mentioned the men in the car, and the gun. That would set them in another direction entirely.
Most likely, though, they wouldn’t. The Naples police had a great deal to do.
The detective reached into his pocket for a business card. “You should call me if you get any other tips,” he told Hamilton. “We take terrorism very seriously. We are glad to cooperate.”
“I will,” said Hamilton. “If you’ll excuse me, I should go and check in with my embassy, just to let them know that I’ve done my job.”
5
Thomas Parnelles slid the yellow pencil between his fingers, then turned it around, spinning it across his hand as if he were a magician and it was his wand. Quick fingers and sleight of hand were great assets in the spy game, he’d been told as a young man, though as far as he could remember he’d never actually used either of those skills in the field.
Magic — now that was something altogether different. That he had used many times. Or at least attempted to.
The pencil fell from Parnelles’s hand and skittered across the desk, toward the tiny digital recorder that was replaying what the Russian scientist had told Ferguson less than a half hour before.
Corrine Alston grabbed the pencil as it fell off the side of the desk.
The player stopped.
“That’s it?” she asked Dan Slott. The CIAs Deputy Director of Operations looked at Jack Corrigan, the First Team’s deskman. He nodded.
“Atha may be back in Iran by now,” said Corrine.
“He wouldn’t have gotten there yet,” said Corrigan. “The plane that Rankin says he took has only about an eight-hundred-mile radius. They’d have to stop and refuel.”
“The part about him going south bothers me,” said Parnelles. “Iran has spread money around for camps in the Darfur area, allegedly for relief. It might be a cover for a base.”
“If this material is as dangerous as it seems, they might not want to work on in it in Iran,” said Slott. “We are looking at the satellite data, and we’ve got a Global Hawk unmanned spy plane en route.”
“A laboratory hidden in a relief camp will be difficult to detect by satellite,” said Parnelles.
“Colonel Van Buren and the 777th Special Forces Group is being positioned to respond if necessary,” said Slott.
“I think it’s premature to consider an assault,” said Corrine.
“From what we know of the bacteria, it can be prepared to be used relatively easily,” said Parnelles. “They could launch an attack in a relatively short time.”
“They’d be inviting massive retaliation,” said Corrine. “A full-scale invasion.”
“If we could figure out what was going on,” said Slott.
“It would reverse the entire course of their foreign policy over the past year and a half,” answered Corrine. “Everything they’ve been aiming to do — they’ve made major concessions on funding Hezbollah. Even without the nuclear treaty. This doesn’t fit in.”
“It does if you’re Parsa Moshen and your power is slipping,” said Parnelles. “The best thing that could happen would be an attack by the U.S. The Revolutionary Guard would become the most important force in the country once more. Even if you were invaded. You look at A1 Qaeda in Afghanistan, in Iraq, and you say, ‘If they could do it, we can do it.’“
“That’s dangerous thinking,” said Corrine.
“Exactly,” said the CIA Director, slipping back in his chair.
6
The pilots Paul told Guns and Rankin about could generally be found in a hotel overlooking the sea in Qasar Ahmed, the town next to Misratah on the Mediterranean; it was a Western-style hotel, which meant it had a bar and served alcohol.
“Very early,” Paul told them as they rode the elevator up to the bar, which was located on the roof. “We may not find anyone.”
“We have time,” said Guns.
The bar consisted of a small, air-conditioned room and a much larger open patio, shielded from the sun by a large piece of striped canvas. The material flapped in the breeze, pulling hard against the ropes that held it down against the metal poles. Rankin and Guns followed as Paul led them to the far corner, commandeering a table that had an unrestricted view of the sea.
“Be back,” said Paul, jumping up a moment after sitting.
“What do you think?” Rankin asked. “You think he’s completely nuts?”
“I don’t know,” said Guns. “He definitely lost a few brain cells along the way.”
“I hate hippies.”
“My mom was kind of a hippy. For a while. When she was young.”
“She doesn’t count.”
A waiter appeared. “You want?” he asked, his accent and tone making it clear that while he knew some English, he was far from fluent.
Then again, his English was miles ahead of their Arabic.
“Juice,” said Rankin. “Apple juice.”
“That’d be good,” said Guns.
The waiter didn’t understand him.
“Apple juice,” said Guns. “Yes.”
“OK. Juice. OK,” said the waiter.
Rankin stared at the light green water rippling toward the horizon. There were dozens and dozens of ships and countless boats bobbing on it.
“Atha could go in any of those boats; we’ll never find him,” he told Guns.
“Why are you always so grouchy?”
“What do you mean, grouchy?”
“Yeah, you’re always like, why are we doing this, or this won’t work, or whatever.”
“I’ll try to be more cheerful for you.”
“Be cheerful for yourself. Think positive.”
Guns looked up and saw Paul coming through the door from the enclosed bar area. Another man, gray hair tied in a ponytail at the back of his head, followed him. He wore aviator frame sunglasses and a thick leather jacket despite the heat.
“This is George Burns,” said Paul, introducing the man with a wink to let them know it wasn’t the pilot’s real name. “George, my friends Guns and Rankin.”
“Hey.” George Burns sat down. He was Caucasian, though deeply tanned, and wore American-style work boots and Levi’s. But his shirt was the sort a native Libyan might wear, a loosely fitting tunic that fell below his waist. He reeked of alcohol.
“These are the spies,” Paul told him. “They’re looking for Ahmed and Anghuyu Jahan — Atha.”
“I know where Atha is,” said George Burns.
“Where?” asked Rankin.
“I’ll take you there. But it’ll cost you.”
“You’re lying,” said Rankin.
