Soul of the Assassin

by Larry Bond

  “I’d like to talk to them myself.”

  “That’s my job.”

  Suddenly angry, Slott set himself behind his desk, physically ready for battle.

  “You’re right,” said Corrine, realizing she’d over-stepped her bounds. “I’m sorry. Of course you’re the one to talk to them.”

  “I’ll let you know what’s going on.”

  “I’m not trying to do your job, Dan. I’m just trying to do what the President wants me to.”

  “I understand,” he said, reaching to disconnect.

  23

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  Thera spent two hours pretending to take notes in a session on the uses of bacteriophages, or viruses that infect bacteria, to alter DNA. She kept sneaking glances at the others in the room, trying to see if T Rex or one of his minions was there looking for Rostislawitch. But the sixty or so people seemed to be legitimate biologists, or at least were very good at keeping their eyes from glazing over.

  Thera left the session early and walked through the hall, checking to see if anyone was hanging around. But she was the only person who was suspicious. A small table had been set up in the lobby with coffee and tea; Thera poured herself a cup of the latter, giving her an excuse to look around some more. As she poured herself some milk, two men came down the hall for coffee. One was in his fifties or early sixties, not rotund but far from svelte, his corduroy sport coat barely able to close over his midsection. The other man, taller, with a black goatee, wore a tight shirt with a mock turtleneck. He had Merrell Wilderness hiking boots with bright blue shoelaces on his feet, and a Bulova chronograph about two links too loose on his wrist.

  “You seem very studious,” the man said to Thera, speaking English with a German accent.

  “Not really.”

  “American?”

  “Greek.”

  He obviously thought Greek women were easy: his face lit up and he extended his hand.

  “Gunther,” he told her. ‘Thera.”

  “You are teaching where?”

  “I’m doing my post-doc,” said Thera, repeating the cover story they had worked out for her.

  “What was your thesis?”

  “I’d be afraid to bore you,” she told him.

  “Not boring.” He glanced at the older man who’d come out with him. The man smiled back.

  “Thera Metaxes,” Thera told the other man.

  He introduced himself shyly. His English was not as good as his young colleague’s—a fact he told her in German.

  “My German, I guess, is not very good, either,” answered Thera in German.

  “But you do speak it.”

  “Not very well.”

  “Then you must come with us and we will help you improve it,” said Gunther. “We are just sneaking out.”

  “I was going to meet a friend,” Thera told him. “I may be late already.” She glanced at her watch.

  “Oh, the Russian.”

  “Who?” said Thera.

  “I saw you this morning with a man,” said Gunther. “I thought perhaps a colleague.”

  “That was just someone I’ve met here,” said Thera. She couldn’t tell exactly what Gunther’s interest was—did he want to pick her up? Or was he interested in Rostislawitch?

  Was this T Rex? He looked athletic, reasonably fit, and strong, though those weren’t necessarily requirements.

  “Someone you just met?” asked Gunther.

  Thera forced a laugh. “He’s not a boyfriend.”

  “You have no boyfriend?”

  Thera tilted her head and gave him a closed-mouth smile.

  “I’m late,” she told him. “But maybe we can talk later.”

  “Your dissertation.”

  “Yours would be more interesting,” she said, putting the tea down and walking out.

  24

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  Atha felt his chest constricting as the minister berated him. They were using an open phone, and while they were using words that had nothing to do with the material or the Russian, surely the minister’s vehemence would be a tip-off to anyone listening. Atha was sure he would be arrested as soon as he hung up.

  But the venom in the minister’s voice was worse: “If the loan does not go through, your position will be terminated. The dock is ready to be built.”

  It wasn’t a loan that they were talking about, and it wasn’t Atha’s job that was at stake.

  The Iranian hung up the phone and walked out of the train station to his Mercedes. The driver was arguing with a policeman, who was in the process of giving him a ticket. Atha got in the back without saying anything.

  He could not afford to be cheated. It would be one thing—a very bad thing, admittedly—to fail to get the material, but another thing entirely to give the money away and still not get it. He had to be sure.

  Would the Russian be so foolish as to have the material with him?

  Probably not. But if he did, that would be an easy solution to the problem of trust. Indeed, it would greatly add to Atha’s profit.

  It was a possibility that would have to be investigated.

  And if Rostislawitch had no intention of turning over the material, if this was all a scam, what then?

  Well, then he would simply be forced to cooperate. There was no other choice.

  Perhaps he should simply take that option now.

  No, too risky—the scientist might find a way to resist, at least long enough to upset the minister’s plans, which in turn would go badly for Atha.

  “Take the ticket from the policeman and let us go,” Atha told his driver. “We have much work to do this afternoon.”

  25

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  The crown jewel of the motley fleet of bicycles, mopeds, scooters, and motorcycles the team had rented was a Ducati Hypermotad 1100, a smallish street bike that could do 200 kilometers an hour without breaking a sweat. Ferguson retrieved it from a hotel lot near the police station and went out to the substation where Rostislawitch had been taken, getting there just as the Russian climbed into a police car to be driven back over to the conference.

