by Larry Bond
Guns, at the top of the steps, screamed a warning, but it was drowned out by the rattle of the small Czech weapon blasting through its twenty-bullet magazine.
~ * ~
25
CIA BUILDING 24-442
Ferguson’s tip about Kiska having a cousin with a German last name in a mental hospital somewhere in Romania—and the suggestion that she used the cousin’s identity for her credit card accounts—wasn’t the most stellar piece of intelligence Ciello had ever received. But the analyst persevered.
His first problem was the fact that he did not speak Romanian. That was easily overcome; when the Agency Romanian language expert proved unavailable, Ciello stole a page from Ferguson’s book and went for outside help, in this case a UFO expert he knew who lived in Craiova and had recently published a moving though overly assonant sonnet sequence on UFO abductions there. Craiova was a long way from Baia Mare—opposite ends of the country, in fact—but his fellow UFO buff had his own network of informants, and within an hour or so had obtained a list of all of the patients at the two mental institutions near Baia Mare.
The fact that there were two, not one, gave Ciello a bit more work to do; he ended up with five possible names of women who might be related to Kiska Babev. A preliminary search of the names turned up nothing, but this wasn’t surprising. Ciello sent his formal requests for information on possible bank and credit card accounts over the CIA system; he got an automated response informing him that he would have the results “as soon as humanly possible”—an odd comment, he thought, given that it was generated by computer.
Then he called Ferguson’s friend in Nigeria.
“Ah, you called. Very good. Just about lunchtime here,” said the man. His English had a slightly exotic accent. “Mr. Ferg promised you call before lunch.”
“I have five names I need to check out for bank accounts.”
“Five? Mr. Ferg said only one. Five—that was not what he said.”
“Well, five is just five ones put together,” said Ciello, not sure what other explanation he could give.
“But it is more than one. This is the key point.”
“Well, shit happens.”
The man thought the expression was uproariously funny, and began laughing so hard that Ciello had to hold his phone away from his ear.
“Shit happens. Yes. Yes. I think this all the time. Shit does happen. A-ha.”
“Can I give you the names?”
“My friend, today, for you, because you are the friend to my friend, and because it is lunchtime, I am going to save you very much work. You will look the names up yourself. Today only—because you are friend to Mr. Ferguson.”
“Great,” said Ciello.
“One name, five names, a hundred names. Today you do what you want. Because, my friend, shit happens.”
“Sure does.”
The man gave Ciello a Web site and an access code; all would be revealed when he signed on.
“Look in an hour. If not there, then, no information can be found.”
“An hour?”
“Give or take. Lunch comes first. Shit happens, no?”
Fibber was still laughing when Ciello hung up the phone.
~ * ~
26
NAPLES, ITALY
The Czech-produced Skorpion was more a machine pistol than a submachine gun; its light weight and poor balance made it hard for a novice to handle, especially one who was trying to shoot with one hand while on the run. The bullets had the intended effect, however: they sent Rankin diving for cover. Since the narrow wooden dock offered none, he dove into the water, barely escaping the spray of 7.65mm bullets. As the water roiled, he pushed himself away, doing his best to stay underwater until finally his lungs felt like they were about to burst. When he surfaced, he realized that the rumble he’d felt nearby had come not from the bullets but from the propellers pushing the boat from the dock. The fishing boat was already some thirty yards away; Rankin took a few strokes after it but saw it was hopeless. He turned back and found Guns and the others gaping at him from the railing above the dock.
“Why the hell didn’t you shoot back?” Rankin yelled. “Crap. He’s getting away.”
Guns—who had not only shot back but hit the gunman while Rankin was underwater—said nothing. Hamilton shook his head.
Rankin climbed up on a dilapidated tire and pulled himself out of the water. He’d lost his pistol when he jumped in; he gave a cursory look around the dock though he knew it was hopeless, then climbed up the ladder to the stairs and the street.
“You should have grabbed the bag on the street when you had the chance,” Rankin told Hamilton.
“Don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t have done, Yank,” answered Hamilton.
Cursing, Rankin went through his pockets. He still had his radio and headset, plus his sat phone and his wallet.
Guns, meanwhile, took a photo of the boat with his small camera, then pulled out his phone to talk to Corrigan back in the Cube.
“We’re going to need the Italian coast guard,” he told him. “Atha got away with whatever the Russian scientist sold him. They’re in a fishing boat; it’s not that big, fifty-something feet. It didn’t have a name. I’ll upload a photo.”
“Screw the coast guard,” said Rankin, pointing toward the marina. “Let’s grab our own boat.”
“We can’t steal a boat,” said Hamilton.
