slept much and hadn’t had much of a break between missions, but he couldn’t shake the nagging suspicion that something else was going on.
Maybe the cancer was sucking energy out of him, draining him like a short circuit in a car battery. There was going to come a time when he couldn’t do this job, where he’d be a second too late to react, and that would get not only him but the rest of the team killed.
Thera was the one in harm’s way right now. If she died because he couldn’t figure out what was going on, he couldn’t live with that. He just couldn’t.
“You just drink water?”
“The bubbles give me energy,” he said, looking up into Thera’s green eyes.
“You’re Irish.”
“And you’re . . . something,” said Ferguson.
“Greek.”
“Your English is pretty good. How’d you know I was Irish?”
“Your accent gives you away. I spent a year studying in Dublin, and two in London. I thought you were English at first.”
“Have a seat.” She was getting better at lying, Ferguson thought. He almost would have believed her.
“I don’t think so. Thanks.”
“Your loss.”
“Maybe.” Thera went to the bar and ordered a White Russian.
“I’ll pay for that,” said Ferguson, getting up and walking toward the bar as the bartender brought Thera her drink.
“Thanks. I don’t think so,” she said.
“You sure?”
“You’re cute, but—” Thera felt a pang of regret, as if she weren’t just playacting.
“There’s always a but,” said Ferguson. He dropped a ten-euro note on the bar and walked out.
~ * ~
T
wenty minutes later, the team assembled in a suite in the Hotel Vespucci across the street: technically Guns’ room, reserved for him by Corrigan. Rankin, who’d had to park the car in a hotel garage several blocks away, was the last one in; he gave Ferguson a scowl and then went and sat at the far end of the sofa, glaring at him.
One of these days, Rankin thought, no shit, he was going to punch Ferguson in the mouth.
“Tough night,” said Ferguson. “I think we all oughta get some sleep. If Rostislawitch is the target, I figure we can take six hours. If he’s not, then it probably doesn’t matter how long we sleep.”
“That’s it? That’s what we’re doing?” asked Rankin.
“If you have another idea, Skippy, I’m all ears,” said Ferguson. “Fire away.”
“I don’t see why anyone would want to kill Rostislawitch,” said Rankin.
“Maybe the Russians,” suggested Thera.
“Why wait until he’s out of the country then? No way. Corrigan’s brief says he’s teaching basic biology classes. That’s not a real important job.”
“How do you know?” asked Guns.
“ ‘Cause unlike you, Marine, I went to college.”
“Relax,” said Ferguson. “I agree, but he looks like the only guy at the conference who’s halfway worth targeting. By who, I don’t know.”
“The Russians aren’t going to hire out to kill him,” said Rankin. “And they’re not going to wait until he’s out of the country.”
“They killed Alexander Litvinenko in London,” said Thera.
“ ‘Cause they couldn’t lure him back to Russia.” Rankin folded his arms.
“Skip’s got a good point,” said Ferguson. He leaned back in the seat, his head on the back cushion so that he was gazing at the ceiling. “Maybe I was wrong about this. Maybe the theory that he’s going to hit a public square is right. Maybe it is some sort of gas attack. Maybe a bomb, I don’t know. We’re missing too many pieces of the puzzle right now. Back to square one. But get some sleep first.”
Rankin snorted. That was as close to a full-blown apology as Ferguson ever made. “I’ll take the watch,” Rankin said.
“I got it, Skippy.”
“You can’t let it be, huh?” shot Rankin. “You can’t just say you were an asshole and let
Maybe the cancer was sucking energy out of him, draining him like a short circuit in a car battery. There was going to come a time when he couldn’t do this job, where he’d be a second too late to react, and that would get not only him but the rest of the team killed.
Thera was the one in harm’s way right now. If she died because he couldn’t figure out what was going on, he couldn’t live with that. He just couldn’t.
“You just drink water?”
“The bubbles give me energy,” he said, looking up into Thera’s green eyes.
“You’re Irish.”
“And you’re . . . something,” said Ferguson.
“Greek.”
“Your English is pretty good. How’d you know I was Irish?”
“Your accent gives you away. I spent a year studying in Dublin, and two in London. I thought you were English at first.”
“Have a seat.” She was getting better at lying, Ferguson thought. He almost would have believed her.
“I don’t think so. Thanks.”
“Your loss.”
“Maybe.” Thera went to the bar and ordered a White Russian.
“I’ll pay for that,” said Ferguson, getting up and walking toward the bar as the bartender brought Thera her drink.
“Thanks. I don’t think so,” she said.
“You sure?”
“You’re cute, but—” Thera felt a pang of regret, as if she weren’t just playacting.
“There’s always a but,” said Ferguson. He dropped a ten-euro note on the bar and walked out.
~ * ~
T
wenty minutes later, the team assembled in a suite in the Hotel Vespucci across the street: technically Guns’ room, reserved for him by Corrigan. Rankin, who’d had to park the car in a hotel garage several blocks away, was the last one in; he gave Ferguson a scowl and then went and sat at the far end of the sofa, glaring at him.
One of these days, Rankin thought, no shit, he was going to punch Ferguson in the mouth.
“Tough night,” said Ferguson. “I think we all oughta get some sleep. If Rostislawitch is the target, I figure we can take six hours. If he’s not, then it probably doesn’t matter how long we sleep.”
“That’s it? That’s what we’re doing?” asked Rankin.
“If you have another idea, Skippy, I’m all ears,” said Ferguson. “Fire away.”
“I don’t see why anyone would want to kill Rostislawitch,” said Rankin.
“Maybe the Russians,” suggested Thera.
“Why wait until he’s out of the country then? No way. Corrigan’s brief says he’s teaching basic biology classes. That’s not a real important job.”
“How do you know?” asked Guns.
“ ‘Cause unlike you, Marine, I went to college.”
“Relax,” said Ferguson. “I agree, but he looks like the only guy at the conference who’s halfway worth targeting. By who, I don’t know.”
“The Russians aren’t going to hire out to kill him,” said Rankin. “And they’re not going to wait until he’s out of the country.”
“They killed Alexander Litvinenko in London,” said Thera.
“ ‘Cause they couldn’t lure him back to Russia.” Rankin folded his arms.
“Skip’s got a good point,” said Ferguson. He leaned back in the seat, his head on the back cushion so that he was gazing at the ceiling. “Maybe I was wrong about this. Maybe the theory that he’s going to hit a public square is right. Maybe it is some sort of gas attack. Maybe a bomb, I don’t know. We’re missing too many pieces of the puzzle right now. Back to square one. But get some sleep first.”
Rankin snorted. That was as close to a full-blown apology as Ferguson ever made. “I’ll take the watch,” Rankin said.
“I got it, Skippy.”
“You can’t let it be, huh?” shot Rankin. “You can’t just say you were an asshole and let
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