  Imperiati had ordered that Rostislawitch be given a full apology and an explanation about there being a terrorist alert in the city, implying that he’d been picked up in a case of mistaken identity. Ferguson wasn’t sure how far that explanation would go; it didn’t particularly matter to him, and he suspected that Imperiati wanted the Russian to know it was false. From the Italian’s point of view, the best thing that could happen now would be for the Russian to leave.

  Ferguson hoped he didn’t leave Bologna, though he was prepared to follow the scientist if necessary. He was still Ferguson’s best, albeit tenuous, link to T Rex. The Iranian connection gave Corrigan some new queries to push, and maybe there’d be something to shake out of the British. But for now the best approach seemed to be following Rostislawitch.

  The police took the Russian out of the center city onto one of the roads that circled Bologna, giving their surveillance teams a little more time to get into position in the center city. Ferguson cranked the motorcycle, hunkering down toward the bright red gas tank as the wind whipped against his helmet. He sped ahead, wove through a trio of trucks, then slipped off the highway to let them catch up.

  “Rankin, they’re about five minutes away,” Ferg said over the radio. He’d clipped his microphone to the padding at the bottom of the helmet near his mouth. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing exciting. Police swept the block in front of the art building a half hour ago. I’m two blocks away. I just parked the bike.”

  “Anybody look suspicious?”

  “Just me.”

  Ferguson laughed. Rankin had made a joke, made himself the butt of it—and it was almost funny.

  There was hope for him yet.

  “Listen, Thera wants to talk to you,” said Rankin. “She’s got a theory on some Germans, like one of them may be T Rex.”

  “Where is she?”

&nbs
p; “She went to find out where their hotel was. She talked to Corrigan about getting some background on them.”

  “Are they in the Conference Center?”

  “They went out for lunch. I’ve been looking for them around here, but I haven’t seen them.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute. Do me a favor and check with Guns over at Rosty’s hotel. Make sure he’s ready in case Rostislawitch decides to go over there at the last minute.”

  “I just talked to him. He’s ready.”

  “Talk to him again.”

  Ferguson revved the bike and spurted back into traffic. He had a little trouble with the clutch, jerking slightly as he upshifted.

  The police car was about a half mile ahead, its top clearly visible in the thickening traffic. By the time it turned back onto the city streets, Ferguson was only a few car lengths behind.

  Ferguson assumed that Hamilton or one of his people was in a car not too far away, though he hadn’t seen the MI6 officer. Of course, it would be just like Hamilton to drop Rostislawitch after making a big row about him.

  Traffic had snarled near Porta San Vitale. The police car squeezed around a blocked intersection, moving westward along San Vitale and then up toward Zamboni.

  “About three minutes,” Ferguson said over the radio.

  Rankin started walking up the block away from the building where the conference was being held, figuring that if T Rex was watching the place, he’d be easier to spot from behind after the police car came up. The fact that they were in the middle of a city made things difficult; there were plenty of buildings nearby where he could hide. A number were private buildings that a stranger might not have access to—but then a fifty- or hundred-euro bill might easily change that. The police had a pair of sharpshooters with binoculars on the roofs, but Rankin considered them next to useless—by the time they saw anything, it’d be too late.

  Fortunately, his job wasn’t to protect the Russian.

  As Rankin crossed the block, he spotted the police car up ahead, stuck in traffic. As he glanced around, still in the roadway, a yellow panel van veered across the intersection, nearly hitting him. He jerked back, cursing.

  “Yo, motherfucker,” he yelled.

  The truck angled into a space near the curb next to a hydrant. Rather than backing up and pulling in properly, the driver jumped from the cab.

  Rankin’s first thought was that the jerk wanted a piece of him.

  Then he realized the man was running in the other direction.

  Rostislawitch saw the traffic and decided his best bet was to get out of the car and walk the final two blocks to the art building.

  “Grazie, grazie, signore,” he said. He reached for the handle at the back door, but the lock was arranged so that the door could only be opened from the outside.

  “You want to get out here?” asked the policeman in the passenger seat. He used English, but Rostislawitch had a little trouble with the accent.

  “Here? Yes,” said the Russian finally. “I’ll walk.”

  He wanted to get away from the police, away from everything, as quickly as he could.

  The policeman hopped out of the car and opened the door.

  “Once again, we apologize,” said the policeman, standing stiffly to emphasize the formality of his statement. “If we can help you, you must only call.”

  “It’s OK. OK,” said Rostislawitch. He left the door open and began walking toward the building.

  Ferguson swung the bike to the other side of the police car, then inched around it, moving in first gear. Rostislawitch began walking swiftly ahead in the direction of the building. Ferguson started looking for Rankin, who should have been nearby, when he caught sight of a woman on the corner opposite him. She was tall, about five-ten in flats, with windblown blond hair that came straight back from her forehead. She looked harried, her lips pale and parched, and she had a cell phone in her hand.

  Ferguson knew the lips well. He’d kissed them several times, most memorably the night the woman had saved his life. Her name was Kiska Babev, and she was a member of the Russian Federal Security Service or Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, or FSB, the main successor to the KGB.

