to include the prime minister and Moretti. “Also, the NSA, tracking down all the cell phone messages with the phrase ‘al Jabbar.’
“We now know that in Europe, in addition to Rome, there were four additional attacks planned: London, Brussels, Paris, and Madrid. Thanks to the leads from Turin, we were able to stop three of the four. The only one who slipped through the net and wasn’t picked up in time was a young Tunisian student in Madrid, who managed to detonate his suicide vest at a bus stop-prematurely, we think-killing two and injuring a young girl.”
“What about America?” the prime minister asked.
“There were three attacks planned,” Harris replied. “We stopped two, the big one, the bioweapon attack in New York and one in Chicago; a Pakistani college student who was planning to blow up a train. There were three deaths: the Bangladeshi woman and a Pakistani helicopter pilot in New York, and an incident in Los Angeles. So far we’ve been able to angle the media so the public has been reassured that they were all under surveillance and that the major threat was stopped. Nothing about the bio threat has been given to the press.”
“So many attacks. This time we were lucky,” the prime minister said.
“We were good,” Harris said.
“Thanks to lo Scorpione. Tell him,” the prime minister gestured at Moretti, “what we found in the camion di Carabinieri.”
“One hundred and sixty-five kilos of RDX, plus more than twelve hundred kilos of fertilizer and diesel fuel and three kilos of Cesium-137,” Moretti said.
“A dirty bomb. It would have been a total disaster,” the prime minister said, shaking his head.
“What are you talking about? What about the uranium?” Scorpion asked.
“What uranium?” the prime minister said, looking at Scorpion and Harris.
“The twenty-one kilos of highly enriched U-235 missing from Russia. That uranium!”
“There was nothing in the camion,” Moretti said. “Only the cesium. That would have been bad enough. Cesium-137 has a half-life of thirty years and it bonds with everything-walls, paint, metal, dirt, trees, air. Much of Rome might have been made uninhabitable.”
“The uranium was a false alarm,” Harris said. “It may have been disinformation from the Russians.”
“This is bullshit!” Scorpion said, standing up. He stubbed the cigar out in an ashtray on the prime minister’s desk, a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Where’s Dave Rabinowich? Get him on the line now.”
“Take it easy,” Harris said, glancing over at the prime minister. “Remember where you are.”
“Get Rabinowich now,” Scorpion said through clenched teeth. Two Italian agents stepped into the room, their hands inside their suit jackets, but the prime minister waved them off, indicating that they should leave.
“Dave’s been reassigned,” Harris said, standing up. “He’s not on this operation anymore. Neither are you. This case is closed. Prime Minister, I’m afraid we’ve taken up enough of your time.”
“Where’s Dave?” Scorpion said, not moving.
“He’s on vacation. Hawaii, I think. He said he’d be incommunicado. No e-mails, no cell phones. His fat ass is probably in a beach chair right now, ogling girls in bikinis,” Harris said, walking to the door.
The prime minister stood up and extended his hand for Scorpion to shake. “Arrivederci, Scorpione. We owe you much.”
“Prego, but this is merda,” Scorpion said again, shaking the prime minister’s hand but looking at Moretti.
“You should clean your face. It still has dried blood on it, il mio amico,” Moretti said, his eyes sympathetic. “There is a restroom down the hall.”
Harris was waiting for Scorpion in the hallway outside the office.
“What the hell did you think you were doing in there? You don’t work for the Italians, you work for us. Although maybe not anymore,” he said.
“What was I doing?” Scorpion snapped. “How about twenty-one kilos of bullshit from Ozersk that supposedly doesn’t exist? Or an Iranian ship from Bushehr that disappeared into thin air? Did I imagine that too or did I hear it from you, you son of a bitch? And now all of a sudden Rabinowich has disappeared too? This isn’t an intelligence operation, it’s the Bermuda Triangle.”
“Keep your voice down,” Harris said. “You know the rules. You tell the runner just what he needs to know. That’s all.”
“Yeah, but what you tell him is supposed to be good,” Scorpion said. “So what operation was I on, Bob, old buddy?”
“Your job was to terminate the Palestinian. You did it. He’s dead. You saved Rome-and a lot of other people too. You’ve been paid in full plus the bonus. Case closed,” Harris said, adjusting his suit jacket cuffs as he headed for the elevator. The door opened and Harris stepped in. Scorpion watched him from the hallway. “You coming?” Harris said.
“With you? That’s always a mistake,” Scorpion said.
The two men watched the elevator door close between them, then Scorpion walked to the men’s room and washed his hands and face in the basin. Not looking, he sensed Moretti come in. Scorpion wiped his face with a hand towel and looked at himself in the mirror. He’d had so many identities, the man who looked back at him was almost a stranger, face bruised and needing a shave, his gray eyes catching the overhead light like a cat’s eyes.
“Are you all right?”
“No,” Scorpion said. “There’s something very wrong. Buona notte to that bucket of yours.”
“I know. There were traces of radiation from uranium, as well as cesium, in the hold of that ship, the Zaina,” Moretti said. “He’s holding something back. What will you do?”
Scorpion looked at the two of them in the mirror: the stranger with gray eyes and the little Italian spy. There were only two possibilities, he thought. Either it was all Russian disinformation, or his operation against the Palestinian was, in CIA parlance, “window dressing,” a diversion from the real operation. If that was the case, whatever the operation was, it was still running. Either way, the feeling in his stomach was like something twisting inside, saying something truly terrible was about to happen. Worse, if he stayed with it, he was completely on his own. Harris had cut him off from both Rabinowich and the Company. Anything he did could be considered treason.
“Arrivederci, Aldo,” Scorpion said, putting his hand on Moretti’s shoulder. “This isn’t over.”
“Bene. You go to Torino? The air is good there this time of year.”
“Perhaps. Rome’s getting a little hot for me.”
“Keep in touch, Scorpione,” Moretti said. When Scorpion left him, the Italian was peering at the mirror, snipping at his mustache and nose hairs with a pair of tiny penknife scissors.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Torino, Italy
The warehouse was smaller than Scorpion expected. The polizia had roped it off as a crime scene, and at night the electric lamps in front made a hazy glow like the entrance to an underground nightclub. The street was empty, and close enough to the river that he could smell it. In this working-class neighborhood, there were few lights in any of the windows nearby. But although he couldn’t see them, he knew there might be eyes watching. He stepped around the police barrier, and two guardia policemen detached themselves from the shadows and came toward him. He showed them the badge he had used at the Palazzo delle Finanze and they gestured toward the building. He went inside.
The interior was gloomy, a dusty space lit only by a few overhead lights. It had an abandoned, almost desolate feel. A curly-haired Carabinieri lieutenant stood in the middle of the empty space, his Beretta pointed at Scorpion.
“Signor McDonald?” the lieutenant asked. The lieutenant’s uniform had an insignia that showed he was of the Special WMD unit.
“Buona notte, tenente. I’m Damon McDonald,” Scorpion said, showing the lieutenant his badge.
“Mi chiamo Giorgio. I have been ordered to show you everything,” the lieutenant said, putting his gun back in the holster. “You speak Italian?”
