Soul of the Assassin

by Larry Bond

  “We could compare notes.”

  “Give me the list that you have and I will tell you if it’s correct,” said Kiska.

  “Nice try,” said Ferguson. “I don’t think we have any, actually.”

  “That I don’t believe.”

  “We’re not as omniscient as you think.”

  “I don’t think you’re omniscient, Bobby,” she said, looking into his eyes. “I’ve worked with you before.”

  “Touché,” said Ferguson, raising his glass.

  “I’m going to talk to him after lunch. I don’t want you to interfere.”

  “Fine with me.”

  Ferguson’s face was still red where she had struck him. Kiska reached across the table and touched his cheek. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “I’ve been slapped before. You expect that from Russian women.”

  “Always with a joke.”

  She ran the side of her finger down his cheek. He was a very dangerous man, but a handsome one. She nearly said something she would have regretted, but fortunately the waiter approached with their meals.

  Thera excused herself from the table and walked in the direction of the ladies’ room. As she did, she saw Ferguson sitting with the Russian FSB agent, who was running her hand down his cheek.

  He just couldn’t resist, could he, Thera thought to herself, pretending not to see.

  29

  THE TYRRHENIAN SEA,

  OFF NAPLES, ITALY

  Rankin, Guns, and the Brits didn’t steal the boat. Renting—albeit at an exorbitant rate—was easier and faster.

  The fishing boat Atha had boarded was an old vessel, weighed down by rust and caked crud. Their boat was much newer—a large cabin cruiser about half the size of the other craft and, while not the speediest vessel on the water, capable of 30 knots.

  Corrigan told Rankin that the Naples harbor patrol—actually part of the police force—was sending its three launches out. The Italian Guardia Costiera—the coast guard—had a patrol boat about eight miles to the south and another to the north; both were on their way as well.

  “You think that the Italians can really help?” said Hamilton derisively. “You’re really a novice at this, aren’t you? At least Ferguson knows where to butter his toast.”

  “Ferg ain’t here,” said Rankin, moving toward the bow.

  Guns, standing against the rail with his binoculars, pointed toward a boat in the distance.

  “That it, you think?”

  Rankin took the glasses. Shaped like a small tug, the boat had a large stack directly behind the small wheelhouse. There was a boom at the back.

  “Yeah, I think so,” he agreed, handing the binoculars back.

  “You gonna apologize?”

  “For what?”

  Guns looked at him for a second, then raised the glasses to his face.

  “I’m not Ferg,” Rankin said. “I’m not perfect.”

  “Ferg ain’t perfect, either.” Guns put down the glasses. “I shot the son of a bitch while you were in the water.”

  “Oh.” Rankin realized, belatedly, that Guns hadn’t been criticizing him; he was angry because Rankin had yelled at him for not firing at the gunman. He should have realized that, and would have, had he not been obsessed with measuring himself against Ferguson. It wasn’t his fault that the Iranian had gotten away, even though he was blaming himself.

  “Hey, listen, I got a little hot back there,” said Rankin. “I’m sorry. I know you probably did your best.”

  “Yeah. None of us are Ferg,” added Guns.

  “A good thing,” muttered Rankin.

  Rankin had the captain cut the motor when they were about a mile from the fishing boat. No one seemed to be on deck. The boat was moving at about 4 knots due south; it had obviously slowed down at some point, but its pace now remained steady.

  “Maybe the Iranian was wounded as well,” suggested Hamilton as they took turns examining the boat through Guns’ binoculars.

  “Maybe.”

  Rankin took out his sat phone. “Corrigan, where is that coast guard boat? You know?”

  “To your southeast. It’s still a good half hour away.”

  “Thanks.” He turned to Guns. “What do you think? Wait for the Italians?”

  “If he’s got papers in the suitcase, he could be destroying them,” said Guns. “There’s smoke coming out of the smokestack.”

  “We don’t want to wait for the Italians,” said Hamilton. “We don’t want them involved.”

  “Why not?” said Rankin.

  “Because the more people involved, the more things go to hell.”

  You can say that again, thought Rankin.

  “We can take the rigid-hulled boat over and find out what’s going on,” said Guns. “The only thing is, we only have one gun, right?”

  He looked at Hamilton. Neither of the MI6 agents was armed.

  “Figures,” said Rankin.

  “I say we go,” responded Hamilton.

  “Thanks.” Rankin turned to Guns. “I’ll take the point if you want.”

  “No, it’s OK. I’m a better shot.”

  Rankin didn’t think so, but he let it pass.

  Hamilton had Jared Lloyd stay behind. The three men climbed into the cruiser’s small rigid-hulled inflatable and sped over to the fishing boat, which was still moving at a slow but steady pace. Rankin took the boat up against the port side of the fishing craft; Guns leapt aboard and moved swiftly toward the smokestack, ducking behind it as he tried to peer through the open doorway in front of it. As Rankin started to follow Hamilton out of the boat, he saw an emergency kit at the side. He opened it, and took the flare gun, figuring it was better than nothing.

  The door to the rear of the fishing boat’s small super-structure was open. Guns and Rankin crouched on either side as Hamilton moved around toward the front. Neither man could see what was going on.

