by Larry Bond
“If you keep talking loud enough, Rostislawitch will hear you and you can ask him yourself.”
“I intend to. Why are you in Italy?”
“I’m trying to catch the person who wants to kill Rostislawitch.”
Kiska could not entirely cover her surprise. “Who is it?”
“Some people think it’s you.”
“I told you, no games.”
“I’m being honest.”
The waiter started to approach, but one glance from Kiska sent him scurrying back to the kitchen.
“Why would I kill him?”
“Maybe to keep whatever it is he took from coming to me,” said Ferguson. “Except I wasn’t the one buying it.”
Needing a moment to process everything he had said, Kiska changed the subject.
“The girl you have cozying up to him—she wouldn’t have taken it?”
“She doesn’t look like the double-crossing type, does she?”
Kiska leaned back in her seat. “If you are not buying the material from Rostislawitch, who is?”
Ferguson shrugged. “I haven’t heard that anything is for sale.”
“Why would someone want to kill him? It must be related to material, or his research.”
“You know better than me. I’d love to find a motive. Then I’d find out who it was. I don’t really care about the scientist.” Ferguson leaned ever so slightly over the table. “I care about the murderer.”
“Why?”
“He killed one of my people.”
Kiska’s anger had dissipated. There was something about Ferguson that made him difficult to stay mad at. More likely it was her own flaw, some hard-to-map chink in her personality that wanted to forgive handsome men their sins.
A deadly flaw, she thought.
“And you don’t know who the murderer is?” Kiska asked.
Ferguson shook his head.
“Waiter, we’re ready,” Kiska said, using English as she raised her hand to summon him.
“I don’t have a menu,” said Ferguson.
“Have the lamb omelet,” she told him. “It’s very good.”
“Lamb omelet?”
“It’s very good.”
Kiska ordered for both of them. Ferguson, meanwhile, tried to decide if what Kiska was telling him was actually true. It was certainly alarming, but the FSB wasn’t known for volunteering information like that. Even in their earlier encounter, Kiska had never been this forthcoming.
But what possible angle could she be playing? Get him to do something that would lead her to the scientist?
Maybe Rostislawitch wasn’t her target at all—maybe the First Team and its infrastructure was: give them a lead and see how they reacted.
Was he overthinking it?
“So you know that someone is trying to kill him, but you do not know who,” said Kiska. “Where did you get such information?”
“It’s complicated,” said Ferguson.
“Then you may have the wrong target.”
“I may.” Ferguson took a tiny sip of wine. “So tell me about the material that’s missing. What was it?”
“It’s a bacteria, a type of E. coli. That’s all I know.”
“E. coli is the stuff in our stomachs.”
“Some is. There are many, many varieties. Some harm us; some don’t.”
“And this one does. Why?”
“I honestly don’t know. That is not my specialty.” She waved her hand. “I’m told that the material may have been the subject of a weapons program at one time in the distant past, but that it was decided to be too . . . inappropriate. Difficult to use.”
“Why?”
“Bobby, you look for answers that even I do not have access to. You haven’t changed.”
“Who would he sell to?” asked Ferguson.
“If not you?”
“If not me.”
“I see someone from Bundesnachrichtendienst, covered as a commerce attaché. Clumsy, for the Germans.”
“BND is so unimaginative,” said Ferguson.
Bundesnachrichtendienst—BND—was the German intelligence service.
“I assume there are others,” said Kiska, who had put her assistant in Moscow to work vetting the names of the scientists enrolled at the conference. “I don’t get out of Moscow that much.”
“A shame.”
Kiska looked over in the scientist’s direction. She couldn’t see him from where she was sitting, but she imagined that he would be smiling, happy—perhaps he had already completed the deal and was on his way to becoming rich.
Or maybe not. She had been on cases where a string of circumstances led to great suspicions, all of which later proved unfounded.
But Ferguson’s presence told her there was something real. How much of what he said was a lie she couldn’t tell. In the past, Ferguson had not so much lied as left things out. He was certainly doing that here, but what details was he omitting besides the information on how they had tracked the killer? Did he actually know who it was? Was Rostislawitch even the target?
