“Kiska just left the bar. She may be going up there.”
“We’re watching.”
“Where are the Italians?”
“They have two people in the car down the street, one guy on a roof watching the front of the building. Other guys knocked off. They’re not coming in, right?”
“Imperiati says they have to keep their distance. He’s not a suspect in the bombing.”
“Ferg, what’s going on?” asked Thera. “Is she going to try again?”
“You’re assuming she’s T Rex.”
“Well, is she?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t have it all together. I’ll be up in a minute.”
He had just flipped down the phone’s antenna when a call came through. It was Corrigan.
Ferguson glanced down the bar; the bartender was still at the far end, serving whiskeys to two Americans trying to look younger than they really were.
“Hey, Wrong Way,” Ferguson said to Corrigan. “What’s happening?”
“Wrong Way what?”
“You never heard of that? Pilot who flew the wrong way?”
“Listen, Ferg, I need an update. Mr. Parnelles wants to know what’s going on. He’s pretty hot.”
“Hey, I like the old guy myself, Corrigan, but I don’t think he’s much to look at.”
“Stop busting my chops, Ferg. He’s really leaning on me. He wants a report.”
Ferguson laughed. Corrigan had no clue what real pressure was like —
“That’s all you called about?”
“The MI6 guy is trying to get ahold of you. He called your backup number. Message says he’s been told to cooperate with you. Doesn’t sound real overjoyed about it.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Wait; don’t hang up. Tell me what to tell Parnelles.”
Ferguson glanced down at his slacks. “Tell him my pants are wet.”
“What?”
“Did Ciello get that credit card information on Kiska?”
“That may take days, Ferg. You know the legal red tape.”
The bartender came over, pointing at Ferguson’s empty beer glass. Ferguson nodded. The man pushed the sodden napkins off the bar into a wastebasket, then went to get him a refill.
“Why do you want him to dig into that for? Don’t you think the Russian is T Rex?”
“No.”
“Who else could it be? She was in France when Dalton was killed. The Italians say the bomb is similar to ones used in Chechnya. Kiska worked in Chechnya. Bingo.”
“Completely settled, Corrigan. You’re a genius.”
Ferguson took the new beer from the bartender and took a swig; it shot immediately to his head. Then he realized it wasn’t the beer at all. He’d forgotten to take his pills that morning. No wonder he was speeding — missing a dose of the replacement hormones had the odd effect of boosting his energy level temporarily.
The doctors, of course, didn’t believe him; in theory it should do the opposite. But he knew a rush when he felt one.
He reached into his pocket for his pillbox and slipped the little pills onto the bar counter next to the glass.
“I’ll get after Ciello,” Corrigan was saying. “In the meantime, what can I tell Parnelles?”
“Tell him she wouldn’t sleep with me, but I still have hopes.”
“Ferg, come on. Be serious.”
The bartender was hovering nearby. “Talk to you later, Wrong Way,” said Ferguson, hanging up.
“What are those?” asked the bartender, pointing at Ferguson’s pills.
“Viagra,” said Ferguson, popping them into his mouth.
“I thought Viagra was blue.”
“This is the placebo edition.”
Looks like Kiska called a cab,” Rankin said, watching the feed from the video bug on the laptop in the second-floor suite. He had the screen split; the left side showed the lobby, the right side Rostislawitch’s room upstairs.
“You sure she didn’t sneak a booby trap up there?” said Thera. She was pacing near the door.
“I would have seen her. Chill, would you? You’re making me nervous.”
There was a double knock on the door, followed by a buzz at the lock. Ferguson walked in.
“So?”
“Kiska is getting a taxi. Shouldn’t we be following her?” asked Rankin.
“Nah. She’s not T Rex.” Ferguson went to the minibar and took out a water.
“You sure, Ferg?” asked Thera.
“Pretty sure. How are you?”
“I’m OK. If she’s not T Rex, why did you go into the bar?” Rankin asked.
Ferguson shrugged. He was willing to bet his life that Kiska wasn’t T Rex, but not Thera’s. He let his eyes linger for a moment, memorizing how she looked: jeans and a sweater, no makeup, hair pulled back, consciously trying to look plain so she’d fit in easier undercover. But she couldn’t hide how beautiful she was.
What would he trade if he could change the circumstances? Money? He had plenty of that.
That was the first thing people thought of — money. Oh, the brothers would laugh at him, wouldn’t they? An abject lesson. Stand before the throne of Saint Peter, they’d say, and talk of money. See where it gets you, Mr. Ferguson.
Would Saint Peter have a throne? Or even a gate? And why was it Saint Peter, anyway? Why wasn’t it James or John?
“What are you thinking, Ferg?” asked Thera.
“I’m trying to think why someone would pay so much money to kill Rostislawitch. I can’t come up with an answer. He’s just not worth the expense.”
“I thought you said the Iranians would do it.”
“Why bother? Who’s he going to tell?”
“I think it’s pretty obvious,” said Rankin. “The Russians are going to kill him because he’s double-crossing them and dealing with the Iranians.”
“Then why not just arrest him in Russia?” said Thera.
“There’s probably some reason they can’t that we don’t know,” said Rankin.
“Maybe.” Thera straightened. She caught Ferguson staring at her, giving her a look as if she’d done something wrong.
“Hey, look at this,” said Rankin, pointing at the laptop screen.
Two young women in short dresses were in the corridor in front of Rostislawitch’s room. They knocked on the door.
“What’s going on?” Thera asked.
“Hookers, I’ll bet,” said Rankin.
“They’re going to kill him,” said Thera.
“Maybe,” said Ferguson.
“Jesus — we can’t let them.”
“Yeah, we can,” said Ferguson.
“Ferg!”
He put his hand on her shoulder. “Relax and watch the screen.”