  The Beretta felt tiny in Guns’ hand. In a perfect world, he’d have something considerably bigger—a shotgun would have been nice.

  “Stay behind me,” he whispered to Rankin as he stepped into the gray space. He had both hands on the Beretta, his finger pressed against the trigger—anything that appeared was getting blasted.

  The space was divided by a narrow corridor, with a cabin on each side and the bridge at the front. Guns moved to the left, ducking into the first space, trying to stay out of the direct line of fire from the front and search the cabin at the same time. It held lockers and a pair of benches, bolted to the floor, an assortment of gear and boxes piled randomly at both sides. It took him several seconds to scan them all, to make sure that the lines he saw were straight and unmoving.

  “Come on,” hissed Rankin, who’d checked a similar space on the opposite side. Rather than waiting for Guns, he moved forward, through a small hallway, then ran forward, looking for the bridge.

  Guns ran to keep up. He saw Rankin run forward, shouting something. Guns plunged into the space after him, throwing himself to the right, sure that they would both come under a hail of bullets.

  But the vessel’s bridge was empty, the wheel tied by a rope into position.

  “Shit,” said Rankin.

  Guns moved his Beretta around the space twice, using it to direct his gaze. Then he went back to the cabins they’d bypassed. A figure lay on the deck in the cabin at the port side. Guns slid over to him on his knee, weapon ready; the man was dead.

  “Guns!”

  “Dead guy,” said Guns, back on his feet.

  The door to the other cabin was locked. Guns heard someone talking inside, the voices still muffled.

  “Come out,” he yelled. “Hands high.”

  There was no answer.

  Guns put his hand on the lever that worked the door. “Viennee quee,” he said, phonetically sounding the Italian words for “come here.”

  No one stirred.

  Rankin stepped between Guns and the door. “Let’s try this,” he said. Then without explaining he put his foo
t on the door lever and kicked it open, firing a flare into the cabin.

  The small missile ignited with a low thwapp, and the room burst yellow and red. The scent of burning metal filled the corridor, and dusty smoke began curling upward. Guns started to push around Rankin to get in, but the fire flared; he heard the sound of a dull explosion, as if they were miles, not feet, away.

  Rankin pulled the fire extinguisher off the nearby wall and began shooting the canister’s contents while he was still in the corridor. He pushed the nozzle inside the cabin, spraying blindly but choking the fire.

  The cabin appeared to be an office; above the desk was a radio, which must have been what they heard. The place was empty.

  “I need air,” Guns said, coughing. He grabbed Rankin, pulling him with him through the boat to the deck.

  Hamilton looked down on them from the roof of the superstructure.

  “No one?” he asked.

  Guns managed to shake his head, still catching his breath.

  “Bloody hell,” said the Englishman, taking out his sat phone.

  ACT IV

  The gods are just, and will revenge our cause.

  —Virgil, The Aeneid (Dryden translation)

  1

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Practically since the day he graduated from college, Jonathon McCarthy liked to start his mornings by sitting at his kitchen table, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. He had continued that routine as a senator, and saw no reason to drop the habit as President.

  The fact that his kitchen was not exactly what one would call “cozy” never entered into his consideration. And while staff members had often volunteered to start their day early enough to fix a proper breakfast, McCarthy had gently turned them down—and issued standing orders directing that no member of the domestic staff arrive at the White House, kitchen included, before six a.m. The Secret Service delivered his newspapers and a special briefing booklet at five, leaving it on the small wooden counter at the center of the room; the agent would flip on the coffeemaker and retreat. McCarthy typically arrived a few minutes later—except on the odd mornings he decided to sleep in, when he would make his appearance promptly at 5:30.

  Rarely did McCarthy allow his sessions with the Fourth Estate’s work product to be interrupted, and rarer still were the times he invited someone to join him.

  But today was one of those occasions.

  “Are you sure now, dear, that you won’t have a bit of sugar in your coffee?” he asked Corrine Alston as he fussed over the pot. “You know that I make this very strong in the morning.”

  “No, Mr. President. It will help perk me up.”

  “I thought maybe my charming presence would be enough for that.” McCarthy’s wry voice echoed against the high ceiling. He set down her cup and took his seat. “Give me the bad news, please. No varnish, miss.”

  Corrine told the President what the First Team had discovered—it appeared that material from a Russian biological warfare program had been obtained by the Iranian agent. The Italians, called in to assist, were asking questions about exactly what was going on. So far, Daniel Slott had given them very vague answers.

  “I’m sure the Secretary of State will appreciate that,” said McCarthy. He wasn’t being sarcastic—the Italians were not known for keeping secrets, and Steele would undoubtedly feel that any news about this would scuttle the nuclear treaty.

  Then again, perhaps it deserved to be scuttled. McCarthy sipped his coffee pensively.

  “The Russian agent who told us about the material,” said McCarthy. “This is the same woman who has been identified as the assassin, T Rex?”

  “Our man there doesn’t think that’s right. He doesn’t think she’s T Rex at all.”

  “Why not?”

  “He says the evidence doesn’t add up.”

