Soul of the Assassin (37 page)

The man in the corridor handed him a note. Belatedly Atha realized that the man did not speak Farsi; except for the captain, the crew was Filipino.

The note was from the captain, telling Atha that he had just heard from the helicopter; it was ahead of schedule and would arrive in a half hour.

Atha put his shoes back on, then went back up to the bridge, taking the suitcase with him. It was not very heavy—an odd thing, he thought; to be capable of so much damage it ought to weigh much more.

The storm that had been approaching earlier was now almost upon them, and the waves swelled in front of the ship, and raindrops were beginning to pelt the glass at the front of the bridge.

“Is this weather safe for a helicopter?” Atha asked.

“I couldn’t say.” The captain shrugged. “I’m not a pilot. But I will give you a life jacket if you wish.”

“I’d prefer a parachute,” said Atha.

The captain thought he was making a joke, and laughed.

~ * ~

3

THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA

As soon as the fishing boat was thoroughly searched and secured, the Italian coast guard’s patrol ship rejoined the rest of the searchers, crisscrossing the nearby waters for another vessel that Atha might have escaped to. Unfortunately, there were many possibilities, and even with the assistance of an airplane, within a few hours it was clear that there was no chance of finding him. Police officials in towns and cities all along the southwestern coast of Italy, and on nearby Sicily, were all alerted, but neither Rankin nor Guns had much hope that Atha would be found.

The Italians thought they were looking for a man who might be responsible for the Bologna bombing. With the bomb still getting serious media attention—it had been dubbed the “immaculate bomb” because no one was killed—they pressed on with the search. The navy compiled a list of ships that were heading to either the eastern Mediterranean or northern Africa. About four dozen had been within a hundred miles of the fishing boat, and all were designated to be searched. Three were beyond the reach of the Italian coast guard: a ferry to Tunisia and two small cargo vessels bound for Libya. Calling from aboard the Italian coast-guard cutter, Rankin asked Corrigan to enlist the U.S. Navy to help.

“These ships were all pretty far from the fishing boat,” said Corrigan.

“Sure, but there was probably a little boat involved,” said Rankin. “Something too small to be tracked easily. Maybe two or three.”

Corrigan told him that a navy Orion patrol plane was already en route, and that a guided missile destroyer might be able to help. In the meantime, he’d try to find a helicopter that could be put at their disposal, either to aid the search or to get them to a ship if the Iranian was found.

Guns, meanwhile, had gone up on deck. A storm was kicking up; raindrops from the approaching clouds were spraying against his face.

“They’re trying to get an Orion patrol plane out from Sigonella on Sicily,” said Rankin, joining him.

“That’s good.”

“What are you doing out here? It’s raining.”

“I know. Think that will make it easier for him? Or harder?”

“Got me.”

“Easier, I think,” said Guns.

“You looking at something?”

“Just thinking.”

Rankin started to go back inside.

“What do you figure is wrong with Ferg?” Guns asked.

“What do you mean, what’s wrong with him?”

“He’s always taking pills. You notice that?”

Rankin shrugged. “Look like aspirin or something.”

“Too small.”

“Go pills, maybe.”

Go pills were amphetamines and modafinil, a narcolepsy drug sometimes issued by the military for pilots and others who had to stay up at night.

“Nah. He takes them in the morning.”

“Why? You think he’s doped up?”

“I think he’s sick.”

“Don’t get obsessed with him,” said Rankin. “Ferg’s Ferg. Just another guy. Just like you and me.”

“You’re one to talk,” said Guns. But his companion had already gone back into the ship.

~ * ~

4

BOLOGNA, ITALY

Kiska waited until Rostislawitch was in the main hall of the art building, surrounded by people. She walked directly up to him, gently nudging a Danish scientist out of her way.

“Dr. Rostislawitch. I would like to speak to you, sir,” she said in stiff Russian.

Rostislawitch, caught off-guard, didn’t even ask why. He followed Kiska as she walked out of the building and across the street, her heels clicking loudly on the pavement. The FSB colonel continued to a small coffee bar and walked to the back, where a small room was set aside for regular patrons. She nodded at the owner as she passed. The man smiled; she’d promised him a hundred euros to keep others out for the few minutes her conversation would take.

“What is this about?” asked Rostislawitch as she pulled out a chair.

“In a moment.” Kiska opened her purse and took out a small radio finder, which would tell her if the place had been bugged. She didn’t actually care if Ferguson overheard the conversation, but she did want to know if he was listening in.

