Soul of the Assassin

by Larry Bond

  Suddenly everything began to remind Rostislawitch of his wife. He told Thera about a dinner he and Olga had had just like this on their first anniversary. He could taste the meal again, the memory was so vivid.

  Thera excused herself between courses and went to the ladies room’ so she could check in with the others.

  “About time you checked in,” said Rankin.

  “I’ve been with Rostislawitch.”

  “T Rex is on her way over.”

  “What?”

  “Kiska Babev.” Rankin had had doubts about her before, but it suddenly seemed very obvious—and Thera was in danger. “She’s going over to the restaurant right now.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m putting a bug into Rostislawitch’s room. Get the hell out of there.”

  “Is she coming to kill him?”

  “Crap, Thera, just go.”

  “I can’t.”

  “What do you mean you can’t? She’ll kill you, too.”

  Thera popped off the phone. She didn’t have a weapon with her—she’d left it at the hotel when she knew she was going to the hospital; they had a metal detector at the door and she didn’t want to risk getting stopped.

  But she couldn’t leave Rostislawitch to die.

  What was Ferg thinking?

  11

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  Ferguson made sure that Kiska was on her way back to the hotel, then crossed the street and went into a small store specializing in knickknacks for tourists who thought they were above the normal kitsch. There were fake statues and miniature artworks, pretend easels with Renaissance replicas. Ferguson walked swiftly through the place, pushing aside the curtain to the back room and walking in. The woman who owned the store began to yell, asking what he was up to, but he ignored her, continuing through the storeroom to a back hall that led to a bathroom and an exterior door. He slipped open the lock and went out, where he found his way barred on all sides by the walls of the neighboring buildings, including the hotel to the store’s immediate left. He glanced upward, thinking at first that he would climb to the roof and go down. But he saw that one of the hotel’s second-story windows was wide open. He pulled the small wooden bench over, tipped it onto its side, and used it to climb high enough on the wall so he could grip the ledge. Then Ferguson scrambled up and jumped into the room. He sprinted to the door, barely noticing that the room was unoccupied. The zigzag layout of the interior confused his ordinarily impeccable sense of direction, and when he turned into a stairwell he thought led to the basement he found he was wrong. He had to backtrack, racing up the stairs and around to a second doorway before finding the right one

  When they’d checked the building out the other day, the team had discovered that the basements were connected. The dimly lit passage between them was cluttered with boxes and cleaning supplies; Guns had carefully rearranged them to make it easier to get through. Unfortunately, someone had put another box on the floor in the interim; Ferguson tripped over it and flew headfirst into the side of the wall, tumbling into the shadows.

  Something scurried nearby. Ferguson started to get up, then noticed a pair of red eyes staring at him from a few feet away.

  Then something ran across his back.

  Suppressing a yowl, he scrambled to his feet.

  Rankin slapped the video bug to the base of the lighting sconce on the far side of the bed in Rostislawitch’s room. He scanned the room quickly to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, then left. Out in the hall, he ran to the elevator.

  He punched the button. The indicator said it was on the twelfth floor. He was on the sixth.

  Rankin pulled out his radio. “Ferg?”

  No answer.

  He pulled out his sat phone and called Thera back. She didn’t answer, either.

  Rankin felt a rush of anxiety, worried that Kiska or T Rex or whoever the hell she was would simply go into the restaurant and blow it up, killing Thera in the process.

  Not to mention him.

  He glanced up at the elevator’s floor indicator. It was still on twelve.

  Cursing, he bolted for the stairs.

  When Ferguson reached the landing at the rear of the hotel restaurant, he realized that his knee felt a little wet. He glanced down and saw that he’d landed in some water when he’d fallen; both legs were drenched nearly to his crotch. He’d fallen into a puddle in the basement without realizing it.

  Clearly a faux pas in fashion-conscious Italy. He’d have to make it work for him.

