— he was a terrible swimmer, and could barely stay afloat. Thus Atha had been forced to inflate the rafts much sooner than he had planned; as he clambered into his he thought he saw the boat that had been following them looming on the horizon. But that had proven to be a false alarm; aided by the wind and current, they were able to paddle to the rendezvous without being seen.
A small boat met them after they had been in the water for only a half hour. The tiny craft doglegged north before circling to the southwest, its roundabout route taking it away from the two Italian patrol vessels stopping and searching boats in the area.
Partly because of all this maneuvering, the ride to the cargo ship took nearly six hours. It would have been uncomfortable in any event, but a storm was moving in, and the waters became increasingly choppier. Atha found himself leaning over the side for the last two hours. When he was finally brought aboard the ship, with his precious luggage double-wrapped in two giant trash bags, he went right to his cabin.
He was lying in the bunk when he remembered that he had not called the Russian scientist as he’d promised. He debated whether this was necessary at all — now that he had the material, he didn’t believe he would need ever to speak to Rostislawitch. But never was a long time; it was conceivable that there would be some business need in the future.
In which case he should make the payment. It was not a minor sum, and he would much prefer keeping it in his pocket, even though he had not intended to.
Perhaps he should call just to keep Rostislawitch in the dark. Or had the scientist been the one to tip off the authorities?
Atha debated back and forth what to do. Perhaps he could get information from the scientist about who was following him. Perhaps he would only be giving information to them. Finally, he decided to call the scientist and see what he might retrieve from a conversation. He got up and turned on his satellite phone. But the phone, damaged by the sea’s salt water, refused to work.
There was a knock on his cabin door.
“What?” grumbled Atha.
The sailor on the other side of the door knocked again.
“What is it?” Atha demanded, pulling open the door.
The man in the corridor handed him a note. Belatedly Atha realized that the man did not speak Farsi; except for the captain, the crew was Filipino.
The note was from the captain, telling Atha that he had just heard from the helicopter; it was ahead of schedule and would arrive in a half hour.
Atha put his shoes back on, then went back up to the bridge, taking the suitcase with him. It was not very heavy — an odd thing, he thought; to be capable of so much damage it ought to weigh much more.
The storm that had been approaching earlier was now almost upon them, and the waves swelled in front of the ship, and raindrops were beginning to pelt the glass at the front of the bridge.
“Is this weather safe for a helicopter?” Atha asked.
“I couldn’t say.” The captain shrugged. “I’m not a pilot. But I will give you a life jacket if you wish.”
“I’d prefer a parachute,” said Atha.
The captain thought he was making a joke, and laughed.
3
As soon as the fishing boat was thoroughly searched and secured, the Italian coast guard’s patrol ship rejoined the rest of the searchers, crisscrossing the nearby waters for another vessel that Atha might have escaped to. Unfortunately, there were many possibilities, and even with the assistance of an airplane, within a few hours it was clear that there was no chance of finding him. Police officials in towns and cities all along the southwestern coast of Italy, and on nearby Sicily, were all alerted, but neither Rankin nor Guns had much hope that Atha would be found.
The Italians thought they were looking for a man who might be responsible for the Bologna bombing. With the bomb still getting serious media attention — it had been dubbed the “immaculate bomb” because no one was killed — they pressed on with the search. The navy compiled a list of ships that were heading to either the eastern Mediterranean or northern Africa. About four dozen had been within a hundred miles of the fishing boat, and all were designated to be searched. Three were beyond the reach of the Italian coast guard: a ferry to Tunisia and two small cargo vessels bound for Libya. Calling from aboard the Italian coast-guard cutter, Rankin asked Corrigan to enlist the U.S. Navy to help.
“These ships were all pretty far from the fishing boat,” said Corrigan.
“Sure, but there was probably a little boat involved,” said Rankin. “Something too small to be tracked easily. Maybe two or three.”
Corrigan told him that a navy Orion patrol plane was already en route, and that a guided missile destroyer might be able to help. In the meantime, he’d try to find a helicopter that could be put at their disposal, either to aid the search or to get them to a ship if the Iranian was found.
Guns, meanwhile, had gone up on deck. A storm was kicking up; raindrops from the approaching clouds were spraying against his face.
“They’re trying to get an Orion patrol plane out from Sigonella on Sicily,” said Rankin, joining him.
“That’s good.”
“What are you doing out here? It’s raining.”
“I know. Think that will make it easier for him? Or harder?”
“Got me.”
“Easier, I think,” said Guns.
“You looking at something?”
“Just thinking.”
Rankin started to go back inside.
“What do you figure is wrong with Ferg?” Guns asked.
“What do you mean, what’s wrong with him?”
“He’s always taking pills. You notice that?”
Rankin shrugged. “Look like aspirin or something.”
“Too small.”
“Go pills, maybe.”
Go pills were amphetamines and modafinil, a narcolepsy drug sometimes issued by the military for pilots and others who had to stay up at night.
“Nah. He takes them in the morning.”
“Why? You think he’s doped up?”
“I think he’s sick.”
“Don’t get obsessed with him,” said Rankin. “Ferg’s Ferg. Just another guy. Just like you and me.”
“You’re one to talk,” said Guns. But his companion had already gone back into the ship.
4
Kiska waited until Rostislawitch was in the main hall of the art building, surrounded by people. She walked directly up to him, gently nudging a Danish scientist out of her way.
“Dr. Rostislawitch. I would like to speak to you, sir,” she said in stiff Russian.
Rostislawitch, caught off-guard, didn’t even ask why. He followed Kiska as she walked out of the building and across the street, her heels clicking loudly on the pavement. The FSB colonel continued to a small coffee bar and
