by Larry Bond
Unsure what to say, Rostislawitch began to explain that he was only following orders.
“Whose orders? What member of the government told you to do this work? The minister of defense? When did you last meet with him?”
Only then did Rostislawitch realize that he had somehow gotten himself into the middle of a political fight. He’d become a pawn in a struggle between Fradkov and the army.
Fradkov did not lose many battles at this stage of his career, and he did not lose this one. Rostislawitch’s work had played a minuscule role in the trial used by Fradkov and his allies to punish the defense minister, but it was enough to effectively end Rostislawitch’s career.
Worse, Olga became ill shortly after her husband’s “audience” with the Russian Premier. Sick with the flu, she was taken to the local hospital in Saratov, where they were living practically under house arrest. At the hospital, she caught a much worse infection—a strain of streptococcus resistant to antibiotics. She died within a week.
In a final irony, the strain was one Rostislawitch had considered but rejected for use as a weapon some twenty years before.
Fradkov’s campaign against the defense minister complete, the lab’s funding was restored. Rostislawitch’s project, however, was given short shrift. Supposedly newer ideas—one involved the bubonic plague, so how could that be new?—were in vogue, and researchers familiar with them received top priority. Rostislawitch, tainted forever by his political troubles, was shunted to the side. He was forced to take a job teaching introductory biology at a nearby college to earn money. The director of the lab was a friend of his, and so allowed him lab access, but only during off-hours. He had continued his work with E. coli B589-A, keeping the strain alive, though by now no one else seemed to be much interested in it.
Except for the hour or two he spent in the lab each day, Dr. Rostislawitch hated life. Sometimes he thought of killing himself; other times he thought of killing a large number of people. He fantasized about killing Fradkov especially, until an airplane accident deprived him of the pleasure.
Then came the Iranian, with his offer. The Iranian didn’t know exactly what he was asking for; apparently he had heard of Rostislawitch’s work through Chechnyan friends who were fools and dullards. But to give the devil his credit, the Iranian sent a man to speak to him who did know what he was looking for, and who was intelligent enough to know that Rostislawitch could supply it.
And now he was here.
A new beginning. More like an old ending, a final gesture of payback to a world that had treated him so poorly. He had no doubt the material would be used. He wanted it to be.
He wished that weren’t true. He wished he could feel something, anything. Then he might have something to live for.
Shaving done, Rostislawitch retrieved his white shirt and began buttoning it slowly, rehearsing his English so that he could make his job pitch. For just one night, he decided, he would make himself believe that it wasn’t a cover story, or a fantasy, that he really did hope to get a legitimate job to put his skills to use. For just one night, for his dead wife’s sake, he would believe in himself and a future that did not involve destruction and terrible agony, let alone revenge.
~ * ~
5
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Even though the State Department had emphasized that the meeting was not only important but time sensitive, the Italian ambassador’s secretary claimed the earliest he could meet with Corrine was one p.m., and then only for ten minutes.
“Typical with the Italians,” said Undersecretary of State Gene Lashley as they drove up to the ambassador’s residence in suburban Washington. “My bet is that he doesn’t get out of bed until then.”
“I see.”
“Mention that we’re planning a reception at the embassy with free booze and women, they’ll be all over it,” Lashley said sarcastically as the State Department limo stopped at the front door. “They have a different set of priorities.”
Corrine kept her thoughts, not particularly charitable, to herself as she followed Lashley into the residence.
“Burn giorno, signor ambasciatore,” said an Italian, gliding across the tiled foyer as Lashley entered. “The ambassador is just finishing up his business.”
The Italian’s eyes found Corrine.
“Ms. Alston? Si? Such a beautiful woman to be working as counsel to the President,” continued the aide, who swept his hand to the side and bowed slightly at the waist. “Beauty and intelligence—America is a wonderful country.”
“The ambassador’s aide, Luigi Prima,” said Lashley.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Corrine, holding out her hand to shake.
Prima took it and raised it to his lips as he bowed still lower, kissing it. “So wonderful to meet you.”
“He’s a bit over-the-top, even for the Italians,” said Lashley after Prima showed them to a study to wait for the ambassador. “But I imagine you get a lot of that.”
“A lot of what?”
“Men fawning over you?”
“I really don’t.”
Lashley didn’t believe it. The President’s counsel—the daughter of McCarthy’s closest friend—was a beautiful woman, pretty much what you’d expect for someone whose mother had been a movie actress. Corrine might be wearing a dark blue suit, plain on anyone else, yet on her it could have been an evening gown.