  He pulled the small Glock pistol he had at the back of his belt around so that it would be easier to grab when he was sitting; then he pushed through the door, walking swiftly through the kitchen of the restaurant and out into the bar area, where he swung onto a stool. He could see Thera and Rostislawitch in the other part of the room, to his left, but ignored them.

  “Ciao,” he said to the bartender. “Peroni, per favore.”

  The bartender nodded and put a beer glass to the spigot. He seemed to take an inordinate time to pour the beer, as if it were an arcane art in a country that greatly preferred wine.

  But his timing was impeccable—the glass arrived just as Kiska entered the restaurant.

  “Whoa!” yelled Ferguson, making the beer spill and jumping up as if it had gotten all over his pants.

  “Bobby, what are you doing here?” asked Kiska, coming toward him.

  “It’s happy hour,” Ferguson told her, grabbing a napkin and daubing his pants.

  “Are you drinking or bathing?”

  “Little of both,” said Ferguson. “Care to join me?”

  Rostislawitch turned back from the confusion at the bar. He was suddenly very tired, though he was only halfway through his meal.

  “Would it be all right if I called it a night?” he asked Thera. “I don’t feel like dessert.”

  “Are you OK?”

  “Just tired.”

  “Sure,” said Thera.

  “I’m going to go up to my room.” Rostislawitch reached into his wallet, carefully sorting through the bills.

  “I’ll pay my half,” said Thera, putting her hand on his as he started to leave enough for both of them.

  “No, no,” said Rostislawitch.

  Thera managed to convince him to let her cover the tip. She got up with him, and walked out, studiously avoiding looking at Ferguson and the woman with him.

  “Good night,” Rostislawitch said at the elevator. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Thera hesitated, worried that she was sending the scientist to his doom. But she had no choice. Impulsively, she stretched up and gave him a peck on the cheek.

  Caught off-guard, Rostislawitch managed a smile, then got into the elevator.

  12

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  MI6 agent Nathaniel Hamilton stared at the leaves of the fake fig tree in the hotel suite. It was a very good fake, so close to real that even Hamilton, who spent much of his spare time gardening, hadn’t been able to tell it was fake until he touched the undersides of the leaves. They’d even put real dirt in the planter. There were certain things the Italians were very adept at.

  Blast forensics was another one, mostly because of their experience with the mafiya. They were not in the same class as the Israelis, of course, or even the British, but already the investigators had correctly identified the type of explosive and the general manner of the bomb’s construction, linking the design to weapons used in Chechnya. This was no small matter; it would have been very easy to look for a link to organized crime, to either the Mafia or one of the Balkan gangs that had lately begun to foolishly try to move into the country.

  The general population, of course, would immediately suspect Al Qaeda, though the bombing had none of its typical earmarks. The spokesman for the Italian police had carefully explained this at the televised press conference a few minutes before, but Hamilton had no doubt that the news stories would continue to speculate that terrorists had been involved—especially since at least one g
roup had claimed responsibility for the blast.

  Hamilton folded his arms. The Italians and their investigation into the truck bomb was not really of concern to him; it wasn’t even clear that Rostislawitch was a target, after all. No, Hamilton’s bloody problem was the Americans, or one in particular: Bob Ferguson, a royal pain in the arse, as the chaps back at the pub would put it.

  The MI6 agent found Americans to be annoying as a general rule, but Ferguson took it to a high art. He had some ability as an operative, Hamilton had to admit, but surely Ferguson owed a great deal of his career to fortunate blunder and judicious bluster. Like all Americans, he refused to admit this to anyone, most especially himself, and was therefore exceedingly hard to stomach, let alone deal with.

  But deal Hamilton must. The main office had just made this clear in a terse IM:

  Cooperate with the Americans. Highest authority.

  Highest authority, yes. No doubt this had been agreed over tea and scones at the American embassy in London. Or Scotch and rocks at the British embassy in Washington.

  Hamilton sighed, then erased the message from his mobile.

