“I’m here because the President wanted to convey his deep concern,” said Corrine. “To emphasize how seriously he takes the matter. It was not related to a rendition.”
The ambassador smirked. “But, of course, if there is a legal concern, you will be in a position to handle it.”
“Hopefully, it won’t come to that.”
“You are going to oversee the situation yourself?”
“I will keep an eye on it, yes. But the CIA has its own personnel who are certainly capable of proceeding on their own. The Deputy Director of Operations will be contacting your intelligence officials as soon as I tell him I’ve met with you.”
“Very good. You will stay for lunch?”
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
Ambassador Rossi rose. “Then if you will excuse me, I must inform my government.”
6
Ferguson took a quick swig from the cup, draining the
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 resumes 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
