on!”
~ * ~
T
he man who’d taken the suitcase into the reception hall hurried toward a Fiat across the street. Ferguson trotted to catch up.
“Guns, you on the bike?” he asked as he drew closer to the man.
“Yeah.”
“Black Fiat. I’ll get the plate.”
The fire alarm was ringing and people were starting to file out of the building, though not in much of a rush.
“Rankin, call in some sort of bomb alert to the police,” said Ferguson.
“I already did.”
“Where’s Thera?”
“She’s going out the back.”
“I’m here, Ferg,” said Thera.
“Get out; there’s a bomb.”
“No shit. We’re in the alley.”
Meanwhile, the man who had left the suitcase under the table had stopped at the trunk of his car. He popped it open and reached inside. Ferguson, thinking the man had spotted him, ducked into the nearby doorway and reached to his belt for his pistol. He watched as the man pulled another suitcase out of the car.
“Ferg, what’s going on?” asked Guns. He was a few yards down the street, sitting on a motorcycle. Like many Italians, he hadn’t bothered putting on his helmet.
“I’m not sure,” answered Ferguson. “Let’s see. Get ready to grab him.”
The man closed the trunk and started back toward the art building. Ferguson kept his gun down and pressed against the door, staying in the shadows as the man passed a few feet away.
“Coming at you, Guns,” Ferguson whispered.
“Yeah, I see him. What’s he got? Another bomb?”
“Don’t know.” Ferguson trotted to the car, glanced at the empty interior, then knelt in front of the trunk. He picked the lock, lifting the lid cautiously; there was nothing inside except an undersized spare and some crumpled plastic grocery bags.
Ferguson pulled the small bomb sniffer out of his pocket. The “sniffer” would react to the chemicals used in plastic explosives, such as Semtex, by sounding a tone and lighting a red LED on the outer casing. The light stayed off.
Ferguson slammed the trunk closed.
“Guns, why don’t you circle the block, get out of here,” he said.
“What?”
“Just go. This may be some sort of trick to flush us out. That or Rankin got his underwear twisted again.”
~ * ~
9
BOLOGNA, ITALY
The alleyway was dark, and Rostislawitch tripped over a small pile of boxes as he strode toward the street. Thera grabbed his back and steadied him, helping him oat to the light. A fire truck was just turning up the block; they watched it veer left and right as the driver overcorrected, its bumper barely missing the cars parked on either side of the street.
“What’s going on?” Rostislawitch asked.
“I don’t know,” said Thera.
“Did Atha send you?”
Thera considered saying yes, but was afraid he’d catch on if she bluffed. Better to play it straight, she thought.
“Who’s Atha?” she asked.
“Who sent you?” demanded Rostislawitch.
“No one sent me. I’m from the University of Athens. I’m a post-doc student. I thought I might come here and see what chances I had of getting a job. I’m not sure whether I want to teach or just do pure research. It might be selling out.”
“Oh, Athens.” Despite her claim, Rostislawitch was now convinced that Thera was in fact working for the Iranian, probably checking him out before the meeting.
“You’ve been to Athens?” asked Thera.
“I’ve stopped in the airport a few times. Never in the city.”
“A shame,” Thera told him. “There’s so much history there, in the countryside. The city itself is like any city, unless you have family. But the ruins, those are impressive.”
“I see.” Rostislawitch stepped back as another fire engine roared around the corner.
“Would you like to get something to eat?” asked Thera.
“Yes,” said Rostislawitch. “I am a little
~ * ~
T
he man who’d taken the suitcase into the reception hall hurried toward a Fiat across the street. Ferguson trotted to catch up.
“Guns, you on the bike?” he asked as he drew closer to the man.
“Yeah.”
“Black Fiat. I’ll get the plate.”
The fire alarm was ringing and people were starting to file out of the building, though not in much of a rush.
“Rankin, call in some sort of bomb alert to the police,” said Ferguson.
“I already did.”
“Where’s Thera?”
“She’s going out the back.”
“I’m here, Ferg,” said Thera.
“Get out; there’s a bomb.”
“No shit. We’re in the alley.”
Meanwhile, the man who had left the suitcase under the table had stopped at the trunk of his car. He popped it open and reached inside. Ferguson, thinking the man had spotted him, ducked into the nearby doorway and reached to his belt for his pistol. He watched as the man pulled another suitcase out of the car.
“Ferg, what’s going on?” asked Guns. He was a few yards down the street, sitting on a motorcycle. Like many Italians, he hadn’t bothered putting on his helmet.
“I’m not sure,” answered Ferguson. “Let’s see. Get ready to grab him.”
The man closed the trunk and started back toward the art building. Ferguson kept his gun down and pressed against the door, staying in the shadows as the man passed a few feet away.
“Coming at you, Guns,” Ferguson whispered.
“Yeah, I see him. What’s he got? Another bomb?”
“Don’t know.” Ferguson trotted to the car, glanced at the empty interior, then knelt in front of the trunk. He picked the lock, lifting the lid cautiously; there was nothing inside except an undersized spare and some crumpled plastic grocery bags.
Ferguson pulled the small bomb sniffer out of his pocket. The “sniffer” would react to the chemicals used in plastic explosives, such as Semtex, by sounding a tone and lighting a red LED on the outer casing. The light stayed off.
Ferguson slammed the trunk closed.
“Guns, why don’t you circle the block, get out of here,” he said.
“What?”
“Just go. This may be some sort of trick to flush us out. That or Rankin got his underwear twisted again.”
~ * ~
9
BOLOGNA, ITALY
The alleyway was dark, and Rostislawitch tripped over a small pile of boxes as he strode toward the street. Thera grabbed his back and steadied him, helping him oat to the light. A fire truck was just turning up the block; they watched it veer left and right as the driver overcorrected, its bumper barely missing the cars parked on either side of the street.
“What’s going on?” Rostislawitch asked.
“I don’t know,” said Thera.
“Did Atha send you?”
Thera considered saying yes, but was afraid he’d catch on if she bluffed. Better to play it straight, she thought.
“Who’s Atha?” she asked.
“Who sent you?” demanded Rostislawitch.
“No one sent me. I’m from the University of Athens. I’m a post-doc student. I thought I might come here and see what chances I had of getting a job. I’m not sure whether I want to teach or just do pure research. It might be selling out.”
“Oh, Athens.” Despite her claim, Rostislawitch was now convinced that Thera was in fact working for the Iranian, probably checking him out before the meeting.
“You’ve been to Athens?” asked Thera.
“I’ve stopped in the airport a few times. Never in the city.”
“A shame,” Thera told him. “There’s so much history there, in the countryside. The city itself is like any city, unless you have family. But the ruins, those are impressive.”
“I see.” Rostislawitch stepped back as another fire engine roared around the corner.
“Would you like to get something to eat?” asked Thera.
“Yes,” said Rostislawitch. “I am a little
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