Soul of the Assassin

by Larry Bond

  “How come this kind of stuff never happens to Ferg?” Rankin muttered to himself.

  23

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  Ferguson was having his own problems in Bologna.

  Neither he nor Thera had been able to find where Rostislawitch had gone. He wasn’t in any of the small cafés and coffee bars within ten blocks of the hotel, nor had he gone over to the conference building early. Ferguson finally conceded to himself that they’d lost Rostislawitch, at least temporarily; he planted some fresh video bugs and booster units, then met Thera in a hotel restaurant near the art building.

  “I’m sorry, Ferg. I’m really sorry,” she told him as he sat down. “I’m really sorry.”

  “He’ll turn up. I’ve lost people before.”

  “I checked the hotel. He’s still registered. I left him a message on his voice mail, saying he should call me.”

  “Great.”

  The waiter came over. Ferguson ordered a caffèllatte, then sat back in his seat, watching the people pass outside.

  “The old guy really likes you, doesn’t he?” said Ferguson.

  “He’s not that old.”

  “So you like the mature type, huh?”

  The waiter appeared with Ferguson’s coffee.

  “He seems very nice,” said Thera.

  “Sure, for a guy who’s perfecting ways to mass murder people,” said Ferguson, stirring his coffee.

  “I didn’t say he was perfect.”

  “Unlike me, huh?”

  Thera flushed. “You’re always fooling around,” she said angrily.

  The air drained abruptly from Ferguson’s lungs, as if he’d been punched in the stomach without any warning.

  Oh, Christ, he realized, she loves me.

  He tried to think of something to say, something to tell her—he wanted to say how he felt, but to temper it with reality, with their jobs and what was happening to him, the cancer, everything—but before he could think of what to say a face loomed in the crowd passing by the window.

  “Rostislawitch,” hissed Thera. “He’s going to the conference.”

  “Get over there,” said Ferg. “I’m right behind you.”

  “Ferg—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go.”

  24

  NAPLES, ITALY

  Guns spotted Atha coming into the train station, walking briskly with a shiny black carry-on bag rolling at his side. Taking out his fake MP3 player, Guns tuned to the channel for the bug he’d planted near the luggage area. Then he drifted toward the men’s room near the baggage check-in counter, listening as Atha walked up to the attendant and asked to check his bag. Guns thought it must be part of an exchange, but the suitcase didn’t contain wads of cash; the clerk opened it and found only a pair of sweaters.

  Atha took his receipt, then left, walking up in the direction of the train platforms.

  Guns checked around, trying to catch anyone who might be trailing Atha, then slowly started in that direction himself.

  “Rankin, what’s going on?” he asked, switching his “player” back over to the radio circuit.

  “I have a problem. Stay away.”

  “Huh?”

  “Pickpockets tried to roll me. I’m with the police. I’m going to have to give up my cover.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “I don’t sound like I’m making a joke, do I?”

  Rankin said something Guns couldn’t make out to a policeman.

  Guns wanted to ask Rankin what he thought was going on—why would Atha check a bag rather than retrieve one? But obviously Rankin was in no position to answer.

  Probably he’d be just as baffled as Guns was.

  Ferg would know—he always knew. He had some sixth sense about things that none of them quite shared.

  Atha, meanwhile, went into a small store that sold mineral water, bought himself a bottle, then walked across to a magazine kiosk, where he got a copy of the newspaper, then went and sat down on a bench at the far side of the station. He dug into his pocket for the luggage receipt, then took out the slip of paper with the numbers the prostitute had copied for him.

  The luggage ticket was a simple piece of white paper, with the word scontrino—ticket—stamped above a black line where the clerk wrote the letter and number of the locker or bin where he had placed the bag.

