by Larry Bond
6
BOLOGNA, ITALY
Ferguson took a quick swig from the cup, draining the caffèllatte, then launched himself out of the café just as Artur Rostislawitch passed by. The Russian wasn’t difficult to spot; he wore a thick cloth coat, full-length and frayed at the bottom. He moved defensively, shoulders tucking and weaving as he went, as if he were afraid he was going to be knocked over by the pedestrians who passed.
Ferguson took out a cell phone as he walked, staying about a half block behind.
“You ready there, gorgeous?” he asked Thera. The cell phone was just a cover; he was using his radio, which was at his belt under his sweater. He had an earbud in his left ear and a mike pinned to his lapel.
“I’m ready, Ferg.”
“We have two more blocks. Why don’t you go ahead into the reception and pick him up inside?”
“All right.”
Guns and Rankin were nearby, scanning the buildings and the crowd. They had no proof that Rostislawitch was the target, and now that he’d gotten a good look at him, Ferguson was inclined to think he wasn’t. But T Rex was after someone, and for the moment this was the best candidate they had.
Rostislawitch had no idea he was being followed. On the contrary, he’d never felt so alone in his life—ignored, already a ghost. He kept his head tilted downward and his hands deep in his pockets as he approached the hall where the opening night of the conference was to be held.
Even during his younger years, Rostislawitch had not attended many scientific conferences. He wouldn’t have been able to talk about his own work; it was too secret and would have been extremely controversial, to say the least. This suited him just fine—he was not particularly gregarious, nor did he like to travel. He spoke only Russian and English, which he had studied in school. Though he had a wide English vocabulary, his accent was so heavy that he had a great deal of trouble making himself understood. And few people he came in contact with outside of his homeland spoke Russian.
Light streamed into the street from the building. Rostislawitch reached into his coat pocket for his convention credentials, but there was no one at the door to check them. In fact, the only official he saw when he entered was a tall, thin woman taking coats. He exchanged his for a plastic medallion, then walked to the table on the right, where the credentials of some of the featured speakers were on display. Journal articles and in some cases academic texts were on small stands next to or above glossy photographs of the scholars. Brief résumés in bold, single-spaced text were taped beneath the pictures.
“An interesting array,” said a short woman next to him.
Rostislawitch smiled, but kept his eyes on the write-up of Dr. Herman Blackwitch, an American who was working with techniques to retard spoilage of certain seed oils. The man had graduated from Stanford University, worked in Italy as well the U.S., and was now a consultant to a large (and unnamed) food packager.
Rostislawitch wondered if he could have had such a career for himself.
Then another thought occurred to him—the work might simply be a cover. Blackwitch might actually be working on an American bio-war project.
Yes, most likely. People who thought the Americans weren’t planning something along those lines were hopelessly naive.
Across the room, Thera was sizing Rostislawitch up. None of the academics were particularly good dressers, but he stood out in his awkwardness. His black double-breasted suit with its broad pinstripes was at least a decade behind the times, and probably hadn’t been very stylish at the time, especially not on him. The rust-colored wool sweater he wore beneath it made him look as if he were the Tin Man after a night out in the rain.
A small bar had been set up near the hallway. Thera went over and asked for a vodka tonic. Now armed, she worked her way back across the room to Rostislawitch. She circled behind him, then came up near his side just as he turned. He bumped into her, spilling her drink across his jacket and the floor.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Thera. “I didn’t see you there and you turned so quickly.”
Embarrassed, Rostislawitch started to apologize himself. When he realized he was speaking Russian and she was speaking English, he stopped and stood there, his face beet red.
“Thera Metaxes,” Thera said, using a cover name to introduce herself. “Thera Metaxes. I’m a post-doc.”
“Dr. Rostislawitch.”
“You’re Russian.”
“Yes.”
“That was vodka I was drinking.”
Rostislawitch said nothing. The woman was pretty—a drawback for a scientist. She would have a hard time being taken seriously.