Apparently not; there were no signals.

“What are you doing?” Rostislawitch asked again.

Kiska left her device on the table between them.

“Doctor, you are employed by the Karamov Institute, are you not?”

Rostislawitch’s last hope that he had been singled out by mistake vanished.

“I am on the payroll, yes.”

“You are an important member of the Institute.”

“I have very few duties these days.”

“Doctor, there are circumstances where it does not pay to be modest. I am well aware of your abilities. As are many others.”

“Then you are aware that my abilities are not being put to use, except in the most mundane manner.”

“That is not my concern, and is probably a matter of opinion,” said Kiska. The scientist’s arrogance shocked her. He was, she believed, contemplating treason, but had the gall to pretend, at least to himself, that he was not at fault because he was bored. “A few days ago, one of the locks in a sensitive area was tampered with.”

“Was anything taken?”

“The investigation continues. You were among the people who knew of the area, and the combination to the lock.”

“If I opened it, there would be a record,” said Rostislawitch. “There are many safeguards in the lab.”

“You know which area I’m talking about?”

“I can guess,” said the scientist, doing his best to backtrack.

“I see. What area is that?”

Rostislawitch hesitated, unsure whether a wrong answer would simply make it obvious that he was trying to divert attention from himself. He knew there would be no record of him going in or out; without a record, there would be no proof. He knew also that he would not have been the only one who had been in the lab.

“We are talking about either the monkeys, or the critical storage area,” he said, deciding to combine the right and wrong answers. “There are digital code locks in both areas. I have been to both regularly.”

“Several other areas do as well,” said Kiska. She had not thought she could get a confession from Rostislawitch—there was, in fact, considerable doubt as to whether anything had even been taken, as she’d admitted to Ferguson. But now she sensed that she had the scientist under her control; she would press him as far as possible. “Why mention those?”

“Because those are the only important areas where I have access.”

“The clinic is not important? The medicine area.”

“I have access there,” Rostislawitch said. “But no, I don’t think it would be that important. Not unless they have resumed the experiments—which they told me they would do without me.”

“Why did you come to Bologna?”

“I’m here at a conference. As you know.”

“Who have you met here?”

Rostislawitch rose. “I don’t have to answer these questions. We’re not living in the old days.”

“Sit down, Dr. Rostislawitch. You may not care much about your position, but I am sure you would feel terrible if your brother lost his. And if Irena Grinberg and her husband were similarly unable to find work.”

“Don’t threaten me.”

“If you interpret that as a threat, that’s your business.”

“What is it that you want?” he asked, still standing. A day ago, she might have been able to browbeat him, but today he felt strong, able to resist.

Kiska rose. She was several inches taller than the scientist, and she leaned forward across the table, emphasizing her physical advantage.

“Who have you spoken to here?” asked Kiska.

“I’ve spoken to many people at the conference.”

Kiska shook her head. “Don’t be coy, Doctor. You must not do anything that would endanger others.”

“Blackmail will get you nowhere.”

“The others I’m speaking about are the people who would be hurt by the material you took.”

“I didn’t take any material.”

Kiska stared into his face. She saw guilt there, fear—he had taken something; she was sure of it.

“Doctor, the lives of many people could be in your hands. Do you trust the Americans?”

“I do not trust the Americans at all.”

“The girl you took to dinner the other night is an American.”

“She’s Greek.”

Kiska frowned. It was sad to see how easily a man could be fooled by a woman who took an interest in him.

“Check her more carefully,” Kiska suggested.

“I don’t have to check her,” said Rostislawitch. He knew this was the sort of trick the FSB played to make him suspect everyone. That was how these spies succeeded, by making one paranoid. The KGB had done it; whatever agency succeeded the FSB would do it. It was in their blood.

“There was an explosion the other day, while you walked on the street,” said Kiska.

“Yes?”

“The Americans believe you were the target. I myself was nearby—I had just arrived from Moscow. Who do you think was trying to kill you?”

“Me? It was a terrorist attack. They weren’t aiming at me.”

“Are you sure?”

Rostislawitch clamped his teeth together, afraid that anything he said would give him away. He made his face angry; he had a right to be angry, he thought, and bitter.

Despite the scientist’s bluster, Kiska knew she had rattled him. While she lacked the evidence she would need to arrest him, Kiska felt it was now only a matter of time before he did something to give himself away. He might even do it voluntarily, if she could play him right.

“I can help you,” said Kiska, softening her tone gradually. “I can get you home. Repair things.”