by Larry Bond
“That’s quite all right,” said Hamilton.
“Afraid you’ll get cooties?” Ferguson let the small earphone dangle while he sipped his wine. “So tell me about our friend Atha. How long have you been following him?”
“I really did tell you everything earlier, I’m afraid. I wish I could get a bloody drink.”
Ferguson raised his right hand, pointing toward the ceiling. Within moments, the waiter appeared.
“A cognac for my friend. Something nice,” Ferguson said in Italian.
“Hmmmph,” said Hamilton.
“Refresh my memory. How long have you been watching Atha?”
“I suppose for many months. Not myself. I have better things to do with my time.”
“Because you’re an important man,” said Ferguson.
“I have other ways of wasting my time.”
“You just got on the case?”
“That’s right. I was working in Africa and then this came along.”
Hamilton told Ferguson about Anghuyu “Atha” Jahan’s background, giving a more detailed version than he had earlier. Atha had been born in 1969 to a family that had once been fairly prominent in Iranian politics, but had fallen out of favor with the shah and in effect been banished to the city of Mashhad in the far eastern portion of the country. The problems with the shah helped the family when he was overthrown; though they were hardly part of an inner circle, they were well-off enough to send Atha to school in Great Britain. He studied engineering and finance; in the nineties he had helped arrange loans for the construction of docks and oil pipelines. The British believed that he had profited greatly from the loans; in any event, by 2004 he was traveling through Europe, where his main task was arranging for the purchase and shipment of prescription drugs through gray-market channels. He bought some equipment for the nuclear program as well, though nothing major; Hamilton had been told he was a “pinch hitter,” filling in for more prominent deal makers. But he was also close to the Revolutionary Guard and the Iranian education minister.
“Unclear whether he was working for the government or as a freelancer,” said Hamilton. “Immaterial really. And then he had a falling-out with someone, and returned home for two years.”
“And suddenly he’s back.” Ferguson turned his gaze toward Atha’s table; the two girls were playing with Atha’s hair.
“And my assignment was to find out why. The Russian is obviously the answer.”
“When did he first make contact with him?”
Hamilton’s cognac finally arrived. He swirled it in his glass, then took the slightest of sips.
“My superiors do not tell me everything. I am not sure. I was only given the assignment recently.”
“When you were in Africa.”
“That’s right.”
“You heard about him there?”
“Wouldn’t have known him from the odd lion, I’m afraid.”
“What else are you supposed to do?”
“At this point, simply gather whatever else I can. And share with you, I suppose.”
“What about Rostislawitch?”
“What about him?”
“Are you trying to eliminate him?”
“Why would I do that?”
“To keep him from working for the Iranians.”
“I’m not with that section.” Hamilton took another sip from his cognac. “Who tried to kill him?”
“I think the bomb earlier today was aimed at him,” said Ferguson.
“I heard some group already took credit.”
“Some people are always taking credit for others’ work.”
Hamilton assumed—correctly—that Ferguson was making an oblique reference to his own behavior, but he laughed nonetheless.
“Blowing up an entire block would not be a very effective way of killing one man. And if that was the intention, they missed.”
“True.”
Ferguson noticed that Atha was getting up from his table.
“Looks like your man is about to show himself a good time.”
Ferguson started to get up, intending to go outside and trail Atha’s car. Hamilton stopped him.
“Your turn,” said the MI6 agent.
“How’s that?”
“I would like to know a bit more about the Russian.”
“He’s a scientist who’s worked in germ warfare. I think the Iranians are trying to recruit him.”
“That much I already know. Come on, Ferguson. I’ve given you background. I’m trying to cooperate. Is he working for the government? Is Rostislawitch involved in a network? Is he just giving information? Is he going over to them? Tell me.”
“I’m not sure yet.”
Ferguson sat back down as Atha and the girls began making their way toward the door.
“The Iranian is small fish,” said Hamilton. “If the Russians are trying to export biological weapons, that’s a major problem.”
“Could be.” Once again Ferguson started to leave, and once again Hamilton grabbed his arm.
“What are you doing?”
“Following Atha. You can help.”
“I rather think you’re the one helping,” answered Hamilton.
“Good. Pay the bill. I’ll call you when he gets to wherever it is he’s going.”
17
BOLOGNA, ITALY
Rostislawitch remained in the bathroom of his hotel room, sitting on the floor for more than an hour after he heard the girls leave. He realized he was being silly, even foolish, but he could not manage to get to his feet.
He stared at the bottom of the mirror above the vanity, where the very top of his head was reflected. Once thick and black, his hair was now a thinning splatter of gray and black, the gray looking like speckles of paint scattered by someone working on a ceiling as he passed by.
As Rostislawitch stared at the mirror, it occurred to him that it was not the head of an old man. Not a young man, certainly. But the hair was not that of a man entirely past his prime.
Rostislawitch got to his feet, bringing his face into view. He leaned over the sink to get a closer look.
A worn face in need of a shave, and a good night’s sleep. A tired man.
