hungry.”
~ * ~
A
mong the many lessons Ferguson’s father had taught him was always to look as if you belonged where you didn’t. A slight frown, a firm glare, and a determined stride were far more valuable than an identification card—though he could have produced a card showing he was a police investigator had anyone stopped him as he strode into the art building.
“Ferg, what are you doing?” Rankin asked over the radio.
Ferguson ignored him. Spotting the suitcase, he walked to it and pulled it from under the table.
“Ferg!”
Combination locks on either side of the suitcase held it shut. Ferguson placed his thumbs on them, then pushed the levers simultaneously. The loud clicks echoed against the high ceiling.
“Jesus, Ferg,” said Rankin.
“I don’t see the big guy here.” Ferguson pushed the lid up. The suitcase was filled with pamphlets.
“You see this, Rankin?”
“Yeah, I see it, Ferg. What the fuck do you want me to say?”
“Something along the lines of, ‘I screwed up big-time,’ would do it.”
“Like I’m supposed to have X-ray vision? The guy acted exactly as if he was planting a bomb. I didn’t want Thera to get killed. I thought it was T Rex.”
Ferguson straightened. A pair of firemen came through the door; one of them had an axe.
“Dove il fuoco?” they asked. “Where is the fire?”
“Non so,” said Ferguson. “I don’t know.”
The firemen rushed toward the hallway. Ferguson took out his small bug finder and scanned the room, looking for bugging devices. He smelled a setup—someone must be watching, and now knew they were there.
“Maybe you ought to get out of there, don’t you think?” said Rankin.
“I’m already burned as it is,” said Ferguson. He was in no mood to realize he’d made a pun, let alone laugh at it.
“The guy with the suitcases is coming in,” said Rankin.
“Maybe I’ll arrest him. I noticed a spelling mistake on the brochure.”
~ * ~
10
BOLOGNA, ITALY
They spent the next few hours trying to figure out if they had been watched. Rankin was mad at Ferguson for saying he’d screwed up when really he’d done the most logical thing under the circumstances. Ferguson was mad at himself for not having realized that it might be a trap. Guns, who’d cycled back around the city and was watching Thera, wasn’t quite sure what either of them was angry about, and tried to ignore the sniping in his headset. The only person completely focused on her job was Thera, who’d bought Rostislawitch dinner and listened to him talk about how much he missed his wife. It was a touching story, heartrending in a way, and not the sort of thing she’d expected from a man who according to the Cube had spent his life working on efficient ways of killing large numbers of people with microscopic bugs.
When Rostislawitch went back to his hotel to go to bed, Thera planted a video bug outside his room, then went downstairs and tapped into the phone interface unit in the boiler room. Ferguson, meanwhile, rented a suite on the second floor that they could use to watch him if necessary. After checking the room, he went down to the lounge to check it out and wait for Thera. Afraid to drink because he was so tired, he ordered a bottle of Pellegrino and sat at a booth that gave him a good view of the doorway.
Had T Rex really snookered him, or was he just thinking too much? Did they even have the right target in the first place?
By their very nature, First Team missions tended not to move in a straight line; if figuring out who T Rex was and grabbing him was an easy job, someone else would have been assigned to do it. But difficulty wasn’t an excuse, Ferguson thought; they’d botched it this afternoon, and it was his fault, not Rankin’s.
Ferguson’s body felt beat to piss, and his mind wasn’t sharp. He told himself it was because he hadn’t
~ * ~
A
mong the many lessons Ferguson’s father had taught him was always to look as if you belonged where you didn’t. A slight frown, a firm glare, and a determined stride were far more valuable than an identification card—though he could have produced a card showing he was a police investigator had anyone stopped him as he strode into the art building.
“Ferg, what are you doing?” Rankin asked over the radio.
Ferguson ignored him. Spotting the suitcase, he walked to it and pulled it from under the table.
“Ferg!”
Combination locks on either side of the suitcase held it shut. Ferguson placed his thumbs on them, then pushed the levers simultaneously. The loud clicks echoed against the high ceiling.
“Jesus, Ferg,” said Rankin.
“I don’t see the big guy here.” Ferguson pushed the lid up. The suitcase was filled with pamphlets.
“You see this, Rankin?”
“Yeah, I see it, Ferg. What the fuck do you want me to say?”
“Something along the lines of, ‘I screwed up big-time,’ would do it.”
“Like I’m supposed to have X-ray vision? The guy acted exactly as if he was planting a bomb. I didn’t want Thera to get killed. I thought it was T Rex.”
Ferguson straightened. A pair of firemen came through the door; one of them had an axe.
“Dove il fuoco?” they asked. “Where is the fire?”
“Non so,” said Ferguson. “I don’t know.”
The firemen rushed toward the hallway. Ferguson took out his small bug finder and scanned the room, looking for bugging devices. He smelled a setup—someone must be watching, and now knew they were there.
“Maybe you ought to get out of there, don’t you think?” said Rankin.
“I’m already burned as it is,” said Ferguson. He was in no mood to realize he’d made a pun, let alone laugh at it.
“The guy with the suitcases is coming in,” said Rankin.
“Maybe I’ll arrest him. I noticed a spelling mistake on the brochure.”
~ * ~
10
BOLOGNA, ITALY
They spent the next few hours trying to figure out if they had been watched. Rankin was mad at Ferguson for saying he’d screwed up when really he’d done the most logical thing under the circumstances. Ferguson was mad at himself for not having realized that it might be a trap. Guns, who’d cycled back around the city and was watching Thera, wasn’t quite sure what either of them was angry about, and tried to ignore the sniping in his headset. The only person completely focused on her job was Thera, who’d bought Rostislawitch dinner and listened to him talk about how much he missed his wife. It was a touching story, heartrending in a way, and not the sort of thing she’d expected from a man who according to the Cube had spent his life working on efficient ways of killing large numbers of people with microscopic bugs.
When Rostislawitch went back to his hotel to go to bed, Thera planted a video bug outside his room, then went downstairs and tapped into the phone interface unit in the boiler room. Ferguson, meanwhile, rented a suite on the second floor that they could use to watch him if necessary. After checking the room, he went down to the lounge to check it out and wait for Thera. Afraid to drink because he was so tired, he ordered a bottle of Pellegrino and sat at a booth that gave him a good view of the doorway.
Had T Rex really snookered him, or was he just thinking too much? Did they even have the right target in the first place?
By their very nature, First Team missions tended not to move in a straight line; if figuring out who T Rex was and grabbing him was an easy job, someone else would have been assigned to do it. But difficulty wasn’t an excuse, Ferguson thought; they’d botched it this afternoon, and it was his fault, not Rankin’s.
Ferguson’s body felt beat to piss, and his mind wasn’t sharp. He told himself it was because he hadn’t
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