by Larry Bond
“What have you done with Rostislawitch?” Ferguson demanded.
“Signor Rostislawitch lacks proper documentation. He is being questioned,” said Imperiati blandly.
“Come on, Imperiati. We were working together.”
“Partners, eh? And what do you call a partner who does not fully—come si dice?—disclose what he knows?”
“What didn’t I tell you?”
“Signore Rostislawitch had laboratories in Chechnya. Is he a war criminal?”
“Not that I know of. No.”
Imperiati turned the corner of his mouth upward in a wry smile. “Is he the target, or is he in a better position to be the murderer, signore?”
“He’s the target,” said Ferguson. “Maybe.”
“And why would someone want to kill him?”
“I haven’t figured it out yet.”
“You have a theory, no?”
“No.”
Imperiati shook his head.
“Listen, you told me yourself that you have two other likely targets,” said Ferguson. “Why arrest him?”
“He has not been arrested. We are very careful about our legal procedures here in Italy, signore. It is within the police’s rights to ask for identification. If a foreign citizen does not have a passport, he can be detained.”
“When was the last time that happened? Nineteen thirty-nine?”
A uniformed police officer standing near the doorway signaled to Imperiati, who beckoned him over. Ferguson pulled out a chair and stared at the nearby surveillance screen.
Had T Rex been nearby when the police stopped Rostislawitch? Ferguson wondered. They hadn’t seen anyone on the street, but maybe he was in one of the buildings. Maybe the police arresting—or whatever Imperiati wanted to call it—Rostislawitch was a good idea. Maybe T Rex would be waiting outside, or feel anxious about getting the job over with. Maybe it would flush him out.
Lemonade out of lemons. More likely Rostislawitch would be killed right under the Italians’ noses.
“Do you know a Nathaniel Hamilton?” Imperiati asked Ferguson when he returned.
“Sure. MI6. British agent.”
“Why would he want to talk to me? Is he working with you?”
“Not with me. He has some interest in Rostislawitch as well.”
“Why?”
“He wouldn’t tell me,” said Ferguson, rising. “I don’t think he likes me.”
Imperiati told the policeman to show Hamilton to his office.
“Where are you going?” Imperial! asked Ferguson as he started to follow him down the hall.
“I thought maybe you could use a translator.”
“My English isn’t good?”
“It’s fine. Hamilton’s is pretty sub par.”
Imperiati frowned.
“I should have known you’d be here, torquing things up,” said Hamilton, spotting Ferguson as he came up the stairs.
“Come on, Hamilton. That’s your job.”
“This way, Signor Hamilton,” said Imperiati.
“I’m going to go grab a coffee,” Ferguson told Imperiati. “Want anything? Coffee, maybe a little cannoli?”
“No grazie.”
“Your loss.”
19
BOLOGNA, ITALY
Under other circumstances, Rostislawitch might have demanded to call the Russian consulate. Having just left the Iranian, however, he thought it best to keep his mouth shut until he could figure out what exactly was going on.
The police had taken him to a small police station on the outskirts of the city, shown him to a room, and asked him to fill out an identity paper. As soon as he sat down at the desk and picked up the pencil, they left, and hadn’t been back since.
He wondered if the Iranian had arranged this to intimidate him. It seemed unlikely; they already had an agreement.
Maybe it was nothing. Rostislawitch wanted it to be nothing—a desire he couldn’t trust.
There were other Russians at the conference. He knew two of the scientists vaguely; the others he didn’t recognize. Perhaps one was an intelligence agent, and had somehow learned what he was up to.
That was impossible. No, not impossible, but improbable.
Besides, the Russian intelligence agencies would not have the Italians arrest him.
The paper filled out, he got up and paced the room. If he got out of here, he would go back to his hotel, lock the door, and not leave until it was time for his train home.
He’d like to see the girl, Thera, with her curly black hair and darting green eyes. She might think of him as her father or a kindly uncle, but he’d like to see her anyway.
If he got out of here.
20
BOLOGNA, ITALY
“We’ve been looking at the photos you uploaded, Ferg,” Corrigan told Ferguson as he sat in a café across the street from the police station. “He’s not on any hot list we have.”
“The name doesn’t mean anything?”
“Supposedly a banker. Did some deals for Iran but nothing major that we know of. Nothing from MI6, but you know how that goes. I have Ciello working on it.”
“Get back to me.”
“Well yeah, but—”
Ferguson killed the connection and looked at his watch. It was now two in the afternoon—which made it 8 a.m. back in the States. He got up, went to the phone booth in the back, and after dumping in a few euros punched in the 800 number of his phone card, then Corrine Alston’s cell.
“This is Corrine.”
“This is Ferg.”
“Bob—”
“Call my sat phone from a secure line.”
