spurting from the wounds. Atha touched the man’s face; it felt like wet putty, slick with the man’s sweat and the spray from the water. For a moment, he thought of trying artificial respiration, even though he knew it would be useless. Then he pushed down the sailor’s eyelids, said a quick prayer, as much for himself as for the dead man.
Rising, Atha realized he was covered with blood. He went to the head, a small, crowded restroom that barely fit a tiny sink and toilet. The soap in the sink was gray, covered with oil; he dug his fingernails through it, revolted by the grime but determined to cleanse the blood away. The faucet produced only a slight trickle. Atha washed his hands and arms as best he could, but even after ten solid minutes there were still red streaks up and down his arms. Bits of blood had coagulated on his fingernails and in the ridges of his hands. He picked at them for a while longer, then gave up.
Out on the deck, he retrieved the small submachine gun and looked to make sure that no one was following them. There were at least a dozen boats between them and the shoreline, but none were particularly close.
He wasn’t sure who the men were who had tried to stop them. He guessed Italian secret service agents, though they hadn’t identified themselves. It was also possible they were confederates of the man he’d hired to retrieve and swap the bags. In any event, he’d have to assume they were the former, which meant the Italian coast guard and navy would soon be looking for them.
Where the men had come from was another good question. Most likely they’d been following him from the train station, though he hadn’t seen anyone. That was his fault — once he had the bag he’d simply moved as quickly as possible, not taking his usual precautions because he wanted to get to the boat.
Atha took the gun inside, reloading it before going to see the captain.
“I think we are all right,” Atha told him. “How long?”
The captain didn’t acknowledge him. Atha was tempted to hold the gun at his head and demand an answer, but he realized that would serve little purpose.
“Your man is with Allah, blessed be his name,” said Atha, laying his hand gently on the captain’s shoulder.
The captain said nothing. He was an Iranian by birth and spoke Farsi fluently, but he had lived in Italy since he was seven and felt more Italian than Iranian. He was brooding on the fact that it would now be difficult for him to return to Naples for several weeks. He made a good living by smuggling items for the local Mafia and other “businessmen,” but everyone had a certain territory, and he would not be able to operate from another port. Atha, though he paid well, employed him very rarely, and had just cost him a great deal of money. Not to mention the problem of disposing of his deckhand.
Atha left him to his business. He went back to the cabin where the sailor had died, kneeling over Rostislawitch’s suitcase. In his haste as the shooting began, he had neglected to zip it shut. Instead of closing it now, he opened it again, reexamining the contents — twelve flat, sealed glass cases, no larger than a child’s yo-yo. They looked like flattened jelly jars or the bottoms of the glass honey pots he remembered from childhood.
The brown, jellylike liquid inside might very well be honey for all he knew. It might very well be a scam.
Or perhaps the Italian secret service had made a substitution.
There was nothing he could do about that now. He had to trust that Allah, all praise due to him, had a plan.
Atha zipped the suitcase, grabbed the rest of the bullets for the machine pistol, and went on deck to keep watch.
28
Ferguson twisted around as he walked, scanning the second-story windows on the small block, trying to make sure the knot of scientists ahead weren’t being followed by anyone other than the pair of undercover Italian policemen Imperiati had assigned.
Ferguson didn’t see anyone, but that didn’t make him feel any more comfortable. Rostislawitch and Thera — Rostislawitch really, with Thera agreeing — had decided to skip the first morning session and join a small group of scientists for brunch at a restaurant three blocks from the art building. Ferguson hadn’t had time to check out the place beforehand. He trailed along now as the group found the door and tromped up the steps to the second-floor dining room, exchanging jokes in the pidgin English they all shared.
Ferguson walked past the stairs that led up to the restaurant, continuing to the end of the block and crossing over. He stayed under the arched promenade, pretending to window-shop while glancing around. Finally convinced that there was no one watching, he doubled back toward the restaurant. He slipped two video bugs in to cover the street, then went upstairs.
The room was shaped like an L, with tables lined up together along a narrow passage to the deeper part of the room. Ferguson glanced at the maitre d’, then saw Kiska Babev sitting by herself about halfway down the long row.
“That’s my date,” Ferguson told the maitre d’, walking over to her.
“You’re late,” she said.
“I wanted to make sure we weren’t followed. Don’t want people talking.” He turned to the waiter, who had just appeared at his elbow. “House red.”
“A little early for wine, Bobby.”
“I like to get a head start on the day.”
Kiska had persuaded one of the scientists in the group to suggest the place for breakfast, and to try to bring Rostislawitch along. The man didn’t know she was an FSB agent — he thought she was with the Science Ministry, her cover — but was happy to oblige when she assured him that she would sign for the tab. She needed to confer with the scientist about a grant offer from a drug company, she explained, but wanted to do so discreetly.
“I knew you would be here,” Kiska told Ferguson. “Because I knew that Dr. Rostislawitch would be. Why did you tell Signor Imperiati that I was involved in the bombing yesterday?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what he heard.”
“His English isn’t that good.”
“His English is better than mine.”
“Nah. His accent is all wrong.”
Kiska found it difficult to control her anger at the accusation. “You caused a great deal of trouble for me,” she said. “I suspect I am still under suspicion. All because of a lie you told for fun, I suppose.”
“Who says it’s a lie?”
Kiska reached across the table and slapped his cheek. Though he saw it coming, it still stung.
“I am not playing your American wise-guy games anymore, Bobby.”
“You’re making people stare.”
“I don’t care if they stare,” she said, switching to Russian.
“Well if you don’t care, I don’t care,” answered Ferguson, also in Russian.
The waiter, Ferguson’s wine on his tray, approached cautiously. Ferguson gave him a smile that said,
“Why are you in Bologna?” Kiska demanded, still speaking Russian.
“We went through this yesterday.”
“I will tell you, Bobby, I do not like being accused of being a terrorist,” she said. “I do not like this charge being made to my embassy.”
“All I told him was that you were a possible witness. Which you were.”
Kiska was not sure how much of that to believe, but she needed to move past her own anger, or she would never find out what the Americans were doing, or what was really going on here.
