The Iranian frowned. “What is this?”
“This is a discussion to see if it is worth Dr. Rostislawitch’s trouble to meet with you.”
“Why did he want me to come to Tripoli?”
“Because someone tried to kill him in Naples,” said Ferguson.
“Who would want to kill him?” said Atha sharply.
“Perhaps you can tell me.”
“I don’t deal with the
“What is the
“How do I know you’re not FSB?”
“Perhaps I am.”
Atha scowled, but behind the mask he presented to the Russian he began to relax. This was a businessman with whom he could make a deal. The arrangements made more sense now — the scientist wouldn’t have thought about holding back an essential ingredient on his own, but a man like this, probably fronting for other men, a network, would. And he would have wanted the meeting to take place here, in Tripoli, where the authorities could be counted on if necessary. Italy would be too problematic.
It also explained what had happened on the dock in Naples. Of course. He should have realized that a man like Rostislawitch, all brain, would need some brawn to complete a transaction. More than likely he was part of some sort of network; very possibly they had made these sorts of deals before.
The only question was how to make sure he wasn’t cheated. He’d dealt with the type he saw across from him before; you couldn’t show weakness, but on the other hand, if you were too antagonistic they became irrationally angry.
“Maybe, if Dr. Rostislawitch is willing, we can make an arrangement to our mutual benefit,” said Atha. “But I have to talk to him.”
“That can be arranged. If it is worthwhile.”
Ferguson looked over and saw a blond-haired woman coming through the door — Kiska Babev.
Impeccable timing.
“What?” said Atha, immediately sensing something was wrong.
“The Russian FSB. Very inconvenient.”
Before Atha could say anything, Ferguson jumped up and jerked Atha with him to the right. A loud pop echoed under the piano. Its strings vibrated loudly, and suddenly smoke began to fill the lobby.
“Fire!” yelled Ferguson in English as he pushed Atha toward the hall. “Fire!”
A woman who had just come down the steps began to scream. At the desk, Kiska turned and caught a glimpse of someone running away, but the smoke was so thick she couldn’t make out if they were man or woman. Kiska began to choke.
“The blue car across the street,” Ferguson told Atha as they reached the side hall.
Atha, unsure whether this was real or a performance, tried to slow his pace, but Ferguson wouldn’t let him.
“The car. Now. Quickly,” Ferguson said, pushing Atha through the door. He switched to Russian, calling the Iranian a fat toad who was going to get them killed.
The car was parked across the street where Ferrone had left it earlier. Ferguson opened the doors with the remote key and slid in, bumping his legs on the bottom of the dashboard because the CIA station chief liked to drive right on top of the wheel and had left the seat that way. Ferguson cursed — in Russian, and in character — and started the engine. As soon as Atha closed the door, he peeled out.
“I don’t believe any of this,” said Atha.
Ferguson yanked the wheel hard, turning down a narrow side street. He mashed the accelerator, then slammed the brakes and took another turn.
Atha’s fingers fumbled to connect his seat belt. By the time he had gotten it buckled, Ferguson had turned back onto the street in front of the hotel. He drove to the corner, then pulled over. A pair of black Mercedes had driven up in front of the hotel; large men, obviously concealing weapons beneath their coats, were waiting near the door. The blonde Atha had just seen inside — Kiska, though he didn’t know her name — came out coughing with another woman and a man. They got into the cars and sped off.
Ferguson pulled out from his spot, running the light as he hit the gas.
“What are you doing?” asked Atha.
“Following to see if they go to the Russian embassy. You want proof that they are FSB.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Atha. “Let’s go somewhere and discuss our business.”
27
“The truck has not returned yet. If the plane was shot down, they should have found it. If not, they should be back.”
Dr. Navid Hamid looked up from his computer. It took considerable effort to comprehend the Palestinian’s words, not because they were spoken in a foreign language — Dr. Hamid had learned Arabic as a child — but because he was absorbed in the scientific language of bacteria and DNA. He had been studying information published by one of Rostislawitch’s associates on the techniques they had used to manipulate the genes in E. coli. Understanding the papers was difficult, even for Hamid, though it was written in French, which he was fluent in.
“The airplane that flew over the camp was not shot down?” Hamid asked.
“It was hit. We saw smoke. But what happened we do not know for sure. The men we sent out to look for it have not returned. It was three hours.”
“Why did you wait so long to tell me?”
The Palestinian did not like to be berated, especially by a man who spent his days inside and did not understand the difficult strain of running the camp.
“There was much else going on, and you said you should not be disturbed.”
“They don’t have radios?”
“The radios don’t work over the ridge.”
Dr. Hamid rubbed his eyes. “Send someone.”
“As you wish,” said the Palestinian, starting to leave.
“Wait. Tell Muhammed we are ready to prepare the buses. We will be leaving this evening.”
“I thought Atha said to wait until morning.”
“No.” Hamid rose. As he read the papers, there was no way to alter the bacteria strain in the way that Rostislawitch had claimed he’d done; introducing a second virus mutation consistently failed. It had to be a bluff. “We’ll move as originally planned: the first bus leaves at nine.”
28
Thera couldn’t quite understand Ferguson’s Russian. She covered the phone and waved across the hotel room to Rostislawitch, who was sitting glumly in a chair, watching the audioless television.
“Come here,” she said in a stage whisper. “It’s Ferg. Talk to him in Russian.”
“Professor, the meeting is on. One hour. At Laxy’s.”
Rostislawitch looked at Thera. “Laxy’s?”
