Hamilton’s phone beeped, telling him he had a message. He waited until the Iranian had parked his car before dialing in to find out who it was.
Ferguson finally had gotten back to him, cheeky as ever. He hit the redial.
“Well, Mr. Ferguson, I’m told I should cooperate with you fully,” Hamilton said when Ferguson answered.
“Always a pleasure to be working with our allies,” said Ferguson. He seemed a bit winded, and there was a clicking sort of mechanical sound in the background, gears moving.
“Whatever are you doing?” asked Hamilton. “Working out?”
“Riding my bike.”
“In this cold?”
“It’s not that cold.”
Crazy Yanks. All of them.
Hamilton watched Atha leave the parking garage and walk in the direction of the Moroccan restaurant. It was no surprise; he’d gone there the night before as well. Yesterday Hamilton had gone in and watched from the bar. Tonight he thought he’d stay in the car; the smell of the food sometimes bothered his stomach.
“So do you have anything new?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Maybe we should get together and trade notes,” said Ferguson.
“I don’t really see the point,” said Hamilton, switching off his motor. Maybe he would go in after all. “I am in the middle of something and—”
There was a knock on his car window. Startled, Hamilton turned and saw Ferguson grinning at him.
“What the hell are you doing?” asked Hamilton, lowering the window.
“Following those two women getting out of the cab over there,” Ferguson said. “My bet is they’re going to see Atha.”
“Bloody hell.”
“You have that place bugged, or should we go inside?”
Atha saw the waiter giving the two girls a hard time. He raised his hand. Francesca saw it and pointed. Reluctantly, the waiter let them through.
“Here, a receipt, just as you predicted,” said Rosa, unfolding a piece of paper on the table. “Left baggage.”
“Excellent.”
More than excellent, he thought — better than he could have wished for. But he warned himself not to get too optimistic.
“Is it at the bus station?” said Francesca. “We can go and get it if you want?”
“No, that’s fine,” said Atha. “How about a drink? Some wine?”
“How about our money?” said Francesca. She held out her hand.
“Oh, ladies, don’t be so quick. The night is young.”
“That’s extra,” said Francesca.
Rosa ran her fingers across the back of his neck. “But we are willing to negotiate.”
Yes, we have these sorts of things,” said Hamilton, holding up the tiny bug. “Probably made in China.”
“I think you can get a better deal out of Thailand,” said Ferguson, taking out a receiving unit disguised as an MP 3 player. “Drop it on the floor as you pass.”
“Why should I drop it?”
“Because I’m picking up the bar tab.”
“In that case, I will be right back.”
Hamilton got up and made his way toward the restrooms, choosing a course that would take him near the Iranian. By now the two hookers were hanging all over him. Atha seemed oblivious to the disapproving glare of his neighbors, let alone Hamilton. The MI6 agent let the small bug slip from his fingertips. It bounced on the floor, coming to rest under Atha’s chair. It was tiny, as small as a fly. But the thing that impressed Hamilton — and horrified him, if truth be told — was the fact that Ferguson treated it as a throwaway device. It would be crushed underfoot within an hour, and he didn’t care. It was all very incredibly wasteful. How could you compete with people with those sorts of resources to burn?
By the time Hamilton got back to the table, the waiter had deposited a bucket of ice and a bottle of Asti. Ferguson was listening to the conversation at the other end of the room, sipping the wine.
“Italian pseudo-Champagne?” asked Hamilton.
“What did you want?”
“Cognac at the very least.” He held up his hand and tried catching the waiter’s attention. “So?”
“He’s telling them about Paradise.”
“No doubt.”
Ferguson took one of the earphones out and held it toward him.
“That’s quite all right,” said Hamilton.
“Afraid you’ll get cooties?” Ferguson let the small earphone dangle while he sipped his wine. “So tell me about our friend Atha. How long have you been following him?”
“I really did tell you everything earlier, I’m afraid. I wish I could get a bloody drink.”
Ferguson raised his right hand, pointing toward the ceiling. Within moments, the waiter appeared.
“A cognac for my friend. Something nice,” Ferguson said in Italian.
“Hmmmph,” said Hamilton.
“Refresh my memory. How long have you been watching Atha?”
“I suppose for many months. Not myself. I have better things to do with my time.”
“Because you’re an important man,” said Ferguson.
“I have other ways of wasting my time.”
“You just got on the case?”
“That’s right. I was working in Africa and then this came along.”
Hamilton told Ferguson about Anghuyu “Atha” Jahan’s background, giving a more detailed version than he had earlier. Atha had been born in 1969 to a family that had once been fairly prominent in Iranian politics, but had fallen out of favor with the shah and in effect been banished to the city of Mashhad in the far eastern portion of the country. The problems with the shah helped the family when he was overthrown; though they were hardly part of an inner circle, they were well-off enough to send Atha to school in Great Britain. He studied engineering and finance; in the nineties he had helped arrange loans for the construction of docks and oil pipelines. The British believed that he had profited greatly from the loans; in any event, by 2004 he was traveling through Europe, where his main task was arranging for the purchase and shipment of prescription drugs through gray-market channels. He bought some equipment for the nuclear program as well, though nothing major; Hamilton had been told he was a “pinch hitter,” filling in for more prominent deal makers. But he was also close to the Revolutionary Guard and the Iranian education minister.
“Unclear whether he was working for the government or as a freelancer,” said Hamilton. “Immaterial really. And then he had a falling-out with someone, and returned home for two years.”
“And suddenly he’s back.” Ferguson turned his gaze toward Atha’s table; the two girls were playing with Atha’s hair.
“And my assignment was to find out why. The Russian is obviously the answer.”
“When did he first make contact with him?”
Hamilton’s cognac finally arrived. He swirled it in his glass, then took the slightest of sips.
“My superiors do not tell me everything. I am not sure. I was only given the assignment recently.”
“When you were in Africa.”
“That’s right.”
“You heard about him there?”