  Best to get it over with as soon as possible. He tapped the number he had been given into the phone. With any luck, he’d get voice mail.

  13

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  Rankin reached the lobby just as Thera was turning away from the elevator. He froze for a half second, unsure what was going on, then tried to nonchalantly walk past her. But he was panting, out of breath from the long run.

  “Hello,” said Thera. “Don’t I know you?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Ferg’s in the restaurant,” she whispered.

  “With Kiska?”

  “He’s with a woman. I didn’t get a good look at her face.”

  “Where’s Rostislawitch?”

  “Went up to his room.”

  “Come on,” said Rankin, backing toward the stairs. “We’ll go upstairs. I put a bug in Rostislawitch’s room.”

  “We can’t leave Ferg alone with her, if she’s T Rex,” said Thera.

  “I wouldn’t worry about him. He’s probably talking his way into her pants right now.”

  The conversation in the bar did concern pants, though they were Ferguson’s, not Kiska’s.

  The Russian agent realized that Ferguson had shown up specifically to keep her from Rostislawitch. The Americans must be trying to woo him away; the attractive woman he’d been having dinner with was undoubtedly part of the plan.

  If this had been the old days, during the Cold War, Kiska’s task would be clear: she’d call in backup, grab Rostislawitch, and return him to the Soviet Union. But the Cold War had ended when she was in grade school, and Russia was no longer the Soviet Union. Citizens, even those with classified clearances and important specialties like Rostislawitch, were in theory free to do what they wanted, and had to be treated carefully, especially in a country with a scandal-hungry media.

  Which meant she had to be subtle.

  “You really surprise me, Bobby,” she said, balling a beer-soaked napkin into her hand. “I didn’t think you did these sorts of cheap escapades.”

  “Yeah, I’m a klutz sometimes.”

  “I’ll see you around.”

  Ferguson caught her hand. “Sure you won’t stay for a drink?”

  She looked down at his pants. “I’m afraid of where it might go.”

  Ferguson smirked, then watched her leave. He pulled out his sat phone, pretending to call while turning on the radio.

  “Rankin, dove vai?”

  “What?”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Thera and me are in the second-floor room. Rostislawitch is upstairs in his room.”

  “Kiska just left the bar. She may be going up there.”

  “We’re watching.”

  “Where are the Italians?”

  “They have two people in the car down the street, one guy on a roof watching the front of the building. Other guys knocked off. They’re not coming in, right?”

  “Imperiati says they have to keep their distance. He’s not a suspect in the bombing.”

  “Ferg, what’s going on?” asked Thera. “Is she going to try again?”

  “You’re assuming she’s T Rex.”

  “Well, is she?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t have it all together. I’ll be up in a minute.”

  He had just flipped down the phone’s antenna when a call came through. It was Corrigan.

  Ferguson glanced down the bar; the bartender was still at the far end, serving whiskeys to two Americans trying to look younger than they really were.

  “Hey, Wrong Way,” Ferguson said to Corrigan. “What’s happening?”

  “Wrong Way what?”

  “You never heard of that? Pilot who flew the wrong way?”

  “Listen, Ferg, I need an update. Mr. Parnelles wants to know what’s going on. He’s pretty hot.”

  “Hey, I like the old guy myself, Corrigan, but I don’t think he’s much to look at.”

  “Stop busting my chops, Ferg. He’s really leaning on me. He wants a report.”

  Ferguson laughed. Corrigan had no clue what real pressure was like—especially from Parnelles.

  “That’s all you called about?”

  “The MI6 guy is trying to get ahold of you. He called your backup number. Message says he’s been told to cooperate with you. Doesn’t sound real overjoyed about it.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Wait; don’t hang up. Tell me what to tell Parnelles.”

  Ferguson glanced down at his slacks. “Tell him my pants are wet.”

  “What?”

  “Did Ciello get that credit card information on Kiska?”

  “That may take days, Ferg. You know the legal red tape.”

