cafes and coffee bars within ten blocks of the hotel, nor had he gone over to the conference building early. Ferguson finally conceded to himself that they’d lost Rostislawitch, at least temporarily; he planted some fresh video bugs and booster units, then met Thera in a hotel restaurant near the art building.
“I’m sorry, Ferg. I’m really sorry,” she told him as he sat down. “I’m really sorry.”
“He’ll turn up. I’ve lost people before.”
“I checked the hotel. He’s still registered. I left him a message on his voice mail, saying he should call me.”
“Great.”
The waiter came over. Ferguson ordered a
“The old guy really likes you, doesn’t he?” said Ferguson.
“He’s not that old.”
“So you like the mature type, huh?”
The waiter appeared with Ferguson’s coffee.
“He seems very nice,” said Thera.
“Sure, for a guy who’s perfecting ways to mass murder people,” said Ferguson, stirring his coffee.
“I didn’t say he was perfect.”
“Unlike me, huh?”
Thera flushed. “You’re always fooling around,” she said angrily.
The air drained abruptly from Ferguson’s lungs, as if he’d been punched in the stomach without any warning.
Oh, Christ, he realized, she loves me.
He tried to think of something to say, something to tell her — he wanted to say how he felt, but to temper it with reality, with their jobs and what was happening to him, the cancer, everything — but before he could think of what to say a face loomed in the crowd passing by the window.
“Rostislawitch,” hissed Thera. “He’s going to the conference.”
“Get over there,” said Ferg. “I’m right behind you.”
“Ferg—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go.”
24
Guns spotted Atha coming into the train station, walking briskly with a shiny black carry-on bag rolling at his side. Taking out his fake MP3 player, Guns tuned to the channel for the bug he’d planted near the luggage area. Then he drifted toward the men’s room near the baggage check-in counter, listening as Atha walked up to the attendant and asked to check his bag. Guns thought it must be part of an exchange, but the suitcase didn’t contain wads of cash; the clerk opened it and found only a pair of sweaters.
Atha took his receipt, then left, walking up in the direction of the train platforms.
Guns checked around, trying to catch anyone who might be trailing Atha, then slowly started in that direction himself.
“Rankin, what’s going on?” he asked, switching his “player” back over to the radio circuit.
“I have a problem. Stay away.”
“Huh?”
“Pickpockets tried to roll me. I’m with the police. I’m going to have to give up my cover.”
“Are you kidding?”
“I don’t sound like I’m making a joke, do I?”
Rankin said something Guns couldn’t make out to a policeman.
Guns wanted to ask Rankin what he thought was going on — why would Atha check a bag rather than retrieve one? But obviously Rankin was in no position to answer.
Probably he’d be just as baffled as Guns was.
Ferg would know — he always knew. He had some sixth sense about things that none of them quite shared.
Atha, meanwhile, went into a small store that sold mineral water, bought himself a bottle, then walked across to a magazine kiosk, where he got a copy of the newspaper, then went and sat down on a bench at the far side of the station. He dug into his pocket for the luggage receipt, then took out the slip of paper with the numbers the prostitute had copied for him.
The luggage ticket was a simple piece of white paper, with the word
Rostislawitch’s number was only one digit different from his — 4 rather than 8 — and Atha considered simply altering the number with a pen. But he decided to stick with his original plan and, after satisfying himself that the carabinieri were no longer watching him, walked back toward the exit. There he saw the policemen in the process of arresting a pair of pickpockets; rather than walking close by, Atha went out the side. Avoiding the police entirely, he circled around the block until he came to the Hotel Naples. There he walked through the lobby to the business center. Within a few moments he had a photocopy of the baggage ticket. A pencil eraser lifted the original claim number; he made another copy, put in the right number, and then used the center’s paper cutter to fashion a
The war against pickpockets and other scammers at the Naples train station had been going on for over a hundred years. The policemen detaining Rankin were therefore somewhat resigned to the fact that there would be many battles, and knew they would have to husband their resources for the long haul. The repeated protests of the American finally convinced them that he would never do as a witness, and thus they released him, even as they pushed the miscreants into a car for a ride to the station, where their names would be recorded and their photos taken. It was of some consolation, the policemen thought, that the criminals had chosen a victim willing to fight back; both of the would-be pickpockets looked considerably worse for wear, and were likely to take at least a few days off nursing their wounds.
Rankin went inside and grabbed a table at one of the small food kiosks. Guns had followed the Iranian into the hotel, where Atha had created a new luggage ticket, then turned him over to the two British MI6 agents so he could go and rent some scooters in case they needed more transportation.
In a dark mood, Rankin sipped his coffee and waited for Atha to return to the station. The incident with the pickpockets had thrown Rankin off. Until then, he’d thought he had everything under control.
His cell phone rang.
“All right, Yank. Atha just gave something to a ratty-looking man who walks with a limp,” said Hamilton.
“When he comes out with the bag, brush into him, then call for the police,” Rankin told Hamilton. “I’ll come up behind you and grab the bag. Worst case, the police will end up with it, and we can examine it at the station.”
“We don’t want the Naples police involved in this,” said Hamilton. “They’re too corrupt. It will be better to grab him on the street. We’ll be closer to the car.”
“The traffic sucks.”
“Relax, Stephen. I’ve done this sort of thing before.”
Rankin ground his teeth together.
A man with a limp and a tattered sweater headed toward the luggage check. Rankin started toward him, then spotted Atha only a few feet behind him. He put his cell phone back to his ear.
“Hamilton, Atha’s right behind this guy. He’s going with him to the luggage check.”