But not one who was spent. Not at all.
Yet he acted as if he were dead. This whole scheme, this whole plan—it wasn’t so much to make money as to get revenge on the world for taking his wife, a last act before going to the grave himself.
Which he would have done, stepped in front of a train or found some pills. He’d never consciously admitted it to himself, but as he stared now into his eyes he knew it was true, knew that would have been the next step—not taking the train to Turin, not flying to India and disappearing as he had planned. The next step would have been to shrivel into nothingness.
He didn’t want that. He wasn’t ready for death.
He could take Atha’s money and do a great deal with it. He could live a life of leisure, with a new identity.
Or he could simply go back to Russia, forget about the Iranian and his whores.
Assuming he got rid of the material. If it were found by someone, the results would be catastrophic.
The baggage ticket. It was in his wallet. If it was stolen, he’d never get the bag back without telling the attendant what was in it. That was as good as signing an arrest warrant.
Rostislawitch undid the lock and pulled open the door, rushing to the bureau where he’d left his wallet and watch earlier. He grabbed open the trifold, surprised that the whores had left it.
His two credit cards were in their pockets. His money—rubles at the back, euros in front—still there.
And the baggage ticket, folded neatly in half. Still there.
Still there.
Rostislawitch put the wallet down. What he needed to do was to sleep, to rest. In the morning he would have more energy. In the morning he would be able to think more clearly about his future, about what he should do.
And in the morning he would see the girl, Thera
. She probably didn’t like him romantically; he couldn’t flatter himself. But the fact that she took an interest, the fact that she might look up to him as an older scientist—that was something worthwhile.
He would think about that in the morning.
Rostislawitch took off his pants and shirt and climbed into bed. It smelled of the whores’ perfume.
Perhaps he should have made love to them after all. It would have been a story to tell friends years from now.
He could still tell it, though he would be the butt of the joke.
Why not? A good story was a good story, Rostislawitch mused, closing his eyes and drifting off.
18
BOLOGNA, ITALY
“Guns, what are you doing?”
“Ferg?”
“No, it’s your fairy godfather calling to tell you that you just won the lottery.”
Ferguson was standing next to a post in the Bologna train station, watching Atha as he counted his change at a newsstand. It had taken more than twelve rings to wake Guns; Ferguson had begun to worry that something had happened to him.
“I’m sorry, Ferg. I was pretty deep in sleep.”
“Listen, I need you to get up and get dressed. Rankin’s on his way over to pick you up. You guys are catching a train to Naples. I think.”
“Uh, OK.”
“You’re going to have to move. The train is leaving in thirty minutes. I’m going to buy you tickets now.”
“Sure.”
“You’re not going to fall back to sleep, are you?” Ferguson asked. “You sound pretty tired.”
“I’m with you, Ferg. I’m with you.”
Twenty minutes later, Ferguson spotted Rankin and Guns walking in the side entrance to the train station. He circled behind them, then picked up his pace to catch up.
“Hey,” he said in a stage whisper as they paused near the sign showing the departing trains and their tracks.
“What’s going on?” Rankin asked.
“I don’t think we’re being watched,” said Ferguson, looking up at the board as he spoke. “But I couldn’t sweep the place. The train is on track four. Hamilton is on board, in the second car. I got you guys first-class tickets.”
“Hey, thanks, Ferg,” said Guns.
“Don’t mention it. It’s all they had. The train is packed from Rome south. You’re going to Naples.” Ferguson pointed up at the board, as if he were helping them, then let the tickets fall from his hand. Guns stooped to pick them up, then pretended to hand them back to Ferguson but palmed them instead.
“You’re getting good at that, Guns,” Ferguson told him. “Next I want to see you pull a quarter out of your nose.”
“I’m working on it.”
“So what’s the deal with Hamilton?” asked Rankin. “We trust him or what?”
“As far as you can throw him,” said Ferguson. “He’s following Atha, and we’re following Atha, so we might just as well do it together. I don’t know how much he’s holding back. Maybe nothing. Whatever the hookers copied out of Rostislawitch’s wallet got the Iranian excited,” Ferguson said. “He missed sleeping with them to make sure he could catch this train.”
“What whores?” asked Guns.
“You snooze you lose,” Ferguson told him. “Go; your train is leaving in about five minutes.”
“Ferg, are you and Thera going to be OK by yourselves?” Rankin asked. “T Rex will take another shot for sure.”
“We’ll be all right. After he gets the luggage, steal it from him.”
“What’s in it?”
“If I knew, you wouldn’t have to grab it from him, would you?” said Ferguson. “Probably work papers and computer disks. It may just be clothes. If you can get it without Atha figuring out we’re on to him, that would be great. If not, that’s the way it goes. If things start getting too tight, you can call the Italians in.”
“Guns and I can handle it without them.”
“Just think what I would do, and try not to do the opposite.”
“Screw yourself, Ferg.”
