Soul of the Assassin

by Larry Bond

  And yet he continued walking with the girl back in the direction of the conference. Was he bewitched by her? Or was he having second thoughts about the Iranian?

  Rostislawitch wasn’t sure.

  He stopped abruptly. “I just remembered an appointment,” he told her.

  “An appointment?”

  “Yes, I—I promised to see a friend of a colleague. It’s a chore. Someone who has not been in good health and I am going to cheer her—him, I mean, I’m going to cheer him up. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  He berated himself—why had he said “her”? And then, why had he changed it? That only made it worse.

  “Sure,” said Thera. “See you later?”

  For a moment—a slim moment—Rostislawitch thought of asking if she’d come with him: not to the meeting, but away, far away, to America maybe, or any place where he might find a way to start over. But it was a foolish idea, and it evaporated long before he heard her ask if she’d see him later.

  “Yes,” Rostislawitch replied. “Good-bye for now.”

  Going back to the south,” said Guns, who was watching Rostislawitch from a bicycle.

  “All right. You see the Italian trail team?” Ferguson asked.

  “In that blue car, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They have anyone else?”

  “Not that I’ve spotted,” said Ferguson. “Rankin, you see anybody?”

  “No.”

  “Ferg, what do you want me to do?” asked Thera, back on the radio circuit now that Rostislawitch had left.

  “Go ahead back to the conference. See if you see anything suspicious. Guns, you shadow her. Rankin and I will follow Rostislawitch. Let’s see who he’s meeting.”

  “You sure the Italians can keep him safe if T Rex is around?” asked Thera.

  “Not my concern.” Ferguson turned and started walking down the Via Ugo Bassi, keeping Rostislawitch between himself and Rankin. “I want T Rex. I want him to take his shot or I won’t have a chance of getting him.”

  “Ferg.”

  “You sound like you’re worried about him, Thera. The stuff Rostislawitch works on can kill a few thousand people in the time it takes to sneeze. You know who his target was when he started working, right? Um, let’s see. That would be during the Cold War. Gee, could it be the U.S.A.?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “The Italians have another team on him,” said Rankin. “Couple of guys in a brown Fiat.”

  Ferguson reached the corner and waited for the light. He saw the brown Fiat approaching. Up ahead, a pair of police cars were parked about two blocks from the piazza.

  Rostislawitch came into view, walking quickly and holding a piece of paper in his hand. Ferguson guessed it was a map, since Rostislawitch kept looking at it.

  “All right, I got him,” Ferguson told Rankin, crossing the street just ahead of the Russian. “We’ll let the Eyetralians get in close.”

  Rankin grunted in reply. Ferguson reached into his pocket, tapping the radio control so that it played music; he cranked the volume as Rostislawitch neared, just in case the scientist wondered why he was wearing earphones.

  Rostislawitch walked by without noticing. He was more than ten minutes late now, and walking so quickly that he felt almost out of breath. Nearing the piazza, he saw a pair of police cars blocking the road. Suddenly he was filled with fear.

  Were they looking for him?

  It was a ridiculous thought, and yet he couldn’t shake it. Despite all of his precautions, he was sure he was about to be caught.

  Rostislawitch continued to walk. He lowered his gaze, focusing on the stones of the walkway. He turned left, moving toward the hotel. There were police everywhere around, some with dogs.

  They weren’t after him. There were too many officers, too much of a commotion—he saw a police van ahead, a kind of a command post with men inside.

  It must be something for the tourists, something to convince them that it was safe.

  Even if the police weren’t here for him now, wouldn’t they be eventually? If he dared to return to Russia, would they get him there?

  She was a good girl, that Thera. She reminded him of his wife in a way. Then again, every woman he met, everyone who was nice to him anyway, reminded him of his wife.

  Greed pushed him through the square and down past the fortresslike building toward the hotel. Greed not for money, but for revenge. They’d let his wife die. He had to get back at them somehow. That was why he was doing this. He hated everyone—the autocrats who ran Russia, the Americans who had forced Russia into poverty, the world that spat on a dying woman who could have been easily saved with the proper care.