  Rostislawitch’s number was only one digit different from his—4 rather than 8—and Atha considered simply altering the number with a pen. But he decided to stick with his original plan and, after satisfying himself that the carabinieri were no longer watching him, walked back toward the exit. There he saw the policemen in the process of arresting a pair of pickpockets; rather than walking close by, Atha went out the side. Avoiding the police entirely, he circled around the block until he came to the Hotel Naples. There he walked through the lobby to the business center. Within a few moments he had a photocopy of the baggage ticket. A pencil eraser lifted the original claim number; he made another copy, put in the right number, and then used the center’s paper cutter to fashion a scontrino di bagaglio that looked so much like the original that after folding it and putting it into his pocket he had to pull out the prostitute’s note to make sure he had the right one.

  The war against pickpockets and other scammers at the Naples train station had been going on for over a hundred years. The policemen detaining Rankin were therefore somewhat resigned to the fact that there would be many battles, and knew they would have to husband their resources for the long haul. The repeated protests of the American finally convinced them that he would never do as a witness, and thus they released him, even as they pushed the miscreants into a car for a ride to the station, where their names would be recorded and their photos taken. It was of some consolation, the policemen thought, that the criminals had chosen a victim willing to fight back; both of the would-be pickpockets looked considerably worse for wear, and were likely to take at least a few days off nursing their wounds.

  Rankin went inside and grabbed a table at one of the small food kiosks. Guns had followed the Iranian into the hotel, where Atha had created a new luggage ticket, then turned him over to the two British MI6 agents so he could go and rent some scooters in case they needed more transportation.

  In a dark mood, Rankin sipped his coffee and waited for Atha to return to the station. The incident with the pickpockets had thrown Rankin off. Until then, he’d thought he had everything under control.

  His cell phone rang.

  “All right, Yank. Atha just gave something to a ratty-looking man who walks with a limp,” said Hamilton.

  “When he comes out with the bag, brush into him, then call for the police,” Rankin told Hamilton. “I’ll come up behind you and grab the bag. Worst case, the police will end up with it, and we can examine it at the station.”

  “We don’t want the Naples police involved in this,” said Hamilton. “They’re too corrupt. It will be better to grab him on the street. We’ll be closer to the car.”

  “The traffic sucks.”

  “Relax, Stephen. I’ve done this sort of thing before.”

  Rankin ground his teeth together.

  A man with a limp and a tattered sweater headed toward the luggage check. Rankin started toward him, then spotted Atha only a few feet behind him. He put his cell phone back to his ear.

  “Hamilton, Atha’s right behind this guy. He’s going with him to the luggage check.”

  “Very good, very good. I’m just coming in the door.”

  Rankin stayed back, expecting Hamilton to close in. But the British agent stayed back as well. The video bug showed the Iranian getting a bag and then standing nearby as the other man got a similar bag. In seconds, they were both outside the luggage area, moving in opposite directions.

  “I have Atha,” said Hamilton. “Take his accomplice. Don’t cause a stir.”

  Rankin followed the man as he wheeled his bag toward the ticket counter. Rail-thin, with a beard several days old, the Italian dragged his
right foot as he walked, his shoe’s metal heel scraping on the floor. Rankin had no trouble closing the distance between them, standing with only one person between him and the man. It was tempting to grab the suitcase and simply run off, but there were so many policemen around that he was sure to create a commotion. The man took the suitcase with him to the ticket window.

  The man was exchanging a ticket, or at least trying to. They were arguing about something—Rankin’s Italian wasn’t good enough to let him know about what.

  It had to do with an exchange. The man was trying to get money for an unused train ticket.

  Rankin thought about what he was seeing—an unkempt, possibly homeless man, trying to come up with cash. He wasn’t the sort of person that would be a regular Iranian agent.

  But that fit: Atha had hired prostitutes in Bologna, using them to do jobs he couldn’t do himself.

  The person behind Rankin prodded him. A window had just opened up.

  “I made a mistake,” Rankin told her. “You go.”

  He moved away, standing to the side as the man who’d taken the bag came away from the counter, his ticket still in his hand.

  “Where’s it to?” asked Rankin.

  “Che?” said the man.

  “The ticket.” Rankin pointed. “I’ll buy it from you.”

  The man eyed him suspiciously. The man didn’t seem to speak English, so Rankin decided to make do with the universal language—money.

  “Fifty euros,” said Rankin.