“Would you like to buy me a replacement?” asked Thera.
Rostislawitch felt his face grow hotter. “I don’t have—” He stopped and cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I haven’t much money.”
“They’re free,” said Thera. She hooked her arm around his and led him toward the bar.
Rankin was sitting in the passenger seat of a car they’d rented, watching the feeds from the video bugs Ferguson had planted earlier. He had three windows open in the fifteen-inch screen; between them he had a complete view of the reception area.
Guns and Rankin had checked the building for bombs with a handheld sniffer an hour before. Security was practically nonexistent—not that you could really blame the academic types for thinking they were too boring to be attacked.
“How are we looking?” Ferguson asked over the radio. He’d gone up the street.
“Thera’s with him at the bar,” Rankin said.
“Hey, Ferg, check these two guys on the motorbikes coming up toward you,” said Guns. “Moving kind of slow.”
“All right. Stand by.”
Rankin turned his attention back to the screen. Thera’s radio was in her purse, turned off; to contact her they’d have to call her sat phone. They’d wired into the building’s fire alarm; if anything looked suspicious Rankin could activate it by hitting a combination of keys on his computer.
“Why am I looking at these guys, Guns?” asked Ferguson.
“They were going real slow in front of the building.”
“You mean they were driving responsibly? That’s a hanging offense in Italy.”
Guns laughed.
Something on the left-hand screen caught Rankin’s eye. A man with a briefcase had entered the building. Rankin zoomed the image, watching as the man declined the coat attendant’s offer to take the bag. The man looked furtively around the room, then went to the table where the résumés were displayed. He slipped the case down to the floor, then abruptly turned and began walking quickly toward the door.
“Shit.” Rankin shot upright in the car seat, then struggled to get his fingers on the combination of keys to sound the fire alarm. As he did, he began to shout into his mike, “Ferg, Guns, guy with the beard coming out. Left a suitcase under the table. Thera, there’s a bomb under the table at the front!” he added, forgetting she wasn’t on the circuit. “Go! Go, for Christ’s sake!”
7
BOLOGNA, ITALY
A spider scurried across the hotel room desk just as Anghuyu “Atha” Jahan sat down to use the phone. The Iranian grabbed it by one of its long legs and held it up, watching as it wriggled. The creature, puzzled at its sudden capture, was desperate to get away.
“You’re such a little thing,” said Atha.
He took hold of another of the creature’s legs, holding them apart. The spider bent its body over, trying to spin itself free.
When he was a boy, Atha enjoyed pulling the legs from spiders. Then one day his father caught him, and slapped him in the ear.
“These are God’s creatures, hallowed be his name,” Atha’s father complained. “You should show compassion.”
For several years, Atha avoided spiders and insects of all kinds. Finally—in a mosque, as it happened—he saw an imam squash one as they walked together. And from that moment Atha realized that was the way of the world.
The powerful squashed the less power
ful. He did not have to look very far for examples. At the time, Saddam the Iraqi butcher was sending missiles into Iran, killing hundreds of innocents. Brave young men, including two of Atha’s cousins, sacrificed themselves in suicidal charges to beat back the Iraqi army from their land.
All the while, the West stood by and encouraged the butcher, supplying the Butcher of Baghdad with missiles and intelligence. Later, they discarded him as callously as a farmer killing unwanted cats, snapping his neck after a show trial.
That was the way of the world.
Atha believed that his life started at that moment the imam squashed the spider. He had put his talents to great use, working with friends high up in the Revolutionary Guard and the government. Parsa Moshen, officially the education minister but unofficially the head of the Revolutionary Guard’s overseas operations sector, was one of his closest mentors.
Not a friend. The minister did not have friends. Even Atha, who’d known him many years, remained fearful of him.
Atha’s realization that the strong ruled the weak had paid off for both him and Iran. He had worked to make himself strong, as measured by money, and to make his country strong, as measured by weapons and other modern conveniences such as pharmaceuticals and aircraft parts. And now his greatest contribution to the country, as well as to his fortune, was just a day or two away.
