by Larry Bond
Ferguson didn’t want it to be her because she’d saved his life. Was that really it?
If she was T Rex, he’d have to take her, and of course she wasn’t going to just come with him, and then Parnelles’s wish would come true. He’d have his pound of flesh, and maybe some problems with the Italians, but those problems he wouldn’t mind.
But maybe Rostislawitch wasn’t the real target; maybe the car bomb was “just” a car bomb, or even a feint to throw them off the trail. Imperiati’s other target was due tonight, the keynote speaker at the dinner Rostislawitch and Thera were going to.
Ferguson listened as the Russian turned on his television. A middle-aged woman came down the hallway near his room, stopped, and went back to her room. She emerged with a sweater a few moments later. Ferguson watched her, planning what he would do if she was T Rex.
But she wasn’t. She got in the elevator at the end of the hall and descended to the lobby.
At six p.m.. Ferguson called the Cube for an update. It was the first time in recorded history that he had checked in precisely at the time he was supposed to, at least according to Lauren DiCapri.
“If I’d known it was an occasion, I’d’ve worn a tie,” he told her.
“What are you wearing now?”
“Nothing but a smile. Tell me what’s going on.”
Lauren’s update consisted largely of two facts: Rankin and Guns still had no idea where the Iranian had gone, and Parnelles and Slott were both angry with the world.
“You especially,” she added. “They can’t figure out why you won’t admit Kiska Babev is T Rex.”
“If I did admit that, what then?” said Ferguson. “You think she’ll just fly home with me?”
“Knowing you, sure.”
“Listen, is Ciello around?” asked Ferguson.
“As a matter of fact, he wants to talk to you. First, though, the Brits are also kind of mad at us. Hamilton had some sort of hissy fit, claiming that Rankin and Guns screwed up his surveillance.”
“I’m sure that’s bullshit.”
“No doubt. But he’s on his way back to Bologna.”
“It’s a free country, I guess. You giving me Ciello, or what?”
A slight hush descended over the line as she made the connection. There was a low tone, followed by Thomas Ceillo’s slightly hyper soprano.
“Ciello here.”
“So how’s the razvaluha?”
“I don’t have a jalopy, Ferg. I take the bus.”
“Just joking, Ciello. What’s going on?”
“That Fibber guy. Good stuff. Too much stuff. But very good stuff.”
“Yeah. You didn’t give him your Social Security or your bank account number, did you?”
“No, why?”
“Just checking. What do you have?”
Kiska did, in fact, use her cousin’s identity for several credit cards and bank accounts. Ciello had not finished unraveling everything, but he had managed to figure out the pattern Kiska used, alternating credit cards and then getting new accounts.
“There’s still a lot I have to dig out. But one thing I thought you’d like to know. Well, two things.”
“Give me three if you want.”
“One, she was in Peru last August. The Vice President was killed. The murder hasn’t been, um, pinned to T-Rex, but it does have some similarities. Because, you know, he’s important.”
“That’s it?”
“Number two, she was in the Czech Republic right before coming to Bologna. The local police raided a warehouse where plastic explosives were stored.”
“Was the FSB involved?”
“I don’t know. Not in the news story, but of course they might not be mentioned. I sent a text message to our embassy there. They haven’t gotten back to me. Anyway, the point is, some of the explosives were missing afterwards.”
“Good work, Thomas,” Ferguson said, though neither item was all that useful. “Keep at it.”
“I will. Say, Ferg?”
“Yeah?”
“Does this Fibber really have an uncle who inherited ten million dollars but can’t collect it?”
7
BOLOGNA, ITALY
Thera examined her face in the mirror. Her eyes were drooping, her cheeks pinched.
She wished she could go to bed, sleep for three days, then get up and take a walk around Bologna without looking over her shoulder. She wished it were spring, not the start of winter. She wished she could simply look at the art and enjoy the food without worrying that someone with a gun or a bomb was nearby.
She wished she could make love to Ferg, and not think about the consequences.
Did she?
Yes, certainly. Though the way he acted about sex, the way he so casually used it as a tool, it was a good thing making love to him was just a fantasy.
Thera ducked her face to the sink. A little makeup and she’d be back on her game.
Several blocks away, Rostislawitch was examining his own face in the mirror, having just finished shaving. In the back of his mind, he was replaying his meeting with the Russian FSB agent, the blond she-wolf who’d tried to intimidate him in the back room of the café.
Before their meeting, he’d decided he would have nothing more to do with Atha. Now he was angry, insulted that he had been suspected of treason—even though, of course, the charge was correct.
More important, he wasn’t sure what to do.
Replaying the meeting, he realized that the woman hadn’t identified herself or who she worked for, but she didn’t have to. Her arrogance was as clear a sign that she was with the FSB as if she had worn a badge on her tight-fitting blouse. Like the KGB before it, the Russian Federal Security Service was used to bullying people, making demands instead of requests, insisting on getting its way. Its agents assumed the rest of the world would bow down to it in all matters, large and small. They were a law to themselves.
