prepared to do so, but only if he got the material. Without it, he was ruined.
But he must act confident. It was the prerequisite for success in such situations. The lion could tremble on the inside, but his roar needed to be strong and shattering.
“You are having second thoughts. I understand,” Atha told the scientist calmly. “It is a difficult task. And to become rich in one transaction — it seems almost too good to be true. As if the Prophet, all praise be to him, were to suddenly invite you to his home.”
Rostislawitch said nothing.
“It’s a tremendous thing,” said Atha. “We will talk tomorrow. I will call you at your hotel.”
“The money first,” said Rostislawitch, looking up into Atha’s eyes as he rose.
Atha sat back down. “I don’t know if I can give you the money first.”
“It’s the only way I can do it.”
“Perhaps an installment.”
“No. All of it. In accounts only I can access.”
Atha searched Rostislawitch’s face. The Russian was greedy or he wouldn’t be here, but exactly how greedy was he? Enough to run off without delivering?
Atha did not think he was. But avarice was a notoriously difficult vice to gauge. Rostislawitch showed no outward sign of it — no fancy watch, no chauffeur waiting at the curb. His suit was ill fitting and old. But that might only mean he liked to hoard his money. Only a saint could know a man’s soul and sins, and Atha was not a saint.
Rostislawitch’s face was pale, his eyes a little too wide-open. Atha saw desperation in his stare; he was a man pushed to the edge.
That was as close to an assurance as Atha was going to get.
“The material is available?”
“You’ll have it as soon as I have the money.”
“Good,” said Atha. “I will call you tomorrow. I will arrange for the accounts to be opened and the money transferred.” He reached into the pocket of his sport coat and took out an envelope. “A token for you. Some spending money for you, as a gesture of friendship, not as a payment.”
Rostislawitch frowned, but then took the envelope and stuffed it into his pocket.
He was greedy enough to do business with, Atha decided, rising from the table. The rest would fall into place.
17
“The man’s name is Anghuyu Jahan. They call him Atha for short,” Hamilton told Ferguson. “Though why I’m not sure. It was some sort of baby name that stuck.”
“Who calls him that?”
“Anyone and everyone. Why are you here?”
“Vacation.”
“Sod off, Ferguson.”
“I’ve tried.”
“Who is the Russian?”
“Rostislawitch something or other.”
“Come now. We have a deal.”
“Just like we had in Nigeria?”
“Am I going to hear about that the rest of my life? I was under orders.”
That wasn’t entirely true, but Ferguson let it pass.
“His name is Artur Rostislawitch. He’s a biologist who knows a lot about making germs. Got into some sort of political trouble a few years ago, and now is underemployed.”
“Germs? As in bacterial warfare?”
“That’s what they say.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
Ferguson sipped his drink, trying to decide whether Hamilton’s reaction was real or not. It was tough to tell with the Englishman — he was such a rotten actor that sometimes his genuine reactions seemed fake, and vice versa.
But now suddenly a plot to kill Rostislawitch made sense to Ferguson. The scientist was offering something up to the Iranians; they’d want to get rid of him as soon as the deal went through.
And they’d want someone good to do it. T Rex.
Hamilton saw Atha get up from his table.
“I am afraid you’ll have to excuse me, Robert,” he said. “Her Majesty does not pay me to sit around in bars drinking all day.”
“What exactly does she pay you for?”
Hamilton smirked, then left the restaurant. It was only when the waiter approached that Ferguson realized Hamilton had left him with his bill.
18
Rostislawitch turned the wrong way out of the hotel; when he finally realized it he had walked several blocks in the wrong direction, down Via Farini, and was lost. So when the police car pulled up next to him, he was relieved.
“Could you tell me how to get to Porta San Donato?” he said, pronouncing each English word as distinctly as possible. “I have a conference there. I’m late. The University of Bologna.”
He wanted to say that he was a scientist, but the word in English had left him.
“I — my passport?”
Rostislawitch patted his pocket, though he knew it wasn’t there — he’d turned it in to the desk at the hotel. Panic surged through him. The policeman got out of the car.
“Sir, where is your passport? Are you a member of the European Union?”
The policeman was speaking in Italian, but the gist of what he was saying was clear enough. Unsure what to do, Rostislawitch reached for his wallet.
“That’s not a passport.”
“At my hotel,” said Rostislawitch, using Russian and then English. “My passport is there.”
“Into the car please,” said the policeman, opening the door.
Rostislawitch hesitated. It had been quite a while since he had traveled outside of Russia. This couldn’t be normal. Did they know why he was really here?
He did not have a gun on his belt. Rostislawitch might be able to get away
But what would he do then?
“My hotel is on the Via Imerio,” he said in English. “If you take me there, they can give you the passport. They locked it in their safe.”
The policeman once more gestured toward the car. Seeing no other choice, Rostislawitch got in.
