”

“Dead guy,” said Guns, back on his feet.

The door to the other cabin was locked. Guns heard someone talking inside, the voices still muffled.

“Come out,” he yelled. “Hands high.”

There was no answer.

Guns put his hand on the lever that worked the door. “Viennee quee,” he said, phonetically sounding the Italian words for “come here.”

No one stirred.

Rankin stepped between Guns and the door. “Let’s try this,” he said. Then without explaining he put his foot on the door lever and kicked it open, firing a flare into the cabin.

The small missile ignited with a low thwapp, and the room burst yellow and red. The scent of burning metal filled the corridor, and dusty smoke began curling upward. Guns started to push around Rankin to get in, but the fire flared; he heard the sound of a dull explosion, as if they were miles, not feet, away.

Rankin pulled the fire extinguisher off the nearby wall and began shooting the canister’s contents while he was still in the corridor. He pushed the nozzle inside the cabin, spraying blindly but choking the fire.

The cabin appeared to be an office; above the desk was a radio, which must have been what they heard. The place was empty.

“I need air,” Guns said, coughing. He grabbed Rankin, pulling him with him through the boat to the deck.

Hamilton looked down on them from the roof of the superstructure.

“No one?” he asked.

Guns managed to shake his head, still catching his breath.

“Bloody hell,” said the Englishman, taking out his sat phone.