“We’re watching the scientist’s accounts,” Kiska said.
“Probably he has one you don’t know about.”
“It’s possible.”
“We could compare notes.”
“Give me the list that you have and I will tell you if it’s correct,” said Kiska.
“Nice try,” said Ferguson. “I don’t think we have any, actually.”
“That I don’t believe.”
“We’re not as omniscient as you think.”
“I don’t think you’re omniscient, Bobby,” she said, looking into his eyes. “I’ve worked with you before.”
“Touché,” said Ferguson, raising his glass.
“I’m going to talk to him after lunch. I don’t want you to interfere.”
“Fine with me.”
Ferguson’s face was still red where she had struck him. Kiska reached across the table and touched his cheek. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I’ve been slapped before. You expect that from Russian women.”
“Always with a joke.”
She ran the side of her finger down his cheek. He was a very dangerous man, but a handsome one. She nearly said something she would have regretted, but fortunately the waiter approached with their meals.
~ * ~
T
hera excused herself from the table and walked in the direction of the ladies’ room. As she did, she saw Ferguson sitting with the Russian FSB agent, who was running her hand down his cheek.
He just couldn’t resist, could he, Thera thought to herself, pretending not to see.
~ * ~
29
THE TYRRHENIAN SEA, OFF NAPLES, ITALY
Rankin, Guns, and the Brits didn’t steal the boat. Renting—albeit at an exorbitant rate—was easier and faster.
The fishing boat Atha had boarded was an old vessel, weighed down by rust and caked crud. Their boat was much newer—a large cabin cruiser about half the size of the other craft and, while not the speediest vessel on the water, capable of 30 knots.
Corrigan told Rankin that the Naples harbor patrol—actually part of the police force—was sending its three launches out. The Italian Guardia Costiera—the coast guard—had a patrol boat about eight miles to the south and another to the north; both were on their way as well.
“You think that the Italians can really help?” said Hamilton derisively. “You’re really a novice at this, aren’t you? At least Ferguson knows where to butter his toast.”
“Ferg ain’t here,” said Rankin, moving toward the bow.
Guns, standing against the rail with his binoculars, pointed toward a boat in the distance.
“That it, you think?”
Rankin took the glasses. Shaped like a small tug, the boat had a large stack directly behind the small wheelhouse. There was a boom at the back.
“Yeah, I think so,” he agreed, handing the binoculars back.
“You gonna a
pologize?”
“For what?”
Guns looked at him for a second, then raised the glasses to his face.
“I’m not Ferg,” Rankin said. “I’m not perfect.”
“Ferg ain’t perfect, either.” Guns put down the glasses. “I shot the son of a bitch while you were in the water.”
“Oh.” Rankin realized, belatedly, that Guns hadn’t been criticizing him; he was angry because Rankin had yelled at him for not firing at the gunman. He should have realized that, and would have, had he not been obsessed with measuring himself against Ferguson. It wasn’t his fault that the Iranian had gotten away, even though he was blaming himself.
“Hey, listen, I got a little hot back there,” said Rankin. “I’m sorry. I know you probably did your best.”
“Yeah. None of us are Ferg,” added Guns.
“A good thing,” muttered Rankin.
~ * ~
R
ankin had the captain cut the motor when they were about a mile from the fishing boat. No one seemed to be on deck. The boat was moving at about 4 knots due south; it had obviously slowed down at some point, but its pace now remained steady.
“Maybe the Iranian was wounded as well,” suggested Hamilton as they took turns examining the boat through Guns’ binoculars.
“Maybe.”
Rankin took out his sat phone. “Corrigan, where is that coast guard boat? You know?”
“To your southeast. It’s still a good half hour away.”
“Thanks.” He turned to Guns. “What do you think? Wait for the Italians?”
“If he’s got papers in the suitcase, he could be destroying them,” said Guns. “There’s smoke coming out of the smokestack.”
“We don’t want to wait for the Italians,” said Hamilton. “We don’t want them involved.”
“Why not?” said Rankin.