“Undersecretary Lashley, good to see you, my friend,” said the Italian ambassador as he entered the room. Corrine and Lashley rose. Ambassador Rossi was a short man with jet-black hair combed straight back on his head. Like his aide, he was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit and exuded a slight scent of cologne. His walk was a strut, his head and chest jutting forward; he strode with confidence and just the slightest hint that he was in a hurry.
“Ms. Alston, the President’s counsel, so nice to meet you,” he said, taking her hand.
“Thank you.” Corrine was relieved that he simply shook her hand.
“Maybe you will join us for lunch?” said the ambassador.
“I’m afraid I don’t have the time,” Corrine told him.
“A pity.” The ambassador turned toward the door. “Bring some coffee please,” he said, though it appeared no one was there.
“The reason we’ve come, Mr. Ambassador—,” started Corrine.
“Wait now; you’ll have some coffee first.”
“I really don’t want to waste your time,” she said. “I know you’re very busy.”
“Ah.” He waved his hand and sat down. “I am not busy for a representative of the President. Sit. Stay.”
“It’s a very grave matter,” said Corrine. She gave a brief outline of the possible plot the CIA had discovered, leaving out any information about the operation that had discovered it.
The ambassador’s smile quickly turned to a frown.
“The President is greatly concerned,” said Corrine. “He has sent several officers to the city to help in any way that they can. He realizes that their presence may be very politically sensitive.”
“And what exactly was the nature of the operation that developed this information?” asked the ambassador. “It did not come out of the blue, I imagine.”
“No,” said Corrine. “It was standard intelligence gathering, but I’m not prepared to go into details about it at this time.”
“I see.” The ambassador’s tone indicated otherwise.
“It is of a secondary nature, certainly compared to this,” said Lashley.
“Another rendition?” The ambassador stared at Corrine. “That is why the President sends his personal lawyer?”
“I’m here because the President wanted to convey his deep concern,” said Corrine. “To emphasize how seriously he takes the matter. It was not related to a rendition.”
The ambassador smirked. “But, of course, if there is a legal concern, you will be in a position to handle it.”
“Hopefully, it won’t come to that.”
“You are
going to oversee the situation yourself?”
“I will keep an eye on it, yes. But the CIA has its own personnel who are certainly capable of proceeding on their own. The Deputy Director of Operations will be contacting your intelligence officials as soon as I tell him I’ve met with you.”
“Very good. You will stay for lunch?”
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
Ambassador Rossi rose. “Then if you will excuse me, I must inform my government.”
~ * ~
6
BOLOGNA, ITALY
Ferguson took a quick swig from the cup, draining the caffèllatte, then launched himself out of the café just as Artur Rostislawitch passed by. The Russian wasn’t difficult to spot; he wore a thick cloth coat, full-length and frayed at the bottom. He moved defensively, shoulders tucking and weaving as he went, as if he were afraid he was going to be knocked over by the pedestrians who passed.
Ferguson took out a cell phone as he walked, staying about a half block behind.
“You ready there, gorgeous?” he asked Thera. The cell phone was just a cover; he was using his radio, which was at his belt under his sweater. He had an earbud in his left ear and a mike pinned to his lapel.
“I’m ready, Ferg.”
“We have two more blocks. Why don’t you go ahead into the reception and pick him up inside?”
“All right.”
Guns and Rankin were nearby, scanning the buildings and the crowd. They had no proof that Rostislawitch was the target, and now that he’d gotten a good look at him, Ferguson was inclined to think he wasn’t. But T Rex was after someone, and for the moment this was the best candidate they had.
~ * ~
R
ostislawitch had no idea he was being followed. On the contrary, he’d never felt so alone in his life—ignored, already a ghost. He kept his head tilted downward and his hands deep in his pockets as he approached the hall where the opening night of the conference was to be held.
Even during his younger years, Rostislawitch had not attended many scientific conferences. He wouldn’t have been able to talk about his own work; it was too secret and would have been extremely controversial, to say the least. This suited him just fine—he was not particularly gregarious, nor did he like to travel. He spoke only Russian and English, which he had studied in school. Though he had a wide English vocabulary, his accent was so heavy that he had a great deal of trouble making himself understood. And few people he came in contact with outside of his homeland spoke Russian.
Light streamed into the street from the building. Rostislawitch reached into his coat pocket for his convention credentials, but there was no one at the door to check them. In fact, the only official he saw when he entered was a tall, thin woman taking coats. He exchanged his for a plastic medallion, then walked to the table on the right, where the credentials of some of the featured speakers were on display. Journal articles and in some cases academic texts were on small stands next to or above glossy photographs of the scholars. Brief resumes in bold, single-spaced text were taped beneath the pictures.
