Soul of the Assassin - [First Team 04]

by Larry Bond

  In any other country, he might have waited for the two men sitting there to leave. But drinking coffee in Italy could be an all-day affair, and he couldn’t spend that much time waiting. Thera was back at the conference, her only backup the Italian security people.

  Fortunately, he had come prepared.

  “Scusare,” he said to the men, standing next to the table. He purposely used the wrong form of the word before switching to English.

  “Excuse me. I’m from the U.S. and I’m a little lost. Hey, what was that?” he added, turning as if he’d just spotted something out of the corner of his eye.

  As he spun, he released something on the table.

  “Ratto!” yelled one of the men as the mouse Ferguson had dropped scurried around the silverware.

  The other man jumped to his feet, sending his chair flying.

  “Grab it,” said the first.

  Within moments, the place was in a tumult: half the patrons were trying to grab the poor mouse; the other half were trying to get away.

  Ferguson calmly righted the chair that had been knocked over, sat down, and reached under the table for the small digital recorder he’d left behind earlier. He ripped off the tape holding it and took the small device, barely bigger than a portable USB memory card, and walked calmly out of the restaurant.

  He felt a little bad about the mouse. But given that the pet store around the corner had advertised it beneath a sign that said: “Feed your snake real food tonight,” he reasoned that he had at least given it a fighting chance for survival.

  ~ * ~

  5

  THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA

  Atha pushed the hood of the rain slicker as far down over his face as it would go. The rain was really pouring now, crashing across the bow of the ship in what looked like solid sheets. The vessel rocked up and down with the waves, pitching to its sides as the sea knifed against its bow, pummeling the ship. The wind was so loud that he couldn’t hear the helicopter, though he knew from the spotlight that it was nearly overhead.

  The Iranian had been winched up to a helicopter several times before when he was younger, so when he had worked out this plan he did not think it would be very difficult. But he had not counted on this rain and the heaving sea; simply standing on the deck made his stomach feel queasy.

  A black streak of rain lashed across the ship. Atha stared at it a moment, then realized it was the rope from the helicopter that was to winch him aboard. A sling that looked more like a rubber inner tube for a bicycle than a harness hung at the bottom; it crashed against a large vent on the foredeck and got hooked there. Atha ran to it, dragging his suitcase as he went.

  Before he could finish hooking himself into the sling it started upward. He barely managed to keep hold of the suitcase as he was tugged toward the chopper. Though he’d tied it to a life jacket and wrapped it in garbage bags to make sure it remained waterproof and would float, in this storm he doubted he would see it again if it slipped from his grasp. He clenched his fingers around it as the rope twisted. The wash from the rotors and the spray of the water drenched him, soaking him to his bones despite the heavy rain gear he wore.

  At last he reached the doorway of the helicopter. A crewman grabbed at Atha’s bag, but he refused to give it up; he was dragged inside by it, rolling back toward the doorway as the chopper bucked in the wind. Another man grabbed hold of Atha and wrestled him against the bulkhead, where he managed to get out of the harness. He lay on the floor as the door was shut and the chopper began gaining altitude.

  Thanking God for his delivery, Atha got up and sat on the narrow bench at the side of the cabin. I’m safe, he thought to himself. As if to rebuff him, the helicopter pitched sharply to the right, throwing him against the two other men. For the first time since he’d come aboard, Atha looked into their faces and realized that they, too, were scared, perhaps even more than he was.

  “There will be a bonus on our safe landing,” he promised. When that failed to cheer them, he added, “We are doing Allah’s work, all praise be to him. He would not let us die before our mission is complete.”

  The crewmen exchanged a doubtful look before nodding.

  ~ * ~

  6

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  Nathaniel Hamilton stepped off the small plane at the Bologna airport and hurried into the tunnel toward the terminal. Having effectively ceded the search for the Iranian to the Italians and the Americans— Jared Lloyd was in theory “liaisoning,” but Hamilton had few illusions about who was really in charge—he was at least temporarily reduced to getting whatever he could from the other end of the equation, the Russian scientist.

  London, of course, had no clue what should be done next. In one breath, Hamilton’s supervisor said he would pummel the Americans for stepping into the middle of their operation. In the next, he said how lucky they were for following a hunch and he would damn well make sure they got credit for it.

  Hamilton had been around long enough to realize that, his boss’s opinions notwithstanding, the mission had so far been neither a great success nor a terrible failure. The Americans were worried about whatever Rostislawitch had handed over, but in Hamilton’s opinion the network Atha belonged to was much more important. Was Rostislawitch part of a network of scientists in Russia willing to supply state secrets to Atha? What were the Iranians’ real plans?

