by Leon, Judith
“So the repairman reported what he’d heard to the local police. They contacted us. We’ve put a task force on this, of which I am the head. I contacted the Company looking for information about Lynchpin. Although the informant was working in Amalfi at the time, there are a number of coastal towns where the seller could live. From the informant’s story we’ve deduced the most likely suspects.
“But regarding your specific question, Nova, the Center for Disease Control is fairly confident that they know every lab in the world that has the Reston strain, and they say there are no known records of any losses. In which case, it’s only the information that’s for sale. But they admit they can’t be certain that scientists, rogue or otherwise, from unfriendly countries don’t have the virus. Say, the Russians or Chinese. Because of our informant’s accidental but very fortunate eavesdropping, the CDC is in the middle of intense investigations of all of their known sources of the virus. They are double-checking for any possible ‘accidental’ transfers within the last several years to other labs or scientists. Such accidents have been known to occur, you know, even with these very dangerous bugs. Even if they got a sample of the virus, it would take quite some time, though, for whoever had it to successfully create the airborne strain.”
Nova nodded, recalling the scare not long ago about a mistaken transfer of deadly smallpox samples to several unauthorized labs.
“We can’t take anything for granted,” Provenza went on, his arms crossed over his wide chest. “So we’re working on the assumption that, at some point, terrorists may have gotten their hands on some Reston and now what they need are directions for modifying it. That makes it imperative that we stop this sale, even if what is being sold is only information.”
“Who are your suspects?” Joe asked.
“Before we move on to the matter of suspects, you need to know that our informant is certain that what is being sold—whether it’s on paper or stored on some electronic medium or is the virus itself—whatever it is, it’s in the home safe—not a business safe or some other place, but in the home safe—of this person with criminal connections. We have no idea yet, none at all, of who the buyer is, but as I’ve said, the seller’s code name is, in English, Lynchpin. Unfortunately, we do not know who Lynchpin is and neither does the CIA or Interpol.”
Nova repeated Joe’s question. “So who are your suspects?”
“We have three. The first is an Italian. He is the one we think most likely to be selling information about weapons of mass destruction. Fabiano Greco. He is a member of La Cosa Nostra. While your branch of the Mafia has been rather thoroughly taken down in the States, they continue to thrive here in their homeland. Greco originally made a fortune as a middleman for any kind of deal—art, coins, antiques. From the beginning of his career, Naples authorities suspected him of dealing in stolen items. He lives in Positano. We suspect he’s selling weapons, major sales, from RPG launchers to land mines to out-of-date jet fighters from the Russians and Brits, some legally, some not.”
Nova interrupted. “Would he sell terrorists a deadly virus? Something that could be used right here and kill him?”
“First, we don’t know it’s the virus. If it’s simply information being sold, this guy Greco would have no problem. He’d sell practically anything for a sufficiently big payoff. But more importantly, it’s very possible that when dealing with a sale of this sort of material, the original source might not let the middleman—in this case, let’s say Greco—know what he’s selling.”
Joe said, “Why is Greco first on the list?”
“Because he is a legitimate arms dealer with the legal permits to sell weapons that can be legally sold. We know he’s dirty, but unfortunately he’s also clever. We have no proof of any of his illegal dealings. Although dealing in WMDs is quite a specialty, he does deal in weapons, so that makes him our strongest suspect. He knows all the major international players—buyers and suppliers. He’d be a likely middleman for a source to contact, whoever the source might be. As you know, Nova’s first job will be to distract him while you, Joe, break into his safe.”
Nova jerked upright, sloshing coffee out of her cup. “What do you mean, distract him?”
Provenza didn’t seem to understand the question.
“My job, as I understand it, is to do translation.”
Provenza continued to stare back, blinking.
“Translation,” she said again. “That’s all. No personal contact of any kind.”
