Marco Imperiati was 180 degrees in the other direction. Fifty years old, the SISDE officer was a short man; at five-four his face barely reached Ferguson’s chest. But Imperiati had an intense look that made him seem considerably taller, and his voice made his underlings move quickly.
“You are late,” he told Ferguson when they met at the police station, where a suite of rooms on the third floor had been commandeered. Imperiati’s English had a British accent and a staccato rhythm.
“Got stuck in your traffic,” said Ferguson. He glanced at the large paper map of the city on the office wall; it was dotted with arrows and pins indicating lookout posts.
“Why have these people chosen Bologna?” asked Imperiati.
“It’s one man. We call him T Rex.”
“Why Bologna?”
“I guess his target is here,” said Ferguson. “Other than that, I have no idea.”
“Tell me about him.”
Ferguson repeated what he knew would have been in the briefing paper Slott forwarded to SISDE. Imperiati listened without expression, his eyes locked on Ferguson’s. He didn’t trust the American; in Imperiati’s experience, the CIA always reserved some vital piece of information. And even if that was not the case here, he had no doubt that the Americans had a different agenda than he did. He suspected that they had known about the plot for weeks, if not months. Had they notified his government earlier, proper preparations could have been taken. Now he was playing catch-up, and it was very possible that he would not be able to prevent a catastrophe.
“So who is he?” said Imperiati finally.
“I wish I knew,” said Ferguson.
“No theory.”
“A very good assassin, but probably not as good as his reputation makes him seem.” Ferguson walked over to the map, looking at it.
“You could say that about anyone.”
“Pretty much. Present company excluded, of course.”
The slightest hint of a grin appeared at the corner of Imperiati’s mouth, where it died a quick and lonely death.
“His advance person checked these three squares out,” Ferguson said, pointing. “And these buildings. We have a theory the genetic conference is involved, because it’s being held in the art building. Maybe T Rex thinks his target will move through one of those squares. They may have tours organized—”
“We’ll cancel them.”
“Discreetly,” said Ferguson.
“Of course.”
“But it could just be a coincidence.” Ferguson looked back at the map.
“Where is the advance person?”
“I understand she left yesterday.” Ferguson wasn’t lying, of course, though he did suggest that he hadn’t been here. Imperiati didn’t buy it.
“Had we been notified, I could have had her arrested. We would have interrogated her.”
Ferguson nodded. Imperiati was surprised that he didn’t offer an excuse. It impressed him, though only slightly. “And you have no idea who his target is?”
“We have a theory. Last night we did. Today I’m not so sure.” Ferguson told him about the Russian, again saying little more than what Imperiati would already have been briefed on. “I understand you have a candidate?” Ferguson added when he was finished.
“Several.” Imperiati told Ferguson about the drug executive Corrine had mentioned last night, then added that two Italian ministers were supposed to be in the city within the next few days. One was addressing the genetic conference; the other was visiting a new exhibit at a small museum near Porta San Donato.
“You think someone would pay close to a million dollars to kill an art minister?” Ferguson asked.
“Well, this is Italy. We do take art very seriously.” Imperiati attempted a smile; it died about halfway to his lips. “But the fact that she is the niece of a Sicilian Mafioso involved in a power struggle may be relevant.”
“True.”
“We will cancel both visits at the last minute.”
“If you do that, we’re not going to catch T Rex.”
“That is not my concern.”
“If he’s really been hired to kill one of those people, he won’t stop just because the visit is canceled. If you have the minister, or a stand-in, come to the city, you’ll still be able to catch him.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he gets away. In the process, if there is a bomb, if there is a gas attack, even a gunfight, innocent people die. Innocent citizens. Those are the people whom I worry about.”
Ferguson figured this wasn’t the time or place to get into a philosophical discussion about who really was innocent in this day and age, so he let Imperiati’s statement pass without comment.
13
While Ferguson met with the Italians, Thera and the others continued to watch Rostislawitch. Security at the conference had been tightened considerably; Thera had to show her forged pass, then wait as her name was checked against a master list of conference attendees. Fortunately, Corrigan had taken the precaution of having her name added overnight, as well as making sure that her credentials with the University of Athens were in order.
The back entrance Thera had gone out with Rostislawitch as well as the side doors, and all of the windows on the first floor, had been locked, with alarms attached, and a cell phone interrupter was now operating inside the building, making it impossible for anyone to call in or out, much less use a phone to trigger explosive devices. The team’s radios were not affected, but since the Italians were using detection devices, the radios were reserved only for emergencies. Thera kept hers in her purse while she attended a panel discussion on the function of enzymes in bacteria mutation. She found the topic fascinating, though somewhat over her head. Corrigan had forwarded a collection of papers on microbiology, DNA manipulation, and bacteria for her to study, and she read them when the lectures got boring.
Rostislawitch saw her as the session broke up. She waved, then waited for him to come over.
“Old news,” said Rostislawitch derisively. He’d read papers along similar lines nearly a decade before.
“Do you think?” asked Thera.
“Don’t you?”
“Everything is interesting,” she said.
“And tell me about your work.”
“If you found this old, you would run away if I say anything in the least about it.”
“Oh, I’m sure I wouldn’t.” Rostislawitch tried to think of something to say to encourage her — he’d been a fool to criticize the others’ work, making himself look more important but at the same time scaring her off.
Of course she had no interest in him, so she couldn’t be scared off. He was old enough to be her father.
“Lunch?” Thera suggested.
“My budget is very thin.”
“So is mine. But I saw a shop nearby where they sell sandwiches and little pizza tarts. The prices look cheap.”
“Let’s go then,” said Rostislawitch.
You hear what they’re talking about?” Rankin asked Guns. Thera and Rostislawitch were in a small stand-up cafe a few blocks from the art building. The place had a counter facing the window where people could stand and have a quick bite to eat. Rankin, sitting on a Vespa a few yards down the street, watched from the outside; Guns had gone in behind them, and was pretending to talk on his cell phone.
“Stuff about Russia. You got the outside covered?”