  “Cento” said the man immediately.

  “Screw you. The ticket’s worthless to you,” said Rankin, turning away. He wasn’t sure how long to play it; he took two steps, then turned back around.

  “Throw in the bag and you’ve got a deal,” said Rankin, pointing.

  The man didn’t understand.

  “The bag. Luggage.”

  The man squinted, still unsure what he meant.

  “Ecco,” said Rankin, touching the bag. “Here. This.”

  “Cento? Si,” said the man.

  His quick agreement told Rankin everything he needed to know—the bag was worthless—but he paid the man anyway.

  Hamilton closed in behind Atha. He was tempted to grab the bag and toss it to Jared in the car. But if he did that, he’d be tipping Atha off to the fact that they were on to him, and the Iranian would undoubtedly flee. Hamilton’s assignment was to delineate whatever network Atha was part of; if he grabbed the bag or even Atha now, he would in fact fail to fulfill his objectives.

  So he let Atha go, following him down the street to a cab. Guns, nearby on the rented Vespa, zoomed in close to follow while Hamilton got in with Jared.

  They followed the taxi to the port area, a long pilgrimage over crowded streets through colorless clouds of carbon monoxide and the relentless rant of Neapolitan curses. Hamilton liked Italy, but not this part of it—garbage strewn and smoggy—even the air smelled rancid, the stench of dead fish and factories wafting in the breeze.

  “Take a right there,” Hamilton told Jared. “It’s shorter.”

  “We’ll get stuck at the cross street.”

  “Take the right. It’s shorter.”

  Jared turned at the last minute, tires screeching. For two blocks, it appeared as if Hamilton was correct; there was no traffic on the narrow road. But the deep potholes made it hard to go too fast, and midway down the third street they found themselves once more embedded in traffic.

  “You might do better by walking,” said Jared.

  “Guns is with him,” said Hamilton. “There’s no need to go crazy.”

  Guns watched from a block away as Atha’s cab stopped in front of a row of dilapidated brick buildings near the docks south of the city’s main port area. Instead of going into one of the houses across the street, Atha crossed to the waterside, climbing up a set of concrete steps and disappearing down the side. Guns drove down the block far enough to see Atha clambering down a wooden ladder to a narrow dock and over to a small fishing boat. A burly man came out from the wheelhouse to help him board. The Iranian held on to the suitcase he was carrying for dear life, refusing to give it to the other man even though his balance was precarious. Finally, he managed to tumble onto the deck. The other man laughed, and they both went inside.

  Hamilton and Jared drove up a few minutes later. Rankin, on the scooter Guns had left for him, rode up almost on their tail.

  “About time you got here, Yank,” said Hamilton, as if he’d been waiting for Rankin all morning.

  “Why didn’t you grab the suitcase?” Rankin asked.

  “Because my job is to investigate the man, not what he’s carrying.”

  “He’s got plans for a bacteria that’ll kill people in there.”

  “That’s Ferguson’s theory.”

  “More than just Ferg’s.”

  “Listen, Mr. Rankin, I’m in charge here.”

  “Bullshit. If you didn’t want to grab the suitcase, you should have told me that at the station. Ferg said I shouldn’t trust you.”

  “Ferguson is not one to talk on the issue of trust. There’s no harm done. He’s down in the boat.”

  “He’s going to sail the fucking boat out of the harbor.”

  Rankin looked down at the water. The fishing boat was tied up by itself, but there was a small marina about fifty yards away.

  “I think it might be a meeting,” said Guns. “Or maybe they’re waiting for somebody.”

  “One of us is going to have to go down there and bug the boat,” said Rankin.

  “Are you daft?” said Hamilton. “They’ll see you.”

  “He’s got a point, Skip,” said Guns. “We might just as well go grab the suitcase ourselves, like we’re robbers.”

  “No!” said Hamilton.

  “Then we’re going to have to get the Italians involved,” said Rankin. “It’s the only way we’ll find out what he took from the locker.”

  “Guns’ idea might work,” said Lloyd. “You and I could stay back and follow them afterwards.”