  “Ferg!” shouted Rankin over the radio. “That yellow truck halfway down the block. I think it’s a bomb!”

  Kiska was looking at her cell phone. Rostislawitch was walking swiftly, approaching the truck.

  Ferguson cranked the Ducati, shooting forward with a burst of speed. Five yards from Rostislawitch he leaned hard and sent the bike into a skid; he put a little too much weight on the side and flew off, tumbling into Rostislawitch as the Ducati slid across the cobblestones.

  Ferguson draped his body over the Russian, intending to grab him and run. But before he could get up, the van exploded.

  ACT III

  His outward smiles conceal’d his inward smart.

  —Virgil, The Aeneid (Dryden translation)

  1

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  It was as if a twister had come at him sideways, throwing Rostislawitch down and then pummeling him with debris and grit, turning the day black. He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t hear. A man had been dropped on him, a helmeted motorcyclist. Something had exploded—Rostislawitch felt the concussion and thought of Chechnya in the final days he’d spent there.

  There was a humming sensation—not people singing, but a kind of vibration that came from inside him. He thought of his wife, of the little church where they had gone to marry in the days when worship was still officially outlawed, though the authorities looked the other way or even attended themselves. The sensation was the same as what he felt standing near the altar as the pipe organ played, the floor, the walls, vibrating with its sonorous tones.

  Sweat poured from his body. Someone looked at him, stared into his eyes. They might be speaking, but he couldn’t hear.

  Was he dying? He didn’t think so. He didn’t wish it, even if it would be an escape. To wish for death was wrong.

  The sky suddenly turned very blue. Rostislawitch thought of the girl at the conference, Thera. He’d like to see her again.

  And the Iranian?

  Maybe he had done this. Or was it perhaps the work of the Russian FSB, trying to eliminate him?

  The humming stopped; Rostislawitch heard a scream and then the sound of a siren in the distance.

  After the initial shock of the blast cleared, Rankin froze, unsure whether to chase after the man who’d left the van or go for Ferguson, who’d been back on the other side of the van, closer to the bomb. Then Rankin’s instincts kicked in and he ran across the street, racing toward the prone figures curled against the side of a building. He started to touch Ferguson’s body, bracing himself for blood and worse; instead, Ferguson rolled over to his stomach and then jumped, unsteady but intact, to his feet.

  Rostislawitch was a few feet away, dazed and breathing heavily, but seemingly OK. The nearby cars had taken the brunt of the explosion; one was on fire.

  Ferguson pointed at Rostislawitch. “Is he OK?” he asked, his voice faint.

  Rankin thought Ferguson’s helmet was muffling his voice. But as Rankin bent to check the Russian more closely he realized the explosion had temporarily damaged his hearing.

  “He’s breathing,” said Rankin, straightening.

  Ferguson pointed down the street. “Check and see if anyone’s watching,” he said.

  “I saw a guy get out of the van.”

  “Shit.”

  “You sure you’re all right?”

  “What’d he look like?”

  Rankin described the glimpse he’d gotten—a man, five-eight, with a blue jacket and a green ski cap.

  “Which way?” asked Ferguson.

  “That way.”

  “Go. I’ll talk to the Italians. Go. Go!”

  2

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Corrine Alston was in the middle of a meeting with lawyers from the FTC about the proposed language approving the merger of the two satellit
e radio companies when she got an alert on her Blackberry to call Daniel Slott. She stifled her angst, and waited a few seconds for the proceedings to reach a natural pause before excusing herself.

  “Slott.”

  “This is Corrine Alston.”

  “There was an explosion in Bologna. Our people are OK.”

  “T Rex?”

  “Not sure. Not a bad guess, though. We’re still getting details. This was five minutes ago.”

  “Does the President know?”

  “I thought you’d want to update him yourself.”

  “I will, thanks.”

  Simple courtesy, Corrine wondered, or was Slott trying to make sure he wasn’t associated with a setback?

  “I finally heard back from British MI6,” added the CIA’s Deputy Director. “They’ve promised to cooperate.”

  “Will they?”

  “Maybe,” said Slott. “They didn’t have much else about Atha. Some humint said he was worth watching in Italy. Human intelligence. The source was vague. That’s their story. I don’t think they’re lying, but it is thin.”

  “I’m calling the President right now,” she told him, hanging up.

  3

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  Atha took a deep breath as the elevator opened, then walked out into the hallway of Rostislawitch’s hotel. Unlike most large hotels, there were no signs to show which way the numbers ran; Atha had to check on the doors and then guess the right direction. The hotel’s hallways were laid out in an intersecting H pattern, with an occasional dead end due to an oversized suite, and it took him five minutes to find the room. By then, sweat had begun dripping down his sleeves to the palms of his hands, and running down his back. When he found the door to Rostislawitch’s room, the Iranian hesitated a moment, then knocked.

  There was no answer. By now the scientist would be at the conference several blocks away. Atha knocked again, then reached into his pocket for the electronic room key.