Ferguson got within ten yards of Rostislawitch while the police were questioning him. He saw Rankin on the other side of the street, ready to interfere.
“No, hang back,” Ferguson told him over the radio. “I’ll deal with this.”
“What the hell’s going on?” Rankin asked.
“This is what happens when you cooperate with the Italians,” said Ferguson. “They screw everything up. Go grab some lunch. Check on Thera when you’re done. I’ll call you.”
“You sure, Ferg?”
“Yeah. Better that there’s no witnesses when I strangle Imperiati.”
The SISDE officer was waiting for Ferguson in the upstairs squad room of the police station. In the few hours since Ferguson had left, the room had taken on the air of a television production room; there were several dozen screens, each clustered in a different area around the outside of the large room. Imperiati, sleeves rolled up but tie still tight to his collar, strolled back and forth among them. He was wearing a wireless headset.
“What have you done with Rostislawitch?” Ferguson demanded.
“Signor Rostislawitch lacks proper documentation. He is being questioned,” said Imperiati blandly.
“Come on, Imperiati. We were working together.”
“Partners, eh? And what do you call a partner who does not fully —
“What didn’t I tell you?”
“Signore Rostislawitch had laboratories in Chechnya. Is he a war criminal?”
“Not that I know of. No.”
Imperiati turned the corner of his mouth upward in a wry smile. “Is he the target, or is he in a better position to be the murderer, signore?”
“He’s the target,” said Ferguson. “Maybe.”
“And why would someone want to kill him?”
“I haven’t figured it out yet.”
“You have a theory no?”
“No.”
Imperiati shook his head.
“Listen, you told me yourself that you have two other likely targets,” said Ferguson. “Why arrest him?”
“He has not been arrested. We are very careful about our legal procedures here in Italy, signore. It is within the police’s rights to ask for identification. If a foreign citizen does not have a passport, he can be detained.”
“When was the last time that happened? Nineteen thirty-nine?”
A uniformed police officer standing near the doorway signaled to Imperiati, who beckoned him over. Ferguson pulled out a chair and stared at the nearby surveillance screen.
Had T Rex been nearby when the police stopped Rostislawitch? Ferguson wondered. They hadn’t seen anyone on the street, but maybe he was in one of the buildings. Maybe the police arresting — or whatever Imperiati wanted to call it — Rostislawitch was a good idea. Maybe T Rex would be waiting outside, or feel anxious about getting the job over with. Maybe it would flush him out.
Lemonade out of lemons. More likely Rostislawitch would be killed right under the Italians’ noses.
“Do you know a Nathaniel Hamilton?” Imperiati asked Ferguson when he returned.
“Sure. MI6. British agent.”
“Why would he want to talk to me? Is he working with you?”
“Not with me. He has some interest in Rostislawitch as well.”
“Why?”
“He wouldn’t tell me,” said Ferguson, rising. “I don’t think he likes me.”
Imperiati told the policeman to show Hamilton to his office.
“Where are you going?” Imperiati asked Ferguson as he started to follow him down the hall.
“I thought maybe you could use a translator.”
“My English isn’t good?”
“It’s fine. Hamilton’s is pretty sub par.”
Imperiati frowned.
“I should have known you’d be here, torquing things up,” said Hamilton, spotting Ferguson as he came up the stairs.
“Come on, Hamilton. That’s your job.”
“This way, Signor Hamilton,” said Imperiati.
“I’m going to go grab a coffee,” Ferguson told Imperiati. “Want anything? Coffee, maybe a little cannoli?”
“Your loss.”
19
Under other circumstances, Rostislawitch might have demanded to call the Russian consulate. Having just left the Iranian, however, he thought it best to keep his mouth shut until he could figure out what exactly was going on.
The police had taken him to a small police station on the outskirts of the city, shown him to a room, and asked him to fill out an identity paper. As soon as he sat down at the desk and picked up the pencil, they left, and hadn’t been back since.
He wondered if the Iranian had arranged this to intimidate him. It seemed unlikely; they already had an agreement.
Maybe it was nothing. Rostislawitch wanted it to be nothing — a desire he couldn’t trust.
There were other Russians at the conference. He knew two of the scientists vaguely; the others he didn’t recognize. Perhaps one was an intelligence agent, and had somehow learned what he was up to.
That was impossible. No, not impossible, but improbable.
Besides, the Russian intelligence agencies would
The paper filled out, he got up and paced the room. If he got out of here, he would go back to his hotel, lock the door, and not leave until it was time for his train home.
He’d like to see the girl, Thera, with her curly black hair and darting green eyes. She might think of him as her father or a kindly uncle, but he’d like to see her anyway.
If he got out of here.
20
“We’ve been looking at the photos you uploaded, Ferg,” Corrigan told Ferguson as he sat in a cafe across the street from the police station. “He’s not on any hot list we have.”
“The name doesn’t mean anything?”
“Supposedly a banker. Did some deals for Iran but nothing major that we know of. Nothing from MI6, but you know how that goes. I have Ciello working on it.”
“Get back to me.”
