Soul of the Assassin

1

Practically since the day he graduated from college, Jonathon McCarthy liked to start his mornings by sitting at his kitchen table, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. He had continued that routine as a senator, and saw no reason to drop the habit as President.

The fact that his kitchen was not exactly what one would call “cozy” never entered into his consideration. And while staff members had often volunteered to start their day early enough to fix a proper breakfast, McCarthy had gently turned them down — and issued standing orders directing that no member of the domestic staff arrive at the White House, kitchen included, before six a.m. The Secret Service delivered his newspapers and a special briefing booklet at five, leaving it on the small wooden counter at the center of the room; the agent would flip on the coffeemaker and retreat. McCarthy typically arrived a few minutes later — except on the odd mornings he decided to sleep in, when he would make his appearance promptly at 5:30.

Rarely did McCarthy allow his sessions with the Fourth Estate’s work product to be interrupted, and rarer still were the times he invited someone to join him.

But today was one of those occasions.

“Are you sure now, dear, that you won’t have a bit of sugar in your coffee?” he asked Corrine Alston as he fussed over the pot. “You know that I make this very strong in the morning.”

“No, Mr. President. It will help perk me up.”

“I thought maybe my charming presence would be enough for that.” McCarthy’s wry voice echoed against the high ceiling. He set down her cup and took his seat. “Give me the bad news, please. No varnish, miss.”

Corrine told the President what the First Team had discovered — it appeared that material from a Russian biological warfare program had been obtained by the Iranian agent. The Italians, called in to assist, were asking questions about exactly what was going on. So far, Daniel Slott had given them very vague answers.

“I’m sure the Secretary of State will appreciate that,” said McCarthy. He wasn’t being sarcastic — the Italians were not known for keeping secrets, and Steele would undoubtedly feel that any news about this would scuttle the nuclear treaty.

Then again, perhaps it deserved to be scuttled. McCarthy sipped his coffee pensively

“The Russian agent who told us about the material,” said McCarthy. “This is the same woman who has been identified as the assassin, T Rex?”

“Our man there doesn’t think that’s right. He doesn’t think she’s T Rex at all.”

“Why not?”

“He says the evidence doesn’t add up.”

“If she is, she might be saying something like this to throw him off the scent,” said the President. “The fox leaving an old sock for a hound in the tree on the other side of the hollow.”

“The Iranian did get something from the locker in Naples,” said Corrine.

McCarthy sorted through the newspapers on the table. The executive news summary in the binder included all of the important articles, but he liked to go through the papers anyway; it was part old-fashioned gesture, and part a way of seeing what other people thought was important.

“That puts this briefing in a different light,” said McCarthy, retrieving the latest assessment on the Iran situation from the State Department.

“I’ve read it.”

The assessment included an intercept from the National Security Agency of a speech by Parsa Moshen being circulated among high-ranking Revolutionary Guard members. In the speech, Moshen promised “a radical new weapon to devastate the West” and promised that it would be used if the treaty was signed. “After a demonstration of our power,” Moshen added, “we will resume our rightful place in society. Or we will struggle on alone.”

“We’d best get the bacteria back,” said McCarthy dryly, his understatement eloquently underlining his order’s urgency.

2

The captain had not wanted to go into the water, but after Atha heard the radio calls from the coast guard and saw the mast of a vessel he knew must be following them, he managed to persuade the man that it would be their only chance of escape. Once they were in the water, the reason for the captain’s reluctance became obvious — he was a terrible swimmer, and could barely stay afloat. Thus Atha had been forced to inflate the rafts much sooner than he had planned; as he clambered into his he thought he saw the boat that had been following them looming on the horizon. But that had proven to be a false alarm; aided by the wind and current, they were able to paddle to the rendezvous without being seen.

A small boat met them after they had been in the water for only a half hour. The tiny craft doglegged north before circling to the southwest, its roundabout route taking it away from the two Italian patrol vessels stopping and searching boats in the area.

Partly because of all this maneuvering, the ride to the cargo ship took nearly six hours. It would have been uncomfortable in any event, but a storm was moving in, and the waters became increasingly choppier. Atha found himself leaning over the side for the last two hours. When he was finally brought aboard the ship, with his precious luggage double-wrapped in two giant trash bags, he went right to his cabin.

He was lying in the bunk when he remembered that he had not called the Russian scientist as he’d promised. He debated whether this was necessary at all — now that he had the material, he didn’t believe he would need ever to speak to Rostislawitch. But never was a long time; it was conceivable that there would be some business need in the future.

In which case he should make the payment. It was not a minor sum, and he would much prefer keeping it in his pocket, even though he had not intended to.

Perhaps he should call just to keep Rostislawitch in the dark. Or had the scientist been the one to tip off the authorities?

Atha debated back and forth what to do. Perhaps he could get information from the scientist about who was following him. Perhaps he would only be giving information to them. Finally, he decided to call the scientist and see what he might retrieve from a conversation. He got up and turned on his satellite phone. But the phone, damaged by the sea’s salt water, refused to work.

There was a knock on his cabin door.

“What?” grumbled Atha.

The sailor on the other side of the door knocked again.

“What is it?” Atha demanded, pulling open the door.

The man in the corridor handed him a note. Belatedly Atha realized that the man did not speak Farsi; except for the captain, the crew was Filipino.

The note was from the captain, telling Atha that he had just heard from the helicopter; it was ahead of schedule and would arrive in a half hour.

Atha put his shoes back on, then went back up to the bridge, taking the suitcase with him. It was not very heavy — an odd thing, he thought; to be capable of so much damage it ought to weigh much more.

The storm that had been approaching earlier was now almost upon them, and the waves swelled in front of the ship, and raindrops were beginning to pelt the glass at the front of the bridge.

“Is this weather safe for a helicopter?” Atha asked.

“I couldn’t say.” The captain shrugged. “I’m not a pilot. But I will give you a life jacket if you wish.”

“I’d prefer a parachute,” said Atha.

The captain thought he was making a joke, and laughed.

3

As soon as the fishing boat was thoroughly searched and secured, the Italian coast guard’s patrol ship rejoined the rest of the searchers, crisscrossing the nearby waters for another vessel that Atha might have escaped to. Unfortunately, there were many possibilities, and even with the assistance of an airplane, within a few hours it was clear that there was no chance of finding him. Police officials in towns and cities all along the southwestern coast of Italy, and on nearby Sicily, were all alerted, but neither Rankin nor Guns had much hope that Atha would be found.

The Italians thought they were looking for a man who might be responsible for the Bologna bombing. With the bomb still getting serious media attention — it had been dubbed the “immaculate bomb” because no one was killed — they pressed on with the search. The navy compiled a list of ships that were heading to either the eastern Mediterranean or northern Africa. About four dozen had been within a hundred miles of the fishing boat, and all were designated to be searched. Three were beyond the reach of the Italian coast guard: a ferry to Tunisia and two small cargo vessels bound for Libya. Calling from aboard the Italian coast-guard cutter, Rankin asked Corrigan to enlist the U.S. Navy to help.

“These ships were all pretty far from the fishing boat,” said Corrigan.

“Sure, but there was probably a little boat involved,” said Rankin. “Something too small to be tracked easily. Maybe two or three.”

Corrigan told him that a navy Orion patrol plane was already en route, and that a guided missile destroyer might be able to help. In the meantime, he’d try to find a helicopter that could be put at their disposal, either to aid the search or to get them to a ship if the Iranian was found.

Guns, meanwhile, had gone up on deck. A storm was kicking up; raindrops from the approaching clouds were spraying against his face.

“They’re trying to get an Orion patrol plane out from Sigonella on Sicily,” said Rankin, joining him.

“That’s good.”

“What are you doing out here? It’s raining.”

“I know. Think that will make it easier for him? Or harder?”

“Got me.”

“Easier, I think,” said Guns.

“You looking at something?”

“Just thinking.”

Rankin started to go back inside.

“What do you figure is wrong with Ferg?” Guns asked.

“What do you mean, what’s wrong with him?”

“He’s always taking pills. You notice that?”

Rankin shrugged. “Look like aspirin or something.”

“Too small.”

“Go pills, maybe.”

Go pills were amphetamines and modafinil, a narcolepsy drug sometimes issued by the military for pilots and others who had to stay up at night.

“Nah. He takes them in the morning.”

“Why? You think he’s doped up?”

“I think he’s sick.”

“Don’t get obsessed with him,” said Rankin. “Ferg’s Ferg. Just another guy. Just like you and me.”

“You’re one to talk,” said Guns. But his companion had already gone back into the ship.

4

Kiska waited until Rostislawitch was in the main hall of the art building, surrounded by people. She walked directly up to him, gently nudging a Danish scientist out of her way.

“Dr. Rostislawitch. I would like to speak to you, sir,” she said in stiff Russian.

Rostislawitch, caught off-guard, didn’t even ask why. He followed Kiska as she walked out of the building and across the street, her heels clicking loudly on the pavement. The FSB colonel continued to a small coffee bar and walked to the back, where a small room was set aside for regular patrons. She nodded at the owner as she passed. The man smiled; she’d promised him a hundred euros to keep others out for the few minutes her conversation would take.

“What is this about?” asked Rostislawitch as she pulled out a chair.

“In a moment.” Kiska opened her purse and took out a small radio finder, which would tell her if the place had been bugged. She didn’t actually care if Ferguson overheard the conversation, but she did want to know if he was listening in.

Apparently not; there were no signals.

“What are you doing?” Rostislawitch asked again.

Kiska left her device on the table between them.

“Doctor, you are employed by the Karamov Institute, are you not?”

Rostislawitch’s last hope that he had been singled out by mistake vanished.

“I am on the payroll, yes.”

“You are an important member of the Institute.”

“I have very few duties these days.”

“Doctor, there are circumstances where it does not pay to be modest. I am well aware of your abilities. As are many others.”

“Then you are aware that my abilities are not being put to use, except in the most mundane manner.”

“That is not my concern, and is probably a matter of opinion,” said Kiska. The scientist’s arrogance shocked her. He was, she believed, contemplating treason, but had the gall to pretend, at least to himself, that he was not at fault because he was bored. “A few days ago, one of the locks in a sensitive area was tampered with.”

“Was anything taken?”

“The investigation continues. You were among the people who knew of the area, and the combination to the lock.”

“If I opened it, there would be a record,” said Rostislawitch. “There are many safeguards in the lab.”

“You know which area I’m talking about?”

“I can guess,” said the scientist, doing his best to backtrack.

“I see. What area is that?”

Rostislawitch hesitated, unsure whether a wrong answer would simply make it obvious that he was trying to divert attention from himself. He knew there would be no record of him going in or out; without a record, there would be no proof. He knew also that he would not have been the only one who had been in the lab.

“We are talking about either the monkeys, or the critical storage area,” he said, deciding to combine the right and wrong answers. “There are digital code locks in both areas. I have been to both regularly.”

“Several other areas do as well,” said Kiska. She had not thought she could get a confession from Rostislawitch — there was, in fact, considerable doubt as to whether anything had even been taken, as she’d admitted to Ferguson. But now she sensed that she had the scientist under her control; she would press him as far as possible. “Why mention those?”

“Because those are the only important areas where I have access.”

“The clinic is not important? The medicine area.”

“I have access there,” Rostislawitch said. “But no, I don’t think it would be that important. Not unless they have resumed the experiments — which they told me they would do without me.”

“Why did you come to Bologna?”

“I’m here at a conference. As you know.”

“Who have you met here?”

