Debra Wu, his executive assistant, standing by the door. She made a show of putting her hands over her dress, as if he were trying to look up it. A faint odor of perfume wafted from her. It tickled his nose and he stifled a sneeze.
“Mr. Slott needs to talk to you,” said Wu, shaking her head. “He’s having a conference call with Ms. Alston.”
Wu continued to talk, but Ciello had stopped listening. His mind was back at the piazzas.
Arna Kerr was making a scale model of them.
“Thomas, are you listening to me? Mr. Slott needs that report. Mr. Slott. The DDO. Your boss’s boss. Thomas?”
“Uh-huh.”
T Rex’s preparer was measuring the space between the buildings, which was another way of saying she was measuring the air.
Air.
Hadn’t the UFO sighting in San Diego in 1953 involved some sort of similar measuring devices? No one had figured out what that meant, either.
Bad example.
In his spare time, Thomas Ciello was working on a book that would be the definitive study of UFOs in the twentieth century So far, he hadn’t worked on a case where UFOs were part of the solution— though there was always hope.
“Thomas, are you going to have something or not?” she said finally.
“Don’t know,” mumbled Ciello.
She turned in disgust. Her sharp twist sent a fresh whiff of perfume in Ciello’s direction.
“Oh!” said Ciello loudly. “That’s why she took the measurements!”
“What?” demanded Wu.
“Now I get it.”
“You know who T Rex is?”
“Of course not. But I know what they’re up to.”
Wu waited for the answer as Ciello jumped to his feet and started pumping his keyboard.
“Well?” she said finally.
“Perfume.”
~ * ~
13
BOLOGNA, ITALY
Guns picked Ferguson up in the car two blocks away.
“Ferg, you’re slipping,” Guns told him. “You couldn’t even get her phone number.”
“I couldn’t even get her e-mail address,” said Ferguson in mock amazement. “Next time you take the romance angle and I’ll watch.”
Guns laughed. Ferguson could always be counted on for a joke.
Rankin and Thera were on Vespas ahead, following the cab as it headed out to the airport.
Ferguson took out his sat phone and called the Cube.
“Yes, Bob?” said Lauren DiCapri, the relief desk person.
“Hey, beautiful, what happened? Corrigan went home?”
“Something about working thirty-six hours straight got to him.”
“Tough sitting in that chair, huh?” Ferguson leaned back in the seat. “You tracking us?”
“Of course.” All four of the ops had GPS sending units in their satellite phones, showing the Cube where they were.
“Find Arna Kerr’s flight yet?”
“The flight for the round-trip ticket she bought doesn’t leave for another two days,” said Lauren. “So if she’s going to the airport, she used another credit card for the flight.”
“And different ID,” said Ferguson.
“Maybe, maybe not. We’re not working with the Italians, remember? I don’t have direct access to any of the booking systems, let alone their security lists. I’m working with the credit card companies.”
“How could I forget?”
Slott, the CIA Deputy Director in charge of covert action, had told Ferguson in the briefing that they wouldn’t work with Italy because of the rendition case. Indeed, Ferguson had a relatively low regard for the Italian intelligence agencies and preferred not to get them involved, either. If he got T Rex— when he got T Rex—the plan was to knock him out, bundle him in the trunk of a car, and take him directly to the U.S. air base at Aviano. He’d be in a federal lockup, waiting for a grand jury to indict him, within twenty-four hours.
“Listen, Lauren, I gave Arna Kerr my card. Maybe she’ll call; maybe she’ll send an e-mail or check the Web site.”
“Don’t worry.
“Mr. Slott needs to talk to you,” said Wu, shaking her head. “He’s having a conference call with Ms. Alston.”
Wu continued to talk, but Ciello had stopped listening. His mind was back at the piazzas.
Arna Kerr was making a scale model of them.
“Thomas, are you listening to me? Mr. Slott needs that report. Mr. Slott. The DDO. Your boss’s boss. Thomas?”
“Uh-huh.”
T Rex’s preparer was measuring the space between the buildings, which was another way of saying she was measuring the air.
Air.
Hadn’t the UFO sighting in San Diego in 1953 involved some sort of similar measuring devices? No one had figured out what that meant, either.
Bad example.
In his spare time, Thomas Ciello was working on a book that would be the definitive study of UFOs in the twentieth century So far, he hadn’t worked on a case where UFOs were part of the solution— though there was always hope.
“Thomas, are you going to have something or not?” she said finally.
“Don’t know,” mumbled Ciello.
She turned in disgust. Her sharp twist sent a fresh whiff of perfume in Ciello’s direction.
“Oh!” said Ciello loudly. “That’s why she took the measurements!”
“What?” demanded Wu.
“Now I get it.”
“You know who T Rex is?”
“Of course not. But I know what they’re up to.”
Wu waited for the answer as Ciello jumped to his feet and started pumping his keyboard.
“Well?” she said finally.
“Perfume.”
~ * ~
13
BOLOGNA, ITALY
Guns picked Ferguson up in the car two blocks away.
“Ferg, you’re slipping,” Guns told him. “You couldn’t even get her phone number.”
“I couldn’t even get her e-mail address,” said Ferguson in mock amazement. “Next time you take the romance angle and I’ll watch.”
Guns laughed. Ferguson could always be counted on for a joke.
Rankin and Thera were on Vespas ahead, following the cab as it headed out to the airport.
Ferguson took out his sat phone and called the Cube.
“Yes, Bob?” said Lauren DiCapri, the relief desk person.
“Hey, beautiful, what happened? Corrigan went home?”
“Something about working thirty-six hours straight got to him.”
“Tough sitting in that chair, huh?” Ferguson leaned back in the seat. “You tracking us?”
“Of course.” All four of the ops had GPS sending units in their satellite phones, showing the Cube where they were.
“Find Arna Kerr’s flight yet?”
“The flight for the round-trip ticket she bought doesn’t leave for another two days,” said Lauren. “So if she’s going to the airport, she used another credit card for the flight.”
“And different ID,” said Ferguson.
“Maybe, maybe not. We’re not working with the Italians, remember? I don’t have direct access to any of the booking systems, let alone their security lists. I’m working with the credit card companies.”
“How could I forget?”
Slott, the CIA Deputy Director in charge of covert action, had told Ferguson in the briefing that they wouldn’t work with Italy because of the rendition case. Indeed, Ferguson had a relatively low regard for the Italian intelligence agencies and preferred not to get them involved, either. If he got T Rex— when he got T Rex—the plan was to knock him out, bundle him in the trunk of a car, and take him directly to the U.S. air base at Aviano. He’d be in a federal lockup, waiting for a grand jury to indict him, within twenty-four hours.
“Listen, Lauren, I gave Arna Kerr my card. Maybe she’ll call; maybe she’ll send an e-mail or check the Web site.”
“Don’t worry.
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