“An interesting array,” said a short woman next to him.
Rostislawitch smiled, but kept his eyes on the write-up of Dr. Herman Blackwitch, an American who was working with techniques to retard spoilage of certain seed oils. The man had graduated from Stanford University, worked in Italy as well the U.S., and was now a consultant to a large (and unnamed) food packager.
Rostislawitch wondered if he could have had such a career for himself.
Then another thought occurred to him—the work might simply be a cover. Blackwitch might actually be working on an American bio-war project.
Yes, most likely. People who thought the Americans weren’t planning something along those lines were hopelessly naive.
Across the room, Thera was sizing Rostislawitch up. None of the academics were particularly good dressers, but he stood out in his awkwardness. His black double-breasted suit with its broad pinstripes was at least a decade behind the times, and probably hadn’t been very stylish at the time, especially not on him. The rust-colored wool sweater he wore beneath it made him look as if he were the Tin Man after a night out in the rain.
A small bar had been set up near the hallway. Thera went over and asked for a vodka tonic. Now armed, she worked her way back across the room to Rostislawitch. She circled behind him, then came up near his side just as he turned. He bumped into her, spilling her drink across his jacket and the floor.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Thera. “I didn’t see you there and you turned so quickly.”
Embarrassed, Rostislawitch started to apologize himself. When he realized he was speaking Russian and she was speaking English, he stopped and stood there, his face beet red.
“Thera Metaxes,” Thera said, using a cover name to introduce herself. “Thera Metaxes. I’m a post-doc.”
“Dr. Rostislawitch.”
“You’re Russian.”
“Yes.”
“That was vodka I was drinking.”
Rostislawitch said nothing. The woman was pretty—a drawback for a scientist. She would have a hard time being taken seriously
“Would you like to buy me a replacement?” asked Thera.
Rostislawitch felt his face grow hotter. “I don’t have—” He stopped and cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I haven’t much money.”
“They’re free,” said Thera. She hooked her arm around his and led him toward the bar.
~ * ~
R
ankin was sitting in the passenger seat of a car they’d rented, watching the feeds from the video bugs Ferguson had planted earlier. He had three windows open in the fifteen-inch screen; between them he had a complete view of the reception area.
Guns and Rankin had checked the building for bombs with a handheld sniffer an hour before. Security was practically nonexistent— not that you could really blame the academic types for thinking they were too boring to be attacked.
“How are we looking?” Ferguson asked over the radio. He’d gone up the street.
“Thera’s with him at the bar,” Rankin said.
“Hey, Ferg, check these two guys on the motorbikes coming up toward you,” said Guns. “Moving kind of slow.”
“All right. Stand by.”
Rankin turned his attention back to the screen. Thera’s radio was in her purse, turned off; to contact her they’d have to call her sat phone. They’d wired into the building’s fire alarm; if anything looked suspicious Rankin could activate it by hitting a combination of keys on his computer.
“Why am I looking at these guys, Guns?” asked Ferguson.
“They were going real slow in front of the building.”
“You mean they were driving responsibly? That’s a hanging offense in Italy.”
Guns laughed.
Something on the left-hand screen caught Rankin’s eye. A man with a briefcase had entered the building. Rankin zoomed the image, watching as the man declined the coat attendant’s offer to take the bag. The man looked furtively around the room, then went to the table where the resumes were displayed. He slipped the case down to the floor, then abruptly turned and began walking quickly toward the door.
“Shit.” Rankin shot upright in the car seat, then struggled to get his fingers on the combination of keys to sound the fire alarm. As he did, he began to shout into his mike, “Ferg, Guns, guy with the beard coming out. Left a suitcase under the table. Thera, there’s a bomb under the table at the front!” he added, forgetting she wasn’t on the circuit. “Go! Go, for Christ’s sake!”
~ * ~
7
BOLOGNA, ITALY
A spider scurried across the hotel room desk just as Anghuyu “Atha” Jahan sat down to use the phone. The Iranian grabbed it by one of its long legs and held it up, watching as it wriggled. The creature, puzzled at its sudden capture, was desperate to get away.
“You’re such a little thing,” said Atha.
He took hold of another of t
he creature’s legs, holding them apart. The spider bent its body over, trying to spin itself free.
When he was a boy, Atha enjoyed pulling the legs from spiders. Then one day his father caught him, and slapped him in the ear.
“These are God’s creatures, hallowed be his name,” Atha’s father complained. “You should show compassion.”
For several years, Atha avoided spiders and insects of all kinds. Finally—in a mosque, as it happened—he saw an imam squash one as they walked together. And from that moment Atha realized that was the way of the world.