Rostislawitch rose. “I don’t have to answer these questions. We’re not living in the old days.”

“Sit down, Dr. Rostislawitch. You may not care much about your position, but I am sure you would feel terrible if your brother lost his. And if Irena Grinberg and her husband were similarly unable to find work.”

“Don’t threaten me.”

“If you interpret that as a threat, that’s your business.”

“What is it that you want?” he asked, still standing. A day ago, she might have been able to browbeat him, but today he felt strong, able to resist.

Kiska rose. She was several inches taller than the scientist, and she leaned forward across the table, emphasizing her physical advantage.

“Who have you spoken to here?” asked Kiska.

“I’ve spoken to many people at the conference.”

Kiska shook her head. “Don’t be coy, Doctor. You must not do anything that would endanger others.”

“Blackmail will get you nowhere.”

“The others I’m speaking about are the people who would be hurt by the material you took.”

“I didn’t take any material.”

Kiska stared into his face. She saw guilt there, fear — he had taken something; she was sure of it.

“Doctor, the lives of many people could be in your hands. Do you trust the Americans?”

“I do not trust the Americans at all.”

“The girl you took to dinner the other night is an American.”

“She’s Greek.”

Kiska frowned. It was sad to see how easily a man could be fooled by a woman who took an interest in him.

“Check her more carefully,” Kiska suggested.

“I don’t have to check her,” said Rostislawitch. He knew this was the sort of trick the FSB played to make him suspect everyone. That was how these spies succeeded, by making one paranoid. The KGB had done it; whatever agency succeeded the FSB would do it. It was in their blood.

“There was an explosion the other day, while you walked on the street,” said Kiska.

“Yes?”

“The Americans believe you were the target. I myself was nearby — I had just arrived from Moscow. Who do you think was trying to kill you?”

“Me? It was a terrorist attack. They weren’t aiming at me.”

“Are you sure?”

Rostislawitch clamped his teeth together, afraid that anything he said would give him away. He made his face angry; he had a right to be angry, he thought, and bitter.

Despite the scientist’s bluster, Kiska knew she had rattled him. While she lacked the evidence she would need to arrest him, Kiska felt it was now only a matter of time before he did something to give himself away. He might even do it voluntarily, if she could play him right.

“I can help you,” said Kiska, softening her tone gradually. “I can get you home. Repair things.”

“There’s nothing to repair. If you have any real weight with the Institute,” added the scientist, “then make them give me my rightful job back. Make them use me the way I should be used, instead of as a babysitter. Tell them it is foolish to allow me to go to a conference, and then hound me there.”

And with that, he stalked from the room.

Ferguson waited until Kiska and Rostislawitch had been gone for a half hour before going into the café. By that time the room had been reopened, and the table he wanted near the wall was occupied.

In any other country, he might have waited for the two men sitting there to leave. But drinking coffee in Italy could be an all-day affair, and he couldn’t spend that much time waiting. Thera was back at the conference, her only backup the Italian security people.

Fortunately, he had come prepared.

“Scusare,” he said to the men, standing next to the table. He purposely used the wrong form of the word before switching to English.

“Excuse me. I’m from the U.S. and I’m a little lost. Hey, what was that?” he added, turning as if he’d just spotted something out of the corner of his eye.

As he spun, he released something on the table.

“Ratto!” yelled one of the men as the mouse Ferguson had dropped scurried around the silverware.

The other man jumped to his feet, sending his chair flying.

“Grab it,” said the first.

Within moments, the place was in a tumult: half the patrons were trying to grab the poor mouse; the other half were trying to get away.

Ferguson calmly righted the chair that had been knocked over, sat down, and reached under the table for the small digital recorder he’d left behind earlier. He ripped off the tape holding it and took the small device, barely bigger than a portable USB memory card, and walked calmly out of the restaurant.

He felt a little bad about the mouse. But given that the pet store around the corner had advertised it beneath a sign that said: “Feed your snake real food tonight,” he reasoned that he had at least given it a fighting chance for survival.

5

Atha pushed the hood of the rain slicker as far down over his face as it would go. The rain was really pouring now, crashing across the bow of the ship in what looked like solid sheets. The vessel rocked up and down with the waves, pitching to its sides as the sea knifed against its bow, pummeling the ship. The wind was so loud that he couldn’t hear the helicopter, though he knew from the spotlight that it was nearly overhead.

The Iranian had been winched up to a helicopter several times before when he was younger, so when he had worked out this plan he did not think it would be very difficult. But he had not counted on this rain and the heaving sea; simply standing on the deck made his stomach feel queasy.

A black streak of rain lashed across the ship. Atha stared at it a moment, then realized it was the rope from the helicopter that was to winch him aboard. A sling that looked more like a rubber inner tube for a bicycle than a harness hung at the bottom; it crashed against a large vent on the foredeck and got hooked there. Atha ran to it, dragging his suitcase as he went.

Before he could finish hooking himself into the sling it started upward. He barely managed to keep hold of the suitcase as he was tugged toward the chopper. Though he’d tied it to a life jacket and wrapped it in garbage bags to make sure it remained waterproof and would float, in this storm he doubted he would see it again if it slipped from his grasp. He clenched his fingers around it as the rope twisted. The wash from the rotors and the spray of the water drenched him, soaking him to his bones despite the heavy rain gear he wore.

At last he reached the doorway of the helicopter. A crewman grabbed at Atha’s bag, but he refused to give it up; he was dragged inside by it, rolling back toward the doorway as the chopper bucked in the wind. Another man grabbed hold of Atha and wrestled him against the bulkhead, where he managed to get out of the harness. He lay on the floor as the door was shut and the chopper began gaining altitude.

Thanking God for his delivery, Atha got up and sat on the narrow bench at the side of the cabin. I’m safe, he thought to himself. As if to rebuff him, the helicopter pitched sharply to the right, throwing him against the two other men. For the first time since he’d come aboard, Atha looked into their faces and realized that they, too, were scared, perhaps even more than he was.

“There will be a bonus on our safe landing,” he promised. When that failed to cheer them, he added, “We are doing Allah’s work, all praise be to him. He would not let us die before our mission is complete.”

The crewmen exchanged a doubtful look before nodding.

6

Nathaniel Hamilton stepped off the small plane at the Bologna airport and hurried into the tunnel toward the terminal. Having effectively ceded the search for the Iranian to the Italians and the Americans — Jared Lloyd was in theory “liaisoning,” but Hamilton had few illusions about who was really in charge — he was at least temporarily reduced to getting whatever he could from the other end of the equation, the Russian scientist.

London, of course, had no clue what should be done next. In one breath, Hamilton’s supervisor said he would pummel the Americans for stepping into the middle of their operation. In the next, he said how lucky they were for following a hunch and he would damn well make sure they got credit for it.

Hamilton had been around long enough to realize that, his boss’s opinions notwithstanding, the mission had so far been neither a great success nor a terrible failure. The Americans were worried about whatever Rostislawitch had handed over, but in Hamilton’s opinion the network Atha belonged to was much more important. Was Rostislawitch part of a network of scientists in Russia willing to supply state secrets to Atha? What were the Iranians’ real plans?

The first thing Hamilton did when he got to Bologna was take a room at the Stasi, a boutique hotel just at the edge of center city. It was an expensive place; his boss would surely have a fit when he saw the bill. But Hamilton wanted a place with a bed that wasn’t made out of melted-down cannons.

Once he’d checked in, Hamilton took a taxi to the bus station. He walked in the front door and then promptly out the side, walking down the block to an alley, where he turned right and walked to the door of a small building wedged between two larger and much older structures. A sign on the faded wood proclaimed that the place had been condemned; the sign was at least two years old. Hamilton took a look around, then unlocked the door and stepped inside.

There was no light or electricity; he had to use a small pocket flashlight to find the strongbox he’d come for.

A touch of paranoia took hold as he knelt to the box. But it quickly passed. He put his key into the lock and opened the lid, then reached in and took what he needed — keys, credit cards, SIM cards for his phone, and finally the guns: a PK pistol and a six-shot dummy cell phone.

“Now, then,” he said to himself as he rose, the pistol and fake phone tucked into his pockets, “let us see what sort of mood the estimable Mr. Ferguson is in this evening.”

Truth be told, Ferguson was in the mood for a long nap. He’d followed Rostislawitch back to his hotel, where the scientist was apparently in the process of taking a very long shower. Unfortunately, the battery in the video bug Rankin had installed the day before had run down, and Ferguson had to rely on the backup audio near the door. It was difficult to hear much except for the shower.

For the moment, Ferguson was on his own. He’d sent Thera to move some of their cars around so they wouldn’t be towed or ticketed; after that, she was supposed to rest. She wasn’t due back until seven, when she was to meet Rostislawitch for dinner in the lobby.

The Italians, British, and Russians all knew pieces of what was going on, but as far as Ferguson could tell, they didn’t know as much as the team did. The Italians didn’t know about the bacteria that had possibly been taken; they thought the Iranian was a witness or participant in the bombing. The British didn’t know what Kiska had told Ferguson about the material, though they knew that Atha had met with the scientist. The Russians didn’t know about Atha, since Kiska hadn’t gotten to town until after the meeting.

What did they know that Ferguson didn’t?

Plenty, maybe.

What didn’t he know that was important?

Number one, who T Rex was.

Not Kiska. But the problem with eliminating her was that left no one else as a possible candidate. By now the Agency had checked the bona fides of every scientist at the convention without coming up with a match; the Italians had conducted their own check of the backgrounds of the caterers and the others hired for the event. This had resulted in a few surprises — including the arrest of a man wanted for heroin smuggling and the detention of a number of suspected illegal immigrants but no likely candidate for T Rex.

Meanwhile, the Italian investigation into the bombing was moving ahead at a snail’s pace. The plastique explosive had been isolated but its chemical “tag” — a kind of fingerprint that would indicate where it had been manufactured — had not yet been identified. The truck that had blown up had been stolen from a town about five kilometers away; the police had no leads in the theft.

So if it wasn’t Kiska, who was it?

Ferguson took the laptop into the bathroom with him so he could watch the feed from the video bugs covering the hall outside Rostislawitch’s door and listen to the audio bug while he shaved. Rostislawitch had finally finished his shower and was now talking to himself, complaining about Kiska.

Ferguson didn’t want it to be her because she’d saved his life. Was that really it?

If she was T Rex, he’d have to take her, and of course she wasn’t going to just come with him, and then Parnelles’s wish would come true. He’d have his pound of flesh, and maybe some problems with the Italians, but those problems he wouldn’t mind.

But maybe Rostislawitch wasn’t the real target; maybe the car bomb was “just” a car bomb, or even a feint to throw them off the trail. Imperiati’s other target was due tonight, the keynote speaker at the dinner Rostislawitch and Thera were going to.

Ferguson listened as the Russian turned on his television. A middle-aged woman came down the hallway near his room, stopped, and went back to her room. She emerged with a sweater a few moments later. Ferguson watched her, planning what he would do if she was T Rex.

But she wasn’t. She got in the elevator at the end of the hall and descended to the lobby.

At 6 p.m., Ferguson called the Cube for an update. It was the first time in recorded history that he had checked in precisely at the time he was supposed to, at least according to Lauren DiCapri.

“If I’d known it was an occasion, I’d’ve worn a tie,” he told her.

“What are you wearing now?”

“Nothing but a smile. Tell me what’s going on.”

Lauren’s update consisted largely of two facts: Rankin and Guns still had no idea where the Iranian had gone, and Parnelles and Slott were both angry with the world.

