by Larry Bond
“Ferguson, are you pulling my leg?”
“I’m fine, Counselor. What’s on your mind?”
“I want to know what’s going on. Is the Russian agent T Rex?”
“What Russian agent?”
“Corrigan said you guys are looking pretty hard at a Russian FSB colonel as T Rex.”
“Corrigan wouldn’t know a Russian FSB colonel from his mother-in-law,” said Ferguson. Stinking Corrigan had a big mouth. “I saw a Russian op on the street just before the explosion. It doesn’t mean she’s T Rex.”
“Where is she now?”
“We’re working on it. The Italians are helping. Or we’re helping the Italians, depending on your point of view.”
“Do you think the Russian FSB wants to kill Rostislawitch?”
It was a possibility, but Ferguson didn’t think it was likely—they would have had a much easier time bumping Rostislawitch off in Russia. If Kiska was T Rex, this was a freelance assignment on the side.
In that case, the last place she’d want to clip him would be in Russia; there’d be too much potential to link it to her.
“I really don’t have enough information to get into theories right now,” Ferguson told Corrine.
“You thought the Iranians wanted to kill him. Could that theory still hold? Does this mean he’s given them something, or won’t cooperate with them? What does it mean?”
A cab pulled up front of the hotel. A woman got out, a blonde.
Kiska Babev.
“Ferg?”
“The answer is ‘D: all of the above,’ ” said Ferguson. “I’m going to have to get back to you.”
8
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Corrine hung up the phone. She was used to Ferguson’s quick hang-ups by now and knew it was usually because he was working. Still, it was clear he was holding something back.
Of course he was. Ferguson never told the whole story about anything.
Her intercom buzzed. “The chief of staff just called. The President wants to move the two o’clock up to twelve fifteen and make it a working lunch,” said her secretary, Teri Gatins. “I ordered you a Caesar salad. OK?”
Corrine glanced at her watch. “It’s twelve thirty.”
“He said he was running fifteen minutes late.”
That was so Jonathon McCarthy, thought Corrine, getting up.
Secretary of State Jackson Steele ran his fingers through his curly white hair, pushing it back on his scalp. It was thick and so bright that it reminded people of the cotton his ancestors had once picked, and Steele sometimes wondered if the Lord had given it to him as a warning not to forget his humble beginnings.
“All I’m asking for is a week. Less. We’re almost there. The Iranian ayatollahs have already signed off on the agreement. Give me a week and we’ll have a full commitment. The bombs will be eliminated and inspections will begin.”
“What sense does it make to let them have a biological weapon?” asked Defense Secretary Larry Stich. “It’s potentially as devastating as a nuclear bomb. More so.”
“I didn’t say we should let them have it. I’m saying we should put off any overt action until the treaty is signed,” said Steele.
“The Revolutionary Guard is threatening a coup if the treaty is signed,” said Stich.
“That’s not going to happen. They don’t have the power. There’s a reason their leader is only education minister. If he was truly powerful, he would be the Prime Minister, or at least defense.”
Stich found the comment ironic—he didn’t feel particularly powerful at the moment, given that he clearly was failing to carry the argument.
“If we move too forcefully, there’s always the potential that word will get out,” said Steele. “That could change the balance in Iran. We have to keep things calm until the treaty is signed. Observe, yes. Act, no.”
“If the treaty is signed,” said Stich. “In the meantime, they may get away.”
“Ignoring a germ warfare program just to get this treaty signed seems like a very poor idea to me,” McCarthy said. “A very poor idea.”
There was a knock on the door.
“That will be either our food or Miss Alston,” said McCarthy, rising. “I doubt it will be Tom Parnelles. He is worse about schedules than I am.”
It proved to be both their food and Corrine Alston, who apologized for being late.
“Oh, you are not late, Miss Alston,” said McCarthy, settling back into his chair as a steward set down a tray for him. “We were taking advantage of a hole in the Secretary of State’s schedule to digest the situation vis-à-vis Iran.”
“There’s a joke in there somewhere, I’m sure,” said Steele. “Probably at my expense.”
“Well, I was about to call you a holy man,” said McCarthy, winking at Corrine. His mirth was short-lived. “Am I to understand that you have an update from Italy?” he asked Corrine.
“Yes, sir, I do.” Corrine explained quickly what she had been told, adding that their “people”—she never named the members of the First Team, of course—believed a Russian FSB agent might have been involved.
“The Russians are working with Iran?” said Steele.
“No. The thinking is that T Rex is freelancing. They’re still trying to work out what’s going on.”
That point was reinforced by the CIA Director, who made his appearance a few minutes later. Thomas Parnelles told the others what Slott had learned from MI6—that the Iranian operative, Anghuyu “Atha” Jahan, was a supposed Iranian businessman who had arranged relatively minor deals in the past. One or two had been related to the nuclear program, though most involved getting around the economic boycott instituted because of the program. The Iranian seemed to be fairly close to the government’s education minister, Parsa Moshen—who was also the head of the Revolutionary Guard.
“Moshen opposes the nuclear treaty,” said Steele. “But his star is on the downside.”