“Bob—”
Someone had sat at the table near where Ferguson was, so he went outside and strolled down the street. A pair of police officers—plainclothes, but obvious—strolled by, and Ferguson started to wonder if maybe Imperial! had sent someone to watch him and listen in. Ordinarily he wasn’t too paranoid about having a conversation in a public place—he knew from experience that it was easy to leave out enough details to keep most eavesdroppers confused. But now he went over to an idling tour bus and stood by it, waiting for Corrine to find his number and call back.
“I was beginning to think you forgot me,” he told her when she finally did, about five minutes later.
“I do have other things to do.”
“Drop them.”
“I can’t drop the President, Ferg.”
“Too heavy, huh?”
“What’s up?”
“The British have been watching an Iranian named Anghuyu Jahan. His nickname is Atha. He’s bought things for the Iranians before. You’re going to have to press Corrigan to find out exactly what. He had a meeting with our guy at lunch today. Could be he’s looking for information about weaponized bacteria.”
“Can you speak up? I’m having trouble hearing you. It sounds like you’re next to a bus.”
Ferguson laid out the situation for her, explaining that if the Russian was trying to set up some sort of deal with the Iranian, that might be a reason for him to be assassinated.
“What we need is information from MI6 on what the scoop is with the Iranian, why they’re following him for starters.”
“Is that related to T Rex?”
“No, but it’s a heck of a lot more interesting,” Ferguson told her. “I’ll keep looking for T Rex. See what you can do about this.”
“What about Rostislawitch?”
“Oh yeah, that reminds me. The Italians just picked Rostislawitch up on suspicion of failing to like red wine.”
“They put him jail? I can’t hear you.”
“They’re holding him.”
“Do you want me to try and get him out?”
“No, it’s not a big deal. I think the British are trying, because they think Atha’s going to meet with him again and they want to be there. The British MI6 agent who’s working the case is rather dull.”
“Does MI6 know about T Rex?”
“Not from me
, but the Italians may tell them. Then again, maybe not. Imperiati isn’t dumb. Maybe he won’t like Hamilton, either.”
21
BOLOGNA, ITALY
“If you hold him, they won’t be able to meet. There won’t be a transaction. Months of work will be lost.” Hamilton pitched forward on the small metal chair, trying to drive his point home to the Italian. It was more like several days—the tip that Atha was traveling to Europe had been passed last week—but months sounded considerably more impressive.
“I don’t want a catastrophe in Bologna,” said Imperiati.
“This isn’t about Bologna. It has nothing to do with Bologna. They came here because the conference gave Rostislawitch a pretext. It has nothing to do with him.”
“The Americans had information that there will be a terrorist attack.”
Hamilton snorted.
“They believe an assassin has been hired to kill someone here and in the process he will kill very many other people.”
“The Americans don’t know their arm from a tree trunk.”
“Scusi?”
“The American CIA is not what it once was,” said Harrison. “We’ll leave it at that. Ferguson? You’re best off ignoring anything he tells you.”
“He seems competent enough.”
“I could tell you stories, believe me.”
One thing about Ferguson did impress Hamilton—he had an uncanny knack of getting people to think he was God, or at least his stand-in. Persuading the Italian might not take much, but Hamilton had seen him turn several accomplished Algerian double agents into putty. Women he might understand—the rogue was good-looking, after all. But men? He was nothing but a smart aleck.
“The decision on what to do with Signor Rostislawitch must be made by someone above me in rank,” said Imperiati. “It is not my decision.”
“Well, who is that then? How can I talk to him?”
“She—Gina Assisi. You would speak to her in Roma.”
“Great,” said Hamilton. He rose. “In the meantime, take my advice and ignore half of what Ferguson tells you.”
“Only half?”
“The other half will be the opposite of truth. So if you switch it around, you’ll be all right.”
Imperiati found Ferguson in the squad room after he finished with Hamilton. The America CIA officer was examining some of the surveillance feeds.
“Anything interesting?” asked Imperiati.
“Everything’s interesting,” Ferguson told him. “It’s just a question to what degree.”
“And so is anything here interesting to the proper degree?”
“No. If T Rex has been watching Rostislawitch he’s been very careful about doing so.”
“Why do you call the assassin T Rex?”
“It was a code name he used on one of his cases.”
“The one where he killed a CIA officer?”
“Yes, actually.”
“My superiors spoke to your superiors. They wanted to impress on us the importance of capturing this man.”
“Did they?”
Imperiati shrugged. “Everyone has matters of importance. Perhaps you would like lunch?”
“Why not?” said Ferguson.
The small trattoria two blocks away had been recommended by one of the local police detectives, partly for its discretion and partly for its minestrone. Imperiati savored both, getting a back booth and sorting through the soup as if he were looking for gems in a pan of stream sand. He poked the vegetables and beans and macaroni with his spoon, herding them to the center of the bowl, then scooped and slurped.
Ferguson stuck with the veal piccata. He liked his food both solid and stationary when he ate it.
“Signor Hamilton doesn’t like you much,” said Imperiati.
“Not much. But then I don’t like him. He screwed up something I was working on in Algeria two years ago. Almost got me killed.”
“And what was that?”