“You especially,” she added. “They can’t figure out why you won’t admit Kiska Babev is T Rex.”

“If I did admit that, what then?” said Ferguson. “You think she’ll just fly home with me?”

“Knowing you, sure.”

“Listen, is Ciello around?” asked Ferguson.

“As a matter of fact, he wants to talk to you. First, though, the Brits are also kind of mad at us. Hamilton had some sort of hissy fit, claiming that Rankin and Guns screwed up his surveillance.”

“I’m sure that’s bullshit.”

“No doubt. But he’s on his way back to Bologna.”

“It’s a free country, I guess. You giving me Ciello, or what?”

A slight hush descended over the line as she made the connection. There was a low tone, followed by Thomas Ciello’s slightly hyper soprano.

“Ciello here.”

“So how’s the razvaluha?”

“I don’t have a jalopy, Ferg. I take the bus.”

“Just joking, Ciello. What’s going on?”

“That Fibber guy. Good stuff. Too much stuff. But very good stuff.”

“Yeah. You didn’t give him your Social Security or your bank account number, did you?”

“No, why?”

“Just checking. What do you have?”

Kiska did, in fact, use her cousin’s identity for several credit cards and bank accounts. Ciello had not finished unraveling everything, but he had managed to figure out the pattern Kiska used, alternating credit cards and then getting new accounts.

“There’s still a lot I have to dig out. But one thing I thought you’d like to know. Well, two things.”

“Give me three if you want.”

“One, she was in Peru last August. The Vice President was killed. The murder hasn’t been, um, pinned to T-Rex, but it does have some similarities. Because, you know, he’s important.”

“That’s it?”

“Number two, she was in the Czech Republic right before coming to Bologna. The local police raided a warehouse where plastic explosives were stored.”

“Was the FSB involved?”

“I don’t know. Not in the news story, but of course they might not be mentioned. I sent a text message to our embassy there. They haven’t gotten back to me. Anyway, the point is, some of the explosives were missing afterwards.”

“Good work, Thomas,” Ferguson said, though neither item was all that useful. “Keep at it.”

“I will. Say, Ferg?”

“Yeah?”

“Does this Fibber really have an uncle who inherited ten million dollars but can’t collect it?”

7

Thera examined her face in the mirror. Her eyes were drooping, her cheeks pinched.

She wished she could go to bed, sleep for three days, then get up and take a walk around Bologna without looking over her shoulder. She wished it were spring, not the start of winter. She wished she could simply look at the art and enjoy the food without worrying that someone with a gun or a bomb was nearby.

She wished she could make love to Ferg, and not think about the consequences.

Did she?

Yes, certainly. Though the way he acted about sex, the way he so casually used it as a tool, it was a good thing making love to him was just a fantasy.

Thera ducked her face to the sink. A little makeup and she’d be back on her game.

Several blocks away, Rostislawitch was examining his own face in the mirror, having just finished shaving. In the back of his mind, he was replaying his meeting with the Russian FSB agent, the blond she-wolf who’d tried to intimidate him in the back room of the café.

Before their meeting, he’d decided he would have nothing more to do with Atha. Now he was angry, insulted that he had been suspected of treason — even though, of course, the charge was correct.

More important, he wasn’t sure what to do.

Replaying the meeting, he realized that the woman hadn’t identified herself or who she worked for, but she didn’t have to. Her arrogance was as clear a sign that she was with the FSB as if she had worn a badge on her tight-fitting blouse. Like the KGB before it, the Russian Federal Security Service was used to bullying people, making demands instead of requests, insisting on getting its way. Its agents assumed the rest of the world would bow down to it in all matters, large and small. They were a law to themselves.

Loathe them, yes. But be careful. They would not simply fade away.

The question was not how much they knew about what he had planned to do, but what they thought they knew. If they had actually decided that he took the material, the worst thing Rostislawitch could do at this point was simply go home as he had planned. They would have no compunctions about arresting him. If they lacked evidence — and he was sure they did; he had taken every precaution — they would simply manufacture it.

Rostislawitch opened the drain and let the water run out of the sink, then wiped his face with a towel. If the choice was between running away and returning to a trap, the obvious thing to do was run away.

And his brother? Or the Grinbergs?

It was probable that the FSB would carry out the she-wolf’s threats. They would be somewhat careful about it — there were some differences between Putin’s Russia and Stalin’s, after all. But most likely the Grinbergs would lose their jobs.

A shame. They had stood by him through all of his troubles. Irena Grinberg had been Olga’s best friend, and had suffered greatly when she died.

He could give them Atha’s money. Little by little, small payments. That would more than balance things out.

As he dressed, Rostislawitch remembered his visit to the church, and what he had felt there. At that moment, it had seemed like a turning point, a revelation that pushed him in an unchangeable direction. But now, barely a few hours later, its force had faded. He was wavering again, unsure what to do.

Rostislawitch glanced at his watch. Atha hadn’t called, despite his promises yesterday.

Just as well. The FSB would find a way to listen in.

The one thing that bothered Rostislawitch was Kiska Babev’s accusation about the girl, Thera. Was she an American agent? He dismissed it, and yet… could it be true?

Rostislawitch pulled on his pants. It was an old trick, wasn’t it? Using an older man’s vanity against him. The Russian FSB, the American CIA, they were all the same.

As soon as he came off the elevator, Thera could tell that something had changed since she’d seen Rostislawitch last. It wasn’t just his meeting with the Russian intelligence agent. He’d been subdued after that, quieter; now there was something aggressive in his eyes, something harder. He’d made a decision about something.

Very likely Kiska had pushed him into making the deal with the Iranians, the exact opposite of what she intended. He acted aloof, as if he didn’t care about Thera or anyone else, as if he’d hardened himself to do something he didn’t really believe in.

She tried not to let her own knowledge of it show, keeping her voice upbeat, and slightly naive.

“Do you think the speaker will be interesting?” she asked as they walked outside. “More funding for research?”

“All of the drug companies are thieves,” answered Rostislawitch. At the corner, he went to the curb and put his hand up for a taxi, even though they were only two blocks from the art building.

“I thought we were walking?” said Thera.

“I don’t feel like going to the dinner.”

“Oh,” she said.

“I’ve made a reservation at a restaurant. The concierge recommended it. Come.”

Thera hesitated. “Don’t you think—”

“I’ll go myself,” said Rostislawitch as a cab pulled up.

Thera waited another moment, letting Rostislawitch start to pull the door closed before grabbing it.

“OK,” she said, sliding into the car beside him. “I suppose the talk would have been boring anyway.”

Ferguson was on a bicycle up the block when the scientist called for a taxi. He waited for them to pass, then turned up the radio volume, listening as Thera jabbered with the doctor, trusting that she would provide enough information for him to catch up if the traffic cleared and he lost them.

You’re in a strange mood this evening,” Thera told Rostislawitch in the taxi.

The scientist grunted. He wasn’t sure what her reluctance to changed plans meant: it could be read as an honest desire to attend the event, in which case she wasn’t a CIA agent. But on the other hand, it might be because she had compatriots waiting for her there, and was afraid to cross them up.

“Why is a young girl like you interested in me?” said Rostislawitch abruptly.

Thera turned to the scientist. “I am not a young girl,” she said. “And what do you mean by interested?”

“You have a boyfriend?”

“Oh.” Thera turned, facing the front of the cab. “Dr…. Artur..”

Thera stopped. This wasn’t acting anymore, was it? Partly it was, and partly it wasn’t. She did honestly feel concern for him. It wasn’t all she felt, but it was there.

Ferguson, had he been in a parallel situation, would have come up with some sort of glib line, pushed the sex angle, and ended up kissing the woman. But that wasn’t Thera.

“I do feel… strongly… toward you,” said Thera, stumbling over the word strongly. “I wouldn’t call it… I don’t know what it is. It’s really not boyfriend-girlfriend. You’re so much… smarter than me,” she said, substituting smarter for older.

She turned to him. Rostislawitch looked as if she had hit him in the stomach.

“I don’t want to mislead you,” continued Thera. She put her hand on his. He started to pull away, but she grabbed his hand. “I — love is not something I think about much,” she said quickly. “I admire you. I do care — when I heard you were hurt my heart seemed to stop.”

“But it’s not sex,” said Rostislawitch.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”

Rostislawitch pulled his right hand from hers and scratched his ear. Her response confused him even more. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear. And yet it was not what a spy would say.

So perhaps he could trust her at least. Somewhat. Maybe.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said. “I feel that we can talk — when you talk I like to listen.”

Rostislawitch smiled, in spite of himself. It was something his wife used to tell him, when he asked why she didn’t answer him sometimes. He patted Thera’s hand, even as he reminded himself to stay on his guard — she had proven nothing.

“Is that OK?” Thera asked. “Is it all right? Do you still want to have dinner?”

“I am very hungry,” he said. “And I was told that this restaurant is very good. Of course we will eat.”

8

The Italians were clearly among those who confused quantity with quality when it came to security. Not only had they blanketed the art building with soldiers, but they had carabinieri police officers surrounding the building. In addition, Nathaniel Hamilton counted at least five members of the Italian SISDE — the civilian intelligence force under the interior minister — as well as a SISMI or military intelligence agent. Admittedly, the latter seemed most interested in keeping an eye on his civilian counterparts, probably looking for details that could be used to blast them in an upcoming parliamentary debate.

The one person Hamilton didn’t see was the Russian scientist.

Or Ferguson, but that was a plus.

The security measures complicated Hamilton’s plans. Not only had he found it necessary to enlist the aid of the embassy to get tickets to the event, but he had had to appear before Marco Imperiati and personally state why he wanted to be there. The Italian intelligence officer had proceeded to give him a lecture about the importance of allies working together toward common goals.

“That is why I am here,” Hamilton had protested, but for some reason that had failed to impress Imperiati. Exasperated, Hamilton finally asked if Ferguson was working with him closely; with a straight face, Imperiati replied that of course he was.

“Uncharacteristically for the Americans,” the Italian SISDE officer added.

“I wouldn’t trust him,” said Hamilton.

“He says the same of you.”

Hamilton stewed. He’d adopted a cover as a technology officer for Her Majesty’s government, and in order to keep the cover semi-intact, he mingled with some of the British scientists at the affair. He smiled when Professor Barclay, a sixty-year-old Oxford don with breath that could choke a pig, ambled next to him and asked how he thought the affair was going.

“Very pleasant,” lied Hamilton.

“You read biology, then?” asked the professor.

“I was a physics man myself,” answered Hamilton. “Cambridge. But I find this all jolly interesting. An exciting frontier.”

“Quite.”

In actual fact, Hamilton had majored in the Romantic poets at Cambridge, but that was hardly the response a science officer would give.

“I do hope you’re sitting at our table,” added Barclay.

“With pleasure, of course,” said Hamilton. He glanced toward the bar, making a mental note to fortify himself with a double Scotch before going in for the meal.

Outside the building, in a portico roped off for smokers, Kiska Babev was expressing her own frustration that Rostislawitch had not arrived. Unlike the British MI6 agent, however, Kiska at least knew where the scientist was — she’d just received a cell phone call from the agent she’d assigned to tail Rostislawitch.

“The Greek female is with him. I can’t tell where they are going.”

“Find out what they are up to. If they are leaving the city, let me know immediately”

“I don’t think that’s what they’re doing. The airport is in the other—”

Kiska pushed the cell phone closed, cutting off the conversation in midsentence as a pair of policemen appeared.