“Maybe not if he can start up a biological warfare program,” said Parnelles. “This would give him a chip to come back with.”
“So they buy a scientist?” asked Steele.
“More likely they’re buying information from him,” said Parnelles. “Techniques, DNA sequences. Otherwise, they would have no need to kill him. We think we know who the killer is—a Russian FSB agent, probably freelancing for Iran. She may not even know who she’s working for. In any event, if they’ve authorized the murder, then the scientist has already given them what they want.”
“Excuse me, Tom,” said Corrine, “but our people—your people—aren’t convinced that the Russian is T Rex. They’re still looking for more data.”
Parnelles, annoyed by the “our people—your people” faux pas, snapped back.
“Nonsense. The Russian is the killer. And we have to take her into custody.”
“Why don’t we just let the Italians handle that?” said Steele. “Have them apprehend her for this bombing, get her out of the way. You go on and follow these people, apprehend them after the treaty is signed.”
“They’ll be back in Iran by then.” Airnelles had little confidence in the Italians. He was also annoyed with Corrine, for undercutting him.
And with Ferguson, since clearly that’s where her information came from. Parnelles had reviewed the report from the desk man, Corrigan, himself; it looked pretty obvious.
“Given what we have discovered here,” said McCarthy, “this assassin is a side issue. We can let the Italians deal with her for the time being.”
“It’s not a side issue.” Parnelles struggled to keep his voice civil. “Jonathon, it’s not a side issue. This agent—this woman—killed one of our best people. One of my people. We need to bring her to judgment. Killing a federal officer is a capital crime.”
“I’ll have no trouble pulling the switch on her personally,” said McCarthy. “But I do not believe she is our first priority. Now that we know that there is a program to develop biological agents—germ warfare if you will—that is
where our assets should be directed. We need more information about it. The First Team is in position to gather it. That is what they should be doing.”
“They can do both,” said Parnelles.
McCarthy looked over to Corrine.
“I agree,” she said.
“But we shouldn’t do anything that will disrupt the treaty,” said Steele.
“Let’s send the horse across that bridge when we come to it,” said McCarthy. “Now everyone eat up, because I’m going to have to kick y’all out in a few minutes so I can meet with the head of the National Restaurant Association. I wouldn’t want him thinking we’re not doing our share to support our nation’s restaurants.”
9
BOLOGNA, ITALY
Ferguson ran down the stairs from the second-floor room, slowing to a brisk stroll as he reached the lobby. Kiska Babev was standing in the middle of the reception area, glancing around at the bright yellow sofas and blue sideless chairs as if she were looking for someone.
He did an exaggerated double take when she turned her head toward him.
“Of all the people in all the gin joints in all the world,” Ferguson said, riffing on Bogart. “Kiska Babev.”
“Robert Ferguson.” It had been quite some time since Kiska had seen Ferguson, but she remembered him well. “How are you, Bob?”
“Good as ever. You?”
“Very good.”
“They let you out of Moscow?”
“Once or twice a year,” she told him.
“And you’re in Bologna. Italy. Of all places.” Ferguson twisted around examining his surroundings, as if he’d been dropped here. “What brings you to Bologna?”
“It’s a lovely city.”
“So is Moscow.”
“I needed a little break.”
“You needed a break? Work got to you?”
“You’re the one who lives a dangerous life, Bobby,” said Kiska. “What brings you to Bologna?”
“Renaissance art. I’ve always been fascinated by it.”
Kiska smiled. She suspected that Ferguson was here for the same reason she was here—Artur Rostislawitch. But there was no sense asking; Ferguson was a consummate liar, better than she was.
A very attractive one, handsome and intriguing in his own way, but still a liar.
“Want to get a drink?” Ferguson asked. “Or are you busy?”
“I’m never too busy for an attractive younger man.” Kiska rose. Best to find out what he was up to now. “Where would you like to go?”
“There’s a bar through that hallway over there.”
“I think perhaps another place. Quieter. Where we can find a corner alone.”
“Even better.”
Rankin wondered what the hell Ferguson was doing as he watched him walk out the front door with the blonde. She didn’t seem his type—sophisticated rather than trashy, in her thirties, with a scar on her right cheek. It wasn’t until they were out the door that Rankin realized she might be the Russian assassin, T Rex, the woman who had dialed in the explosion.
Was Ferguson out of his mind?
Rankin went upstairs to the room they were using to watch Rostislawitch, got out the laptop, and after punching in the security codes and sliding his thumb over the reader brought up the file.
It was Kiska Babev.
Christ.
Prosecco, per piacere,” Kiska said to the waiter, ordering a bottle of the bubbly Italian wine.
“Italian. I’m impressed,” said Ferguson.
“Don’t be,” said Kiska. “That’s about all I know.”
“Your English is even better than the last time we met.”
“And your Russian?”
Ferguson told her in Russian that he would like to thank her by sleeping with her, the sooner the better.
“You are just as fresh as you always were, Bobby,” she said. “But you must work on your accent.”
“Now?”