“Because the more people involved, the more things go to hell.”
You can say that again, thought Rankin.
“We can take the rigid-hulled boat over and find out what’s going on,” said Guns. “The only thing is, we only have one gun, right?”
He looked at Hamilton. Neither of the MI6 agents was armed.
“Figures,” said Rankin.
“I say we go,” responded Hamilton.
“Thanks.” Rankin turned to Guns. “I’ll take the point if you want.”
“No, it’s OK. I’m a better shot.”
Rankin didn’t think so, but he let it pass.
Hamilton had Jared Lloyd stay behind. The three men climbed into the cruiser’s small rigid-hulled inflatable and sped over to the fishing boat, which was still moving at a slow but steady pace. Rankin took the boat up against the port side of the fishing craft; Guns leapt aboard and moved swiftly toward the smokestack, ducking behind it as he tried to peer through the open doorway in front of it. As Rankin started to follow Hamilton out of the boat, he saw an emergency kit at the side. He opened it, and took the flare gun, figuring it was better than nothing.
The door to the rear of the fishing boat’s small superstructure was open. Guns and Rankin crouched on either side as Hamilton moved around toward the front. Neither man could see what was going on.
The Beretta felt tiny in Guns’ hand. In a perfect world, he’d have something considerably bigger—a shotgun would have been nice.
“Stay behind me,” he whispered to Rankin as he stepped into the gray space. He had both hands on the Beretta, his finger pressed against the trigger—anything that appeared was getting blasted.
The space was divided by a narrow corridor, with a cabin on each side and the bridge at the front. Guns moved to the left, ducking into the first space, trying to stay out of the direct line of fire from the front and search the cabin at the same time. It held lockers and a pair of benches, bolted to the floor, an assortment of gear and boxes piled randomly at both sides. It took him several seconds to scan them all, to make sure that the lines he saw were straight and unmoving.
“Come on,” hissed Rankin, who’d checked a similar space on the opposite side. Rather than waiting for Guns, he moved forward, through a small hallway, then ran forward, looking for the bridge.
Guns ran to keep up. He saw Rankin run forward, shouting something. Guns plunged into the space after him, throwing himself to the right, sure that they would both come under a hail of bullets.
But the vessel’s bridge was empty, the wheel tied by a rope into position.
“Shit,” said Rankin.
Guns moved his Beretta around the space twice, using it to direct his gaze. Then he went back to the cabins they’d bypassed. A figure lay on the deck in the cabin at the port side. Guns slid over to him on his knee, weapon ready; the man was dead.
“Guns!”
“Dead guy,” said Guns, back on his feet.
The door to the other cabin was locked. Guns heard someone talking inside, the voices still muffled.
“Come out,” he yelled. “Hands high.”
There was no answer.
Guns put his hand on the lever that worked the door. “Viennee quee,” he said, phonetically sounding the Italian words for “come here.”
No one stirred.
Rankin stepped between Guns and the door. “Let’s try this,” he said. Then without explaining he put his foot on the door lever and kicked it open, firing a flare into the cabin.
The small missile ignited with a low thwapp, and the room burst yellow and red. The scent of burning metal filled the corridor, and dusty smoke began curling upward. Guns started to push around Rankin to get in, but the fire flared; he heard the sound of a dull explosion, as if they were miles, not feet, away.
Rankin pulled the fire extinguisher off the nearby wall and began shooting the canister’s contents while he was still in the corridor. He pushed the nozzle inside the cabin, spraying blindly but choking the fire.
The cabin appeared to be an office; above the desk was a radio, which must have been what they heard. The place was empty.
“I need air,” Guns said, coughing. He grabbed Rankin, pulling him with him through the boat to the deck.
Hamilton looked down on them from the roof of the superstructure.
“No one?” he asked.
Guns managed to shake his head, still catching his breath.
“Bloody hell,” said the Englishman, taking out his sat phone.
~ * ~
~ * ~
1
WASHINGTON, D.C.
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 do
wn her cup and took his seat. “Give me the bad news, please. No varnish, miss.”