Aboard the train, Atha stretched his feet and shifted against the window, trying to get comfortable. He planned to sleep on the train—he’d have little time to do so later if the material was in the left luggage area, as the luggage check-in rooms were called.
If it wasn’t there, then he’d have to grab a flight back to Bologna and continue working on the scientist. There’d be little time to sleep then, either.
The girls had claimed Rostislawitch had been quite randy. Obviously, sex was his weakness; Atha should have realized that from the start.
But what man wasn’t vulnerable to a ripe breast thrust in his face? Even Atha had succumbed.
Seat taken?”
Hamilton looked up at a tall, wiry man, an American, standing in the aisle.
Surely one of Ferguson’s people, Hamilton thought, though he looked more like a soldier than a spy. CIA agents tended to look like down-at-the-heels salesmen, Ferguson being a notable exception.
“Please, sit,” said Hamilton.
“Jack Young,” said Guns, holding his hand out. “People call me Guns.”
“I see,” said Hamilton, concluding that here was a man who had made his fetish work for him.
“You’re Hamilton?”
“Please. Have a seat.” Hamilton glanced around the coach. It was empty except for an older couple near the door, though the ticket seller had predicted it would be full by the time they pulled into Naples.
“Ferg talked to you?” asked Guns.
“Oh yes.”
“You think Atha is going all the way to Naples?”
“That’s where his ticket is for,” said Hamilton. “I would not take a bet either way.”
“Rankin is a few seats behind him. That’s my partner.”
“Jolly good.”
They sat together silently for a while, Hamilton wishing the man would get up and go to another car. Finally Hamilton took out his mobile phone.
“I have to make a phone call,” he told Guns. “And I rather value my privacy.”
“Sure.” Guns got up slowly, then walked to the front of the car, pausing at the vestibule before passing to the next coach.
Hamilton was already working on a text message:
Cooperating as told. New opera more interesting. Request permission stay with it. Yanks will take old show on road.
Would the desk recognize that “new opera” meant the Russian scientist? Or even that the Iranian was the “old show”? They could be intolerably dense at times.
He’d just have to hope they would. The text message was encrypted, but he’d learned years ago not to put too much stock in such things, and spoke in riddles whenever possible.
Years ago, indeed. Hamilton turned his head to the window. The Italian countryside was so dark he could see only his face and the interior of the coach.
I’m quite ready to retire, he told himself, noticing the furrows in his brow. After this, I’m done. Done.
19
BOLOGNA, ITALY
Ferguson stood in the doorway, watching Thera sleep. She was curled up around her pillow, her arms covering her face as if shielding her from the light.
He was tempted to climb in with her.
His lust was going to wear him out.
“Up and at ’em, beautiful; the day is ready to dawn,” he said, clapping his hands. “Come on, Thera; let’s get going.”
“Ugggh.”
“Want me to make you some of that lousy coffee?” Ferguson said, squatting down at the side of the bed.
“What time is it?”
“Just about four a.m. Come on. Get up; take a shower. I want to grab about two hours of sleep before Rosty is on the move.”
“I thought it was Guns’ turn,” said Thera, still not fully awake.
“Guns and Rankin are following the Iranian. Come on, up, up, up.” He rose and started for the door. “Nice jammies by the way.”
“Screw you,” muttered Thera.
She was wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, and knew she looked like hell.
The coffee was indeed terrible, so bad that Thera stooped to putting in two packets of sugar and even a bit of powdered milk in an attempt to make it palatable. She sipped it, then took a quick shower, not bothering to wash her hair. Ferguson was waiting when she was done, standing so near the door she bumped into him. Thera felt herself flush.
“I’m giving myself two hours,” he told her. “But if Rostislawitch gets moving before then, you wake me up, you hear? You don’t go anywhere without backup. All right?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t ‘sure’ me. ‘Yes. I will wake you up or I will forfeit my first, second, and third child to you.’ Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Don’t forget, I sleep in the nude, so if you have to come in for something, be prepared.”
“Ha, ha.”
Ferguson smirked and then disappeared into the bedroom. Thera knew from experience that he did not sleep in the nude, and in fact sometimes kept his shoes on in case he had to get up quickly. But that was Ferg—busting and semi-flirting, dead serious about his job but little else.
Thera took her coffee and went over to the desk, where the laptop display showed the feed from the video bug Rankin had planted the previous evening. Rostislawitch was sleeping, arms and legs spread-eagle beneath the covers.
She checked her watch. It was a little past four, ten p.m. back in the States. Unsure when Ferguson had last checked in with the Cube, she called herself.
Lauren DiCapri greeted her with a complaint about some of the video bugs they’d planted two days ago; their batteries had run down and the units were no longer feeding images to their boosters.
“We’ll take care of it when we can,” Thera told her.
“We can’t see what’s going on.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I don’t mean now.”
“Neither do I,” said Thera, annoyed by Lauren’s tone. For some reason the desk people tended to act like the ops worked for them, rather than the other way around.
“Where’s Ferg?”
“He’s sleeping,” said Thera.
