by Larry Bond
“Why the hell didn’t you shoot back?” Rankin yelled. “Crap. He’s getting away.”
Guns—who had not only shot back but hit the gunman while Rankin was underwater—said nothing. Hamilton shook his head.
Rankin climbed up on a dilapidated tire and pulled himself out of the water. He’d lost his pistol when he jumped in; he gave a cursory look around the dock though he knew it was hopeless, then climbed up the ladder to the stairs and the street.
“You should have grabbed the bag on the street when you had the chance,” Rankin told Hamilton.
“Don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t have done, Yank,” answered Hamilton.
Cursing, Rankin went through his pockets. He still had his radio and headset, plus his sat phone and his wallet.
Guns, meanwhile, took a photo of the boat with his small camera, then pulled out his phone to talk to Corrigan back in the Cube.
“We’re going to need the Italian coast guard,” he told him. “Atha got away with whatever the Russian scientist sold him. They’re in a fishing boat; it’s not that big, fifty-something feet. It didn’t have a name. I’ll upload a photo.”
“Screw the coast guard,” said Rankin, pointing toward the marina. “Let’s grab our own boat.”
“We can’t steal a boat,” said Hamilton.
“One more word out of you and I’ll throw you off the side,” said Rankin. “Than you’ll smell as bad as I do.”
27
THE TYRRHENIAN SEA,
OFF NAPLES, ITALY
Atha dragged the injured sailor to the cabin, trying to be as gentle as possible. He’d been struck twice, once in the chest and once in the stomach; blood covered both sides of his sweatshirt, and a trail led back to the stern of the boat. Atha tried to put him into the bunk, but the man was too heavy for him to lift, and he decided the sailor was better off on the floor.
“I’m going to get something for a bandage,” Atha told the man.
The man grunted in response. Foam slipped from his mouth, blood and spit mixing together. The sailor grabbed at Atha’s arm, wrapping his own around it.
“I’ll be back. I need to get you a bandage,” said the Iranian, pushing the hand away. The man fell back against the deck.
Up on the bridge of the small boat, the captain was staring at the sea ahead, both hands on the large wheel.
“Are they following us?” Atha asked.
The man did not respond.
“Are there bandages somewhere? A first-aid kit?”
Again, the captain said nothing. Atha spotted a box marked by a white cross next to the fire extinguisher; he grabbed it off the bulkhead and went back to the cabin where he had left the wounded sailor. Opening the box, Atha saw a few pads of gauze, far too small to staunch the flow of blood. He took one anyway, then went down on his knee and tried to find the man’s wound. As he did, he realized the man had stopped breathing. Blood was no longer spurting from the wounds. Atha touched the man’s face; it felt like wet putty, slick with the man’s sweat and the spray from the water. For a moment, he thought of trying artificial respiration, even though he knew it would be useless. Then he pushed down the sailor’s eyelids, said a quick prayer, as much for himself as for the dead man.
Rising, Atha realized he was covered with blood. He went to the head, a small, crowded restroom that barely fit a tiny sink and toilet. The soap in the sink was gray, covered with oil; he dug his fingernails through it, revolted by the grime but determined to cleanse the blood away. The faucet produced only a slight trickle. Atha washed his hands and arms as best he could, but even after ten solid minutes there were still red streaks up and down his arms. Bits of blood had coagulated on his fingernails and in the ridges of his hands. He picked at them for a while longer, then gave up.
Out on the deck, he retrieved the small submachine gun and looked to make sure that no one was following them. There were at least a dozen boats between them and the shoreline, but none were particularly close.
He wasn’t sure who the men were who had tried to stop them. He guessed Italian secret service agents, though they hadn’t identified themselves. It was also possible they were confederates of the man he’d hired to retrieve and swap the bags. In any event, he’d have to assume they were the former, which meant the Italian coast guard and navy would soon be looking for them.
Where the men had come from was another good question. Most likely they’d been following him from the train station, though he hadn’t seen anyone. That was his fault—once he had the bag he’d simply moved as quickly as possible, not taking his usual precautions because he wanted to get to the boat.
Atha took the gun inside, reloading it before going to see the captain.
“I think we are all right,” Atha told him. “How long?”
The captain didn’t acknowledge him. Atha was tempted to hold the gun at his head and demand an answer, but he realized that would serve little purpose.
“Your man is with Allah, blessed be his name,” said Atha, laying his hand gently on the captain’s shoulder.
The captain said nothing. He was an Iranian by birth and spoke Farsi fluently, but he had lived in Italy since he was seven and felt more Italian than Iranian. He was brooding on the fact that it would now be difficult for him to return to Naples for several weeks. He made a good living by smuggling items for the local Mafia and other “businessmen,” but everyone had a certain territory, and he would not be able to operate from another port. Atha, though he paid well, employed him very rarely, and had just cost him a great deal of money. Not to mention the problem of disposing of his deckhand.
Atha left him to his business. He went back to the cabin where the sailor had died, kneeling over Rostislawitch’s suitcase. In his haste as the shooting began, he had neglected to zip it shut. Instead of closing it now, he opened it again, reexamining the contents—twelve flat, sealed glass cases, no larger than a child’s yo-yo. They looked like flattened jelly jars or the bottoms of the glass honey pots he remembered from childhood.