“One more word out of you and I’ll throw you off the side,” said Rankin. “Then you’ll smell as bad as I do.”
~ * ~
27
THE TYRRHENIAN SEA, OFF NAPLES, ITALY
Atha dragged the injured sailor to the cabin, trying to be as gentle as possible. He’d been struck twice, once in the chest and once in the stomach; blood covered both sides of his sweatshirt, and a trail led back to the stern of the boat. Atha tried to put him into the bunk, but the man was too heavy for him to lift, and he decided the sailor was better off on the floor.
“I’m going to get something for a bandage,” Atha told the man.
The man grunted in response. Foam slipped from his mouth, blood and spit mixing together. The sailor grabbed at Atha’s arm, wrapping his own around it.
“I’ll be back. I need to get you a bandage,” said the Iranian, pushing the hand away. The man fell back against the deck.
Up on the bridge of the small boat, the captain was staring at the sea ahead, both hands on the large wheel.
“Are they following us?” Atha asked.
The man did not respond.
“Are there bandages somewhere? A first-aid kit?”
Again, the captain said nothing. Atha spotted a box marked by a white cross next to the fire extinguisher; he grabbed it off the bulkhead and went back to the cabin where he had left the wounded sailor. Opening the box, Atha saw a few pads of gauze, far too small to staunch the flow of blood. He took one anyway, then went down on his knee and tried to find the man’s wound. As he did, he realized the man had stopped breathing. Blood was no longer spurting from the wounds. Atha touched the man’s face; it felt like wet putty, slick with the man’s sweat and the spray from the water. For a moment, he thought of trying artificial respiration, even though he knew it would be useless. Then he pushed down the sailor’s eyelids, said a quick prayer, as much for himself as for the dead man.
Rising, Atha realized he was covered with blood. He went to the head, a small, crowded restroom that barely fit a tiny sink and toilet. The soap in the sink was gray, covered with oil; he dug his fingernails through it, revolted by the grime but determined to cleanse the blood away. The faucet produced only a slight trickle. Atha washed his hands and arms as best he could, but even after ten solid minutes there were still red streaks up and down his arms. Bits of blood had coagulated on his fingernails and in the ridges of his hands. He picked at them for a while longer, then gave up.
Out on the deck, he retrieved the small submachine gun and looked to make sure that no one was following them. Ther
e were at least a dozen boats between them and the shoreline, but none were particularly close.
He wasn’t sure who the men were who had tried to stop them. He guessed Italian secret service agents, though they hadn’t identified themselves. It was also possible they were confederates of the man he’d hired to retrieve and swap the bags. In any event, he’d have to assume they were the former, which meant the Italian coast guard and navy would soon be looking for them.
Where the men had come from was another good question. Most likely they’d been following him from the train station, though he hadn’t seen anyone. That was his fault—once he had the bag he’d simply moved as quickly as possible, not taking his usual precautions because he wanted to get to the boat.
Atha took the gun inside, reloading it before going to see the captain.
“I think we are all right,” Atha told him. “How long?”
The captain didn’t acknowledge him. Atha was tempted to hold the gun at his head and demand an answer, but he realized that would serve little purpose.
“Your man is with Allah, blessed be his name,” said Atha, laying his hand gently on the captain’s shoulder.
The captain said nothing. He was an Iranian by birth and spoke Farsi fluently, but he had lived in Italy since he was seven and felt more Italian than Iranian. He was brooding on the fact that it would now be difficult for him to return to Naples for several weeks. He made a good living by smuggling items for the local Mafia and other “businessmen,” but everyone had a certain territory, and he would not be able to operate from another port. Atha, though he paid well, employed him very rarely, and had just cost him a great deal of money. Not to mention the problem of disposing of his deckhand.
Atha left him to his business. He went back to the cabin where the sailor had died, kneeling over Rostislawitch’s suitcase. In his haste as the shooting began, he had neglected to zip it shut. Instead of closing it now, he opened it again, reexamining the contents—twelve flat, sealed glass cases, no larger than a child’s yo-yo. They looked like flattened jelly jars or the bottoms of the glass honey pots he remembered from childhood.
The brown, jellylike liquid inside might very well be honey for all he knew. It might very well be a scam.
Or perhaps the Italian secret service had made a substitution.
There was nothing he could do about that now. He had to trust that Allah, all praise due to him, had a plan.
Atha zipped the suitcase, grabbed the rest of the bullets for the machine pistol, and went on deck to keep watch.
~ * ~
28
BOLOGNA, ITALY
Ferguson twisted around as he walked, scanning the second-story windows on the small block, trying to make sure the knot of scientists ahead weren’t being followed by anyone other than the pair of undercover Italian policemen Imperiati had assigned.