“No cell phones,” said the taller man, speaking in English.

“Not even outside?”

“No.”

“I promise not to use it again,” said Kiska. It wasn’t a difficult promise to make — the Italians were using jammers that severely limited the places where the phones could be used. Inside was impossible, and outside was almost as bad.

“You must give it to us,” insisted the police officer.

“Why? Do you think a cell phone is that dangerous?”

“Please,” insisted the man.

“Very well,” she said finally, retrieving it from her purse. “Will I get it back?”

“Absolutely, at the end of the night.”

Kiska started to hand it over, then stopped. “Are you going to give me a receipt for it?”

“Of course,” said the policeman.

“Well, where is the receipt?”

The men looked at each other.

“I will get it for you,” volunteered the short man.

Kiska played with her phone while she waited, opening and closing it idly. Suddenly the back popped off and the battery dropped to the ground. As the man with her bent to retrieve it, Kiska slipped her finger against the small chip at the back of the battery compartment. Pressing firmly, she activated a circuit in the cell phone that rendered the phone inert. It could no longer remember its own number, let alone be used to make or receive a call.

This wouldn’t be a problem for her. She had two more in her purse, retrieved from a stash in the ladies’ room that she’d planted ahead of time to avoid complications at the door.

“Eccolo,” said the policeman. “Here you are.”

“Grazie,” she said, letting her fingers linger on his as she took the battery. “This must be boring even for you.”

“Eh.” He shrugged. “There are distractions.”

Kiska smiled. The man’s companion pushed his way back outside through the crowd, a small piece of paper in his hand.

“Thank you,” she said, taking the receipt and handing over the phone.

“If you need to make a call before the end of the night, just see us,” said the taller policeman. “We’ll help. There are only a few places where the signal will work.”

“Thank you,” she told him, making sure her eyes lingered just enough so that he would be greatly disappointed when she didn’t turn up.

9

“Describe the technique for inducing transduction utilizing lambda.”

Thera put down her fork.

“Artur, why are you asking me questions that any first-year biology student could answer?”

“I don’t think a first-year student could handle the technique. They might not even know what a phalange is.”

“Why are you quizzing me?”

Rostislawitch looked down at his plate. As he did, the waiter came up and refilled his glass with wine.

“Artur, what’s wrong? You have been acting oddly all evening.”

Rostislawitch shook his head. He put his fork in a piece of meat, then laid it against the plate. He sipped some wine, even though he thought he’d had too much to drink already.

“What’s bothering you? Are you upset because I’m not interested in you as a boyfriend? Or is it something else?”

“I have to go back to the room,” he said finally “I’m not feeling well. Let’s get the check.”

Thera knew that the questions he’d been asking were intended to vet her. While she thought she’d handled them fairly well, she wasn’t entirely positive. She waited while Rostislawitch paid the check, then held his arm while they walked outside and waited for a taxi.

“What happened to you?” she said. “Was it that woman who met you this afternoon? What was it she wanted?”

“I told you, it had to do with work. A minor matter.”

“It has you upset. Does it have to do with me?”

A cab pulled around the corner. Thera would have let it pass by — she sensed she was on the verge of getting some sort of answer from him — but Rostislawitch raised his hand and flagged it down. Inside the car, he laid his head back on the seat and complained that he was tired. Then he said something to her in Russian.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“You don’t speak Russian,” he said in English.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re a good girl.” Rostislawitch patted her hand.

“Professor, you’ve acted very strange all night. You started out asking about love; then you quiz me on procedures. Now you’re sick.”

“Just tired.”

Rostislawitch sat back up. He’d been a fool to believe the she-wolf. The girl was honest and young… and just a friend. Perhaps that was what he was truly disappointed about. But it was OK. It was truly OK.

“I will feel better tomorrow,” he told her. “I promise. I want to be your friend. I do want to be your friend.”

“You are my friend.”

“You’re very kind. You’re the only one that’s looked out for me here. We are friends.” Rostislawitch leaned toward the driver. “Her hotel is right up there,” he said. “Ecco.”

“I can go with you,” Thera said.

“I’m just going to bed. Good night, sweet one,” he said awkwardly as the taxi pulled to the curb. “I will feel better tomorrow.”

What’d you slip into his drink?” Ferguson asked Thera over the radio as he followed the cab back to Rostislawitch’s hotel.

“Nothing. He’s acting really weird, Ferg.”

“Kiska put pressure on him. He’s afraid of getting caught.”

“He was quizzing me.”

“Maybe she told him you’re a spy.”

“That bitch.”

Ferguson laughed.

“What’s he going to do?” asked Thera.

“Push Atha to make the deal so he can escape to wherever he’s thinking of escaping to.”

“No, I don’t think he’s going to do that.”

“Bet you ten bucks,” said Ferguson, pedaling slowly past the hotel as Rostislawitch got out of the taxi and went inside.

There were no messages on his room’s voice mail. Atha hadn’t called. Maybe the FSB she-wolf had been to see him as well.

Rostislawitch paced back and forth in his room. He felt as if he was losing his mind. His thoughts flew wildly, back and forth, from one form of doom to another.

He’d acted like a fool with Thera. One moment he trusted her; the next he treated her as if she were the enemy. He’d started asking her those ridiculous examination questions, as if she were facing him in an oral exam at the end of the semester.

Poor girl. He didn’t deserve even her friendship.

Rostislawitch took his wallet from his pant pocket and opened it. The check for the suitcase was folded against his euros. He took the check, crumpled it, and tossed it in the garbage.

He was done with it, done with everything.

He paced across the room, back and forth, his head racing.

They’d open the locker eventually. The attendant had said something about items having to be claimed after seven days.

They’d open it, and what would they find? A few odd-looking jars with strange jelly in them. It would look like mold. They’d throw the jars out.

Or maybe the police would be called — maybe the police were the ones who were in charge of abandoned luggage. What would happen then?

A science experiment. Into the garbage.

Or to a lab for analysis.

Nothing could connect him to the bag. But how much evidence would the FSB need? They’d show his picture to the clerk at the left baggage area and get him to nod.

Or worse: some fool would open the containers, not knowing what they were. The material would get on their skin, and eventually into the digestive tract. From there, an epidemic would start.

Statistically, it would take more than one person. One person, statistically, would not produce the critical mass needed for a truly devastating epidemic.

If you trusted the statistics. If you didn’t consider a single death, or a handful, significant.

Rostislawitch paced some more. He could go there and get rid of the bag. It was the safest thing to do. And the right thing.

Unless the she-wolf was following him. Then it would be foolish.

He would have to make sure he wasn’t followed. Rostislawitch put the check back into his wallet, took his coat, and headed for the door.

10

The Russian-made Mil Mi-8 was a versatile helicopter, though like most helicopters, it was not particularly well suited for flying through thunderstorms. To add to the discomfort, internal fuel tanks had been added to the walls of the cabin area, tripling its range but greatly reducing space. Atha and the two crewmen shared a small bench for the entire ride; standing up, they could take two steps before reaching the forward bulkhead separating the crew space from the cockpit.

The bathroom was a small pail that hung on a hook on the wall. When you were done, one man opened the cabin door and you emptied the contents into the slipstream. Emptying the waste successfully required a certain amount of body English.

When they finally arrived at the airport, Atha was so glad to be there that if it weren’t for the fact that it was still raining he would have dropped to the ground and kissed the cement. His legs literally trembled the entire way to the terminal building. The suitcase with the scientist’s material rolled along behind him, bumping through the puddles and skipping over the curb.

His journey was hardly complete — a chartered plane was due to take him on to Libya, where he would catch yet a third plane to fly on to the camp in the Sudan. But those rides would be in airplanes. Atha vowed he would never fly in a helicopter again.

Though Tunis was an Islamic country, it was not particularly friendly toward Iran. If the military officials at the airport had thought he was anything other than an ordinary smuggler, they would have been loathe to take his bribes. But as far as they knew, he was only transporting embargoed oil equipment and software. His generous landing “fee” was supplemented by an agreement to purchase twice as much fuel as the helicopter could hold, even with its expanded tanks; the difference went directly into the pocket of the colonel responsible for the airport.

Having arranged to pay the fees in advance, Atha was surprised to find a customs agent waiting to see him in the small terminal. The man insisted that Atha would have to come into the small office to speak with him privately, even though there was no one else in the building.

“Perhaps you should talk to Colonel Nawf,” suggested Atha. “I believe we’ve already made our arrangements.”

“I will have to see your passport,” said the man.

Atha started to take it from his pocket, then stopped. It didn’t look like a trap — there was definitely no one else in the building, and there had been no trucks or troops nearby. But giving the man his passport was the same as telling him who he was, and he didn’t want to do that if at all possible.

Of course it could be arranged. It was just a matter of handing over more money — something he hated to do on principle.

“I have paid a considerable sum for the arrangements here,” said Atha.

“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about that.”

“Is there some permit that I’ve forgotten? Is that what the problem is?”

The customs agent smiled. “Ah. Now you are beginning to understand.”

“And how much does the permit cost?”

“Five hundred euros.”

Atha did not have that much cash with him; there had been no time to get money in Naples.

“Would you take a check?” he asked.

“A check?” The man jerked his head back. Then he started to laugh. “A check?”

“Just joking,” said Atha, reaching inside his jacket.

“A very funny joke,” said the man.

He started to laugh, then saw the pistol in Atha’s hand.

“Here you go. Five hundred euros,” said Atha, putting the bullet through the man’s forehead. “Don’t bother with a receipt,” he added, stepping around the man and the gathering pool of blood as he went to find his airplane.

11

Ferguson had barely gotten himself settled in the suite below Rostislawitch when the scientist grabbed his things to go back out. Hurriedly securing the laptop, Ferguson headed down the steps, trotting through the lobby and reaching the revolving doors just as the Russian started outside.

“Oops, sorry, you go first,” said Ferguson, awkwardly bumping against him. He gave his English a British accent. “Never can work these things out.”

Rostislawitch frowned at Ferguson as he came through the doors.

“Sorry, mate,” said Ferguson, waving and then trotting off up the street.

Rostislawitch shook his head, then watched warily as Ferguson disappeared around the corner. He looked up and down the block, trying to spot the FSB she-wolf or her minions. Finally a cab appeared and he got in. Not trusting that it had appeared randomly, he had the driver take him to the train station; there he caught another cab, this time back to the Americana, one of the larger hotels in the city’s business section. Another cab was just letting off a passenger when Rostislawitch arrived; he hopped in.

“I want to go to Firenze,” he said, using the Italian name for Florence.

The driver started to protest. Florence was about 110 kilometers away; the trip there and back could take three hours or more.

Rostislawitch dropped ten hundred-euro notes — all of the cash Atha had slipped him at their meeting — onto the front seat of the car.

“Wouldn’t that cover the fare?”

It would indeed. The driver was even agreeable to cutting through alleys and taking sudden U-turns to make sure they weren’t followed.

Two hours later, the driver dropped Rostislawitch off in the Piazza della Stazione, near the Florence train station. He walked around the circle, once again checking for anyone who might be following him, then went in and got a ticket for Naples. He found the platform, then stood back after the train’s arrival was announced, waiting until the last possible minute before getting aboard.

The tracking bug Ferguson had surreptitiously placed on Rostislawitch’s back when he “bumped” into him at the hotel doorway made the Russian easy to track, and Ferguson was able to figure out what he was up to pretty quickly. But having gotten so close to him meant Ferguson didn’t want to be seen again. This wasn’t a problem on the motorbike; he got to the station ahead of the scientist and watched from inside as he walked around in front. But he had to guess what the Russian was doing, and Ferguson wasn’t completely sure that he was correct until Rostislawitch got onto the train.