  “If she is, she might be saying something like this to throw him off the scent,” said the President. “The fox leaving an old sock for a hound in the tree on the other side of the hollow.”

  “The Iranian did get something from the locker in Naples,” said Corrine.

  McCarthy sorted through the newspapers on the table. The executive news summary in the binder included all of the important articles, but he liked to go through the papers anyway; it was part old-fashioned gesture, and part a way of seeing what other people thought was important.

  “That puts this briefing in a different light,” said McCarthy, retrieving the latest assessment on the Iran situation from the State Department.

  “I’ve read it.”

  The assessment included an intercept from the National Security Agency of a speech by Parsa Moshen being circulated among high-ranking Revolutionary Guard members. In the speech, Moshen promised “a radical new weapon to devastate the West” and promised that it would be used if the treaty was signed. “After a demonstration of our power,” Moshen added, “we will resume our rightful place in society. Or we will struggle on alone.”

  “We’d best get the bacteria back,” said McCarthy dryly, his understatement eloquently underlining his order’s urgency.

  2

  THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA

  The captain had not wanted to go into the water, but after Atha heard the radio calls from the coast guard and saw the mast of a vessel he knew must be following them, he managed to persuade the man that it would be their only chance of escape. Once they were in the water, the reason for the captain’s reluctance became obvious—he was a terrible swimmer, and could barely stay afloat. Thus Atha had been forced to inflate the rafts much sooner than he had planned; as he clambered into his he thought he saw the boat that had been following them looming on the horizon. But that had proven to be a false alarm; aided by the wind and current, they were able to paddle to the rendezvous without being seen.

  A small boat met them after they had been in the water for only a half hour. The tiny craft doglegged north before circling to the southwest, its roundabout route taking it away from the two Italian patrol vessels stopping and searching boats in the area.

  Partly because of all this maneuvering, the ride to the cargo ship took nearly six hours. It would have been uncomfortable in any event, but a storm was moving in, and the waters became increasingly choppier. Atha found himself leaning over the side for the last two hours. When he was finally brought aboard the ship, with his precious luggage double-wrapped in two giant trash bags, he went right to his cabin.

  He was lying in the bunk when he remembered that he had not called the Russian scientist as he’d promised. He debated whether this was necessary at all—now that he had the material, he didn’t believe he would need ever to speak to Rostislawitch. But never was a long time; it was conceivable that there would be some business need in the future.

  In which case he should make the payment. It was not a minor sum, and he would much prefer keeping it in his pocket, even though he had not intended to.

  Perhaps he should call just to keep Rostislawitch in the dark. Or had the scientist been the one to tip off the authorities?

  Atha debated back and forth what to do. Perhaps he could get information from the scientist about who was following him. Perhaps he would only be giving information to them. Finally, he decided to call the scientist and see what he might retrieve from a conversation. He got up and turned on his satellite phone. But the phone, damaged by the sea’s salt water, refused to work.

  There was a knock on his cabin door.

  “What?” grumbled Atha.

  The sailor on the other side of the door knocked again.

  “What is it?” Atha demanded, pulling open the door.

  The man in the corridor handed him a note. Belatedly Atha realized that the man did not speak Farsi; except for the captain, the crew was Filipino.

  The note was from the captain, telling Atha that he had just heard from the helicopter; it was ahead of schedule and would arrive in a half hour.

  Atha put his shoes back on, then went back up to the bridge, taking the suitcase wi
th him. It was not very heavy—an odd thing, he thought; to be capable of so much damage it ought to weigh much more.

  The storm that had been approaching earlier was now almost upon them, and the waves swelled in front of the ship, and raindrops were beginning to pelt the glass at the front of the bridge.

  “Is this weather safe for a helicopter?” Atha asked.

  “I couldn’t say.” The captain shrugged. “I’m not a pilot. But I will give you a life jacket if you wish.”

  “I’d prefer a parachute,” said Atha.

  The captain thought he was making a joke, and laughed.

  3

  THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA

  As soon as the fishing boat was thoroughly searched and secured, the Italian coast guard’s patrol ship rejoined the rest of the searchers, crisscrossing the nearby waters for another vessel that Atha might have escaped to. Unfortunately, there were many possibilities, and even with the assistance of an airplane, within a few hours it was clear that there was no chance of finding him. Police officials in towns and cities all along the southwestern coast of Italy, and on nearby Sicily, were all alerted, but neither Rankin nor Guns had much hope that Atha would be found.

  The Italians thought they were looking for a man who might be responsible for the Bologna bombing. With the bomb still getting serious media attention—it had been dubbed the “immaculate bomb” because no one was killed—they pressed on with the search. The navy compiled a list of ships that were heading to either the eastern Mediterranean or northern Africa. About four dozen had been within a hundred miles of the fishing boat, and all were designated to be searched. Three were beyond the reach of the Italian coast guard: a ferry to Tunisia and two small cargo vessels bound for Libya. Calling from aboard the Italian coast-guard cutter, Rankin asked Corrigan to enlist the U.S. Navy to help.

  “These ships were all pretty far from the fishing boat,” said Corrigan.

  “Sure, but there was probably a little boat involved,” said Rankin. “Something too small to be tracked easily. Maybe two or three.”