“Well, then, it seems there has been a miscommunication.” Provenza looked at Joe. “Was that your understanding as well? It will be very inconvenient, actually impossible, to find someone else with Ms. Blair’s qualifications in terms of seduction and languages.”
Nova leaned forward, both hands on the table. “Seduction!”
Joe seemed to finally have found his voice. “No one said anything to me about personal contact, let alone seduction.”
The room fell silent.
Dev finally said in a matter-of-fact tone, “Ms. Blair, you need only to distract Greco and the others. Signore Provenza’s use of the word seduction was infelicitous. And I, too, have read your file. Simply distracting this man—apparently, simply distracting any man for a few hours—is well and easily within your capabilities. This is an unfortunate miscommunication, but combined with your facility with languages, it is a critical part of the reason you, specifically, are so important to the success of the mission. And surely seducing a man is not all that important, given the gravity of what we face.”
Well, there. Just fine. The three of them were staring at her, all of them knowing that simply distracting one man a few hours while Joe obtained the goods should be, as they implied, a cakewalk for her.
She sat back in her seat, took a sip of the coffee, set the cup down and laced her fingers together, grasping them tightly. She thought for an eyeblink to insist on replacing Joe, she was so pissed at him for luring her into this. But taking time to set up a new partnership was a waste of time, which was surely why they had picked Joe since they both worked well together, and he was the only operative who could have gotten her to agree to the mission in the first place.
“Okay. Go on, Mr. Provenza. Who are your other suspects? And what—” she sent Joe a look she hoped would skewer him to the back of his chair “—what exactly am I expected to do with respect to each of them?”
“The second suspect is a Russian émigré, Pavel Sorokin. He belongs to the Russian mafia. Along with his brother back in Russia, Sorokin traffics in opium from Afghanistan, among other things. The thought is that the brothers could very well have come into possession of such information about a bioweapon via some rogue Russian scientist. Or they might simply be the middleman, Lynchpin.”
Provenza pointed to the three folders in the table’s center. “You will find photos, backgrounds, in Italian and English, a good introduction to what we have on all three suspects in those files.”
Joe shoved his cup over to Dev. “How about another?” His request sounded more like an angry command. He turned back to Provenza. “And the third suspect?”
Dev looked to her. She shook her head. She was so enraged, so pissed at being sucked in, that the coffee roiled inside her stomach.
“The third is the Chinese actress Ya Lin,” Provenza said as Dev left the room.
“No kidding?” Joe said. “She’s hot.”
“You know about Ya Lin?” Nova was truly surprised. A lot of things about Joe surprised her.
“I like foreign movies.”
Provenza ignored their side chat. “It turns out that Italy’s famous Ya Lin is also believed to be a Chinese spy. And we know that, contrary to her image of great wealth, she’s nearly flat broke. If by chance the seller is someone, a scientist from China, she might have been able to set herself up as the broker for the deal.”
“Why these three?” Nova asked.
Dev returned and gave Joe his fresh coffee.
“Because they live in the Amalfi
area and we have been watching them. We have to start somewhere,” Provenza explained.
Joe said, “Obviously neither SISMI or the CIA knows who Lynchpin is. But why haven’t they gotten his identity from the man who worked for Lynchpin?”
“Gone. Along with his sister. When we went to pick them up for questioning, they had disappeared. A number of agencies, including Interpol, are searching for them as we speak.”
“So the idea,” Nova said, “is for me to distract the suspects while Joe breaks in and gets access to what’s in their safe. And then what?”
“He makes a copy of everything in the safe—papers, disks, anything on a laptop—and brings the copies out. As I say, you translate at once to see if there is any information about the virus. Reston or any other kind. Cesare also sends copies to us and we’ll have translators here also to work on whatever you get. You are on site, however, and the first call goes to you. If you get anything at all about viruses, Cesare is positioned to get a search warrant immediately.
