Ferguson stuck with the veal piccata. He liked his food both solid and stationary when he ate it.
“Signor Hamilton doesn’t like you much,” said Imperiati.
“Not much. But then I don’t like him. He screwed up something I was working on in Algeria two years ago. Almost got me killed.”
“And what was that?”
“You’ve worked on things you can’t talk about, I’m sure.”
“I’m sorry. My career has been very boring,” added Imperiati. “I’ve never had action outside of the country.”
Imperiati paused;
“So yes, very boring,” he said, continuing. “But I like it that way. I can go home to my wife, my children. A boring father. But a successful one.” Imperiati snared a piece of celery in the soup. “Now, the Americans and the British come to Italy, come to my city, and for them, boring is no good. They want adventure.”
“Not me,” said Ferguson. “I want T Rex.”
“But to get him, you are willing to have some adventure, yes?”
“I’ll take whatever comes.”
“While I would prefer things to be boring.”
They ate in silence for a while. Both men realized they had different agendas, and both had been told to pursue them at all costs.
“Did Hamilton tell you why he’s here?” Ferguson asked.
“He is trying to stop a business transaction.”
“I doubt that. More than likely he’s not sure what’s going on. Except for the obvious.”
“The obvious?” asked Imperiati.
“Germ warfare expert talks to a country looking to replace nukes on its weapons of mass destruction menu. Pretty simple.”
“Too simple maybe.”
“Maybe,” agreed Ferguson.
“And so your man is trying to kill him?”
“Maybe. If he’s working for the Iranians.”
“Do you see my difficulty?”
Before Ferguson could answer, Imperiati’s cell phone rang.
Ferguson guessed who it was and what they said from the frown on Imperiati’s face.
“Signor Rostislawitch will be released,” Imperiati told him when he came back to the table.
“Are you going to warn him?” Ferguson asked.
“I am not sure what use a warning would be,” said the Italian. “We are to watch him. We may make a decision to arrest him if necessary. He will only leave the country if we wish it.”
“And if MI6 wants it.”
“Why do you think the British put pressure on us?”
“Because I know we didn’t.”
“A decision to arrest him would be made by my superiors,” said Imperiati. “If it were my decision, he would be deported now.”
“A boring solution,” said Ferguson. He got up. “Time to get back to work, I’m afraid. Good luck with the soup.”
22
Daniel Slott got up from his desk and began pacing around his office, holding the phone up to his ear and trying not to knock anything over with the long cord.
Corrine Alston was on the other end of the line, calling about the British and wondering why they hadn’t told the CIA what they were up to.
While he would hesitate to call himself fond of Corrine Alston, Slott had come to respect her over the past year or so that they’d worked together. She labored under two great handicaps — her age and her good looks, both of which made people think she was an intellectual lightweight. But she handled things with tact and even finesse, managing not only to do her job as the President’s “conscience” on Special Demands but in several instances actually helping the group accomplish its goals.
Still, though, she was an outsider, and even though she’d worked for the congressional intelligence committees, Corrine needed to be educated in some of the most basic intelligence “facts.”
Including the one stating that one’s allies were never to be trusted.
“We do work with MI6, and MI5, very closely,” Slott told her. “We are allies. But believe me —
It was a Freudian slip, but it was definitely the truth. There was a great deal of rivalry between the U.S. and British intelligence services. Even on matters that they worked closely on — in Iraq and Afghanistan, for example — there were rivalries and jealousies and what the State Department people called “lack of candor.” On both sides.
“What are they doing with the Iranian then?” Corrine asked.
“I have a call in—”
“What’s your best guess?”
“I really don’t like to guess.”
“Make an exception.”
Slott glanced down at the one-page Agency dossier on Anghuyu “Atha” Jahan. It claimed that he was a legitimate banker, and that while he had worked for the Iranian Interior Ministry some years before, he no longer had any formal connection with Iran’s foreign service or any part of its government. This was supposedly because of conflicts with high-ranking members of the Revolutionary Guard, which controlled much of Iran’s foreign services and spy network. Lately he had traveled to Africa, though the paper did not say why.
Obviously the dossier was not complete.
“If Ferguson thinks the Iranians are trying to get some sort of access to the Russian biological warfare program, he may be right,” said Slott. “Rostislawitch would be a good point of contact. Maybe this is a preliminary recruitment. The British may know more.”
“Will they tell us?”
“Maybe. I can’t guarantee anything, Corrine. We don’t control them. I have a few things going on with them now, including the guerillas in Indonesia, but I have to tell you, they can be damn tight about saying anything they get — if things were reversed, I wouldn’t be telling them anything about T Rex. Or as little as necessary. It was the same thing with the Italians. Really, we only went to them because you insisted.”
“If the British aren’t going to cooperate, maybe the President should talk to the Prime Minister.”
“I didn’t say they weren’t going to cooperate.” Slott put his finger into the phone cord, twisting it around. “I just said they haven’t gotten back to me yet. Maybe they’re checking with their people in the field.”
“I’d like to talk to them myself.”
“That’s my job.”
Suddenly angry, Slott set himself behind his desk, physically ready for battle.
“You’re right,” said Corrine, realizing she’d overstepped her bounds. “I’m sorry. Of course you’re the one to talk to them.”
“I’ll let you know what’s going on.”
“I’m not trying to do your job, Dan. I’m just trying to do what the President wants me to.”
“I understand,” he said, reaching to disconnect.
