Soul of the Assassin - [First Team 04]

by Larry Bond

  “Oh!” said Ciello loudly. “That’s why she took the measurements!”

  “What?” demanded Wu.

  “Now I get it.”

  “You know who T Rex is?”

  “Of course not. But I know what they’re up to.”

  Wu waited for the answer as Ciello jumped to his feet and started pumping his keyboard.

  “Well?” she said finally.

  “Perfume.”

  ~ * ~

  13

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  Guns picked Ferguson up in the car two blocks away.

  “Ferg, you’re slipping,” Guns told him. “You couldn’t even get her phone number.”

  “I couldn’t even get her e-mail address,” said Ferguson in mock amazement. “Next time you take the romance angle and I’ll watch.”

  Guns laughed. Ferguson could always be counted on for a joke.

  Rankin and Thera were on Vespas ahead, following the cab as it headed out to the airport.

  Ferguson took out his sat phone and called the Cube.

  “Yes, Bob?” said Lauren DiCapri, the relief desk person.

  “Hey, beautiful, what happened? Corrigan went home?”

  “Something about working thirty-six hours straight got to him.”

  “Tough sitting in that chair, huh?” Ferguson leaned back in the seat. “You tracking us?”

  “Of course.” All four of the ops had GPS sending units in their satellite phones, showing the Cube where they were.

  “Find Arna Kerr’s flight yet?”

  “The flight for the round-trip ticket she bought doesn’t leave for another two days,” said Lauren. “So if she’s going to the airport, she used another credit card for the flight.”

  “And different ID,” said Ferguson.

  “Maybe, maybe not. We’re not working with the Italians, remember? I don’t have direct access to any of the booking systems, let alone their security lists. I’m working with the credit card companies.”

  “How could I forget?”

  Slott, the CIA Deputy Director in charge of covert action, had told Ferguson in the briefing that they wouldn’t work with Italy because of the rendition case. Indeed, Ferguson had a relatively low regard for the Italian intelligence agencies and preferred not to get them involved, either. If he got T Rex—when he got T Rex—the plan was to knock him out, bundle him in the trunk of a car, and take him directly to the U.S. air base at Aviano. He’d be in a federal lockup, waiting for a grand jury to indict him, within twenty-four hours.

  “Listen, Lauren, I gave Arna Kerr my card. Maybe she’ll call; maybe she’ll send an e-mail or check the Web site.”

  “Don’t worry. We’re ready.”

  “Good. I wouldn’t want to miss a date.”

  ~ * ~

  T

  he thin wall separating caution and paranoia had melted by the time Arna Kerr cleared the ticket counter. A kind of panic regularly accompanied this stage of a job—when the fieldwork was done but before she returned to Sweden and safety.

  Arna Kerr forced herself to remain calm as she went through gate security, fiddling with her hair and fussing with her makeup to hide her jitters. Once through, she went into a washroom and checked her bags and clothes for a bug or tracking device, by going over them first with a detector and then painstakingly by hand, visually inspecting everything. She’d done this already at the hotel before leaving— and also examined the footage on the two digital cameras she’d left running on the desk—yet she still felt as if she had missed something.

  She told herself she was overcompensating for spending the night with the Irishman.

  God, what a mistake.

  Arna Kerr leaned back against the toilet stall and pulled out his card. She started to throw it into the toilet, then stopped herself. She’d already had the license checked by e-mailing the number to one of her associates; a few speeding violations were the only blemish on the Irishman’s record. But he deserved more thorough scrutiny.

  Scrutiny? Or did she really want to contact him?

  She couldn’t.

  Her body nearly trembled, remembering how they’d made love.

  No, she told herself, dropping the card in the toilet. Not worth the risk.

  ~ * ~

  T

  hera waited until Arna Kerr’s plane had taxied to the runway before she left the terminal. Outside, the air smelled wet, heavy with moisture, as if it were going to snow. Thera zipped her jacket tighter. She was glad Arna Kerr was gone. Maybe now she could get some sleep.

  “Hey,” said Ferguson, appearing beside her. “You with us?”

  Thera jumped. “Jesus, Ferg. You scared me.”

  “You have to pay attention to where you are,” he told her. He was serious.

  “I am.”

  “You were daydreaming. Somebody could have snuck up on you like I did. Are you being followed?”

  Thera, embarrassed that she had let her guard down, said nothing.

  “You’re not,” added Ferguson. “But keep your head in the game, all right? We’re just at the start of this.”

  ~ * ~

  ~ * ~

  1

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  In some alternate universe, Corrine Alston was perpetually ten minutes ahead of schedule. Her habitual punctuality impressed friends and influenced enemies. Her hair always looked perfectly groomed, and her stockings never ran.

  But that was an alternate universe. In this one, Corrine was lucky if she managed to stay within fifteen minutes of the bulleted times her secretary prepared for her. As the President’s personal counsel, Corrine found her days filled with appointments, phone conferences, lunch and dinner meetings, and—on occasion—real legal work. She was three weeks past-due for a haircut, and finding time to buy a new pair of panty hose could take a month.

  “They’re waiting,” said her secretary, Teri Gatins, as Corrine rushed into her office for the ten a.m. conference call. Corrine’s day had started with a phone conference at six; the half-filled cup of coffee she held in her hand was her breakfast.

  “Thanks,” said Corrine. She dropped her briefcase at the side of her desk, spun the chair around, and picked up the phone.

  CIA Deputy Director of Operations Daniel Slott was already talking.