“But let me emphasize—and I can’t overstate this—we have to be very careful here. All three suspects are well-known, influential people. To accuse them wrongly without proof is not an option. We have to know with absolute certainty what is in the safe before we even say the word warrant, let alone arrest them. Understood?”
She nodded.
Provenza turned his attention to Joe. “And there’s something else. We don’t want any of them to know they’re under suspicion, that we’ve been watching them. They must remain ignorant of our attention to them. So you are to be especially careful to leave no evidence of the break-in behind.”
“Understood,” Joe said.
Dev said, “You’ll need a cover. We’ve been working on that.”
Nova shook her head. “We have a cover. It’s perfect. We’ve used it before and practiced it before. I’m a photographer. We’ll be doing a series on beautiful beaches of the world. Or better yet, astonishingly beautiful beach drives. Or maybe Mediterranean architecture. Whatever we settle on, Joe is my assistant.”
She grinned wickedly at Joe. A little payback for his misleading her. When they had worked in Germany, it had been obvious that he had chafed at being a woman’s assistant. Now he would be her assistant, to be bossed around publicly, again.
Provenza grinned. “Yes. Your experience together. Another reason the Company thought it good for us to bring Mr. Cardone on board.”
Her stomach had settled enough that what she really needed now was a double espresso. “What if none of these suspects are your seller? And what if we find other incriminating materials in the safe?”
“If you find other evidence linking them to other crimes, we’ll pursue it through ordinary channels. And if none of them is the Ebola seller—” Provenza paused and downed the last of his coffee “—I am developing other leads. But if that is the case, well then, unless some other lead turns up, we are in deep shit.”
Chapter 11
Striding down the dim passenger ramp from his Egypt-Air plane, Ali eagerly scanned the well-lit exit door only steps ahead of him, buoyed by spirits as high as they had been when he’d taken off yesterday from Jordan. The flight to Cairo, and now the flight to Rome, had treated him to one exciting moment after another. He felt not the least bit weary.
How could he be weary? He was special. His brothers had not only given him the first two plane rides of his life, he’d been given business-class tickets. Never had he tasted more delicious foods, not even for holidays. The serving woman had, of course, offered him alcohol, which he had declined, although he’d been tempted to sip just once since he would never again have the chance to experience this famous evil of the West.
And the view from both planes so captured his attention that, really, it was only the food that tempted him to look away from the bedazzling white clouds, the unfolding brown earth, and the royal blue Mediterranean Sea. He had strained to drink in those beautiful, astonishing sights as they were, for him, more precious now than even water and food. They were last memories.
Ali stepped into the full light of day of the reception room. He shifted his single boxy old suitcase into his left hand. An older man, perhaps his uncle’s age of thirty-eight, stepped toward him, stopped, and stuck out his hand Western-style, something he probably did to make him blend into this foreign place. Ali responded in kind.
“I am Ahmad al Hasan,” the older man said in Arabic. His suit and shoes were also Western but he still wore a beard, although closely cut. And who knew if this was his real name. Ali could tell from his accent that he was Syrian, and Ali had been told that al Hasan was also the head of Al Qaeda in Italy. That such an important and heroic figure would pick him up at the airport reflected yet another measure of Ali’s importance.
Ali’s face warmed with pride as the man let go of his hand.
“I trust your flight was enjoyable,” Ahmad al Hasan said. “Come. I have a car waiting.”
They walked side by side through the terminal, past stores selling perfumes and books, then a coffee vendor, then down the extraordinary moving metal stairs, past still more crowds and finally outside. They walked on sidewalks heated by the midday sun to a big parking lot and eventually stopped at a plain white Audi, at least ten years old.
Ahmad al Hasan opened the door to the backseat and sat Ali’s suitcase onto faded brown cloth. He indicated that Ali should take the passenger side.
When they had navigated out of the airport and were on the highway, the Al Qaeda man said, “I live in Amalfi. An apartment there will be our base. Tomorrow, a brother will pick up another when he arrives from Lebanon. The remaining three will arrive soon. We will be all together and prepared by the appointed day.”
