table near the window, he ordered a
What would the consequences be if he dropped it in the ocean?
So long as the containers remained sealed, there would be no problem; even without the heavy tape he had wrapped around them and the carrying container, the canisters were waterproof. The problem would come if someone found the containers later. Anyone opening the vials while the bacteria was still active would be infected and die within a few days. Once they were infected, they would infect other people; there would be at least a small outbreak.
What happened after that would depend largely on how long it took the health authorities to recognize what was going on. In a worst-case scenario, a hundred million people could be killed — though an accidental exposure of the nature Rostislawitch was contemplating more likely would only affect a hundred or a thousand before the authorities could take measures to stop it.
Could they? Dealing with epidemics was not his forte, but he knew from the research data that the outbreak was likely to be misdiagnosed at the very beginning. Two or three days’ delay in instituting quarantines and changing procedures at hospitals would have an exponential impact down the line.
Why had he not let such thoughts stop him earlier? What sort of man had he allowed himself to become?
A foolish, vain, hateful man. One he hated as well.
And one who deserved to be punished. He should turn himself in to the FSB she-wolf, let her lock him away in whatever modern gulag the state was using now. He didn’t deserve to live.
Rostislawitch rubbed his face, still chilled by his stay in the suburban station.
He was not beyond redemption. That was the true message of the epiphany in the church the morning before — he was not beyond redemption. He had to persevere, stop wavering. He would dispose of the material, go back to Bologna, return to Russia.
And then?
Put his talents to work somewhere that could make better use of them. He could work in western Europe, or at least try.
And talk to Thera, every now and then. Other new friends as well.
He put his mind back to the problem at hand: how to dispose of the material.
There must be a city incinerator. He would find it, then bribe his way in.
Still having breakfast,” Ferguson told Thera. “Anybody watching us?”
“Not that I see.”
Ferguson turned the corner. A man in an old Italian army jacket was sitting on the sidewalk panhandling.
Ferguson sized him up. “How much for your coat?” he asked in Italian.
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll swap. This one doesn’t have enough pockets.”
“I like my coat.”
“Fifty euros, plus mine.”
The beggar bolted to his feet. Ferguson retrieved everything from his pockets, placing them in the jacket, which was just a little tight at the shoulders. When he pulled on his stocking cap, he looked like a regular Naples bum.
“Like my new look?” he asked Thera, walking back near the restaurant.
“God, I can smell you from here. You smell like a dog pound.”
“Your glasses are dumb.”
“Thank you.” Thera had put on a pair of glasses and tied her hair back to help change her look. “Listen, Ferg. I’ve been thinking. Maybe I should meet him right after he comes out. He’ll be vulnerable, looking for help. That’s when I should talk to him.”
“No, it won’t work that way.”
“The FSB is on to him. His only option is to come with us. We can help him.”
“He’s not quite ready yet, Thera. And he won’t be then, either. Trust me. You walk up to him and blow your cover, he’ll just freak. It’ll be the final straw. Do it my way, OK? Then we’ll be able to help him.”
“All right.”
Ferguson knew they weren’t really going to help Rostislawitch. They might pump his brain for everything he knew about the Russian biological warfare program, but after that he was expendable. Worse. He’d stolen a weapons system — an experimental one, maybe, but one that was at least as dangerous as a nuke. The U.S. would not only turn down a request for asylum; they might very well hand him over with whatever evidence he gave them. They’d done the same thing to two men in the nuclear weapons case that had almost cost Ferguson his life.
But of course that wasn’t what Thera wanted to hear.
“Keep an eye out for T Rex,” he told her.
“She’s not here, Ferg. She’s back in Bologna.”
“(A), T-Rex is not Kiska, and (B) she may show up here, too. They were following him in Bologna.”
“You really don’t think she’s the killer, huh?”
“Nope.”
“We’ll see.”
Inside the restaurant, Rostislawitch checked his watch and got up from his table.
“We’re in business,” Ferguson said. “Lay back.”
It was now exactly eight a.m. Rostislawitch walked swiftly from the restaurant, taking long, quick strides, practically running. He would get the bag, go to an ATM machine for cash, then find a cab and ride to the incinerator. Bribe his way in. They could ask questions, but he would pretend not to understand. He could even show them the material if they wanted — it would look like pudding gone bad.
His heart raced as he walked. He was excited, in a strange way happy, glad to be taking action, even jubilant. He’d managed to tear the great weight that had covered him these past several years away. He was back to being himself.
Rostislawitch waited at the curb, looking for an opening in the traffic. Finally he decided to plunge ahead. Staring across the street, he stepped out and began walking swiftly. Cars continued to fly past, somehow missing him.
The drivers were even less considerate for Ferguson, whose appearance made him look like a native. He trotted across the avenue, hopping up onto the curb just as a red Fiat whipped within a few inches of his backside.
There was a line of people with bags at the luggage area, waiting to check them. Rostislawitch got in line, then decided to go and get money and come back. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a ratty-looking man watching him. The man seemed to be trying to get his courage up to ask for some money
That was me, the scientist thought to himself. One step from the gutter.
Rostislawitch went to the bank machine and put in his card. Another record for the FSB people to question him about.
But it would make sense. His mind was working now. A tourist trip to Naples; he’d wanted to see what it was like. He’d come early to the city, gotten something to eat, then realized the place was far more expensive than he thought. A typical tourist.
He’d worry about the details of the story later. He’d get rid of the material; everything else would fall into place once it was gone.
Rostislawitch took three hundred euros from his account. It was nearly all he had left. Hopefully it would be enough to bribe a laborer in a garbage plant.
Toss the suitcase in the back of a garbage truck as it went in and he was done, free. That might be even easier.
“You have your ticket?” asked the clerk at the left luggage counter.