The scientist was being much more careful now that he knew Kiska was watching him. But he was an amateur: he assumed that anyone following him would be literally following him, waiting for him to make the first move. He never suspected that Ferguson had gotten onto the train as soon as it pulled in, and was already in the car behind him.

Nor was Ferguson entirely confident that the scientist wasn’t being followed. True, no one seemed to have been following the taxi, but a Russian op had been down the street when Rostislawitch’s journey from the hotel began. The man appeared to have lost Rostislawitch the second time he switched cabs, but Ferguson was still wary; it was possible that he, too, had used a tracking device and was nearby.

Ferguson took out his sat phone and called Imperiati. The Italian intelligence officer answered his phone in a crabby mood, and didn’t laugh when Ferguson asked if anyone had died at the conference yet.

“Not so far.”

“Drug guy still eating?”

“He gave his speech and left a half hour ago. No incidents.”

“Very good,” said Ferguson. He had never considered the drug company president to be a real target.

“Are you on a train?”

“Had to leave town for a few hours. I’ll be back. I think.”

“The Russian FSB agent was asking about you. She said you couldn’t be taken at face value.”

“I can’t. What else did she say?”

“She was asking about an Iranian she thinks may be a terrorist. She offered to trade information.”

“Did you take her up on it?”

“I’m considering it.”

“I’d go for it if I were you. I’d be interested in how she found out.”

“She told me she has sources at all of the hotels,” said Imperiati.

“Did she tell you his name?”

“She was not willing to give details unless I reciprocated. I told her I didn’t have any to give. Then I mentioned how I was hoping to live a boring life.”

“That’s not going to fly with her,” said Ferguson. “She likes excitement even more than I do.”

Ferguson asked if there was anything new on the investigation into the bombing; Imperiati, sounding somewhat distracted and tired, answered that there wasn’t. Ferguson signed off, then called Thera to see what she was doing.

“Getting some beauty rest?” he asked, after it took several rings for her to answer.

“Not really.” It sounded like a lie; her voice was sleepy and distant.

“Well, go ahead and get some. Not that you need it.”

“Where are you?”

“Rosty got on the train like I thought he would. We oughta be in Naples in three hours or so.”

“What’s going to happen then?”

“He’ll freak because the bag is gone,” said Ferguson. “After that, I don’t know. He has to go back to Bologna at some point. He left everything there.”

“I should be there.”

“Where?”

“Naples.”

“It’s kind of an ugly city, especially near the train station.”

“What if he does something crazy?”

“Like?”

“Maybe he’ll kill himself.”

Ferguson hadn’t really considered that possibility.

You have to be a hard-ass, his father once told him. He meant it as a reproach — he was telling his son that the young man didn’t really have it in him to be a CIA officer. He wanted too much to save the world and trust people and do the right thing; he couldn’t just stand back and let people suffer, let them die. Which you had to do.

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

“That you really do need some sleep,” he told her. “Stay in Bologna. We’re going to need you at full steam tomorrow. OK?”

She didn’t answer.

“OK, Thera?”

“Yeah. You’re right. I am tired.”

“G’night, ladies, g’night. G’night, g’night, g’night,” he told her, killing the line.

12

It had been several years since Guns had participated in an armed ship boarding, and then it was simply an exercise. But the adrenaline and weapons were plenty familiar. He climbed down from the destroyer to the rigid-hulled boat, taking a place behind the team leader as the craft revved its outboard and slipped into a dark patch between the destroyer and the search beams playing on the cargo ship it had just stopped. The rain had passed, but the waves were still choppy and swells reached well over the hull of the tiny boat.

Guns and Rankin had come aboard the USS Porter, DDG 78, just an hour before, flying to the ship in the southern Mediterranean aboard an Italian helicopter. The Porter had been tasked to stop the last remaining vessel that Atha might have escaped to, assuming he had not found a way to sneak past the Italian coast guard and get back on land near Naples or Sicily.

Though the Porter was a destroyer, her firepower would have likely given her the advantage over a confrontation with a World War II cruiser. The ship had recently been deployed in an effort to stop pirates and gunrunners near the east African coast, and her specially trained SITT team — the letters stood for Shipboard Integrated Tactical Team — was well practiced at boarding and searching for contraband, human or otherwise.

The chief petty officer directing the team was a graybeard who claimed not to remember exactly how old he was; he’d groaned as he pulled on his bulletproof vest and the rest of his gear aboard ship. But there was a definite spring in his step as they pulled next to the cargo vessel: he lunged for the rope ladder at the ship’s side, climbing up behind the point man.

Guns went up third, the strap for the shotgun he was carrying hooked through his arm so that he could wield the weapon quickly. The boarding party was met by a nervous-looking man standing in a tiny pool of light on the foredeck of the cargo craft. He told them in Spanish that they were welcome aboard and that the captain was waiting for them on the bridge.

“I’ll bet we’re welcome,” said the chief as the rest of his men came up.

Guns didn’t like the fact that the crewman was nervous. He glanced around the deck area nearby, trying to spot other men who might be waiting to ambush them. Such an attack would be foolish — it would take the destroyer only a few moments to sink the ship — but counting on someone else’s ability to reason things out was an easy way to get killed.

With the SITT team aboard the vessel, the chief, Guns, and two other sailors made their way up to meet the captain. The captain protested mildly — the vessel was in international waters; there was no reason for an inspection — but then volunteered that since they had nothing to hide they would be happy to accommodate their friends from the U.S. Navy, and even inquired if they would like some tea. The chief politely declined the invitation and asked to examine the ship’s log and papers.

Guns didn’t bother looking at the papers, knowing they were unlikely to show that the boat had picked up a passenger. Instead, he walked around the bridge, silently sizing up the two sailors who were with the captain. The men seemed nervous. The mate at the ship’s wheel kept jerking his shoulders upward, his hands still tight on the wheel though the boat had come to a full stop.

The chief explained to the captain that they had come because the Italians were searching for a man who had made a terrorist attack and was believed to have escaped Italy by boat. The ship’s captain said this was a terrible thing, but of course not something he would be involved in. They had seen no small boat, let alone a terrorist.

The outcome of their talk was preordained, since there was no way the SITT team was leaving without having thoroughly searched the ship. But the chief played diplomat; cajoling a ship’s captain into a state of semi-cooperation made his job considerably easier, if not necessarily safer.

Guns, meanwhile, went back down the ladder to the compartments below, thinking about what he had seen so far aboard the ship. The most obvious fact — Ferguson always said start with the obvious — was that the crew and the captain were of different nationalities. The crewmen were Filipino, while the captain had said he was Egyptian. That implied a certain distance between them, a possible weakness that Ferguson would have been quick to exploit.

Guns approached one of the crewmen, asking in Spanish if the ship had picked up someone at sea.

At first, the man pretended not to understand. When Guns repeated the question, the man told him no, they hadn’t made a stop since Marseilles. Guns then asked if he was married, trying to make small talk — stalling really, while he thought of some way to determine if the sailor was lying. But the man told him that he was sorry, but he was busy and the person he should speak to was the captain.

Ferguson might have gotten the same results, Guns thought as he walked down the corridor. But he would have gone about it differently — small talk first, and… and he would have been much more leading when he struck up the conversation.

What happened to the guy you picked up? I can’t find him anywhere…

That was the vintage Ferguson question, leading and personable at the same time.

Guns tried it with the next crew member he met, but all he got in response was a blank stare. He tried describing Atha, but the man just shook his head. Part of the problem, Guns thought, was the difference between the Spanish spoken in the Philippines and Mexican Spanish, which was what he spoke. But he also wasn’t quite able to seem as smooth as Ferguson. Guns wasn’t as sure of himself, talking to people. He needed more of a pretext than Ferg did.

Guns walked on, moving out to the narrow deck area behind the ship’s superstructure. There was a small boat tied there, a rigid-hulled vessel similar to the one the navy team had used to board. There was no way of telling if the boat had been out recently, or at least none that Guns could tell, but examining it gave him an idea. Back inside the ship’s corridors, he accosted the first man he saw, telling him that he’d noticed some of the ropes on the boat were loose and suggesting they be fixed before the rough seas caused the craft to go overboard. He went out with the man, and helped him secure the ropes.

“Guess you guys didn’t tie it tightly enough this afternoon,” said Guns.

“The boatswain is an ass,” said the man. “He doesn’t know his job.”

That was as much of a confirmation that Guns could get that the boat had been used, despite more suggestions and hints. The search didn’t turn up anything, either, and after more than an hour of looking through the ship the navy sailors returned to the destroyer.

While Guns had been over at the cargo vessel, Rankin had been in a satellite phone conference with Corrigan and two intelligence officers aboard the USS Anzio, an Aegis-equipped U.S. Navy cruiser that had joined the search. The Anzio had picked up a long-distance helicopter contact near the Tunisia coast; the helo had been on a flight vector that could have meant it came from the cargo vessel Guns had just searched. It had also been flying through the teeth of the storm just a few hours ago. Not necessarily suspicious, but worth checking, Rankin thought.

“Corrigan, see what you can find out about Tunisia and tracking down helicopters there,” Rankin told him after the intel officers got off the line. “While I go see if can talk some of these navy guys into finding a way for us to get there.”

13

Rostislawitch had assumed that the left baggage office would be open around the clock. When he arrived at the station and found it closed, he stood and stared at the gate for so long that a policeman approached and asked what was wrong. Rostislawitch told him he’d left a bag and wanted to retrieve it — had to retrieve it, in fact — but the officer told him to come back in the morning when the office opened. The scientist next went to the stationmaster’s office, which was also closed; he couldn’t find anyone to help him at the information kiosk, either.

He didn’t want to spend money on a hotel, but the police made him nervous. Finally he decided to buy a ticket for the next local train, which was due to leave Naples for Campobasso at four. He would get on the train, get off at its next stop, then come back; at that point it would be after seven and the station would be too busy for anyone to bother him.

The only complication came when he tried to buy the ticket. He had only a five-euro note left in his wallet; the fare was eight-twenty.

He didn’t want to use his credit card, assuming that it would be easy for the FSB she-wolf to trace.

The clerk glared at him. Rostislawitch excused himself and walked away. He had made himself even more conspicuous, and wasn’t surprised when another policeman came up to him and asked what he was doing.

“I have to retrieve a bag,” he explained in English.

“Well, go home. You can’t wait here.”

“But it’s a train station.”

“And where is your ticket?”

Rostislawitch dug into his pocket for his return-trip ticket to Florence. The police officer wasn’t impressed.

“The train to Florence does not leave until after lunch.”

“No,” said Rostislawitch. “It leaves in the morning.”

The policeman showed him the ticket. Rostislawitch had bought an off-peak ticket, which meant that the officer was correct.

“Whenever it leaves, you can’t wait here,” said the policeman.

Rostislawitch strongly suspected that he was being given a hard time because he was a foreigner, but there seemed nothing he could do. He didn’t want to roam the streets; he’d heard stories about how dangerous Naples could be. He decided that his earlier plan was his only solution. He would buy a ticket, and if necessary explain later, saying that he had come for the day to see the sights.

He’d stop in Rome as well.

In that case, it would be smarter to take money from his ATM account — there would be no record of his comings and goings. He went to the cash machine, took out twenty euros, then went back to the ticket window.

