“Nice try,” said Ferguson. “I don’t think we have any, actually.”
“That I don’t believe.”
“We’re not as omniscient as you think.”
“I don’t think you’re omniscient, Bobby,” she said, looking into his eyes. “I’ve worked with you before.”
“Touche,” said Ferguson, raising his glass.
“I’m going to talk to him after lunch. I don’t want you to interfere.”
“Fine with me.”
Ferguson’s face was still red where she had struck him. Kiska reached across the table and touched his cheek. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I’ve been slapped before. You expect that from Russian women.”
“Always with a joke.”
She ran the side of her finger down his cheek. He was a very dangerous man, but a handsome one. She nearly said something she would have regretted, but fortunately the waiter approached with their meals.
Thera excused herself from the table and walked in the direction of the ladies’ room. As she did, she saw Ferguson sitting with the Russian FSB agent, who was running her hand down his cheek.
He just couldn’t resist, could he, Thera thought to herself, pretending not to see.
29
Rankin, Guns, and the Brits didn’t steal the boat. Renting — albeit at an exorbitant rate — was easier and faster.
The fishing boat Atha had boarded was an old vessel, weighed down by rust and caked crud. Their boat was much newer — a large cabin cruiser about half the size of the other craft and, while not the speediest vessel on the water, capable of 30 knots.
Corrigan told Rankin that the Naples harbor patrol — actually part of the police force — was sending its three launches out. The Italian Guardia Costiera — the coast guard — had a patrol boat about eight miles to the south and another to the north; both were on their way as well.
“You think that the Italians can really help?” said Hamilton derisively. “You’re really a novice at this, aren’t you? At least Ferguson knows where to butter his toast.”
“Ferg ain’t here,” said Rankin, moving toward the bow.
Guns, standing against the rail with his binoculars, pointed toward a boat in the distance.
“That it, you think?”
Rankin took the glasses. Shaped like a small tug, the boat had a large stack directly behind the small wheelhouse. There was a boom at the back.
“Yeah, I think so,” he agreed, handing the binoculars back.
“You gonna apologize?”
“For what?”
Guns looked at him for a second, then raised the glasses to his face.
“I’m not Ferg,” Rankin said. “I’m not perfect.”
“Ferg ain’t perfect, either.” Guns put down the glasses. “I shot the son of a bitch while you were in the water.”
“Oh.” Rankin realized, belatedly, that Guns hadn’t been criticizing him; he was angry because Rankin had yelled at him for not firing at the gunman. He should have realized that, and would have, had he not been obsessed with measuring himself against Ferguson. It wasn’t his fault that the Iranian had gotten away, even though he was blaming himself.
“Hey, listen, I got a little hot back there,” said Rankin. “I’m sorry. I know you probably did your best.”
“Yeah. None of us are Ferg,” added Guns.
“A good thing,” muttered Rankin.
Rankin had the captain cut the motor when they were about a mile from the fishing boat. No one seemed to be on deck. The boat was moving at about 4 knots due south; it had obviously slowed down at some point, but its pace now remained steady.
“Maybe the Iranian was wounded as well,” suggested Hamilton as they took turns examining the boat through Guns’ binoculars.
“Maybe.”
Rankin took out his sat phone. “Corrigan, where is that coast guard boat? You know?”
“To your southeast. It’s still a good half hour away.”
“Thanks.” He turned to Guns. “What do you think? Wait for the Italians?”
“If he’s got papers in the suitcase, he could be destroying them,” said Guns. “There’s smoke coming out of the smokestack.”
“We don’t want to wait for the Italians,” said Hamilton. “We don’t want them involved.”
“Why not?” said Rankin.
“Because the more people involved, the more things go to hell.”
You can say that again, thought Rankin.
“We can take the rigid-hulled boat over and find out what’s going on,” said Guns. “The only thing is, we only have one gun, right?”
He looked at Hamilton. Neither of the MI6 agents was armed.
“Figures,” said Rankin.
“I say we go,” responded Hamilton.
“Thanks.” Rankin turned to Guns. “I’ll take the point if you want.”
“No, it’s OK. I’m a better shot.”
Rankin didn’t think so, but he let it pass.
Hamilton had Jared Lloyd stay behind. The three men climbed into the cruiser’s small rigid-hulled inflatable and sped over to the fishing boat, which was still moving at a slow but steady pace. Rankin took the boat up against the port side of the fishing craft; Guns leapt aboard and moved swiftly toward the smokestack, ducking behind it as he tried to peer through the open doorway in front of it. As Rankin started to follow Hamilton out of the boat, he saw an emergency kit at the side. He opened it, and took the flare gun, figuring it was better than nothing.
The door to the rear of the fishing boat’s small superstructure was open. Guns and Rankin crouched on either side as Hamilton moved around toward the front. Neither man could see what was going on.
The Beretta felt tiny in Guns’ hand. In a perfect world, he’d have something considerably bigger — a shotgun would have been nice.
“Stay behind me,” he whispered to Rankin as he stepped into the gray space. He had both hands on the Beretta, his finger pressed against the trigger — anything that appeared was getting blasted.
The space was divided by a narrow corridor, with a cabin on each side and the bridge at the front. Guns moved to the left, ducking into the first space, trying to stay out of the direct line of fire from the front and search the cabin at the same time. It held lockers and a pair of benches, bolted to the floor, an assortment of gear and boxes piled randomly at both sides. It took him several seconds to scan them all, to make sure that the lines he saw were straight and unmoving.
“Come on,” hissed Rankin, who’d checked a similar space on the opposite side. Rather than waiting for Guns, he moved forward, through a small hallway, then ran forward, looking for the bridge.
Guns ran to keep up. He saw Rankin run forward, shouting something. Guns plunged into the space after him, throwing himself to the right, sure that they would both come under a hail of bullets.
But the vessel’s bridge was empty, the wheel tied by a rope into position.
“Shit,” said Rankin.