  Hamilton was about to object when they heard the tug’s engines turn over and pop to life with a deep rumble. All four men looked at one another; then Rankin reached to his belt and took out his Beretta.

  “Back me up, Guns,” he said, starting for the stairs. He reached them just in time to see the burly man Guns had spotted earlier casting off the line. “Stop!” Rankin yelled. “Stop!”

  He fired a round just in case the man didn’t speak English. The man dove back to the wheelhouse. Rankin began clambering down the steps. He was almost to the wood dock at the bottom when the Italian reemerged from the cabin, a Skorpion submachine gun in his hands.

  Guns, at the top of the steps, screamed a warning, but it was drowned out by the rattle of the small Czech weapon blasting through its twenty-bullet magazine.

  25

  CIA BUILDING 24-442

  Ferguson’s tip about Kiska having a cousin with a German last name in a mental hospital somewhere in Romania—and the suggestion that she used the cousin’s identity for her credit card accounts—wasn’t the most stellar piece of intelligence Ciello had ever received. But the analyst persevered.

  His first problem was the fact that he did not speak Romanian. That was easily overcome; when the Agency Romanian language expert proved unavailable, Ciello stole a page from Ferguson’s book and went for outside help, in this case a UFO expert he knew who lived in Craiova and had recently published a moving though overly assonant sonnet sequence on UFO abductions there. Craiova was a long way from Baia Mare—opposite ends of the country, in fact—but his fellow UFO buff had his own network of informants, and within an hour or so had obtained a list of all of the patients at the two mental institutions near Baia Mare.

  The fact that there were two, not one, gave Ciello a bit more work to do; he ended up with five possible names of women who might be related to Kiska Babev. A preliminary search of the names turned up nothing, but this wasn’t surprising. Ciello sent his formal requests for i
nformation on possible bank and credit card accounts over the CIA system; he got an automated response informing him that he would have the results “as soon as humanly possible”—an odd comment, he thought, given that it was generated by computer.

  Then he called Ferguson’s friend in Nigeria.

  “Ah, you called. Very good. Just about lunchtime here,” said the man. His English had a slightly exotic accent. “Mr. Ferg promised you call before lunch.”

  “I have five names I need to check out for bank accounts.”

  “Five? Mr. Ferg said only one. Five—that was not what he said.”

  “Well, five is just five ones put together,” said Ciello, not sure what other explanation he could give.

  “But it is more than one. This is the key point.”

  “Well, shit happens.”

  The man thought the expression was uproariously funny, and began laughing so hard that Ciello had to hold his phone away from his ear.

  “Shit happens. Yes. Yes. I think this all the time. Shit does happen. A-ha.”

  “Can I give you the names?”

  “My friend, today, for you, because you are the friend to my friend, and because it is lunchtime, I am going to save you very much work. You will look the names up yourself. Today only—because you are friend to Mr. Ferguson.”

  “Great,” said Ciello.

  “One name, five names, a hundred names. Today you do what you want. Because, my friend, shit happens.”

  “Sure does.”

  The man gave Ciello a Web site and an access code; all would be revealed when he signed on.

  “Look in an hour. If not there, then, no information can be found.”

  “An hour?”

  “Give or take. Lunch comes first. Shit happens, no?”

  Fibber was still laughing when Ciello hung up the phone.

  26

  NAPLES, ITALY

  The Czech-produced Skorpion was more a machine pistol than a submachine gun; its light weight and poor balance made it hard for a novice to handle, especially one who was trying to shoot with one hand while on the run. The bullets had the intended effect, however: they sent Rankin diving for cover. Since the narrow wooden dock offered none, he dove into the water, barely escaping the spray of 7.65mm bullets. As the water roiled, he pushed himself away, doing his best to stay underwater until finally his lungs felt like they were about to burst. When he surfaced, he realized that the rumble he’d felt nearby had come not from the bullets but from the propellers pushing the boat from the dock. The fishing boat was already some thirty yards away; Rankin took a few strokes after it but saw it was hopeless. He turned back and found Guns and the others gaping at him from the railing above the dock.