By the grace of God, a large number of people—millions of people even, it was very possible—would die in the process. It was the way of the world.
Atha jerked his hands apart, maiming the spider. Its mangled body dropped to the floor, squirming, unable to stand.
As an act of mercy, he crushed it with his toe.
8
BOLOGNA, ITALY
Thera grabbed Rostislawitch’s arm as soon as the alarm sounded.
“This way,” she said, pushing him toward the hall.
“But the door.”
“Come on,” she insisted, tightening her grip.
Surprised by the woman’s strength and persistence, Rostislawitch let himself be led down the hall as the fire alarm began to bleat. The others seemed momentarily stunned by the noise.
“Go; there’s fire; get out,” said Thera, yelling in Greek-accented Italian and then English. She reached the end of the hall and pushed Rostislawitch with her into the reception room, pointing toward a door at the far side. “There, go,” she told him.
“What’s going on?” he said.
“Come on. There’s a fire. I know the way out.”
Rostislawitch wondered if this was the Iranian’s doing—if he had decided on an unconventional way of meeting. He started through the door, then froze, seeing that it led to a set of steps down toward the basement.
“Not down there—go right! Right! Hurry,” said Thera, nudging him again. She’d pulled the headset of her radio out and heard Rankin say there was a bomb inside the building.
“Which way?” asked Rostislawitch.
“The window there,” she said. “It’s on an alley. Come on!”
“I don’t smell smoke.”
“Come on!”
The man who’d taken the suitcase into the reception hall hurried toward a Fiat across the street. Ferguson trotted to catch up.
“Guns, you on the bike?” he asked as he drew closer to the man.
“Yeah.”
“Black Fiat. I’ll get the plate.”
The fire alarm was ringing and people were starting to file out of the building, though not in much of a rush.
“Rankin, call in some sort of bomb alert to the police,” said Ferguson.
“I already did.”
“Where’s Thera?”
“She’s going out the back.”
“I’m here, Ferg,” said Thera.
“Get out; there’s a bomb.”
“No shit. We’re in the alley.”
Meanwhile, the man who had left the suitcase under the table had stopped at the trunk of his car. He popped it open and reached inside. Ferguson, thinking the man had spotted him, ducked into the nearby doorway and reached to his belt for his pistol. He watched as the man pulled another suitcase out of the car.
“Ferg, what’s going on?” asked Guns. He was a few yards down the street, sitting on a motorcycle. Like many Italians, he hadn’t bothered putting on his helmet.
“I’m not sure,” answered Ferguson. “Let’s see. Get ready to grab him.”
The man closed the trunk and started back toward the art building. Ferguson kept his gun down and pressed against the door, staying in the shadows as the man passed a few feet away.
“Coming at you, Guns,” Ferguson whispered.
“Yeah, I see him. What’s he got? Another bomb?”
“Don’t know.” Ferguson trotted to the car, glanced at the empty interior, then knelt in front of the trunk. He picked the lock, lifting the lid cautiously; there was nothing inside except an undersized spare and some crumpled plastic grocery bags.
Ferguson pulled the small bomb sniffer out of his pocket. The “sniffer” would react to the chemicals used in plastic explosives, such as Semtex, by sounding a tone and lighting a red LED on the outer casing. The light stayed off.
Ferguson slammed the trunk closed.
“Guns, why don’t you circle the block, get out of here,” he said.
“What?”
“Just go. This may be some sort of trick to flush us out. That or Rankin got his underwear twisted again.”
9
BOLOGNA, ITALY
The alleyway was dark, and Rostislawitch tripped over a small pile of boxes as he strode toward the street. Thera grabbed his back and steadied him, helping him out to the light. A fire truck was just turning up the block; they watched it veer left and right as the driver overcorrected, its bumper barely missing the cars parked on either side of the street.
“What’s going on?” Rostislawitch asked.