Loathe them, yes. But be careful. They would not simply fade away.
The question was not how much they knew about what he had planned to do, but what they thought they knew. If they had actually decided that he took the material, the worst thing Rostislawitch could do at this point was simply go home as he had planned. They would have no compunctions about arresting him. If they lacked evidence—and he was sure they did; he had taken every precaution—they would simply manufacture it.
Rostislawitch opened the drain and let the water run out of the sink, then wiped his face with a towel. If the choice was between running away and returning to a trap, the obvious thing to do was run away.
And his brother? Or the Grinbergs?
It was probable that the FSB would carry out the she-wolf’s threats. They would be somewhat careful about it—there were some differences between Putin’s Russia and Stalin’s, after all. But most likely the Grinbergs would lose their jobs.
A shame. They had stood by him through all of his troubles. Irena Grinberg had been Olga’s best friend, and had suffered greatly when she died.
He could give them Atha’s money. Little by little, small payments. That would more than balance things out.
As he dressed, Rostislawitch remembered his visit to the church, and what he had felt there. At that moment, it had seemed like a turning point, a revelation that pushed him in an unchangeable direction. But now, barely a few hours later, its force had faded. He was wavering again, unsure what to do.
Rostislawitch glanced at his watch. Atha hadn’t called, despite his promises yesterday.
Just as well. The FSB would find a way to listen in.
The one thing that bothered Rostislawitch was Kiska Babev’s accusation about the girl, Thera. Was she an American agent? He dismissed it, and yet . . . could it be true?
Rostislawitch pulled on his pants. It was an old trick, wasn’t it? Using an older man’s vanity against him. The Russian FSB, the American CIA, they were all the same.
As soon as he came off the elevator, Thera could tell that something had changed sin
ce she’d seen Rostislawitch last. It wasn’t just his meeting with the Russian intelligence agent. He’d been subdued after that, quieter; now there was something aggressive in his eyes, something harder. He’d made a decision about something.
Very likely Kiska had pushed him into making the deal with the Iranians, the exact opposite of what she intended. He acted aloof, as if he didn’t care about Thera or anyone else, as if he’d hardened himself to do something he didn’t really believe in.
She tried not to let her own knowledge of it show, keeping her voice upbeat, and slightly naive.
“Do you think the speaker will be interesting?” she asked as they walked outside. “More funding for research?”
“All of the drug companies are thieves,” answered Rostislawitch. At the corner, he went to the curb and put his hand up for a taxi, even though they were only two blocks from the art building.
“I thought we were walking?” said Thera.
“I don’t feel like going to the dinner.”
“Oh,” she said.
“I’ve made a reservation at a restaurant. The concierge recommended it. Come.”
Thera hesitated. “Don’t you think—”
“I’ll go myself,” said Rostislawitch as a cab pulled up.
Thera waited another moment, letting Rostislawitch start to pull the door closed before grabbing it.
“OK,” she said, sliding into the car beside him. “I suppose the talk would have been boring anyway.”
Ferguson was on a bicycle up the block when the scientist called for a taxi. He waited for them to pass, then turned up the radio volume, listening as Thera jabbered with the doctor, trusting that she would provide enough information for him to catch up if the traffic cleared and he lost them.
You’re in a strange mood this evening,” Thera told Rostislawitch in the taxi.
The scientist grunted. He wasn’t sure what her reluctance to changed plans meant: it could be read as an honest desire to attend the event, in which case she wasn’t a CIA agent. But on the other hand, it might be because she had compatriots waiting for her there, and was afraid to cross them up.
“Why is a young girl like you interested in me?” said Rostislawitch abruptly.
Thera turned to the scientist. “I am not a young girl,” she said. “And what do you mean by interested?”
“You have a boyfriend?”
“Oh.” Thera turned, facing the front of the cab. “Dr. . . . Artur . . .”
Thera stopped. This wasn’t acting anymore, was it? Partly it was, and partly it wasn’t. She did honestly feel concern for him. It wasn’t all she felt, but it was there.
Ferguson, had he been in a parallel situation, would have come up with some sort of glib line, pushed the sex angle, and ended up kissing the woman. But that wasn’t Thera.
“I do feel . . . strongly . . . toward you,” said Thera, stumbling over the word strongly. “I wouldn’t call it . . . I don’t know what it is. It’s really not boyfriend-girlfriend. You’re so much . . . smarter than me,” she said, substituting smarter for older.
She turned to him. Rostislawitch looked as if she had hit him in the stomach.
“I don’t want to mislead you,” continued Thera. She put her hand on his. He started to pull away, but she grabbed his hand. “I—love is not something I think about much,” she said quickly. “I admire you. I do care—when I heard you were hurt my heart seemed to stop.”
“But it’s not sex,” said Rostislawitch.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”
Rostislawitch pulled his right hand from hers and scratched his ear. Her response confused him even more. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear. And yet it was not what a spy would say.
So perhaps he could trust her at least. Somewhat. Maybe.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said. “I feel that we can talk—when you talk I like to listen.”
