“Sure.”
“You’re not going to fall back to sleep, are you?” Ferguson asked. “You sound pretty tired.”
“I’m with you, Ferg. I’m with you.”
Twenty minutes later, Ferguson spotted Rankin and Guns walking in the side entrance to the train station. He circled behind them, then picked up his pace to catch up.
“Hey,” he said in a stage whisper as they paused near the sign showing the departing trains and their tracks.
“What’s going on?” Rankin asked.
“I don’t think we’re being watched,” said Ferguson, looking up at the board as he spoke. “But I couldn’t sweep the place. The train is on track four. Hamilton is on board, in the second car. I got you guys first-class tickets.”
“Hey, thanks, Ferg,” said Guns.
“Don’t mention it. It’s all they had. The train is packed from Rome south. You’re going to Naples.” Ferguson pointed up at the board, as if he were helping them, then let the tickets fall from his hand. Guns stooped to pick them up, then pretended to hand them back to Ferguson but palmed them instead.
“You’re getting good at that, Guns,” Ferguson told him. “Next I want to see you pull a quarter out of your nose.”
“I’m working on it.”
“So what’s the deal with Hamilton?” asked Rankin. “We trust him or what?”
“As far as you can throw him,” said Ferguson. “He’s following Atha, and we’re following Atha, so we might just as well do it together. I don’t know how much he’s holding back. Maybe nothing. Whatever the hookers copied out of Rostislawitch’s wallet got the Iranian excited,” Ferguson said. “He missed sleeping with them to make sure he could catch this train.”
“What whores?” asked Guns.
“You snooze you lose,” Ferguson told him. “Go; your train is leaving in about five minutes.”
“Ferg, are you and Thera going to be OK by yourselves?” Rankin asked. “T Rex will take another shot for sure.”
“We’ll be all right. After he gets the luggage, steal it from him.”
“What’s in it?”
“If I knew, you wouldn’t have to grab it from him, would you?” said Ferguson. “Probably work papers and computer disks. It may just be clothes. If you can get it without Atha figuring out we’re on to him, that would be great. If not, that’s the way it goes. If things start getting too tight, you can call the Italians in.”
“Guns and I can handle it without them.”
“Just think what I would do, and try not to do the opposite.”
“Screw yourself, Ferg.”
Aboard the train, Atha stretched his feet and shifted against the window, trying to get comfortable. He planned to sleep on the train — he’d have little time to do so later if the material was in the left luggage area, as the luggage check-in rooms were called.
If it wasn’t there, then he’d have to grab a flight back to Bologna and continue working on the scientist. There’d be little time to sleep then, either.
The girls had claimed Rostislawitch had been quite randy. Obviously, sex was his weakness; Atha should have realized that from the start.
But what man wasn’t vulnerable to a ripe breast thrust in his face? Even Atha had succumbed.
Seat taken?”
Hamilton looked up at a tall, wiry man, an American, standing in the aisle.
Surely one of Ferguson’s people, Hamilton thought, though he looked more like a soldier than a spy. CIA agents tended to look like down-at-the-heels salesmen, Ferguson being a notable exception.
“Please, sit,” said Hamilton.
“Jack Young,” said Guns, holding his hand out. “People call me Guns.”
“I see,” said Hamilton, concluding that here was a man who had made his fetish work for him.
“You’re Hamilton?”
“Please. Have a seat.” Hamilton glanced around the coach. It was empty except for an older couple near the door, though the ticket seller had predicted it would be full by the time they pulled into Naples.
“Ferg talked to you?” asked Guns.
“Oh yes.”
“You think Atha is going all the way to Naples?”
“That’s where his ticket is for,” said Hamilton. “I would not take a bet either way.”
“Rankin is a few seats behind him. That’s my partner.”
“Jolly good.”
They sat together silently for a while, Hamilton wishing the man would get up and go to another car. Finally Hamilton took out his mobile phone.
“I have to make a phone call,” he told Guns. “And I rather value my privacy.”
“Sure.” Guns got up slowly, then walked to the front of the car, pausing at the vestibule before passing to the next coach.
Hamilton was already working on a text message:
Cooperating as told. New opera more interesting. Request permission stay with it. Yanks will take old show on road.
Would the desk recognize that “new opera” meant the Russian scientist? Or even that the Iranian was the “old show”? They could be intolerably dense at times.
He’d just have to hope they would. The text message was encrypted, but he’d learned years ago not to put too much stock in such things, and spoke in riddles whenever possible.
Years ago, indeed. Hamilton turned his head to the window. The Italian countryside was so dark he could see only his face and the interior of the coach.
I’m quite ready to retire, he told himself, noticing the furrows in his brow. After this, I’m done. Done.
19
Ferguson stood in the doorway, watching Thera sleep. She was curled up around her pillow, her arms covering her face as if shielding her from the light.
He was tempted to climb in with her.
His lust was going to wear him out.
“Up and at ‘em, beautiful; the day is ready to dawn,” he said, clapping his hands. “Come on, Thera; let’s get going.”
“Want me to make you some of that lousy coffee?” Ferguson said, squatting down at the side of the bed.
“What time is it?”
“Just about four a.m. Come on. Get up; take a shower. I want to grab about two hours of sleep before Rosty is on the move.”
“I thought it was Guns’ turn,” said Thera, still not fully awake.
“Guns and Rankin are following the Iranian. Come on, up, up, up.” He rose and started for the door. “Nice jammies by the way.”
“Screw you,” muttered Thera. She was wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, and knew she looked like