“I don’t know,” said Thera.
“Did Atha send you?”
Thera considered saying yes, but was afraid he’d catch on if she bluffed. Better to play it straight, she thought.
“Who’s Atha?” she asked.
“Who sent you?” demanded Rostislawitch.
“No one sent me. I’m from the University of Athens. I’m a post-doc student. I thought I might come here and see what chances I had of getting a job. I’m not sure whether I want to teach or just do pure research. It might be selling out.”
“Oh, Athens.” Despite her claim, Rostislawitch was now convinced that Thera was in fact working for the Iranian, probably checking him out before the meeting.
“You’ve been to Athens?” asked Thera.
“I’ve stopped in the airport a few times. Never in the city.”
“A shame,” Thera told him. “There’s so much history there, in the countryside. The city itself is like any city, unless you have family. But the ruins, those are impressive.”
“I see.” Rostislawitch stepped back as another fire engine roared around the corner.
“Would you like to get something to eat?” asked Thera.
“Yes,” said Rostislawitch. “I am a little hungry.”
Among the many lessons Ferguson’s father had taught him was always to look as if you belonged where you didn’t. A slight frown, a firm glare, and a determined stride were far more valuable than an identification card—though he could have produced a card showing he was a police investigator had anyone stopped him as he strode into the art building.
“Ferg, what are you doing?” Rankin asked over the radio.
Ferguson ignored him. Spotting the suitcase, he walked to it and pulled it from under the table.
“Ferg!”
Combination locks on either side of the suitcase held it shut. Ferguson placed his thumbs on them, then pushed the levers simultaneously. The loud clicks echoed against the high ceiling.
“Jesus, Ferg.” said Rankin.
“I don’t see the big guy here.” Ferguson pushed the lid up. The suitcase was fille
d with pamphlets.
“You see this, Rankin?”
“Yeah, I see it, Ferg. What the fuck do you want me to say?”
“Something along the lines of, ‘I screwed up big-time,’ would do it.”
“Like I’m supposed to have X-ray vision? The guy acted exactly as if he was planting a bomb. I didn’t want Thera to get killed. I thought it was T Rex.”
Ferguson straightened. A pair of firemen came through the door; one of them had an axe.
“Dove il fuoco?” they asked. “Where is the fire?”
“Non so,” said Ferguson. “I don’t know.”
The firemen rushed toward the hallway. Ferguson took out his small bug finder and scanned the room, looking for bugging devices. He smelled a setup—someone must be watching, and now knew they were there.
“Maybe you ought to get out of there, don’t you think?” said Rankin.
“I’m already burned as it is,” said Ferguson. He was in no mood to realize he’d made a pun, let alone laugh at it.
“The guy with the suitcases is coming in,” said Rankin.
“Maybe I’ll arrest him. I noticed a spelling mistake on the brochure.”
10
BOLOGNA, ITALY
They spent the next few hours trying to figure out if they had been watched. Rankin was mad at Ferguson for saying he’d screwed up when really he’d done the most logical thing under the circumstances. Ferguson was mad at himself for not having realized that it might he a trap. Guns, who’d cycled back around the city and was watching Thera, wasn’t quite sure what either of them was angry about, and tried to ignore the sniping in his headset. The only person completely focused on her job was Thera, who’d bought Rostislawitch dinner and listened to him talk about how much he missed his wife. It was a touching story, heartrending in a way, and not the sort of thing she’d expected from a man who according to the Cube had spent his life working on efficient ways of killing large numbers of people with microscopic bugs.
When Rostislawitch went back to his hotel to go to bed, Thera planted a video bug outside his room, then went downstairs and tapped into the phone interface unit in the boiler room. Ferguson, meanwhile, rented a suite on the second floor that they could use to watch him if necessary. After checking the room, he went down to the lounge to check it out and wait for Thera. Afraid to drink because he was so tired, he ordered a bottle of Pellegrino and sat at a booth that gave him a good view of the doorway.