“Later. I get so little chance to practice English these days.”
The waiter brought the wine, opening it with a flourish, popping off the cap with a bottle opener.
“Cheers,” said Kiska, holding up the glass.
“La’chaim!” said Ferguson, holding his up as well.
“Speaking Yiddish now?”
“Is that Yiddish or Hebrew?”
“Yiddish.”
“You’ve been to Israel lately.”
Puzzled, Kiska took a sip of her wine. “Why do you think that?”
“I thought maybe you were doing some side work with the Israelis,” said Ferguson. The theory had just occurred to him—the Israelis, seeking to keep Rostislawitch from helping the Iranians, hired T Rex to kill him. It made sense, though he thought from her reaction he was wrong.
Unless, of course, she wasn’t T Rex.
“The Israelis—I would think they would be very picky about whom they worked with,” said Kiska. “But you would know better than I.”
“Mossad can be very professional. You might not even know you were working with them.”
“But you, Bobby, you would know. You would know everything.”
“I didn’t know the man with the gun was at the end of the alley.”
“I was happy to help.” Kiska thought about that day as she sipped her wine. She could easily have let Ferguson go, let him get killed—it would not have hurt her in the least. On the contrary: as things turned out later, it would have been better.
But she had warned him, and instead of the mafiya thugs killing him, he killed them. They were slime and deserved to die, but that hadn’t entered into her calculations, either.
No, it was as her section head had said later, accused her later: You were in love with the American. Not a lot, but a little. Just enough.
Just enough. Yes. And not love but infatuation. Mild. A kind of lust. Very different. And temporary, fortunately.
“So what were you doing on Via Bola,” said Ferguson.
“Via Bola?”
“When the truck exploded. You were nearby.”
“Was I?” Kiska put down her wine. “And how would you know that?”
“I saw you,” said Ferguson.
“You were there?”
“More or less.”
“I guess you could say the same for me.”
“You should talk to the Italians about it.”
“Why would I talk to the Italians, Bobby?”
“Maybe you saw something.”
“Are you working with them?”
“We have some common interests.”
“And would those include Artur Rostislawitch?”
“They’re not interested in Rostislawitch. Why are you interested in him?”
She’d thrown the name out, trying to see what his reaction would be. She expected a diversion—but that was what an ordinary operative would try. Ferguson had always been much more subtle, accomplished beyond his age.
It was a great shame that he worked for the U.S. He would have made an excellent protégé. And lover. For a bit.
“We have an interest in all good Russian citizens,” said Kiska, sipping the wine.
“That would leave him out, wouldn’t it? Wasn’t he involved in some political scandal?”
“Ah, he was a pawn. An unfortunate in the wrong place at the wrong time. This happens.” Kiska drained her glass. “I’m on my way to talk to Dr. Rostislawitch right now. Would you like to come?”
It was a move right out of Ferguson’s own playbook—push the confrontation as far as possible; make the other side withdraw.
“You’ve gotten better,” Ferguson told her.
“Thank you.” Kiska rose. “Coming?”
“Unfortunately, I have some other business to attend to. Maybe we can trade notes later.”
“Gladly.” She reached into her pocket and took out a business card, pushing it on the table. “Call my mobile. Or send an IM.”
“Only for business?”
Kiska smiled, but said nothing e
lse as she turned and left.
See if you can get a bug into his room.”
“Ferg?” said Rankin.
“No, it’s Santa Claus.”
“I thought it was too risky to go into his room.”
“Do it. Kiska Babev is on her way back over to the hotel. I want to hear what she says to him.”
“You don’t think she’s on her way to kill him?”
“If she is, we’ll have the whole thing on tape, right? Get a bug in there.”
“Ferg, Thera’s with him in the restaurant.”
“Yeah, I know. Go bug the room.”
“But—”
“Skippy. Just do what the hell I tell you, all right? I don’t have time to bullshit.”
The line went dead. Rankin snapped the phone off. One of these days he was going to slam Ferguson’s head into a wall.
10
BOLOGNA, ITALV
Somehow, he started talking about Olga. Rostislawitch couldn’t help himself. The words just began pouring out, unbidden. Several times he asked the girl if he was boring her; she insisted he wasn’t.
He thought she was fibbing, but he was grateful for it.
In truth, Thera wasn’t lying at all. The scientist was genuinely fond of his wife. It fascinated Thera, his devotion, his love. How could someone who felt so deeply about another person develop a weapon that would kill thousands and thousands of people?
Thera could ask a similar question of herself. She was prepared to kill people if necessary. There was a disconnect between the job and who she was, a deep line that let her function and remain human at the same time.
Was it that way for him? Or did he simply not think about the implications of his work?
Thera couldn’t ask those questions, of course. She tried to think of possible surrogates, considered steering the conversation to a topic like Bosnia or Chechnya, but there was no substitute that would really satisfy her curiosity. So mostly she just listened.
At seven, the dining room opened and they went in and sat down. Rostislawitch continued to talk, laying out much of his history as a young scientist. They both ordered spaghetti and sole in a vermouth sauce.