He scanned Ali, head to toe. “We must change your appearance as soon as possible. You must not stick out in any way. Tomorrow morning, in Amalfi, we will buy good quality Italian slacks, and shirts. A pair of good walking shoes. But most important, we will go right now to a barber and have that sprouting young beard of yours removed.”
“I’m ready to do whatever Allah asks.”
Al Hasan looked at him again and smiled. “I know. I admire and envy you.”
After their briefing with Provenza, Cesare dropped them off at the hotel. Joe asked Nova to join him for dinner. She was inclined to say no and sulk in her room or defiantly go off on her own, but they had to work together. Refusing to eat with him simply wasn’t reasonable.
Nor could she face a dinner with Joe wearing the same clothing she’d worn for what seemed like days, and the only other pants she had with her were shorts for a jungle trek. They agreed to meet in the lobby at eight, and she went in search of the hotel’s dress boutique.
When she met Joe in the lobby at eight, he looked her over carefully. She’d purchased an emerald green pair of linen slacks and a matching sleeveless top, cut off short at the waist and trimmed on the low-cut neckline and hem with black silk cord.
“Nice earrings,” he said. She’d purposely set aside the silver-and-emerald earrings he’d given her, wearing instead glazed emerald green wooden hoops. He didn’t say anything else. Neither did she, but she was certain that he was wondering whether she still had his earrings and if she ever wore them.
Few cities matched Rome, in Nova’s view, for having so many fabulous restaurants per square block. They walked six doors down from the hotel to La Frescata, a restaurant she knew from her last trip here eight years earlier. Judging from the fact that all the tables were filled and that she and Joe had to wait for twenty-five minutes at the small bar, she decided La Frescata must be doing a good business.
While they nibbled on antipasto, prosciutto and marinated mushrooms, she listened to him talk about flying jets. She watched his lips and then studied his eyes, considered the strength in his hands. When she imagined what it might be like to have Joe touch her skin or hair or lips with a lover’s touch, she shivered and felt foolish.
The spell was broken when their entrées came; their tal
k switched to climbing gear and what they might expect on their flight tomorrow to Sorrento. The food presented a different pleasure, but it didn’t match the delight she’d had feasting on Joe—the rat who had played his part in tricking her into this mission.
When they stepped out onto the street, reality hit full blast. People strolled by her on this pleasant Roman evening unaware that it was very possible that unless she and Joe were successful, within a few weeks the how-to recipe for a deadly virus would reach the hands of terrorists willing to kill everyone breathing in this beautiful balmy air.
Chapter 12
The four-seater helicopter dipped abruptly right, toward Naples. Nova’s stomach lurched.
In her headphones, she heard Cesare blurt excitedly to the pilot, “I do not like flying. Please, please make your turns more slowly.” Cesare sat up front in their bubble-like cockpit with Principessa in his lap. She and Joe occupied the two rear seats.
An extraordinarily clear, stunning vista surrounded them, especially now on their approach to the green-and-blue Bay of Naples. Were she not still in a foul mood, she would probably be brimming with delight. Contact with deadly lowlifes was exactly what she no longer wanted.
Joe touched her hand to get her attention. He grinned. “Look at this view! Terrific. Didn’t I say this would be like a vacation?”
She gave him an icy stare.
He tilted his head and shrugged. “Nova, I swear I didn’t know.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, and returned her attention to the view.
The enormous bay made an almost perfect gentle concave sweeping arc. Dead ahead, Vesuvius poked its smooth crown into a turquoise sky full of scattered, puffy white clouds. Vesuvius’s last significant eruption had been in 1944 when ashfall displaced thousands. Much of the village of Ottaviano had disappeared under lava. Earthquakes plagued the whole region around Naples. But of course what gave the volcano its fame far and wide was its eruption in 79 A.D. which had destroyed Pompeii and Herculaneum.
