And his brother? Or the Grinbergs?
It was probable that the FSB would carry out the she-wolf’s threats. They would be somewhat careful about it — there were
A shame. They had stood by him through all of his troubles. Irena Grinberg had been Olga’s best friend, and had suffered greatly when she died.
He could give them Atha’s money. Little by little, small payments. That would more than balance things out.
As he dressed, Rostislawitch remembered his visit to the church, and what he had felt there. At that moment, it had seemed like a turning point, a revelation that pushed him in an unchangeable direction. But now, barely a few hours later, its force had faded. He was wavering again, unsure what to do.
Rostislawitch glanced at his watch. Atha hadn’t called, despite his promises yesterday.
Just as well. The FSB would find a way to listen in.
The one thing that bothered Rostislawitch was Kiska Babev’s accusation about the girl, Thera. Was she an American agent? He dismissed it, and yet… could it be true?
Rostislawitch pulled on his pants. It was an old trick, wasn’t it? Using an older man’s vanity against him. The Russian FSB, the American CIA, they were all the same.
As soon as he came off the elevator, Thera could tell that something had changed since she’d seen Rostislawitch last. It wasn’t just his meeting with the Russian intelligence agent. He’d been subdued after that, quieter; now there was something aggressive in his eyes, something harder. He’d made a decision about something.
Very likely Kiska had pushed him into making the deal with the Iranians, the exact opposite of what she intended. He acted aloof, as if he didn’t care about Thera or anyone else, as if he’d hardened himself to do something he didn’t really believe in.
She tried not to let her own knowledge of it show, keeping her voice upbeat, and slightly naive.
“Do you think the speaker will be interesting?” she asked as they walked outside. “More funding for research?”
“All of the drug companies are thieves,” answered Rostislawitch. At the corner, he went to the curb and put his hand up for a taxi, even though they were only two blocks from the art building.
“I thought we were walking?” said Thera.
“I don’t feel like going to the dinner.”
“Oh,” she said.
“I’ve made a reservation at a restaurant. The concierge recommended it. Come.”
Thera hesitated. “Don’t you think—”
“I’ll go myself,” said Rostislawitch as a cab pulled up.
Thera waited another moment, letting Rostislawitch start to pull the door closed before grabbing it.
“OK,” she said, sliding into the car beside him. “I suppose the talk would have been boring anyway.”
Ferguson was on a bicycle up the block when the scientist called for a taxi. He waited for them to pass, then turned up the radio volume, listening as Thera jabbered with the doctor, trusting that she would provide enough information for him to catch up if the traffic cleared and he lost them.
You’re in a strange mood this evening,” Thera told Rostislawitch in the taxi.
The scientist grunted. He wasn’t sure what her reluctance to changed plans meant: it could be read as an honest desire to attend the event, in which case she wasn’t a CIA agent. But on the other hand, it might be because she had compatriots waiting for her there, and was afraid to cross them up.
“Why is a young girl like you interested in me?” said Rostislawitch abruptly.
Thera turned to the scientist. “I am not a young girl,” she said. “And what do you mean by
“You have a boyfriend?”
“Oh.” Thera turned, facing the front of the cab. “Dr…. Artur..”
Thera stopped. This wasn’t acting anymore, was it? Partly it was, and partly it wasn’t. She did honestly feel concern for him. It wasn’t all she felt, but it
Ferguson, had he been in a parallel situation, would have come up with some sort of glib line, pushed the sex angle, and ended up kissing the woman. But that wasn’t Thera.
“I do feel…
She turned to him. Rostislawitch looked as if she had hit him in the stomach.
“I don’t want to mislead you,” continued Thera. She put her hand on his. He started to pull away, but she grabbed his hand. “I — love is not something I think about much,” she said quickly. “I admire you. I do care — when I heard you were hurt my heart seemed to stop.”
“But it’s not sex,” said Rostislawitch.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”
Rostislawitch pulled his right hand from hers and scratched his ear. Her response confused him even more. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear. And yet it was not what a spy would say.
So perhaps he could trust her at least. Somewhat. Maybe.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said. “I feel that we can talk — when you talk I like to listen.”
Rostislawitch smiled, in spite of himself. It was something his wife used to tell him, when he asked why she didn’t answer him sometimes. He patted Thera’s hand, even as he reminded himself to stay on his guard — she had proven nothing.
“Is that OK?” Thera asked. “Is it all right? Do you still want to have dinner?”
“I am very hungry,” he said. “And I was told that this restaurant is very good. Of course we will eat.”
8
The Italians were clearly among those who confused quantity with quality when it came to security. Not only had they blanketed the art building with soldiers, but they had carabinieri police officers surrounding the building. In addition, Nathaniel Hamilton counted at least five members of the Italian SISDE — the civilian intelligence force under the interior minister — as well as a SISMI or military intelligence agent. Admittedly, the latter seemed most interested in keeping an eye on his civilian counterparts, probably looking for details that could be used to blast them in an upcoming parliamentary debate.
The one person Hamilton didn’t see was the Russian scientist.
Or Ferguson, but that was a plus.
The security measures complicated Hamilton’s plans. Not only had he found it necessary to enlist the aid of the embassy to get tickets to the event, but he had had to appear before Marco Imperiati and personally state why he wanted to be there. The Italian intelligence officer had proceeded to give him a lecture about the importance of allies working together toward common goals.
“That is why I am here,” Hamilton had protested, but for some reason that had failed to impress Imperiati. Exasperated, Hamilton finally asked if Ferguson was working with him closely; with a straight face, Imperiati replied that of course he was.
“Uncharacteristically for the Americans,” the Italian SISDE officer added.
“I wouldn’t trust him,” said Hamilton.
“He says the same of you.”
