Part 1 (2/2)

”Semtex.” McKittrick referred to a sophisticated plastic explosive. ”My contacts spread word in the kind of hangouts these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds like to use that Semtex was available to anyone willing to pay enough.”

”And how did you find your contacts?”

”A similar way. I spread the word that I'd be generous to anyone who supplied the information I needed.”

”Italians.”

”h.e.l.l yes. Isn't that the point? Cutouts. Plausible deniability. An American like me has to start the ball rolling, but after a while, the team has to be made up of nationals from the country where we're working. The operation can't be traced back to us.”

”That's what it says in the textbooks.”

”But what do you say?”

”The nationals have to be dependable.”

”You're suggesting my contacts might not be?” McKittrick sounded testy.

”Let's just say the money might make them eager to please.”

”For G.o.d sake, we're hunting terrorists,” McKittrick said. ”Do you expect me to get informants to cooperate by appealing to their civic duty?”

Decker allowed himself to smile. ”No, I believe in the old-fas.h.i.+oned way-appealing to their weaknesses.”

”Then there you are.”

”But I'd like to meet them,” Decker said.

McKittrick looked uncomfortable.

”Just to get a sense of what we're dealing with,” Decker added.

”But it's all in my reports.”

”Which make for fascinating reading. The thing is, I've always been a hands-on kind of guy. How soon can you arrange a meeting?”

McKittrick hesitated. ”Eleven tonight.”

”Where?”

”I'll have to let you know.”

Decker handed McKittrick a piece of paper. ”Memorize this phone number. Got it? Fine.” Decker took the specially treated paper into the kitchen, poured water on it, and watched it disintegrate, dissolving down the drain. ”To confirm the meeting, call that number at eight tonight, or every half hour after that, up to ten. But after ten, don't bother. I'll a.s.sume you couldn't get your contacts together. In which case, try for tomorrow night, or the night after that. Each night, the same schedule for calling. Ask for Baldwin. My response will be Edward.”

”The phone's at your hotel?”

Decker a.s.sessed him. ”You're beginning to worry me. No, the phone isn't at my hotel. And when you call that number, make sure you don't do it from here.”

”I know the drill.”

”Call from a pay phone you've never used before.”

”I said I know the drill.”

”All the same, it never hurts to be reminded.”

”Look, I know what you're thinking,” McKittrick said.

”Really?”

”This is the first time I'm running an operation. You want to make sure I'm up to the job.”

”You're right, you do know what I'm thinking,” Decker said.

”Well, you don't need to worry.”

”Oh?” Decker asked skeptically.

”I can handle myself.”

3.

Decker left the apartment building, crossed the busy street, noticed a pa.s.sing taxi, and motioned for the driver to meet him around the next corner. There, out of sight from where McKittrick might be watching from his apartment, Decker apologized to the taxi driver, saying that he had changed his mind and wanted to walk a little more. As the driver muttered and pulled away, Decker went back to the corner but didn't show himself. The cafe on the corner had windows that faced the main street and the side street. From the side street, staying out of view as much as possible, Decker could look through the side window and then the front window, providing himself with a view of McKittrick's apartment building. Sunlight reflecting off the front window would help to make Decker un.o.btrusive.

Sooner than Decker expected, McKittrick emerged from the apartment building. The stocky man drew a hand through his short blond hair, looked nervously both ways along the street, saw an empty taxi, eagerly hailed it, and got in.

While waiting, Decker had needed something to do so he wouldn't appear to be loitering. From a lamppost, he had unchained a motorbike that he had rented. He had unlocked the storage compartment, folded his navy blazer into it, taken out a brown leather jacket and a helmet with a dark visor, and put them on. With his appearance sufficiently changed that McKittrick would not recognize him if he checked for surveillance, Decker started the motorbike and followed the taxi.

He wasn't encouraged by the meeting. The problems that he had sensed in McKittrick's reports now seemed more manifest and troubling. It wasn't merely that this was the first time McKittrick had been given a position of authority. After all, if the man was going to have a career, there had to be a first time, just as there had been a first time for Decker. Instead, the source of Decker's unease was that McKittrick was too d.a.m.ned sure of himself, obviously not fully skilled at tradecraft and yet not humble enough to know his limitations. Before flying to Rome, Decker had already recommended to his superiors that McKittrick be a.s.signed to another, less sensitive operation, but the son of a legend in the profession (OSS, charter member of the CIA, former deputy director of operations) evidently couldn't be shuffled around without the legend demanding to know why his son wasn't being given opportunities for advancement.

So Decker had been sent to have a look, to make sure that everything was as it should be. To be a nursemaid, Decker thought. He followed the taxi through congested traffic, eventually stopping as McKittrick got out near the Spanish Steps. Decker quickly chained the motorbike to a lamppost and went after him. There were so many tourists that McKittrick should have been able to blend with them, but his blond hair, which ought to have been dyed a dark, nondramatic color, made him conspicuous. Another lapse in tradecraft, Decker thought.

Squinting from the bright afternoon sun, he followed McKittrick past the Church of the Trinita dei Monti, then down the Spanish Steps to Spanish Square. Once famous for its flower sellers, the area was now occupied by street merchants, with their jewelry, ceramics, and paintings spread out before them. Ignoring the distractions, Decker kept after McKittrick, turning right past Bernini's Boat Fountain, s.h.i.+fting through the crowd, pa.s.sing the house where Keats had died in 1821, and finally saw his quarry enter a cafe.

Yet another mistake in tradecraft, Decker thought. It was foolish to seek refuge in a place with so many people outside; someone watching would be difficult to notice. Choosing a spot that was partially sheltered, Decker prepared himself for a wait, but again McKittrick came out sooner than expected. He had a woman with him. She was Italian, in her early twenties, tall and slim, sensuous, with an oval face framed by short dark hair and sungla.s.ses tilted on top of her head. She wore cowboy boots, tight jeans, and a red T-s.h.i.+rt that emphasized her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Even from thirty yards away, Decker could tell she wasn't wearing a bra. McKittrick had his arm around her shoulders. She, in turn, had an arm around his hips, her thumb hooked into a back pocket of his slacks. They proceeded down Via dei Condotti, took a shadowy side street on the right, paused on the steps of a building, kissed hungrily, then entered the building.

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