“Wouldn’t have known him from the odd lion, I’m afraid.”
“What else are you supposed to do?”
“At this point, simply gather whatever else I can. And share with you, I suppose.”
“What about Rostislawitch?”
“What about him?”
“Are you trying to eliminate him?”
“Why would I do that?”
“To keep him from working for the Iranians.”
“I’m not with that section.” Hamilton took another sip from his cognac. “Who tried to kill him?”
“I think the bomb earlier today was aimed at him,” said Ferguson.
“I heard some group already took credit.”
“Some people are always taking credit for others’ work.”
Hamilton assumed — correctly — that Ferguson was making an oblique reference to his own behavior, but he laughed nonetheless.
“Blowing up an entire block would not be a very effective way of killing one man. And if that was the intention, they missed.”
“True.”
Ferguson noticed that Atha was getting up from his table.
“Looks like your man is about to show himself a good time.”
Ferguson started to get up, intending to go outside and trail Atha’s car. Hamilton stopped him.
“Your turn,” said the MI6 agent.
“How’s that?”
“I would like to know a bit more about the Russian.”
“He’s a scientist who’s worked in germ warfare. I think the Iranians are trying to recruit him.”
“That much I already know. Come on, Ferguson. I’ve given you background. I’m trying to cooperate. Is he working for the government? Is Rostislawitch involved in a network? Is he just giving information? Is he going over to them? Tell me.”
“I’m not sure yet.”
Ferguson sat back down as Atha and the girls began making their way toward the door.
“The Iranian is small fish,” said Hamilton. “If the Russians are trying to export biological weapons, that’s a major problem.”
“Could be.” Once again Ferguson started to leave, and once again Hamilton grabbed his arm.
“What are you doing?”
“Following Atha. You can help.”
“I rather think you’re the one helping,” answered Hamilton.
“Good. Pay the bill. I’ll call you when he gets to wherever it is he’s going.”
17
Rostislawitch remained in the bathroom of his hotel room, sitting on the floor for more than an hour after he heard the girls leave. He realized he was being silly, even foolish, but he could not manage to get to his feet.
He stared at the bottom of the mirror above the vanity, where the very top of his head was reflected. Once thick and black, his hair was now a thinning splatter of gray and black, the gray looking like speckles of paint scattered by someone working on a ceiling as he passed by.
As Rostislawitch stared at the mirror, it occurred to him that it was not the head of an old man. Not a young man, certainly. But the hair was not that of a man
Rostislawitch got to his feet, bringing his face into view. He leaned over the sink to get a closer look.
A worn face in need of a shave, and a good night’s sleep. A tired man.
But not one who was spent. Not at all.
Yet he acted as if he were dead. This whole scheme, this whole plan — it wasn’t so much to make money as to get revenge on the world for taking his wife, a last act before going to the grave himself.
Which he would have done, stepped in front of a train or found some pills. He’d never consciously admitted it to himself, but as he stared now into his eyes he knew it was true, knew that would have been the next step — not taking the train to Turin, not flying to India and disappearing as he had planned. The next step would have been to shrivel into nothingness.
He didn’t want that. He wasn’t ready for death.
He could take Atha’s money and do a great deal with it. He could live a life of leisure, with a new identity.
Or he could simply go back to Russia, forget about the Iranian and his whores.
Assuming he got rid of the material. If it were found by someone, the results would be catastrophic.
The baggage ticket. It was in his wallet. If it was stolen, he’d never get the bag back without telling the attendant what was in it. That was as good as signing an arrest warrant.
Rostislawitch undid the lock and pulled open the door, rushing to the bureau where he’d left his wallet and watch earlier. He grabbed open the trifold, surprised that the whores had left it.
His two credit cards were in their pockets. His money — rubles at the back, euros in front — still there.
And the baggage ticket, folded neatly in half. Still there.
Still there.
Rostislawitch put the wallet down. What he needed to do was to sleep, to rest. In the morning he would have more energy. In the morning he would be able to think more clearly about his future, about what he should do.
And in the morning he would see the girl, Thera. She probably didn’t like him romantically; he couldn’t flatter himself. But the fact that she took an interest, the fact that she might look up to him as an older scientist — that was something worthwhile.
He would think about that in the morning.
Rostislawitch took off his pants and shirt and climbed into bed. It smelled of the whores’ perfume.
Perhaps he should have made love to them after all. It would have been a story to tell friends years from now.
He could still tell it, though he would be the butt of the joke.
Why not? A good story was a good story, Rostislawitch mused, closing his eyes and drifting off.
18
“Guns, what are you doing?”
“Ferg?”
“No, it’s your fairy godfather calling to tell you that you just won the lottery.”
Ferguson was standing next to a post in the Bologna train station, watching Atha as he counted his change at a newsstand. It had taken more than twelve rings to wake Guns; Ferguson had begun to worry that something had happened to him.
“I’m sorry, Ferg. I was pretty deep in sleep.”
“Listen, I need you to get up and get dressed. Rankin’s on his way over to pick you up. You guys are catching a train to Naples. I think.”
“Uh, OK.”
“You’re going to have to move. The train is leaving in thirty minutes. I’m going to buy you tickets now.”
