“What do you think I’m doing? Picking my nose?”
Guns laughed. “You’re getting as funny as Ferg.”
Rankin practically bit his tongue to keep from replying.
A panel truck turned down the street. He watched nervously as it made its way past the building. T Rex liked big bombs, and even if this wasn’t the area he’d had scoped out, surely he could strike anywhere.
The one thing they had going for them was that he wasn’t suicidal; he wouldn’t drive the truck he planned to blow up. Then again, he could easily hire someone who was. Or get them involved unknowingly.
“Boom,” said Ferguson, coming up behind Rankin.
He jumped.
“Shit, man. Cut it out.”
“Wound a little tight, are we?” Ferguson turned and scanned the block, then took out a pack of cigarettes, as if he were asking for a smoke.
“I don’t like this spot,” said Rankin. “Thera’s too vulnerable.”
“Why’d you let her come here?”
“We checked it out beforehand,” said Rankin. Ferguson always put him on the defensive. “We sniffed all the cars. No explosives.”
“So why are you nervous?”
“I’m not nervous. I said it wasn’t the best place.”
“She’s moving,” said Guns.
Grateful for the interruption, Rankin started the bike.
14
The assassin put down the field glasses. The shot was gone.
There was no point taking a risk. The aim, after all, was to retire after this hit: one last payoff would make things perfect. There was time.
The Americans had clearly tipped off the Italians; the place was ringed with security people. That in itself was not necessarily a problem, merely a challenge to be overcome. More than likely the preparer had been spotted somehow, but that could play in the assassin’s favor: the preparer had been given many things to do to throw off the scent. Merely avoiding the plan suggested by those things would increase the chances of success tenfold. Improvisation, while something the assassin did not like, could be arranged.
Quickly, the assassin put the glasses back into the suitcase, then turned to the bed where he had put the RPG-7. The Russian rocket-propelled grenade launcher looked almost like a toy on the king-size bed.
“Another time,” said the assassin, packing it away
15
Rostislawitch checked his watch. He was supposed to meet the Iranian in five minutes; it would take at least ten to reach the Orologio, which was over near the Piazza Maggiore.
And yet he continued walking with the girl back in the direction of the conference. Was he bewitched by her? Or was he having second thoughts about the Iranian?
Rostislawitch wasn’t sure.
He stopped abruptly. “I just remembered an appointment,” he told her.
“An appointment?”
“Yes, I–I promised to see a friend of a colleague. It’s a chore. Someone who has not been in good health and I am going to cheer her — him, I mean, I’m going to cheer him up. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
He berated himself — why had he said “her”? And then, why had he changed it? That only made it worse.
“Sure,” said Thera. “See you later?”
For a moment — a slim moment — Rostislawitch thought of asking if she’d come with him: not to the meeting, but away, far away, to America maybe, or any place where he might find a way to start over. But it was a foolish idea, and it evaporated long before he heard her ask if she’d see him later.
“Yes,” Rostislawitch replied. “Good-bye for now.”
Going back to the south,” said Guns, who was watching Rostislawitch from a bicycle.
“All right. You see the Italian trail team?” Ferguson asked.
“In that blue car, right?”
“Yeah.”
“They have anyone else?”
“Not that I’ve spotted,” said Ferguson. “Rankin, you see anybody?”
“No.”
“Ferg, what do you want me to do?” asked Thera, back on the radio circuit now that Rostislawitch had left.
“Go ahead back to the conference. See if you see anything suspicious. Guns, you shadow her. Rankin and I will follow Rostislawitch. Let’s see who he’s meeting.”
“You sure the Italians can keep him safe if T Rex is around?” asked Thera.
“Not my concern.” Ferguson turned and started walking down the Via Ugo Bassi, keeping Rostislawitch between himself and Rankin. “I want T Rex. I want him to take his shot or I won’t have a chance of getting him.”
“Ferg.”
“You sound like you’re worried about him, Thera. The stuff Rostislawitch works on can kill a few thousand people in the time it takes to sneeze. You know who his target was when he started working, right? Um, let’s see. That would be during the Cold War. Gee, could it be the U.S.A.?”
She didn’t answer.
“The Italians have another team on him,” said Rankin. “Couple of guys in a brown Fiat.”
Ferguson reached the corner and waited for the light. He saw the brown Fiat approaching. Up ahead, a pair of police cars were parked about two blocks from the piazza.
Rostislawitch came into view, walking quickly and holding a piece of paper in his hand. Ferguson guessed it was a map, since Rostislawitch kept looking at it.
“All right, I got him,” Ferguson told Rankin, crossing the street just ahead of the Russian. “We’ll let the Eyetralians get in close.”
Rankin grunted in reply. Ferguson reached into his pocket, tapping the radio control so that it played music; he cranked the volume as Rostislawitch neared, just in case the scientist wondered why he was wearing earphones.
Rostislawitch walked by without noticing. He was more than ten minutes late now, and walking so quickly that he felt almost out of breath. Nearing the piazza, he saw a pair of police cars blocking the road. Suddenly he was filled with fear.
Were they looking for him?
It was a ridiculous thought, and yet he couldn’t shake it. Despite all of his precautions, he was sure he was about to be caught.
Rostislawitch continued to walk. He lowered his gaze, focusing on the stones of the walkway. He turned left, moving toward the hotel. There were police everywhere around, some with dogs.
They weren’t after him. There were too many officers, too much of a commotion — he saw a police van