Ferguson had avoided the police’s scrutiny by heading outside and skulking in the shadows of the building with an assortment of rats, human and otherwise. Because of this, he didn’t realized Rostislawitch was boarding another train until it was almost too late. Ferguson managed to get inside just as the coach was leaving. He ran for it, but the platform ended about ten feet too soon.

Ferguson jumped to the track and began following the train. Like most European engines, the power came from overhead wires, so there was no danger of his hitting a third rail. But like many local trains in Italy, this one had an engine at both end of the trains, which made it considerably harder to hop on.

Ferguson was nearly out of breath when he finally got his hand on one of the large bumpers at the lip of the engine. He couldn’t find a grip, and tried curling himself around it, but instead he was dragged along, half-hopping, unable to get enough leverage to pull himself onto the narrow fender protecting the wheels. He finally grabbed the couple assembly to his left, pitched himself forward, and managed to wedge the tips of his shoes into the small space between the bumper and the cab. The toehold gave him a moment to rest, but the train’s shocks squeezed the compartment down against his toes, and he had trouble extricating his left shoe in one piece. Finally he got it out and climbed up on the coupler, gripping the window ledge and wiper assembly as he made his way over the cab.

The power car’s cab was empty, but the door to get in was at the side of the train, and Ferguson decided it would be easier to get in through one of the connecting vestibules. He crawled past the pantographs, one hand holding on to the metal rail along the roof and his legs leaning off the side. By now the train was moving at a good clip, and in the darkness he couldn’t be sure exactly where the car’s roof ended. Finally, he came to the end of the coach and saw that the cars were joined by a cowling whose rubber seam was too tight to squeeze through.

Ferguson worked his way back to the power car and climbed down the side near the cab. Steel handrails flanked the door, but stopped about halfway up, a good five or six feet from the roof. He tried slithering down headfirst, but he couldn’t hook his legs around anything secure enough to get down without dropping. Finally he managed to grip a piece of the insulation behind the driver’s compartment and lowered himself down to the railing, his feet wedged precariously against the slick metal. After that, the six-inch ledge at the bottom of the door seemed as wide as Montana.

Picking the lock on the door would have been a simple matter if he had big enough tools — a pair of screwdrivers would have done it in thirty seconds — but the only large tool he had with him was his pocketknife. He pried the lock with the screwdriver blade, but he couldn’t get it deep enough to get all of the internal gates to trip. Finally he realized he could fashion a crude lock spring from the plastic key card to his hotel room; he cut a sliver from the card, and together with the blade got the door to unlock.

By this time, the train was more than halfway to the next station. Ferguson took off his jacket and unrolled a small watch cap from the pocket, changing his appearance as much as possible. Then he started a quick walk-through to locate Rostislawitch.

The scientist wasn’t in the next car or the one after that. Ferguson spotted the conductor asleep near the rear of the fourth car; he walked by as quietly and quickly as possible, continuing his search. Except for the conductor, this car was empty as well.

Rostislawitch was sleeping in the first car, hunched against the window. Ferguson retreated to the vestibule.

Ten minutes later, the train pulled into Campobasso. Ferguson got off, then trotted across the platform so he could see into the car where Rostislawitch was. The scientist didn’t stir, so Ferguson ran back to the train — just in time to see Rostislawitch hurrying out.

Not wanting to be seen, Ferguson turned his body away but stuck his foot and knee in the door, which squeezed hard before reopening. As Rostislawitch ambled past, the door started to close again; this time Ferguson sacrificed his other leg to delay the train.

The conductor appeared in the door of the coach.

“Wrong train,” Ferguson said, getting off. “I thought we were going to Naples.”

Thirty minutes later, Ferguson was standing outside the station, watching as Rostislawitch dozed on a bench at the middle of the platform. Ferguson’s sat phone rang; it was Thera.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“I’m in Campobasso. Lovely place.”

“Why are you there?”

“I’m not sure. Rostislawitch came here. I don’t know why.”

“Do you want me to meet you there?”

“Where are you?”

“At the Naples airport.”

“What the hell are you doing in Naples? I told you to get some rest.”

“I sleep better on planes.”

“Go over to the train station and stake out the left luggage area. There’s a train back to Naples in about a half hour. If you don’t hear from me, assume we got on it.”

“How’s Rostislawitch?”

“Looks a lot better than I do at the moment,” Ferguson told her.

14

The plane that flew Atha from Tunis to Libya was an Embraer EMB 120 Brasilia, a small charter transport that was generally used to fly oil workers to various locations around northern Africa. The seats were hardly plush, but the Iranian managed to get some sleep anyway, angling his feet into the aisle and leaning against the side of the plane. He was the only one aboard the aircraft except for the pilot and copilot. He did not know either man; the minister had vouched for them, which made Atha somewhat wary, but neither of them spoke to him once the plane took off.

They landed several hours later in Misratah, a coastal city in Libya about two hundred kilometers east of Tripoli. Atha had had occasion to use this airport before, and knew he would not be held up for an additional “fee” or surprised near the hangar by a government official with his hand out.

When the plane stopped moving, the copilot came into the cabin and opened the door. The sun had not yet risen; all Atha could see outside was darkness. The copilot reached his hand out to block the way just as Atha was about to step through. The boarding ladder had not yet been rolled into place.

The ladder was set at the side of what looked like a 1950s pickup; the driver brought it against the fuselage carefully, gently nudging the aircraft as he got it into position.

Waiting at the base of the stairs was a tall, skinny Arab dressed in a dusty brown flight suit. The man gave Atha a bright smile and bowed as he left the ladder.

“Commander Atha,” said the man in Arabic. “I hope your flight was enjoyable.”

Enjoyable was not the word Atha would have chosen, but he grunted in assent.

“Good morning, Ahmed. Are we all ready?”

“As soon as you called I had the plane fueled.”

“You’ve been waiting here all this time?”

“I wanted to be ready. You said you could not predict when you would arrive.”

Atha nodded. Ahmed had worked with him many times in the past; while he was not Iranian — his family came from Syria — he was trustworthy and conscientious to a fault.

Ahmed’s airplane was a Fuji FA-200, a four-passenger, one-engine aircraft that had two things to recommend it: it was extremely dependable, and it could land and take off from short runways. Ahmed had made a few alterations to the craft, including installing state-of-the-art avionics and tweaking the engine for a little more horsepower, but structurally it was little different from when it had left the factory in Japan more than thirty years before.

Atha strapped the suitcase into the seat directly behind his, then turned around to fasten his seat belt. He checked his watch, then remembered that he had planned to call Rostislawitch.

“Something wrong, Atha?” asked the pilot.

“I was going to make a phone call. Never mind.”

“If you have to make a call—”

“No, it’s all right.”

“Here’s my phone.” Ahmed reached to the dash of the light plane and took his satellite phone from its holster.

“No,” said Atha, “I’d rather not use your phone.”

“There is a landline in the hangar,” said the pilot.

Rostislawitch might be helpful in the future. In any event, keeping him on the hook for another day or so was probably a good idea. There was always a possibility that Dr. Hamid would need to speak to him.

Atha was starting to get used to the idea of not paying him, however.

“Where in the hangar is the phone?” asked Atha, undoing his belt.

15

Having failed to find the Russian scientist at the reception, Nathaniel Hamilton turned to the tarts, hoping they might shed some light on where Rostislawitch was. It was even possible, Hamilton thought, that the scientist had sought them out once more.

Finding the women proved more difficult than Hamilton thought it would be; there were several locations in town where the ladies gathered, each with its own set of regulars and, it seemed, different classes of clientele. Hamilton had only his memory of their faces and the noms de sex he had overheard thanks to Ferguson’s bug — Francesca and Rosa. The names were hardly unique in the city, but eventually, thanks to a liberal sprinkling of incentives, Hamilton found a woman who looked a great deal like Rosa as she walked back from an assignation at a tourist hotel.

The MI6 agent saw fear in her eyes when he pulled his car alongside her. That was not an asset at this stage, and he immediately worked to assuage it, telling her that he knew it was late, but that she had been recommended by a friend, an Iranian friend named Atha. She was still wary, and so Hamilton told her that he was not looking for sex — true enough, though she didn’t believe it. He wanted to talk about a scientist she had been with, and he would gladly do so at a safe, public place where she wouldn’t feel threatened. And, of course, he would pay handsomely.

“Never talk about the customers,” she said, starting to pull away, “first rule of business.”

“It may be a rule better broken,” said Hamilton, easing the car forward to keep pace with her. “You can see that I am not a policeman.”

“You’re British; I can tell from your accent.”

“There. So have breakfast with me. I’ll buy you breakfast and we’ll talk. Quietly, with no one else to know. The money’s good.” He revealed the two hundred-euro notes in his hand. “Not bad for a few minutes of companionship.”

The woman hesitated, but was still not sold.

“There are things about the Iranian you should know,” Hamilton told her. “They may save your life. And some of these things you would not want the police to know, at least not in connection with you.”

Fear shot back into her eyes. Now it was an asset, reinforcing her instinct for survival.

“I’ll add another two hundred. You’ll be able to go away from the city for a few days,” said Hamilton. “When you come back, Atha will be entirely forgotten.”

Rosa had sensed that the Iranian was a very bad man — he’d paid far too much for what he wanted them to do — and a feeling of doom swept over her. Hamilton offered a way of pushing off the peril. She opened the car door.

They ate at a place that fancied itself an American-style diner, ensconced in a corner of Bologna that Hamilton had never visited. Brightly colored fenders from American cars hung on the steel wall above the long counter. Across from it sat bright turquoise booths with plush seats and Formica tabletops. Each featured an old-fashioned jukebox near the window, where the menu rather than songs was displayed. The decoration was garish, but not entirely American; large bottles of olive oil and trees of garlic were hung between the car fenders, and the dessert display was dominated by cannoli shells. The air smelled more of garlic and basil than cheap hot dogs, and the waiter didn’t chew gum.

Rosa ordered only coffee; Hamilton went for a full American-style breakfast. She listened quietly as he told her that Atha had been involved in the car bombing two days before.

Rosa’s eyes grew wide. Was the scientist involved?

Hamilton told her he wasn’t sure.

“This involves several international agencies,” he said breezily. “Your help would be greatly appreciated.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“Of course not. But if I can locate the scientist quickly, then perhaps the entire matter can be wrapped up.”

“How can you be investigating this if you are English?”

“Would you rather be talking to the police?” asked Hamilton, taking the euro notes from his pocket and pretending to examine them.

Speaking haltingly, Rosa told him all she knew of the scientist, where his hotel room was, and how they had found the ticket.

As she spoke, Hamilton finally realized that the scientist must have gone to Naples to retrieve the bag Atha had already obtained. He paid Rosa off, called Rostislawitch’s hotel room just to be sure he wasn’t there, then made his way out to the airport.

16

“I’m here,” said Ferguson, answering the sat phone.

“Ferg, it’s Lauren DiCapri.”

“I was expecting Attila the Hun,” said Ferguson. He spotted the light from the Naples-bound train in the distance, and began jogging toward the ticket machine.

“We think Atha called Rostislawitch’s phone a little while ago.”

“Think?” Ferguson started to take his credit card out to pay for the ticket, then realized the train was a lot closer than he’d thought. No way was he climbing aboard this one from the back — he turned and began sprinting for the stairs leading to the platform.

“We don’t have a voice sample to match it, but he said he was Atha. He said he wasn’t feeling well and would talk to him tomorrow sometime. The thing is, we traced the call to Libya.”