  The first thing Hamilton did when he got to Bologna was take a room at the Stasi, a boutique hotel just at the edge of center city. It was an expensive place; his boss would surely have a fit when he saw the bill. But Hamilton wanted a place with a bed that wasn’t made out of melted-down cannons.

  Once he’d checked in, Hamilton took a taxi to the bus station. He walked in the front door and then promptly out the side, walking down the block to an alley, where he turned right and walked to the door of a small building wedged between two larger and much older structures. A sign on the faded wood proclaimed that the place had been condemned; the sign was at least two years old. Hamilton took a look around, then unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  There was no light or electricity; he had to use a small pocket flashlight to find the strongbox he’d come for.

  A touch of paranoia took hold as he knelt to the box. But it quickly passed. He put his key into the lock and opened the lid, then reached in and took what he needed—keys, credit cards, SIM cards for his phone, and finally the guns: a PK pistol and a six-shot dummy cell phone.

  “Now, then,” he said to himself as he rose, the pistol and fake phone tucked into his pockets, “let us see what sort of mood the estimable Mr. Ferguson is in this evening.”

  ~ * ~

  T

  ruth be told, Ferguson was in the mood for a long nap. He’d followed Rostislawitch back to his hotel, where the scientist was apparently in the process of taking a very long shower. Unfortunately, the battery in the video bug Rankin had installed the day before had run down, and Ferguson had to rely on the backup audio near the door. It was difficult to hear much except for the shower.

  For the moment, Ferguson was on his own. He’d sent Thera to move some of their cars around so they wouldn’t be towed or ticketed; after that, she was supposed to rest. She wasn’t due back until seven, when she was to meet Rostislawitch for dinner in the lobby.

  The Italians, British, and Russians all knew pieces of what was going on, but as far as Ferguson could tell, they didn’t know as much as the team did. The Italians didn’t know about the bacteria that had possibly been taken; they thought the Iranian was a witness or participant in the bombing. The British didn’t know what Kiska had told Ferguson about the material, though they knew that Atha had met with the scientist. The Russians didn’t know about Atha, since Kiska hadn’t gotten to town until after the meeting.

  What did they know that Ferguson didn’t?

  Plenty, maybe.

  What didn’t he know that was important?

  Number one, who T Rex was.

  Not Kiska. But the problem with eliminat
ing her was that left no one else as a possible candidate. By now the Agency had checked the bona fides of every scientist at the convention without coming up with a match; the Italians had conducted their own check of the backgrounds of the caterers and the others hired for the event. This had resulted in a few surprises—including the arrest of a man wanted for heroin smuggling and the detention of a number of suspected illegal immigrants but no likely candidate for T Rex.

  Meanwhile, the Italian investigation into the bombing was moving ahead at a snail’s pace. The plastique explosive had been isolated but its chemical “tag”—a kind of fingerprint that would indicate where it had been manufactured—had not yet been identified. The truck that had blown up had been stolen from a town about five kilometers away; the police had no leads in the theft.

  So if it wasn’t Kiska, who was it?

  Ferguson took the laptop into the bathroom with him so he could watch the feed from the video bugs covering the hall outside Rostislawitch’s door and listen to the audio bug while he shaved. Rostislawitch had finally finished his shower and was now talking to himself, complaining about Kiska.

  Ferguson didn’t want it to be her because she’d saved his life. Was that really it?

  If she was T Rex, he’d have to take her, and of course she wasn’t going to just come with him, and then Parnelles’s wish would come true. He’d have his pound of flesh, and maybe some problems with the Italians, but those problems he wouldn’t mind.

  But maybe Rostislawitch wasn’t the real target; maybe the car bomb was “just” a car bomb, or even a feint to throw them off the trail. Imperiati’s other target was due tonight, the keynote speaker at the dinner Rostislawitch and Thera were going to.

  Ferguson listened as the Russian turned on his television. A middle-aged woman came down the hallway near his room, stopped, and went back to her room. She emerged with a sweater a few moments later. Ferguson watched her, planning what he would do if she was T Rex.

  But she wasn’t. She got in the elevator at the end of the hall and descended to the lobby.

  ~ * ~

  A

  t 6 p.m., Ferguson called the Cube for an update. It was the first time in recorded history that he had checked in precisely at the time he was supposed to, at least according to Lauren DiCapri.

  “If I’d known it was an occasion, I’d’ve worn a tie,” he told her.

  “What are you wearing now?”

  “Nothing but a smile. Tell me what’s going on.”

  Lauren’s update consisted largely of two facts: Rankin and Guns still had no idea where the Iranian had gone, and Parnelles and Slott were both angry with the world.

  “You especially,” she added. “They can’t figure out why you won’t admit Kiska Babev is T Rex.”

  “If I did admit that, what then?” said Ferguson. “You think she’ll just fly home with me?”

  “Knowing you, sure.”

