looked furtively around the room, then went to the table where the resumes 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!
7
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 powerful. 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
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.”
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