The brown, jellylike liquid inside might very well be honey for all he knew. It might very well be a scam.
Or perhaps the Italian secret service had made a substitution.
There was nothing he could do about that now. He had to trust that Allah, all praise due to him, had a plan.
Atha zipped the suitcase, grabbed the rest of the bullets for the machine pistol, and went on deck to keep watch.
28
BOLOGNA, ITALY
Ferguson twisted around as he walked, scanning the second-story windows on the small block, trying to make sure the knot of scientists ahead weren’t being followed by anyone other than the pair of undercover Italian policemen Imperiati had assigned.
Ferguson didn’t see anyone, but that didn’t make him feel any more comfortable. Rostislawitch and Thera—Rostislawitch really, with Thera agreeing—had decided to skip the first morning session and join a small group of scientists for brunch at a restaurant three blocks from the art building. Ferguson hadn’t had time to check out the place beforehand. He trailed along now as the group found the door and tromped up the steps to the second-floor dining room, exchanging jokes in the pidgin English they all shared.
Ferguson walked past the stairs that led up to the restaurant, continuing to the end of the block and crossing over. He stayed under the arched promenade, pretending to window-shop while glancing around. Finally convinced that there was no one watching, he doubled back toward the restaurant. He slipped two video bugs in to cover the street, then went upstairs.
The room was shaped like an L, with tables lined up together along a narrow passage to the deeper part of the room. Ferguson glanced at the maître d’, then saw Kiska Babev sitting by herself about halfway down the long row.
“That’s my date,” Ferguson told the maître d’, walking over to her.
“Ciao, baby,” said Ferguson, pulling out the chair. The maître d’ rushed to push it in for him.
“You’re late,�
� she said.
“I wanted to make sure we weren’t followed. Don’t want people talking.” He turned to the waiter, who had just appeared at his elbow. “House red.”
“A little early for wine, Bobby.”
“I like to get a head start on the day.”
Kiska had persuaded one of the scientists in the group to suggest the place for breakfast, and to try to bring Rostislawitch along. The man didn’t know she was an FSB agent—he thought she was with the Science Ministry, her cover—but was happy to oblige when she assured him that she would sign for the tab. She needed to confer with the scientist about a grant offer from a drug company, she explained, but wanted to do so discreetly.
“I knew you would be here,” Kiska told Ferguson. “Because I knew that Dr. Rostislawitch would be. Why did you tell Signor Imperiati that I was involved in the bombing yesterday?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what he heard.”
“His English isn’t that good.”
“His English is better than mine.”
“Nah. His accent is all wrong.”
Kiska found it difficult to control her anger at the accusation. “You caused a great deal of trouble for me,” she said. “I suspect I am still under suspicion. All because of a lie you told for fun, I suppose.”
“Who says it’s a lie?”
Kiska reached across the table and slapped his cheek. Though he saw it coming, it still stung.
“I am not playing your American wise-guy games anymore, Bobby.”
“You’re making people stare.”
“I don’t care if they stare,” she said, switching to Russian.
“Well if you don’t care, I don’t care,” answered Ferguson, also in Russian.
The waiter, Ferguson’s wine on his tray, approached cautiously. Ferguson gave him a smile that said, Women, what can you expect? The Italian put the glass down, raised an eyebrow in sympathy, and retreated.
“Why are you in Bologna?” Kiska demanded, still speaking Russian.
“We went through this yesterday.”
“I will tell you, Bobby, I do not like being accused of being a terrorist,” she said. “I do not like this charge being made to my embassy.”
“All I told him was that you were a possible witness. Which you were.”
Kiska was not sure how much of that to believe, but she needed to move past her own anger, or she would never find out what the Americans were doing, or what was really going on here.
“I will tell you in truth why I am here,” she said. “And I expect truth from you in return.”
“I’m as truthful as they come.”
“Artur Rostislawitch works in a sensitive area regarding bacteria that can be used as weapons.”
“Against international law?”
“There is nothing preventing his research, as you very well know,” said Kiska. “Your scientists work on similar projects. He has had access to very sensitive materials. His career—he has suffered professional setbacks which are none of my concern. Politics. In any event, it is conceivable that he is disgruntled, which I believe you know.”
“Doesn’t look like the happiest guy in the world,” said Ferguson, shooting him a glance.
Someone had just told a joke and Rostislawitch was laughing.
“Then again, you never know,” said Ferguson.
“Some days ago—just before he came to Bologna in fact—one of the safety indicators at a lab where he worked was tampered with. There are some who believe he took material, a culture of bacteria that might be used as a weapon.”
“There’s a question about it?” said Ferguson.
“There are many questions. Nothing may have been taken; he may not have been the one.” Kiska paused. She did not like the ambiguity herself. “The material was something that he worked on himself. It is an old culture, from a program that is no longer sanctioned. He comes here, and you are watching him. Why, I wonder. Has my friend switched from tracking down nuclear material for his government to recruiting Russian scientists? Usually that is a job for an academic, or perhaps a lower-level officer. But then there is a bomb, and though my friend is near it when it explodes, I am blamed. So what is going on, I wonder. What is going on, Bobby?”
“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 ha
ven’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.”