Ferguson didn’t see anyone, but that didn’t make him feel any more comfortable. Rostislawitch and Thera—Rostislawitch really, with Thera agreeing—had decided to skip the first morning session and join a small group of scientists for brunch at a restaurant three blocks from the art building. Ferguson hadn’t had time to check out the place beforehand. He trailed along now as the group found the door and tromped up the steps to the second-floor dining room, exchanging jokes in the pidgin English they all shared.
Ferguson walked past the stairs that led up to the restaurant, continuing to the end of the block and crossing over. He stayed under the arched promenade, pretending to window-shop while glancing around. Finally convinced that there was no one watching, he doubled back toward the restaurant. He slipped two video bugs in to cover the street, then went upstairs.
The room was shaped like an L, with tables lined up together along a narrow passage to the deeper part of the room. Ferguson glanced at the maitre d’, then saw Kiska Babev sitting by herself about halfway down the long row.
“That’s my date,” Ferguson told the maitre d’, walking over to her.
“Ciao, baby,” said Ferguson, pulling out the chair. The maitre d’ rushed to push it in for him.
“You’re late,” she said.
“I wanted to make sure we weren’t followed. Don’t want people talking.” He turned to the waiter, who had just appeared at his elbow. “House red.”
“A little early for wine, Bobby.”
“I like to get a head start on the day.”
Kiska had persuaded one of the scientists in the group to suggest the place for breakfast, and to try to bring Rostislawitch along. The man didn’t know she was an FSB agent—he thought she was with the Science Ministry, her cover—but was happy to oblige when she assured him that she would sign for the tab. She needed to confer with the scientist about a grant offer from a drug company, she explained, but wanted to do so discreetly.
“I knew you would be here,” Kiska told Ferguson. “Because I knew that Dr. Rostislawitch would be. Why did you tell Signor Imperiati that I was involved in the bombing yesterday?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what he heard.”
“His English isn’t that good.”
“His English is better than mine.”
“Nah. His accent is all wrong.”
Kiska found it difficult to control her anger at the accusation. “You caused a great deal of trouble for me,” she said. “I suspect I am still under suspicion. All because of a lie you told for fun, I suppose.”
“Who says it’s a lie?”
Kiska reached across the table and slapped his cheek. Though he saw it coming, it still stung.
“I am not playing your American wise-guy games anymore, Bobby.”
“You’re making people stare.”
“I don’t care if they stare,” she said, switching to Russian.
“Well if you don’t care, I don’t care,” answered Ferguson, also in Russian.
The waiter, Ferguson’s wine on his tray, approached cautiously. Ferguson gave him a smile that said, Women, what can you expect? The Italian put the glass down, raised an eyebrow in sympathy, and retreated.
“Why are you in Bologna?” Kiska demanded, still speaking Russian.
“We went through this yesterday.”
“I will tell you, Bobby, I do not like being accused of being a terrorist,” she said. “I do not like this charge being made to my embassy.”
“All I told him was that you were a possible witness. Which you were.”
Kiska was not sure how much of that to believe, but she needed to move past her own anger, or she would never find out what the Americans were doing, or what was really going on here.
“I will tell you in truth why I am here,” she said. “And I expect truth from you in return.”
“I’m as truthful as they come.”
“Artur Rostislawitch works in a sensitive area regarding bacteria that can be used as weapons.”
“Against international law?”
“There is nothing preventing his research, as you very well know,” said Kiska. “Your scientists work on similar projects. He has had access to very sensitive materials. His career—he has suffered professional setbacks which are none of my concern. Politics. In any event, it is conceivable that he is disgruntled, which I believe you know.”
“Doesn’t look like the happiest guy in the world,” said Ferguson, shooting him a glance.
Someone had just told a joke and Rostislawitch was laughing.
“Then again, you never know,” said Ferguson.
“Some days ago—just before he came to Bologna in fact—one of the safety indicators at a lab where he worked was tampered with. There are some who believe he took material, a culture of bacteria that might be used as a weapon.”
“There’s a question about it?” said Ferguson.
“There are many questions. Nothing may have been taken; he may not have been the one.” Kiska paused. She did not like the ambiguity herself. “The material was something that he worked on himself. It is an old culture, from a
program that is no longer sanctioned. He comes here, and you are watching him. Why, I wonder. Has my friend switched from tracking down nuclear material for his government to recruiting Russian scientists? Usually that is a job for an academic, or perhaps a lower-level officer. But then there is a bomb, and though my friend is near it when it explodes, I am blamed. So what is going on, I wonder. What is going on, Bobby?”