  Rostislawitch’s heart nearly stopped as a policeman pointed at him and said loudly. “Signore!”

  Rostislawitch froze.

  “No, signore,” repeated the officer.

  “No parlo Italiano.” Rostislawitch forced the words from his mouth.

  “Non parla Italiano?” said the policeman, asking if he spoke Italian.

  “No.”

  “We’ve closed this part of the street to foot traffic,” said the man, still speaking Italian though there was no hope of Rostislawitch understanding. “You’ll have to go over to the other side.”

  He pointed, and said the words more slowly.

  “Cross?” said Rostislawitch in English.

  “Si,” said the policeman. “Go there. Then you can cross. This way is blocked off.”

  Rostislawitch, trembling, retraced his steps and went to the other side. His chest felt as if it were going to explode, and he worried that he was going to have a heart attack. By the time he reached the side street in front of the hotel, he was panting.

  The street had been turned into a pedestrian mall years before, though cars occasionally drove up to make deliveries or drop off passengers. The hotel entrance was marked by two small trees in fancy buckets; precisely clipped, the trees were like slightly oversized bonsais. Above them, a pair of video surveillance cameras stood guard, watching the nearby benches and the long planters that divided the walkway. Rostislawitch nodded at another policeman, then entered the hotel.

  When Ferguson noticed that the Italians were staying outside, he decided to follow Rostislawitch and find out what he was up to. Ferguson sauntered into the hotel lobby, smiled at the clerk at his left, and walked through to the lounge, figuring he’d check that first. Sure enough, Rostislawitch was sitting in a booth at the far end, talking to someone Ferguson couldn’t see. There were about a dozen people in the place, most of them having lunch. Ferguson walked through to the bar, tucked back around a corner to the left.

  “Vermouth,” Ferguson told the bartender, leaning across. As he did, he noticed a familiar face in the booth nearby: Nathaniel Hamilton, a British MI6 agent. Staring at him.

  Ferguson smiled, then raised his glass in a half salute. Hamilton’s frown deepened.

  Which convinced Ferguson it would be a good idea to go over and say hello.

  “So, how’s Her Majesty’s favorite public servant doing these days?” said Ferguson, slapping his glass down on the table and sliding into the booth.

  “Keep your voice down,” Hamilton told him. “Jesus, man. Have a brain.”

  Ferguson grinned, then sat back in the seat. “Who you following?”

  “What makes you think I’m following anyone?”

  Ferguson started to get up. Hamilton grabbed his arm.

  “Tell me why you’re here and I’ll tell you what I’m doing,” hissed the MI6 agent.

  “Fair enough.”

  “Well?”

  “You go first.”

  “No.”

  Once again, Ferguson started to get up. Hamilton had an unfortunate reputation for reneging on similar arrangements, and Ferguson wasn’t about to trust him.

  Once again, the MI6 agent took his arm. “Just sit down and stop making a show, of yourself. You’re always being a nuisance, Ferguson.”

  “Nuisance
is my middle name,” said Ferguson, sipping his drink.

  16

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  Rostislawitch shook his head.

  “The agreement was money in the account. Then I will give you the location.”

  “I am just trying to make things more efficient,” said Atha. “But you seem not to trust me.”

  “I take all the risk. You have all the benefit.”

  “Now, now, the offer is a fair one. You will be a rich man.”

  “Mr. Jahan—”

  “No, no, call me Atha. It is my name since I was small.”

  The Iranian sat back in his seat. When the technical leader of the project had suggested he meet Rostislawitch at the conference in Bologna, Atha readily agreed; it was easy to move around Europe, and the Italians were not generally as watchful as the Germans or even the French. But there had been a considerable increase in police activity in the city today, and he knew that as a foreigner he might very well be watched. While anyone listening in would think he and Rostislawitch were talking about coloring dyes for carpets—a simple code Atha had suggested in their earliest communication—it was a thin veneer.