“Good.”

“Not good. Rankin and Guns are on their way to Tunis. That’s where the helicopter—”

“Tell them to divert.”

“OK. I thought you’d want—”

“It’s all right,” said Ferguson, taking the steps two at a time. “Listen, I’ll call you back. I have to make this train.”

Downstairs on the platform, Artur Rostislawitch waited for the train to pull in. He hadn’t decided what to do with the material once he got it. Disposing of it properly was not a simple matter. Short of bringing it to a proper disposal station, which couldn’t be done for obvious reasons, the best solution was to burn the material in a very hot fire. But the fire had to be very hot, like that generated by an iron-smelting plant. He wasn’t sure where he could find one, or how he would talk his way in.

The train doors opened. Rostislawitch stepped inside. The train was about three-quarters full with early-morning commuters bound for the city, and he had to go to the middle of the car to find an open seat. He found a spot next to a pretty-looking woman wearing too much perfume. He attempted a smile; she gave him a frown in return.

When Rostislawitch looked up, he found the conductor staring at him expectantly. He reached into his pocket for his ticket and handed it to the man, who turned it over, then shook his head.

“It’s not stamped,” said the conductor. Rostislawitch had forgotten to validate the ticket at the entrance to the platform.

“I must have forgotten,” Rostislawitch muttered in Russian.

The conductor, of course, didn’t understand.

“Turista,” said Rostislawitch. “Io sono turista.”

“Whether you are a tourist or not, you must validate your ticket,” said the conductor. “Do you speak English?”

“I can speak English.”

“You must validate your ticket,” explained the conductor. “How can you be a tourist at this hour?”

“I was to visit a friend, but arrived too early, then realized—”

“Enough,” said the conductor. “Next time, make sure to stamp the ticket at the yellow box.”

Thera looked at the arrival board, then walked back toward the café diagonally across from the left luggage area. The shop had just opened, and the cup of Café Americano — espresso with enough extra water to make a cup’s worth — was piping hot. She sat down, fanning it with a napkin. According to her watch, she had ten minutes before Rostislawitch’s train would get there.

Her sat phone rang. Thera grabbed it from her purse.

“You’re kind of obvious there,” said Ferguson.

“Where are you?”

“On the train.”

She jerked her head around. He didn’t know where she was; he was just guessing.

“Ferg, where are you really?”

“I’m on the train to Naples, in the next car from Rostislawitch. We’ll be there in five minutes. He’s going to have to hang out for a while; the left baggage place doesn’t open until eight. Plant a couple of bugs so we can watch, and meet me at the south door. OK?”

“The bugs are already in place.”

“So get the hell out of the station.”

“I wasn’t going to let him see me.”

“By the south door.”

“OK.”

17

Rankin and Guns were about five minutes from touching down in Tunis when Lauren DiCapri called Rankin and told him about the phone call Atha had made. There was no possibility of diverting at this point; Misratah was several hundred miles away. The navy lieutenant piloting the Seahawk helicopter told Rankin he’d have to not only refuel, but ask permission from his commander to fly them there.

“You’ll get permission,” Rankin told him. “That won’t be a problem.”

“How long is it going to take us to get there?” Guns asked.

“Top speed, once we’re in the air, two or three hours.”

“It’d be better if it were faster,” said Rankin.

“It’d be better if this were a jet,” said the pilot. “But it’s not.”

18

Rostislawitch tried consciously to slow himself down as he walked from the train to the luggage office, but he was brimming with nervous energy. He walked directly to the left luggage area even though he knew it would be closed. Then he paced for a few minutes, and went back toward the platforms. He remembered that he hadn’t had anything to eat, and decided to get some breakfast, not because he was hungry but to have something to do. He left the station, walking along the edge of the sidewalk as he surveyed the neighborhood around the station. The city was now wide-awake: trucks jostled to find an opening in the traffic; businessmen walked with a determined pace to their offices; sidewalk vendors growled at beggars as they set up their wares.

The thing that Rostislawitch noticed most was the smell — the scent of garbage mixed with diesel and the sea. Naples was a dirty city, dirtier than Moscow, which even Rostislawitch thought was a filthy place.

He found a large café near the intersection two blocks from the train station and went inside. Sitting at a table near the window, he ordered a sfogliatella — a breakfast pastry — and coffee, using English. He stared out of the window, stirring his coffee mindlessly, still trying to puzzle out how to get rid of the material.

What would the consequences be if he dropped it in the ocean?

So long as the containers remained sealed, there would be no problem; even without the heavy tape he had wrapped around them and the carrying container, the canisters were waterproof. The problem would come if someone found the containers later. Anyone opening the vials while the bacteria was still active would be infected and die within a few days. Once they were infected, they would infect other people; there would be at least a small outbreak.

What happened after that would depend largely on how long it took the health authorities to recognize what was going on. In a worst-case scenario, a hundred million people could be killed — though an accidental exposure of the nature Rostislawitch was contemplating more likely would only affect a hundred or a thousand before the authorities could take measures to stop it.

Could they? Dealing with epidemics was not his forte, but he knew from the research data that the outbreak was likely to be misdiagnosed at the very beginning. Two or three days’ delay in instituting quarantines and changing procedures at hospitals would have an exponential impact down the line.

Why had he not let such thoughts stop him earlier? What sort of man had he allowed himself to become?

A foolish, vain, hateful man. One he hated as well.

And one who deserved to be punished. He should turn himself in to the FSB she-wolf, let her lock him away in whatever modern gulag the state was using now. He didn’t deserve to live.

Rostislawitch rubbed his face, still chilled by his stay in the suburban station.

He was not beyond redemption. That was the true message of the epiphany in the church the morning before — he was not beyond redemption. He had to persevere, stop wavering. He would dispose of the material, go back to Bologna, return to Russia.

And then?

Put his talents to work somewhere that could make better use of them. He could work in western Europe, or at least try.

And talk to Thera, every now and then. Other new friends as well.

He put his mind back to the problem at hand: how to dispose of the material.

There must be a city incinerator. He would find it, then bribe his way in.

Still having breakfast,” Ferguson told Thera. “Anybody watching us?”

“Not that I see.”

Ferguson turned the corner. A man in an old Italian army jacket was sitting on the sidewalk panhandling.

Ferguson sized him up. “How much for your coat?” he asked in Italian.

“Scusi?”

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll swap. This one doesn’t have enough pockets.”

“I like my coat.”

“Fifty euros, plus mine.”

The beggar bolted to his feet. Ferguson retrieved everything from his pockets, placing them in the jacket, which was just a little tight at the shoulders. When he pulled on his stocking cap, he looked like a regular Naples bum.

“Like my new look?” he asked Thera, walking back near the restaurant.

“God, I can smell you from here. You smell like a dog pound.”

“Your glasses are dumb.”

“Thank you.” Thera had put on a pair of glasses and tied her hair back to help change her look. “Listen, Ferg. I’ve been thinking. Maybe I should meet him right after he comes out. He’ll be vulnerable, looking for help. That’s when I should talk to him.”

“No, it won’t work that way.”

“The FSB is on to him. His only option is to come with us. We can help him.”

“He’s not quite ready yet, Thera. And he won’t be then, either. Trust me. You walk up to him and blow your cover, he’ll just freak. It’ll be the final straw. Do it my way, OK? Then we’ll be able to help him.”

“All right.”

Ferguson knew they weren’t really going to help Rostislawitch. They might pump his brain for everything he knew about the Russian biological warfare program, but after that he was expendable. Worse. He’d stolen a weapons system — an experimental one, maybe, but one that was at least as dangerous as a nuke. The U.S. would not only turn down a request for asylum; they might very well hand him over with whatever evidence he gave them. They’d done the same thing to two men in the nuclear weapons case that had almost cost Ferguson his life.

But of course that wasn’t what Thera wanted to hear.

“Keep an eye out for T Rex,” he told her.

“She’s not here, Ferg. She’s back in Bologna.”

“(A), T-Rex is not Kiska, and (B) she may show up here, too. They were following him in Bologna.”

“You really don’t think she’s the killer, huh?”

“Nope.”

“We’ll see.”

Inside the restaurant, Rostislawitch checked his watch and got up from his table.

“We’re in business,” Ferguson said. “Lay back.”

It was now exactly eight a.m. Rostislawitch walked swiftly from the restaurant, taking long, quick strides, practically running. He would get the bag, go to an ATM machine for cash, then find a cab and ride to the incinerator. Bribe his way in. They could ask questions, but he would pretend not to understand. He could even show them the material if they wanted — it would look like pudding gone bad.

His heart raced as he walked. He was excited, in a strange way happy, glad to be taking action, even jubilant. He’d managed to tear the great weight that had covered him these past several years away. He was back to being himself.

Rostislawitch waited at the curb, looking for an opening in the traffic. Finally he decided to plunge ahead. Staring across the street, he stepped out and began walking swiftly. Cars continued to fly past, somehow missing him.

The drivers were even less considerate for Ferguson, whose appearance made him look like a native. He trotted across the avenue, hopping up onto the curb just as a red Fiat whipped within a few inches of his backside.

There was a line of people with bags at the luggage area, waiting to check them. Rostislawitch got in line, then decided to go and get money and come back. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a ratty-looking man watching him. The man seemed to be trying to get his courage up to ask for some money

That was me, the scientist thought to himself. One step from the gutter.

Rostislawitch went to the bank machine and put in his card. Another record for the FSB people to question him about.

But it would make sense. His mind was working now. A tourist trip to Naples; he’d wanted to see what it was like. He’d come early to the city, gotten something to eat, then realized the place was far more expensive than he thought. A typical tourist.

He’d worry about the details of the story later. He’d get rid of the material; everything else would fall into place once it was gone.

Rostislawitch took three hundred euros from his account. It was nearly all he had left. Hopefully it would be enough to bribe a laborer in a garbage plant.

Toss the suitcase in the back of a garbage truck as it went in and he was done, free. That might be even easier.

“You have your ticket?” asked the clerk at the left luggage counter.

Rostislawitch’s fingers began to tremble as he handed the ticket over. The man looked at it, nodded, then went to retrieve the bag from the locker in the next room. The bones in Rostislawitch’s chest began to press against his lungs as he waited.

“Here,” said the man, returning. He held up a green upholstered carry-on.

Rostislawitch’s throat constricted. “That’s not mine,” he managed, speaking in English.

“No?”

“Mine is black. Just plain black.” He glanced to his left and his right. Two people were behind him, waiting to check bags. “This isn’t mine,” he insisted.

The man looked again at the ticket, still in his hand. He frowned, then went back into the luggage room. Rostislawitch felt very hot. The back of his neck buzzed and his ears felt as if they were covered with an itchy wool.

“This is the right number,” said the attendant, returning. He spoke Italian with a strong local accent, but Rostislawitch understood what he was saying — it was obvious from his gestures.

“Then there was a mistake. Problema. It’s not mine. Non il mio. Mine was black. It had — it had thermos carriers.”

“Thermos carriers?”

The attendant did not understand. Rostislawitch searched for some way of describing the contents without actually doing so.

There was no way.

“It had — an experiment I’m conducting,” he blurted in English.

“I’m sorry, sir—”

“Let me look,” said Rostislawitch, starting past the desk.

“You’re not allowed back here,” said the man, putting out his hand to stop him.

“I just want to look for my bag. It’s very important. It’s very — it’s critical.”

