25
Ferguson’s tip about Kiska having a cousin with a German last name in a mental hospital somewhere in Romania — and the suggestion that she used the cousin’s identity for her credit card accounts — wasn’t the most stellar piece of intelligence Ciello had ever received. But the analyst persevered.
His first problem was the fact that he did not speak Romanian. That was easily overcome; when the Agency Romanian language expert proved unavailable, Ciello stole a page from Ferguson’s book and went for outside help, in this case a UFO expert he knew who lived in Craiova and had recently published a moving though overly assonant sonnet sequence on UFO abductions there. Craiova was a long way from Baia Mare — opposite ends of the country, in fact — but his fellow UFO buff had his own network of informants, and within an hour or so had obtained a list of all of the patients at the two mental institutions near Baia Mare.
The fact that there were two, not one, gave Ciello a bit more work to do; he ended up with five possible names of women who might be related to Kiska Babev. A preliminary search of the names turned up nothing, but this wasn’t surprising. Ciello sent his formal requests for information on possible bank and credit card accounts over the CIA system; he got an automated response informing him that he would have the results “as soon as humanly possible” — an odd comment, he thought, given that it was generated by computer.
Then he called Ferguson’s friend in Nigeria.
“Ah, you called. Very good. Just about lunchtime here,” said the man. His English had a slightly exotic accent. “Mr. Ferg promised you call before lunch.”
“I have five names I need to check out for bank accounts.”
“Five? Mr. Ferg said only one. Five — that was not what he said.”
“Well, five is just five ones put together,” said Ciello, not sure what other explanation he could give.
“But it is more than one. This is the key point.”
“Well, shit happens.”
The man thought the expression was uproariously funny, and began laughing so hard that Ciello had to hold his phone away from his ear.
“Shit happens. Yes. Yes. I think this all the time. Shit does happen. A-ha.”
“Can I give you the names?”
“My friend, today, for you, because you are the friend to my friend, and because it is lunchtime, I am going to save you very much work. You will look the names up yourself. Today only — because you are friend to Mr. Ferguson.”
“Great,” said Ciello.
“One name, five names, a hundred names. Today you do what you want. Because, my friend, shit happens.”
“Sure does.”
The man gave Ciello a Web site and an access code; all would be revealed when he signed on.
“Look in an hour. If not there, then, no information can be found.”
“An hour?”
“Give or take. Lunch comes first. Shit happens, no?”
Fibber was still laughing when Ciello hung up the phone.
26
The Czech-produced Skorpion was more a machine pistol than a submachine gun; its light weight and poor balance made it hard for a novice to handle, especially one who was trying to shoot with one hand while on the run. The bullets had the intended effect, however: they sent Rankin diving for cover. Since the narrow wooden dock offered none, he dove into the water, barely escaping the spray of 7.65mm bullets. As the water roiled, he pushed himself away, doing his best to stay underwater until finally his lungs felt like they were about to burst. When he surfaced, he realized that the rumble he’d felt nearby had come not from the bullets but from the propellers pushing the boat from the dock. The fishing boat was already some thirty yards away; Rankin took a few strokes after it but saw it was hopeless. He turned back and found Guns and the others gaping at him from the railing above the dock.
“Why the hell didn’t you shoot back?” Rankin yelled. “Crap. He’s getting away.”
Guns — who had not only shot back but hit the gunman while Rankin was underwater — said nothing. Hamilton shook his head.
Rankin climbed up on a dilapidated tire and pulled himself out of the water. He’d lost his pistol when he jumped in; he gave a cursory look around the dock though he knew it was hopeless, then climbed up the ladder to the stairs and the street.
“You should have grabbed the bag on the street when you had the chance,” Rankin told Hamilton.
“Don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t have done, Yank,” answered Hamilton.
Cursing, Rankin went through his pockets. He still had his radio and headset, plus his sat phone and his wallet.
Guns, meanwhile, took a photo of the boat with his small camera, then pulled out his phone to talk to Corrigan back in the Cube.
“We’re going to need the Italian coast guard,” he told him. “Atha got away with whatever the Russian scientist sold him. They’re in a fishing boat; it’s not that big, fifty-something feet. It didn’t have a name. I’ll upload a photo.”
“Screw the coast guard,” said Rankin, pointing toward the marina. “Let’s grab our own boat.”
“We can’t steal a boat,” said Hamilton.
“One more word out of you and I’ll throw you off the side,” said Rankin. “Then you’ll smell as bad as I do.”
27
Atha dragged the injured sailor to the cabin, trying to be as gentle as possible. He’d been struck twice, once in the chest and once in the stomach; blood covered both sides of his sweatshirt, and a trail led back to the stern of the boat. Atha tried to put him into the bunk, but the man was too heavy for him to lift, and he decided the sailor was better off on the floor.
“I’m going to get something for a bandage,” Atha told the man.
The man grunted in response. Foam slipped from his mouth, blood and spit mixing together. The sailor grabbed at Atha’s arm, wrapping his own around it.
“I’ll be back. I need to get you a bandage,” said the Iranian, pushing the hand away. The man fell back against the deck.
Up on the bridge of the small boat, the captain was staring at the sea ahead, both hands on the large wheel.
“Are they following us?” Atha asked.
The man did not respond.
“Are there bandages somewhere? A first-aid kit?”
Again, the captain said nothing. Atha spotted a box marked by a white cross next to the fire extinguisher; he grabbed it off the bulkhead and went back to the cabin where he had left the wounded sailor. Opening the box, Atha saw a few pads of gauze, far too small to staunch the flow of blood. He took one anyway, then went down on his knee and tried to find the man’s wound. As he did, he realized the man had stopped breathing. Blood was no longer