  The bartender came over, pointing at Ferguson’s empty beer glass. Ferguson nodded. The man pushed the sodden napkins off the bar into a wastebasket, then went to get him a refill.

  “Why do you want him to dig into that for? Don’t you think the Russian is T Rex?”

  “No.”

  “Who else could it be? She was in France when Dalton was killed. The Italians say the bomb is similar to ones used in Chechnya. Kiska worked in Chechnya. Bingo.”

  “Completely settled, Corrigan. You’re a genius.”

  Ferguson took the new beer from the bartender and took a swig; it shot immediately to his head. Then he realized it wasn’t the beer at all. He’d forgotten to take his pills that morning. No wonder he was speeding—missing a dose of the replacement hormones had the odd effect of boosting his energy level temporarily.

  The doctors, of course, didn’t believe him; in theory it should do the opposite. But he knew a rush when he felt one.

  He reached into his pocket for his pillbox and slipped the little pills onto the bar counter next to the glass.

  “I’ll get after Ciello,” Corrigan was saying. “In the meantime, what can I tell Parnelles?”

  “Tell him she wouldn’t sleep with me, but I still have hopes.”

  “Ferg, come on. Be serious.”

  The bartender was hovering nearby. “Talk to you later, Wrong Way,” said Ferguson, hanging up.

  “What are those?” asked the bartender, pointing at Ferguson’s pills.

  “Viagra,” said Ferguson, popping them into his mouth.

  “I thought Viagra was blue.”

  “This is the placebo edition.”

  Looks like Kiska called a cab,” Rankin said, watching the feed from the video bug on the laptop in the second-floor suite. He had the screen split; the left side showed the lobby, the right side Rostislawitch’s room upstairs.

  “You sure she didn’t sneak a booby trap up there?” said Thera. She was pacing near the door.

  “I would have seen her. Chill, would you? You’re making me nervous.”

  There was a double knock on the door, followed by a buzz at the lock. Ferguson walked
in.

  “So?”

  “Kiska is getting a taxi. Shouldn’t we be following her?” asked Rankin.

  “Nah. She’s not T Rex.” Ferguson went to the minibar and took out a water.

  “You sure, Ferg?” asked Thera.

  “Pretty sure. How are you?”

  “I’m OK. If she’s not T Rex, why did you go into the bar?” Rankin asked.

  Ferguson shrugged. He was willing to bet his life that Kiska wasn’t T Rex, but not Thera’s. He let his eyes linger for a moment, memorizing how she looked: jeans and a sweater, no makeup, hair pulled back, consciously trying to look plain so she’d fit in easier undercover. But she couldn’t hide how beautiful she was.

  What would he trade if he could change the circumstances? Money? He had plenty of that.

  That was the first thing people thought of—money. Oh, the brothers would laugh at him, wouldn’t they? An abject lesson. Stand before the throne of Saint Peter, they’d say, and talk of money. See where it gets you, Mr. Ferguson.

  Would Saint Peter have a throne? Or even a gate? And why was it Saint Peter, anyway? Why wasn’t it James or John?

  “What are you thinking, Ferg?” asked Thera.

  “I’m trying to think why someone would pay so much money to kill Rostislawitch. I can’t come up with an answer. He’s just not worth the expense.”

  “I thought you said the Iranians would do it.”

  “Why bother? Who’s he going to tell?”

  “I think it’s pretty obvious,” said Rankin. “The Russians are going to kill him because he’s double-crossing them and dealing with the Iranians.”

  “Then why not just arrest him in Russia?” said Thera.

  “There’s probably some reason they can’t that we don’t know,” said Rankin.

  “Maybe.” Thera straightened. She caught Ferguson staring at her, giving her a look as if she’d done something wrong.

  “Hey, look at this,” said Rankin, pointing at the laptop screen.

  Two young women in short dresses were in the corridor in front of Rostislawitch’s room. They knocked on the door.