  “The offer is fair if you carry through with it,” said Rostislawitch. “I have no guarantee.”

  Atha sighed. “If you were to come with me to Tehran, you would see how trustworthy we are.”

  “I’m not going to Tehran.”

  “Your dyes are very important to us, at the right price.” Atha caught sight of the waiter and held up his glass. The waiter nodded, though in Italy that was not a guarantee that he would return before midnight. The only country with worse servers was Egypt, in Atha’s opinion.

  “Maybe you should have some lunch,” he told Rostislawitch. “A full stomach calms the mind.”

  “My stomach is already full.”

  Rostislawitch glanced around the restaurant. There was a dark-skinned man at a table not far away—the Iranian’s bodyguard, he guessed. As for the other two dozen or so people here, most seemed to be international businessmen discussing deals, just as Rostislawitch and the Iranian were doing.

  But maybe not. Maybe the place was packed with spies. Rostislawitch had no way of knowing.

  Was this the way he wanted to spend the rest of his life, looking over his shoulder? Rich, yes, but at what price?

  What did it matter? His life was over anyway. Wasn’t it?

  The waiter arrived with Atha’s iced tea.

  “Do you want another vodka?” Atha asked Rostislawitch.

  The Russian shook his head. They had to use English to communicate, the only language they had in common. Atha’s Italian was good, though heavily accented. He felt his Spanish was better. His English, of course, was superb, a matter of great pride.

  Atha sipped his drink for a short while, considering what to do. Much depended on his obtaining the material very quickly. What had begun some months before as a fantastical project now had assumed great importance; indeed, the minister demanded that the action Atha had arranged be launched within a few days. Atha was prepared to do so, but only if he got the material. Without it, he was ruined.

  But he must act confident. It was the prerequisite for success in such situations. The lion could tremble on the inside, but his roar needed to be strong and shattering.

  “You are having second thoughts. I understand,” Atha told the scientist calmly. “It is a difficult task. And to become rich in one transaction—it seems almost too good to be true. As if the Prophet, all praise be to him, were to suddenly invite you to his home.”

  Rostislawitch said nothing.

  “It’s a tremendous thing,” said Atha. “We will talk tomorrow. I will call you at your hotel.”

  “The money first,” said Rostislawitch, looking up into Atha’s eyes as.he rose.

  Atha sat back down. “I don’t know if I can give you the money first.”

  “It’s the only way I can do it.”

  “Perhaps an installment.”

  “No. All of it. In accounts only I can access.”

  Atha searched Rostislawitch’s face. The Russian was greedy or he wouldn’t be here, but exactly how greedy was he? Enough to run off without delivering?

  Atha did not think he was. But avarice was a notoriously difficult vice to gauge. Rostislawitch showed no outward sign of it—no fancy watch, no chauffeur waiting at the curb. His suit was ill fitting and old. But that might only mean he liked to hoard his money. Only a saint could know a man’s soul and sins, and Atha was not a saint.

  Rostislawitch’s face was pale, his eyes a little too wide-open. Atha saw desperation in his stare; he was a man pushed to the edge.

  That was as close to an assurance as Atha was going to get.

  “The material is available?”

  “You’ll have it as soon as I have the money.”

  “Good,” said Atha. “I will call you tomorrow. I will arrange for the accounts to be opened and the money transferred.” He reached into the pocket of his sport coat and took out an envelope. “A token for you. Some spending money for you, as a gesture of friendship, not as a payment.”

  Rostislawitch frowned, but then took the envelope and stuffed it into his pocket.

  He was greedy enough to do business with, Atha decided, rising from the table. The rest would fall into place.

  17

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  “The man’s name is Anghuyu Jahan. They call him Atha for short,” Hamilton told Ferguson. “Though why I’m not sure. It was some sort of baby name that stuck.”

  “Who calls him that?”