Rostislawitch smiled, in spite of himself. It was something his wife used to tell him, when he asked why she didn’t answer him sometimes. He patted Thera’s hand, even as he reminded himself to stay on his guard—she had proven nothing.
“Is that OK?” Thera asked. “Is it all right? Do you still want to have dinner?”
“I am very hungry,” he said. “And I was told that this restaurant is very good. Of course we will eat.”
8
BOLOGNA, ITALY
The Italians were clearly among those who confused quantity with quality when it came to security. Not only had they blanketed the art building with soldiers, but they had carabinieri police officers surrounding the building. In addition, Nathaniel Hamilton counted at least five members of the Italian SISDE—the civilian intelligence force under the interior minister—as well as a SISMI or military intelligence agent. Admittedly, the latter seemed most interested in keeping an eye on his civilian counterparts, probably looking for details that could be used to blast them in an upcoming parliamentary debate.
The one person Hamilton didn’t see was the Russian scientist.
Or Ferguson, but that was a plus.
The security measures complicated Hamilton’s plans. Not only had he found it necessary to enlist the aid of the embassy to get tickets to the event, but he had had to appear before Marco Imperiati and personally state why he wanted to be there. The Italian intelligence officer had proceeded to give him a lecture about the importance of allies working together toward common goals.
“That is why I am here,” Hamilton had protested, but for some reason that had failed to impress Imperiati. Exasperated, Hamilton finally asked if Ferguson was working with him closely; with a straight face, Imperiati replied that of course he was.
“Uncharacteristically for the Americans,” the Italian SISDE officer added.
“I wouldn’t trust him,” said Hamilton.
“He says the same of you.”
Hamilton stewed. He’d adopted a cover as a technology officer for Her Majesty’s government, and in order to keep the cover semi-intact, he mingled with some of the British scientists at the affair. He smiled when Professor Barclay, a sixty-year-old Oxford don with breath that could choke a pig, ambled next to him and asked how he thought the affair was going.
“Very pleasant,” lied Hamilton.
“You read biology, then?” asked the professor.
“I was a physics man myself,” answered Hamilton. “Cambridge. But I find this all jolly interesting. An exciting frontier.”
“Quite.”
In actual fact, Hamilton had majored in the Romantic poets at Cambridge, but that was hardly the response a science officer would give.
“I do hope you’re sitting at our table,” added Barclay.
“With pleasure, of course,” said Hamilton. He glanced toward the bar, making a mental note to fortify himself with a double Scotch before going in for the meal.
Outside the building, in a portico roped off for smokers, Kiska Babev was expressing her own frustration that Rostislawitch had not arrived. Unlike the British MI6 agent, however, Kiska at least knew where the scientist was—she’d just received a cell phone call from the agent she’d assigned to tail Rostislawitch.
“The Greek female is with him. I can’t tell where they are going.”
“Find out what they are up to. If they are leaving the city, let me know immediately.”
“I don’t think that’s what they’re doing. The airport is in the other—”
Kiska pushed the cell phone closed, cutting off the conversation in midsentence as a pair of policemen appeared.
“No cell phones,” said the taller man, speaking in English.
“Not even outside?”
“No.”
“I promise not to use it again,” said Kiska. It wasn’t a difficult promise to make—the Italians were using jammers that severely limited the places where the phones could be used. Inside was impossible, and outside was almost as bad.
“You must give it to us,” insisted the police officer.
“Why? Do you think a cell phone is that dangerous?”
“Please,” insisted the man.
“Very well,” she said finally, retrieving it from her purse. “Will I get it back?”
“Absolutely, at the end of the night.”
Kiska started to hand it over, then stopped. “Are you going to give me a receipt for it?”
“Of course,” said the policeman.
“Well, where is the receipt?”
The men looked at each other.
“I will get it for you,” volunteered the short man.
Kiska played with her phone while she waited, opening and closing it idly. Suddenly the back popped off and the battery dropped to the ground. As the man with her bent to retrieve it, Kiska slipped her finger against the small chip at the back of the battery compartment. Pressing firmly, she activated a circuit in the cell phone that rendered the phone inert. It could no longer remember its own number, let alone be used to make or receive a call.
This wouldn’t be a problem for her. She had two more in her purse, retrieved from a stash in the ladies’ room that she’d planted ahead of time to avoid complications at the door.
“Eccolo,” said the policeman. “Here you are.”
“Grazie,” she said, letting her fingers linger on his as she took the battery. “This must be boring even for you.”
“Eh.” He shrugged. “There are distractions.”
Kiska smiled. The man’s companion pushed his way back outside through the crowd, a small piece of paper in his hand.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the receipt and handing over the phone.
“If you need to make a call before the end of the night, just see us,” said the taller policeman. “We’ll help. There are only a few places where the signal will work.”
“Thank you,” she told him, making sure her eyes lingered just enough so that he would be greatly disappointed when she didn’t turn up.
9
BOLOGNA, ITALY
“Describe the technique for inducing transduction utilizing lambda.”