“No. She’s the good cop. I’m just a prick.”
Rostislawitch looked at the younger man’s grin. He’d saved Rostislawitch’s life, so at least as far as he was concerned, Ferguson wasn’t a prick.
“You were the one on the motorcycle, yes?”
“The red Ducati,” said Ferguson. “Nice bike.”
Rostislawitch saw it again, the man hurtling at him. The explosion had come a few seconds later.
Twice Ferguson had saved his life. Once might be a coincidence or perhaps staged, but twice was not.
And given these second chances to live, what should he do with them? Let Atha go, let him kill untold others?
“Maybe I could tell them something that an expert would find believable. It would depend on how far they’ve gotten. But I don’t know if I can get to Atha. He didn’t always respond right away.”
“He will if he thinks he has to.”
“He’s very clever. He may realize it is a lie.”
“Got to give it a shot, no?”
Artur nodded. “Let us try.”
8
The area around the Naples train station was filled with police and emergency vehicles by the time Kiska Babev arrived. She joined the line of commuters going into the station. She spoke almost no Italian, and the local Neapolitan dialect was lost to her, but through English she managed to puzzle out that there had been some sort of gas explosion nearby. But that explanation didn’t quite fit with the increased security at the train station, where a policeman insisted on going through Kiska’s purse and briefcase before allowing her inside. She asked him what was going on, but he pretended not to understand English and then shooed her inside.
The Russian FSB agent had put a watch on Rostislawitch’s bank accounts and was alerted to both of his cash withdrawals within a few minutes of their being made. While the first one had alerted her to the fact that he was here, it was the second one that troubled her. The cash would be enough to buy a train or airplane ticket to dozens of places, and while he’d have to show ID to get out of the country, the cash would allow him to avoid using his credit card, which they were also monitoring.
She’d searched the airport without finding him, but had to wait until a backup officer arrived from Rome to take her place before coming here. There had been two dozen flights between the time the second withdrawal was made and when she had arrived; the number of trains was three times that. There were simply too many places for them to check.
The delay between the withdrawals suggested a change in plans following a meeting of some sort. Maybe he’d decided to go to Iran. If so, she might never find him.
Few, if any, of the travelers in the station seemed bothered by the extra security outside. Kiska walked through the concourse swiftly, wanting a feel for the layout of the place before actually searching more carefully. She walked over to the platform area, scanning the knots of waiting people. Once or twice she thought she saw the scientist, but closer examination proved she was wrong. She made her way to waiting areas, then began drifting through the shops when her pager buzzed.
She walked over to the far side of the station, making sure she had no one around her, and called her Moscow office.
“This is Colonel Babev. Antov?”
“Colonel, the scientist has just sent a text message using his private account.”
“From where?”
“We’re trying to trace it now. I have the message for you.”
“Tell me.”
“It is in English, addressed to the same account as the one last week saying he would be in Bologna. But this is very explicit: ‘You have taken the suitcase. I was afraid you were not honest. As a precaution, I kept the phalange virus necessary to convert the DNA. The price is now twice, and two European Union passports, clean. I will be in Tripoli at the Alfonse Hotel this evening. I estimate that the virus will survive for another twenty-four hours. For technical references, check these sites.’ And then there is a list of Web sites. Our consultants have not yet gone through them. They involve DNA in some way.”
“The phalange is a type of virus that is used to introduce specific mutations,” she told her lieutenant. “Get me a reservation at that hotel. Get me people — I want Stefan in Tripoli. Have him bring a team, Petra or — who was the girl from St. Petersburg?”
“Neda — on such short notice, Colonel, I think it would be impossible to get her. She’s working with Demidas.”
“Then tell Stefan to put together the best people he can find. In Libya, things are much more open. And ample weapons.”
“I understand, Colonel.”
“Get me a flight there. A ticket for Kiril as well. He’s at the Naples airport now. Make them separate flights if possible. How long will it take you to trace the computer?”
“Another hour, maybe longer.”
“Was it in Naples?”
“We’re not sure.”
It would be easier to take him in Tripoli, Kiska thought. But he might be prepared as well. Surprise him here and be done with it.
“Call me directly when you find it,” she said.
“Yes, Colonel. I will.”
9
Atha, tired from his travel, slept late. He rose just in time for the noonday prayers, then took a long walk around the camp. The buses and trucks he had hired were arriving from the Sudan. By nightfall, there would be seventy-three, enough to transport five thousand people. The buses would then drive three, four, five hundred miles, to A1 Jaw in Libya; Dunquiah in Sudan; Aswan, Abu Simbel, Al Kharijab, in Egypt; to Chad and Darfur. From there, their passengers would fly to France, Italy, Denmark, Egypt, Great Britain, the U.S. Within a week, many would be in hospitals, a few in the grave.
The West would be at the start of an epidemic of a sort unseen since the Black Plague of Medieval times.
It was a beautiful thought.
And he would be rich, and finally truly powerful. An even more beautiful thought.
Most of the refugees in the camp were busy bidding one another good-bye and getting their things together for the journey. Atha nodded at the families as he passed. They smiled at him; a few even lowered their heads in silent tribute to his status as their savior.
When he returned from his walk, Atha found Dr. Hamid was squatting on the floor of the lab in front of a sealed glass work area. He was wearing gloves and a special protective suit, though not a hood.
“Doctor?”
“Please stay near the door. Do not touch anything,” said Hamid. “I will be with you in a moment.”
The bacterial colonies that Rostislawitch had provided had bloomed and then crashed before their arrival; only a few thousand had survived the transport. Had these been ordinary bacteria and the conditions here perfect, those few thousand would have been more than enough to seed thousands of new colonies. But the hybridization of