  “Anyone and everyone. Why are you here?”

  “Vacation.”

  “Sod off, Ferguson.”

  “I’ve tried.”

  “Who is the Russian?”

  “Rostislawitch something or other.”

  “Come now. We have a deal.”

  “Just like we had in Nigeria?”

  “Am I going to hear about that the rest of my life? I was under orders.”

  That wasn’t entirely true, but Ferguson let it pass.

  “His name is Artur Rostislawitch. He’s a biologist who knows a lot about making germs. Got into some sort of political trouble a few years ago, and now is underemployed.”

  “Germs? As in bacterial warfare?”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  Ferguson sipped his drink, trying to decide whether Hamilton’s reaction was real or not. It was tough to tell with the Englishman—he was such a rotten actor that sometimes his genuine reactions seemed fake, and vice versa.

  But now suddenly a plot to kill Rostislawitch made sense to Ferguson. The scientist was offering something up to the Iranians; they’d want to get rid of him as soon as the deal went through.

  And they’d want someone good to do it. T Rex.

  Hamilton saw Atha get up from his table.

  “I am afraid you’ll have to excuse me, Robert,” he said. “Her Majesty does not pay me to sit around in bars drinking all day.”

  “What exactly does she pay you for?”

  Hamilton smirked, then left the restaurant. It was only when the waiter approached that Ferguson realized Hamilton had left him with his bill.

  18

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  Rostislawitch turned the wrong way out of the hotel; when he finally realized it he had walked several blocks in the wrong direction, down Via Farini, and was lost. So when the police car pulled up next to him, he was relieved.

  “Could you tell me how to get to Porta San Donato?” he said, pronouncing each English word as distinctly as possible. “I have a conference there. I’m late. The University of Bologna.”

  He wanted to say that he was a scientist, but the word in English had left him.

  “Dove il passaporto?” asked the policeman.

  “Scusi? Excuse me?”

  “Il passaporto,” repeated the policeman. “Where is your identification.”

  “I—my passport?�
�

  “Si. Il passaporto.”

  Rostislawitch patted his pocket, though he knew it wasn’t there—he’d turned it in to the desk at the hotel. Panic surged through him. The policeman got out of the car.

  “Sir, where is your passport? Are you a member of the European Union?”

  The policeman was speaking in Italian, but the gist of what he was saying was clear enough. Unsure what to do, Rostislawitch reached for his wallet.

  “That’s not a passport.”

  “At my hotel,” said Rostislawitch, using Russian and then English. “My passport is there.”

  “Into the car please,” said the policeman, opening the door.

  Rostislawitch hesitated. It had been quite a while since he had traveled outside of Russia. This couldn’t be normal. Did they know why he was really here?

  “Signore, per favore,” said the policeman. “In the automobile, please.”

  He did not have a gun on his belt. Rostislawitch might be able to get away.

  But what would he do then?

  “My hotel is on the Via Imerio,” he said in English. “If you take me there, they can give you the passport. They locked it in their safe.”

  The policeman once more gestured toward the car. Seeing no other choice, Rostislawitch got in.

  Ferguson got within ten yards of Rostislawitch while the police were questioning him. He saw Rankin on the other side of the street, ready to interfere.

  “No, hang back,” Ferguson told him over the radio. “I’ll deal with this.”

  “What the hell’s going on?” Rankin asked.

  “This is what happens when you cooperate with the Italians,” said Ferguson. “They screw everything up. Go grab some lunch. Check on Thera when you’re done. I’ll call you.”

  “You sure, Ferg?”

  “Yeah. Better that there’s no witnesses when I strangle Imperiati.”

  The SISDE officer was waiting for Ferguson in the upstairs squad room of the police station. In the few hours since Ferguson had left, the room had taken on the air of a television production room; there were several dozen screens, each clustered in a different area around the outside of the large room. Imperiati, sleeves rolled up but tie still tight to his collar, strolled back and forth among them. He was wearing a wireless headset.