“I can go with you,” Thera said.
“I’m just going to bed. Good night, sweet one,” he said awkwardly as the taxi pulled to the curb. “I will feel better tomorrow.”
What’d you slip into his drink?” Ferguson asked Thera over the radio as he followed the cab back to Rostislawitch’s hotel.
“Nothing. He’s acting really weird, Ferg.”
“Kiska put pressure on him. He’s afraid of getting caught.”
“He was quizzing me.”
“Maybe she told him you’re a spy.”
“That bitch.”
Ferguson laughed.
“What’s he going to do?” asked Thera.
“Push Atha to make the deal so he can escape to wherever he’s thinking of escaping to.”
“No, I don’t think he’s going to do that.”
“Bet you ten bucks,” said Ferguson, pedaling slowly past the hotel as Rostislawitch got out of the taxi and went inside.
There were no messages on his room’s voice mail. Atha hadn’t called. Maybe the FSB she-wolf had been to see him as well.
Rostislawitch paced back and forth in his room. He felt as if he was losing his mind. His thoughts flew wildly, back and forth, from one form of doom to another.
He’d acted like a fool with Thera. One moment he trusted her; the next he treated her as if she were the enemy. He’d started asking her those ridiculous examination questions, as if she were facing him in an oral exam at the end of the semester.
Poor girl. He didn’t deserve even her friendship.
Rostislawitch took his wallet from his pant pocket and opened it. The check for the suitcase was folded against his euros. He took the check, crumpled it, and tossed it in the garbage.
He was done with it, done with everything.
He paced across the room, back and forth, his head racing.
They’d open the locker eventually. The attendant had said something about items having to be claimed after seven days.
They’d open it, and what would they find? A few odd-looking jars with strange jelly in them. It would look like mold. They’d throw the jars out.
Or maybe the police would be called — maybe the police were the ones who were in charge of abandoned luggage. What would happen then?
A science experiment. Into the garbage.
Or to a lab for analysis.
Nothing could connect him to the bag. But how much evidence would the FSB need? They’d show his picture to the clerk at the left baggage area and get him to nod.
Or worse: some fool would open the containers, not knowing what they were. The material would get on their skin, and eventually into the digestive tract. From there, an epidemic would start.
Statistically, it would take more than one person. One person, statistically, would not produce the critical mass needed for a truly devastating epidemic.
If you trusted the statistics. If you didn’t consider a single death, or a handful, significant.
Rostislawitch paced some more. He could go there and get rid of the bag. It was the safest thing to do. And the right thing.
Unless the she-wolf was following him. Then it would be foolish.
He would have to make sure he wasn’t followed. Rostislawitch put the check back into his wallet, took his coat, and headed for the door.
10
The Russian-made Mil Mi-8 was a versatile helicopter, though like most helicopters, it was not particularly well suited for flying through thunderstorms. To add to the discomfort, internal fuel tanks had been added to the walls of the cabin area, tripling its range but greatly reducing space. Atha and the two crewmen shared a small bench for the entire ride; standing up, they could take two steps before reaching the forward bulkhead separating the crew space from the cockpit.
The bathroom was a small pail that hung on a hook on the wall. When you were done, one man opened the cabin door and you emptied the contents into the slipstream. Emptying the waste successfully required a certain amount of body English.
When they finally arrived at the airport, Atha was so glad to be there that if it weren’t for the fact that it was still raining he would have dropped to the ground and kissed the cement. His legs literally trembled the entire way to the terminal building. The suitcase with the scientist’s material rolled along behind him, bumping through the puddles and skipping over the curb.
His journey was hardly complete — a chartered plane was due to take him on to Libya, where he would catch yet a third plane to fly on to the camp in the Sudan. But those rides would be in airplanes. Atha vowed he would never fly in a helicopter again.
Though Tunis was an Islamic country, it was not particularly friendly toward Iran. If the military officials at the airport had thought he was anything other than an ordinary smuggler, they would have been loathe to take his bribes. But as far as they knew, he was only transporting embargoed oil equipment and software. His generous landing “fee” was supplemented by an agreement to purchase twice as much fuel as the helicopter could hold, even with its expanded tanks; the difference went directly into the pocket of the colonel responsible for the airport.
Having arranged to pay the fees in advance, Atha was surprised to find a customs agent waiting to see him in the small terminal. The man insisted that Atha would have to come into the small office to speak with him privately, even though there was no one else in the building.
“Perhaps you should talk to Colonel Nawf,” suggested Atha. “I believe we’ve already made our arrangements.”
“I will have to see your passport,” said the man.
Atha started to take it from his pocket, then stopped. It didn’t look like a trap — there was definitely no one else in the building, and there had been no trucks or troops nearby. But giving the man his passport was the same as telling him who he was, and he didn’t want to do that if at all possible.
Of course it could be arranged. It was just a matter of handing over more money — something he hated to do on principle.
“I have paid a considerable sum for the arrangements here,” said Atha.
“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about that.”
“Is there some permit that I’ve forgotten? Is that what the problem is?”
The customs agent smiled. “Ah. Now you are beginning to understand.”
“And how much does the permit cost?”
“Five hundred euros.”
Atha did not have that much cash with him; there had been no time to get money in Naples.
“Would you take a check?” he asked.
“A check?” The man jerked his head back. Then he started to laugh. “A check?”
“Just joking,” said Atha, reaching inside his jacket.
“A very funny joke,” said the man.
He started to laugh, then saw the pistol in Atha’s hand.
