“You just drink water?”
“The bubbles give me energy,” he said, looking up into Thera’s green eyes.
“You’re Irish.”
“And you’re… something,” said Ferguson.
“Greek.”
“Your English is pretty good. How’d you know I was Irish?”
“Your accent gives you away. I spent a year studying in Dublin, and two in London. I thought you were English at first.”
“Have a seat.” She was getting better at lying, Ferguson thought. He almost would have believed her.
“I don’t think so. Thanks.”
“Your loss.”
“Maybe.” Thera went to the bar and ordered a White Russian.
“I’ll pay for that,” said Ferguson, getting up and walking toward the bar as the bartender brought Thera her drink.
“Thanks. I don’t think so,” she said.
“You sure?”
“You’re cute, but—” Thera felt a pang of regret, as if she weren’t just playacting.
“There’s always a but,” said Ferguson. He dropped a ten-euro note on the bar and walked out.
Twenty minutes later, the team assembled in a suite in the Hotel Vespucci across the street: technically Guns’ room, reserved for him by Corrigan. Rankin, who’d had to park the car in a hotel garage several blocks away, was the last one in; he gave Ferguson a scowl and then went and sat at the far end of the sofa, glaring at him.
One of these days, Rankin thought, no shit, he was going to punch Ferguson in the mouth.
“Tough night,” said Ferguson. “I think we all oughta get some sleep. If Rostislawitch is the target, I figure we can take six hours. If he’s not, then it probably doesn’t matter how long we sleep.”
“That’s it? That’s what we’re doing?” asked Rankin.
“If you have another idea, Skippy, I’m all ears,” said Ferguson. “Fire away.”
“I don’t see why anyone would want to kill Rostislawitch,” said Rankin.
“Maybe the Russians,” suggested Thera.
“Why wait until he’s out of the country then? No way. Corrigan’s brief says he’s teaching basic biology classes. That’s not a real important job.”
“How do you know?” asked Guns.
“ ‘Cause unlike you, Marine, I went to college.”
“Relax,” said Ferguson. “I agree, but he looks like the only guy at the conference who’s halfway worth targeting. By who, I don’t know.”
“The Russians aren’t going to hire out to kill him,” said Rankin. “And they’re not going to wait until he’s out of the country.”
“They killed Alexander Litvinenko in London,” said Thera.
“ ‘Cause they couldn’t lure him back to Russia.” Rankin folded his arms.
“Skip’s got a good point,” said Ferguson. He leaned back in the seat, his head on the back cushion so that he was gazing at the ceiling. “Maybe I was wrong about this. Maybe the theory that he’s going to hit a public square is right. Maybe it is some sort of gas attack. Maybe a bomb, I don’t know. We’re missing too many pieces of the puzzle right now. Back to square one. But get some sleep first.”
Rankin snorted. That was as close to a full-blown apology as Ferguson ever made. “I’ll take the watch,” Rankin said.
“I got it, Skippy.”
“You can’t let it be, huh?” shot Rankin. “You can’t just say you were an asshole and let it go.”
Ferguson just grinned and said nothing.
11
Corrine glanced at her watch. It was a little past 6 p.m. — just after midnight in Italy. She picked up the encrypted phone and called Ferguson.
“O’Brien’s Real Italian Delicatessen,” he said.
“I have the name of the Italian SISDE liaison who’s on his way to Bologna,” Corrine said. She’d learned that the best way to deal with Ferguson was to ignore his jokes. “He wants to meet first thing in the morning.”
“Can’t wait. I’ll try to remember to shave first.”
“What did Rostislawitch do tonight?”
“Not much. I’m not sure we got the right guy.”
“The Italians have a theory. They think the target may be a drug company president who’s supposed to be the dinner speaker Thursday. He’s going through a messy divorce.”
“Have to be pretty messy for T Rex to be involved.”
“How about rich, too? The Italians say he’s worth a half-billion dollars at least.”
“Well, that might do it,” said Ferguson, his voice enthusiastic for the first time since the conversation began. “You have information on that?”
“The Italians have it. Corrigan was going to have your analysts put together a report as well. He’s in Switzerland right now. He’s only flying in for the dinner, then leaving. They’ll keep him away from the squares.”
“Right.”
“We’re sure T Rex isn’t a terrorist, right?”
“You tell me, Ferg. You’ve been working on this.”
“No, I don’t think so. He tries to make it look that way sometimes, but that’s either to throw people off the trail or to make sure he gets his guy. He doesn’t mind killing people.”
“You OK, Ferg?”
“Fine. Why?”
“You sound… tired.” Some weeks earlier, Corrine had discovered that Ferguson suffered from cancer. She felt sorry for him — sympathetic maybe, not sorry — but she wasn’t sure exactly how to express it. Ferguson hadn’t told anyone, and wouldn’t — Parnelles would take him off the First Team if he found out that he had that kind of illness. “Tired or down.”
Ferguson scoffed. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll wear my peppy hat for our next phone call.”
12
Contrary to Ferguson’s expectations, the SISDE intelligence officer in charge of the Bologna “situation” was extremely businesslike, efficient to the point of seeming Prussian.
Italy had two different intelligence agencies that dealt with terror; SISDE answered to the interior minister, while SISMI was under the direction of the military. Their responsibilities overlapped, and they weren’t known for playing nice together. Italian politics favored complex ambiguities, not to mention mud, muck, and mayhem; rather than being above the fray, SISDE and SISMI wallowed in it.
Most of Ferguson’s admittedly limited experience with the Italian intelligence community was with SISMI, military intelligence; the last liaison he’d dealt with was a drunk. The relationship was less than functional, though the meetings were a lot of fun.