“You’ve worked on things you can’t talk about, I’m sure.”
“I’m sorry. My career has been very boring,” added Imperiati. “I’ve never had action outside of the country.”
Imperiati paused; action was not quite the correct word, but apparently it had served.
“So yes, very boring,” he said, continuing. “But I like it that way. I can go home to my wife, my children. A boring father. But a successful one.” Imperiati snared a piece of celery in the soup. “Now, the Americans and the British come to Italy, come to my city, and for them, boring is no good. They want adventure.”
“Not me,” said Ferguson. “I want T Rex.”
“But to get him, you are willing to have some adventure, yes?”
“I’ll take whatever comes.”
“While I would prefer things to be boring.”
They ate in silence for a while. Both men realized they had different agendas, and both had been told to pursue them at all costs.
“Did Hamilton tell you why he’s here?” Ferguson asked.
“He is trying to stop a business transaction.”
“I doubt that. More than likely he’s not sure what’s going on. Except for the obvious.”
“The obvious?” asked Imperiati.
“Germ warfare expert talks to a country looking to replace nukes on its weapons of mass destruction menu. Pretty simple.”
“Too simple maybe.”
“Maybe,” agreed Ferguson.
“And so your man is trying to kill him?”
“Maybe. If he’s working for the Iranians.”
“Do you see my difficulty?”
Before Ferguson could answer, Imperiati’s cell phone rang.
“Scusi,” he said. He took out the phone and walked a short distance away.
Ferguson guessed who it was and what they said from the frown on Imperiati’s face.
“Signor Rostislawitch will be released.” Imperiati told him when he came back to the table.
“Are you going to warn him?” Ferguson asked.
“I am not sure what use a warning would be,” said the Italian. “We are to watch him. We may make a decision to arrest him if necessary. He will only leave the country if we wish it.”
“And if MI6 wants it.”
“Why do you think the British put pressure on us?”
“Because I know we didn’t.”
“A decision to arrest him would be made by my superiors,” said Imperiati. “If it were my decision, he would be deported now.”
“A boring solution,” said Ferguson. He got up. “Time to get back to work, I’m afraid. Good luck with the soup.”
22
CIA HEADQUARTERS,
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Daniel Slott got up from his desk and began pacing around his office, holding the phone up to his ear and trying not to knock anything over with the long cord.
Corrine Alston was on the other end of the line, calling about the British and wondering why they hadn’t told the CIA what they were up to.
While he would hesitate to call himself fond of Corrine Alston, Slott had come to respect her over the past year or so that they’d worked together. She labored under two great handicaps—her age and her good looks, both of which made people think she was an intellectual lightweight. But she handled things with tact and even finesse, managing not only to do her job as the President’s “conscience” on Special Demands but in several instances actually helping the group accomplish its goals.
Still, though, she was an outsider, and even though she’d worked for the congressional intelligence committees, Corrine needed to be educated in some of the most basic intelligence “facts.”
Including the one stating that one’s allies were never to be trusted.
“We do work with MI6, and MI5, very closely,” Slott told her. “We are allies. But believe me—believe me—they don’t tell us everything they’re doing. Just as we don’t trust them. I mean tell them.”
It was a Freudian slip, but it was definitely the trut
h. There was a great deal of rivalry between the U.S. and British intelligence services. Even on matters that they worked closely on—in Iraq and Afghanistan, for example—there were rivalries and jealousies and what the State Department people called “lack of candor.” On both sides.
“What are they doing with the Iranian then?” Corrine asked.
“I have a call in—”
“What’s your best guess?”
“I really don’t like to guess.”
“Make an exception.”
Slott glanced down at the one-page Agency dossier on Anghuyu “Atha” Jahan. It claimed that he was a legitimate banker, and that while he had worked for the Iranian Interior Ministry some years before, he no longer had any formal connection with Iran’s foreign service or any part of its government. This was supposedly because of conflicts with high-ranking members of the Revolutionary Guard, which controlled much of Iran’s foreign services and spy network. Lately he had traveled to Africa, though the paper did not say why.
Obviously the dossier was not complete.
“If Ferguson thinks the Iranians are trying to get some sort of access to the Russian biological warfare program, he may be right,” said Slott. “Rostislawitch would be a good point of contact. Maybe this is a preliminary recruitment. The British may know more.”
“Will they tell us?”
“Maybe. I can’t guarantee anything, Corrine. We don’t control them. I have a few things going on with them now, including the guerillas in Indonesia, but I have to tell you, they can be damn tight about saying anything. They get—if things were reversed, I wouldn’t be telling them anything about T Rex. Or as little as necessary. It was the same thing with the Italians. Really, we only went to them because you insisted.”
“If the British aren’t going to cooperate, maybe the President should talk to the Prime Minister.”
“I didn’t say they weren’t going to cooperate.” Slott put his finger into the phone cord, twisting it around. “I just said they haven’t gotten back to me yet. Maybe they’re checking with their people in the field.”