  “Listen, is Ciello around?” asked Ferguson.

  “As a matter of fact, he wants to talk to you. First, though, the Brits are also kind of mad at us. Hamilton had some sort of hissy fit, claiming that Rankin and Guns screwed up his surveillance.”

  “I’m sure that’s bullshit.”

  “No doubt. But he’s on his way back to Bologna.”

  “It’s a free country, I guess. You giving me Ciello, or what?”

  A slight hush descended over the line as she made the connection. There was a low tone, followed by Thomas Ciello’s slightly hyper soprano.

  “Ciello here.”

  “So how’s the razvaluha?”

  “I don’t have a jalopy, Ferg. I take the bus.”

  “Just joking, Ciello. What’s going on?”

  “That Fibber guy. Good stuff. Too much stuff. But very good stuff.”

  “Yeah. You didn’t give him your Social Security or your bank account number, did you?”

  “No, why?”

  “Just checking. What do you have?”

  Kiska did, in fact, use her cousin’s identity for several credit cards and bank accounts. Ciello had not finished unraveling everything, but he had managed to figure out the pattern Kiska used, alternating credit cards and then getting new accounts.

  “There’s still a lot I have to dig out. But one thing I thought you’d like to know. Well, two things.”

  “Give me three if you want.”

  “One, she was in Peru last August. The Vice President was killed. The murder hasn’t been, um, pinned to T-Rex, but it does have some similarities. Because, you know, he’s important.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Number two, she was in the Czech Republic right before coming to Bologna. The local police raided a warehouse where plastic explosives were stored.”

  “Was the FSB involved?”

  “I don’t know. Not in the news story, but of course they might not be mentioned. I sent a text message to our embassy there. They haven’t gotten back to me. Anyway, the point is, some of the explosives were missing afterwards.”

  “Good work, Thomas,” Ferguson said, though neither item was all that useful. “Keep at it.”

  “I will. Say, Ferg?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Does this Fibber really have an uncle who inherited ten million dollars but can’t collect it?”

  ~ * ~

  7

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  Thera examined her face in the mirror. Her eyes were drooping, her cheeks pinched.

  She wished she could go to bed, sleep for three days, then get up and take a walk around Bologna without looking over her shoulder. She wished it were spring, not the start of winter. She wished she could simply look at the art and enjoy the food without worrying that someone with a gun or a bomb was nearby.

  She wished she could make love to Ferg, and not think about the consequences.

  Did she?

  Yes, certainly. Though the way he acted about sex, the way he so casually used it as a tool, it was a good thing making love to him was just a fantasy.

  Thera ducked her face to the sink. A little makeup and she’d be back on her game.

  ~ * ~

  S

  everal blocks away, Rostislawitch was examining his own face in the mirror, having just finished shaving. In the back of his mind, he was replaying his meeting with the Russian FSB agent, the blond she-wolf who’d tried to intimidate him in the back room of the café.

  Before their meeting, he’d decided he would have nothing more to do with Atha. Now he was angry, insulted that he had been suspected of treason—even though, of course, the charge was correct.

  More important, he wasn’t sure what to do.

  Replaying the meeting, he realized that the woman hadn’t identified herself or who she worked for, but she didn’t have to. Her arrogance was as clear a sign that she was with the FSB as if she had worn a badge on her tight-fitting blouse. Like the KGB before it, the Russian Federal Security Service was used to bullying people, making demands instead of requests, insisting on getting its way. Its agents assumed the rest of the world would bow down to it in all matters, large and small. They were a law to themselves.

  Loathe them, yes. But be careful. They would not simply fade away.

  The question was not how much they knew about what he had planned to do, but what they thought they knew. If they had actually decided that he took the material, the worst thing Rostislawitch could do at this point was simply go home as he had planned. They would have no compunctions about arresting him. If they lacked evidence— and he was sure they did; he had taken every precaution—they would simply manufacture it.

  Rostislawitch opened the drain and let the water run out of the sink, then wiped his face with a towel. If the choice was between running away and returning to a trap, the obvious thing to do was run away.

  And his brother? Or the Grinbergs?

  It was probable that the FSB would carry out the she-wolf’s threats. They would be somewhat careful about it—there were some differences between Puti
n’s Russia and Stalin’s, after all. But most likely the Grinbergs would lose their jobs.

  A shame. They had stood by him through all of his troubles. Irena Grinberg had been Olga’s best friend, and had suffered greatly when she died.

  He could give them Atha’s money. Little by little, small payments. That would more than balance things out.

  As he dressed, Rostislawitch remembered his visit to the church, and what he had felt there. At that moment, it had seemed like a turning point, a revelation that pushed him in an unchangeable direction. But now, barely a few hours later, its force had faded. He was wavering again, unsure what to do.