Rostislawitch pushed past the man and turned the corner into the room with the luggage. There were rows of lockers, and larger bags collected along the wall. The door to the locker where his bag had been was open. He put his hand inside, even though he could easily see that it was empty. He ran his fingers around the space, rattling the side of the empty box.

Rostislawitch grabbed at the locker doors near it, but they were all locked. Spotting the bags against the wall, he slid down to his knees near one that looked like his. Pulling it out, he laid it on the floor and unzipped it — nothing but clothes.

“You’re not allowed here,” said a policeman behind him.

“I’ve lost my luggage. It’s very important that I get it back,” said Rostislawitch in Russian.

The policeman did not understand. “Can you speak English?” he asked.

“English, yes. I’ve lost my bag. I need it.”

“This may be true, but you’re not allowed here,” said the cop.

“Please. I have to find my bag.”

Rostislawitch grabbed another case. It didn’t look that much like his, but he had to do something — he had to find his bag.

The policeman took his shoulder. “You are not allowed here. Come.”

“My bag. There must have been a mistake.”

The clerk came over with his key and began opening the lockers nearby. Rostislawitch watched, trembling. None of the suitcases nearby looked like his.

“I need my bag,” he said, when the clerk held out his hands, indicating he had no idea where it had gone.

“You can file a claim,” said the policeman.

“It must be here.”

The cop took hold of Rostislawitch’s arm. Two more police officers had appeared at the doorway.

“I’m being very patient,” said the policeman in Italian. “Because I know what it is like to lose a bag. But if it’s lost, it’s lost. Come on now.”

Rostislawitch couldn’t think. He only half-understood what the policeman had said, but the prods were emphatic, and he started to go out. Then he stopped, looked back, started again. He was torn between rage and logic — the bag must be here.

“Come on, sir,” said another policeman. “Come on.”

The scientist walked out of the room, his head pounding. The clerk shoved some papers in his hand.

“Make the report, sir,” said the man. “Here is a pen. Just make the report. If the luggage turns up — sometimes this happens — we will be able to give it to you. If not, a claim. They are good about paying.”

“You all right?” asked the policeman who’d been with him in the room. He was speaking English again; Rostislawitch could understand every word.

“I need a drink of water,” said the scientist.

“There’s a store right over there.”

“Yes.”

Rostislawitch started away. The FSB she-wolf must have taken the bag. She’d probably followed him here from Moscow.

What was he going to do?

He walked into the store and bought a bottle of water.

He could use something much stronger.

A few yards from the water store, Ferguson sat head down on the floor, watching as Rostislawitch sorted through his change. Ferguson rocked forward, then ambled in Rostislawitch’s direction.

“I wonder if you have a coin for a smoke?” he asked in Italian.

Rostislawitch thought the disheveled man looked vaguely familiar but couldn’t place him. He told him in Russian to get lost.

“You’re Russian?” said Ferguson, answering in Russian as well. He pulled his head back, as if he didn’t trust the man, then looked all around the station, as if they might be overheard.

“You understand me?” said Rostislawitch. He glanced left and right — was this one of the she-bitch’s agents?

Unlikely, thought the scientist. He smelled to high heaven.

“Be careful, friend,” said Ferguson quickly in Russian. “There are thieves all over, watching for Russians. They take their bags. Sell them.”

Ferguson turned and began walking away.

“What?” said Rostislawitch.

Ferguson pretended not to hear.

“Hey, you, what do you know?” Rostislawitch practically shouted.

“I know a lot,” mumbled Ferguson, just loud enough for Rostislawitch to hear.

“Tell me about this.” People nearby were staring.

“First I get something to eat,” said Ferguson. “Not here.”

Rostislawitch was unsure whether to trust the man. He looked as if he’d lived on the streets for some time, and his Russian was authentic, from Moscow. But his face wasn’t Russian; it didn’t have the Slavic thickness that Rostislawitch expected.

“Where do you come from?” Rostislawitch asked.

“Around.”

“Where in Russia?”

Ferguson shrugged.

“Where in Moscow?” demanded the scientist.

“When I was young, Moscow.”

“Why are you in Naples?”

“Hmmmm,” said Ferguson, nodding.

“That’s not an answer.”

Ferguson started away.

“All right. I’ll buy you something to eat,” said Rostislawitch. “Where?”

“Outside the station. Some place where they can’t hear.”

“Who?”

“The KGB. They’re everywhere.”

“Yes,” said Rostislawitch, not sure if the man was crazy or very sane.

19

Thomas Ciello put his fingers to his temples and squeezed, trying to relieve his headache. He’d been staring at the computer for so long that his neck and shoulders seemed to have welded themselves into a permanent forward slope. He tried twisting in his chair to loosen his muscles, but even the chair seemed frozen solid. Finally he pushed backward with his feet and rose slowly. Every joint in his body creaked.

“Argh,” he moaned. He hadn’t worked this hard or this long without a break since he set out to solve the August 2004 Alabama Black Triangle UFO sighting.

“Are you all right?”

Corrigan was standing in the doorway. This was a momentous occasion, thought Ciello — Corrigan never visited the research offices.

“I’m just a little tense,” said Ciello. He bent over at his trunk, trying to stretch out his back. His fingers stopped a good foot above his toes.

“OK,” said Corrigan, backing away. “When you get a chance, give me an update.”

“Wait!” yelled Ciello. He started to unfold himself, but his back was locked. He couldn’t move.

“Yes?” asked Corrigan.

“I — Kiska Babev is on her way to Naples.”

“Excuse me?”

“Kiska Babev, the FSB agent. I’ve been tracking her credit card accounts. She bought a plane ticket to Naples a couple of hours ago. Air One. She got it right before for the flight. It’s an hour flight. She may be there by now.”

Corrigan stepped into the room. Ciello was still bent over at the waist. It seemed a little odd, but then again, intelligence analysts were supposed to be odd.

“You’re sure about that?”

“I tracked all her bank accounts down. It hasn’t been easy. I talked to this guy Ferguson knows and—”

“Put it in a report. I have to go to tell Ferg.”

“OK.” Ciello tried again to straighten, but couldn’t. “You think you could help me get unfolded here?” he asked, but Corrigan was already gone.

20

The small airplane was flying low to avoid being picked up on radar. It was so low, in fact, that Atha thought several times they would hit a dune. He grabbed hold of the handle at the side of the windshield strut, gripping it tightly.

As usual, Ahmed was amused. He would tuck the plane up slightly, then back down, staying close to the contours of the earth. The desert was not quite the empty wasteland it looked on many maps. On the contrary, to Ahmed it teemed with life — desperate refugees escaping from Darfur or the Sudan or Chad, militiamen seeking justice or simply enemies, smugglers taking a convenient route. He loved the desert, especially when the radar detector tracked a radar somewhere above. It was impossible to tell what the signal had come from; military flights from Libya and Chad and occasionally NATO fighters crisscrossed the area. All were to be avoided at the pain of death; it was a challenge Ahmed relished.

Ahmed strained against his seat belt as he pushed his small plane forward, tracking through the highlands of northeast Sudan. If a jet were to appear above, he knew precisely what he would do, how he would turn and twist to get away, slinking into the crevices of the mountains ahead.

And then, like a photo suddenly coming into focus, they were there: Ahmed rose over a ridge and the camp spread out below, its buildings clustered around a tiny spring-fed pond in a scar-faced canyon.

Atha took a deep breath as Ahmed legged the plane onto the narrow, dusty landing strip. A great deal of work was about to reach fruition.

The Fuji FA-200 bumped hard on the strip. Ahmed came in a few knots too fast and had trouble braking; he needed the entire strip to stop. Behind him, a crowd of people swarmed the plane, hoping its occupant was in a good mood as he usually was when he returned from a long trip; he was known to throw candy to children and, on rare occasions, coins.

They would be disappointed today. Atha had not had a chance to pick up any sweets. They would gladly forgive him, however, for in many ways he was their savior.

He was also planning to be their executioner, though that part they didn’t know.

Except for the large pond that supplied a modicum of water even during the dry months, Atha’s camp was similar to the larger camps that dotted North Darfur, Sudan, and Chad farther south. Like those, it consisted of huts at irregular though relatively spacious intervals. The walls of the huts were generally made of rushes or other stalks of vegetation, trucked in from many miles away. The tops of these houses were plastic or nylon sheets.

With roughly five thousand people, Atha’s camp was smaller than many of the refugee camps to the south, even those in Chad, which tended to be less imposing than the cities of death in the deserts of West and North Darfur. It had two small permanent structures, made of thick stone and lashed vegetation, their metal roofs covered by plastic sheets so they appeared less conspicuous. But the major difference was the people — compared to the people in the other camps, Atha’s were far better fed, in far better health. For this was a necessary part of the plan: one could not start an epidemic with people who were already sick.

An old Jeep circled around the crowd. A young man in a baggy white tunic and pants stepped out of the Jeep, waving at the people before walking to the plane. Though not yet thirty, the young man was a doctor and a scientist, a man who knew nearly as much about bacteria as Rostislawitch did. Dr. Navid Hamid had, in fact, been a pupil of Rostislawitch’s for a brief time in Moscow, though Hamid doubted he remembered him and Atha had thought it best to conceal that fact from the Russian when he had made his arrangements.

“Atha, you have made it back,” said Dr. Hamid.

“By the grace of Allah, all glory to him,” said Atha, reaching into the back of the plane for the bag.

“This is it?”

“Yes, Doctor. This is it.” Atha handed over the bag. “How soon?”

“I can’t be sure. Perhaps thirty-six hours to have enough to infect the camp — if everything we were told is correct, and if these samples have held up to transport.”

“That was the entire reason for obtaining them,” said Atha.

“As I say, if everything we were told is correct. Thirty-six hours.”

“Go. The minister will want it done even quicker.”

The doctor nodded, then went back to the Jeep. Atha turned and looked at the crowd around him. At least three hundred people were close by, and others were coming as well. Children, women, fathers. Most were members of the Massalit tribe, ethnic Africans from farther south, but there was a good number of Arab Africans as well. Without any exception that Atha knew of, they were Sunnis, though had they been Shiites like him he still would have felt no pity for their fates. The poor were puppets for the powerful; the only relief was to escape poverty. It was the lesson he had taught the spider in the hotel the other day.

“Your passage has been arranged,” he told them in Arabic, speaking in a loud voice. “In a day, perhaps two, your journey will begin. Prepare.”

There was silence. Even though it was the camp’s common tongue, most of the ethnic Africans did not understand Arabic, or at best were far from fluent. But then suddenly one person held up his hand and yelled, “God is great!” and a giant roar of approval went up from the crowd.

21

Thera watched as Ferguson walked with Rostislawitch out of the station, toward a restaurant Ferguson had chosen because it had good acoustics for their bugs. The scientist looked dazed, still unsure of what was going on.

Ferguson looked like a paranoid street person.

Thera began following them. She’d bought a cheap shawl and covered her face and head and the top of her torso so she looked like a devout Muslim. With her face covered and Rostislawitch preoccupied, it was a simple but effective disguise, and she was able to get within a few yards without worrying about being recognized.

Because of the screening at the airport, Thera had left her weapons in Bologna, so she’d borrowed Ferguson’s hideaway, a tiny CZ-92 Pocket Automatic barely five inches long. The gun felt almost like a toy in her pocket.

A car veered around the corner, heading toward the side street Ferguson and Rostislawitch had just turned down. The window began to open.

“Get down! Get down!” Thera yelled, throwing off her shawl. She pulled the CZ from her pocket and fired in the direction of the car, just as a submachine gun appeared in the window and began shooting,