  “It’s a theory. I don’t know if it’s a good one,” said Slott.

  “What’s that?” said Corrine.

  “I was just explaining that we have a theory about what T Rex is up to in Bologna.”

  “Hey, Counselor. How’s the weather at the White House?” said Bob Ferguson.

  “They say it may snow,” answered Corrine.

  “Gee, wish I was there.”

  “Could you please recap the situation, Dan? What is the theory?” she asked.

  “A gas or other agent being dispersed in a public square,” said Slott. “T Rex’s advance person took measurements of three piazzas near the center of Bologna.”

  “Dispersing gas? T Rex is supposed to be an assassin. That sounds more like a terrorist attack.”

  “Admittedly,” answered Slott. “But it’s not that out of line for him. T Rex likes to kill.”

  Besides Slott and Ferguson, the commander of the First Team’s military force, Col. Charles Van Buren, was on the line, as was CIA Director Thomas Parnelles. Corrine had been appointed by the President to oversee Special Demands; while the members of the First Team still worked for either the CIA or the military, they answered to her as well. It was an awkward arrangement, intended by the President to give him tight control over the Special Operations force, while at the same time insulating him from it if something went wrong.

  “Has this T Rex character used gas to kill someone before?” asked Colonel Van Buren.

  “Everything but,” said Slott. “He’s used bombs, a mortar shell, a rifle, and at least twice a pistol from very close range.”

  Slott explained that the person they believed was T Rex’s preparer or advance man—actually a woman who was usi
ng the name Arna Kerr—had taken measurements of three piazzas in the center of the old city. From that, one of their analysts had deduced that the attacks would take place there. Kerr’s measurements were only necessary, said the analyst, if T Rex was planning to use a chemical gas; in that case, the killer would be considering how much gas to use to guarantee a kill. The size, wind pattern, and fact that the area was open argued strongly against an aerosol attack—in layman’s terms, the sort of attack that would be made with biological weapons—but a quick-acting chemical gas, laid on thickly enough, would be deadly. The analyst thought that the fact that the assassination would look like a terrorist attack was intentional, since it would divert attention from the actual intent of the crime.

  “We’re looking at two weeks as the outside end of the time frame,” said Slott, “because that’s how long she rented the vehicles for. But in the three assassinations we’ve connected her with, T Rex has shown up much sooner—within forty-eight hours.”

  “This is a wrong turn,” said Ferguson. “It doesn’t fit with T Rex.”

  “If you have another theory, I’m all ears,” said Slott.

  “A bomb I could see. But gas? Too many things left to chance.”

  “He doesn’t care how many people die, as long as his target is one of them,” said Parnelles.

  “Yeah, but he does care that the target dies. Gas is too iffy for that. Too many variables.”

  “Why else would she take the measurements then?” asked Slott.

  “Maybe it’s for a bomb; maybe he’s going to use a sniper rifle; maybe T Rex just gives her a lot of things to do so she can’t figure out what’s up,” said Ferguson. “We don’t end up using half the intelligence you guys dig up for us.”

  While Slott defended the theory, Corrine considered the implications. If the attack was made in a public square, many people would be injured, if not killed.

  “We’re going to have to tell the Italians what’s going on,” said Corrine. “We’re going to have to tell them what we have.”

  “That will ruin everything,” said Parnelles.

  “If they had information about 9-11 and didn’t tell us, what would we think of them as allies?” Corrine said.

  “We can stop T Rex,” said Slott. “Right, Ferg?”

  “If we figure out who he is.”

  “The President is going to have to make the call,” said Corrine. “He has to have the final say here.”

  ~ * ~

  F

  ifteen minutes later, Corrine knocked on the door to the Oval Office and then went in, waiting while Pres. Jonathon McCarthy finished up a phone call with a congressman who was opposing McCarthy’s health-care reform package. The chief of staff, Fred Green-berg, stood near the desk, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his nervous energy a sharp contrast to the President’s laid-back country-boy expression.

  “Well,” said the President finally, drawing out the word in the over-pronounced Southern style he liked to use when making a point. “I do hope you will consider my points, Congressman, just as seriously as I am going to consider yours. And you know I take them very seriously. .. . You have a good day yourself.”

  The President put the phone back on the hook.

  “I’ve owned mules that weren’t half as stubborn,” he said.

  “We’re sunk,” said Greenberg.

  “Now don’t go giving up the ship when we have only just spotted the iceberg,” said McCarthy. “We still have a few moments to steer the rudder and close the compartment doors. Wouldn’t you say so, Miss Alston?”

  “On a difficult issue like this, it may take some time to win over votes,” said Corrine. “Perhaps you should delay the vote.”

  “Spoken like a true lawyer, used to billing by the hour.” McCarthy laughed. “You have something you need me to address?”

  “Yes.” Corrine glanced at Greenberg.

  “I have to go answer a couple of e-mails,” said the chief of staff. “I’ll be right back.”

  When McCarthy and Corrine were alone, he folded his arms and leaned back in his chair.

  “We are going to lose this one, I’m afraid,” he told Corrine. “We just do not have the votes. But sometimes it’s important to keep the horse in the race.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What would you think of talking to Senator Segriff for me about this? He might be persuaded to come around. He is not an unreasonable man.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better coming from you?”

  “Sometimes a young filly can succeed where an old craggy nag will fail.”

  “So I’m a filly now, am I?”

  McCarthy laughed and sat upright in his chair. “Deah, if I offended you, well then, I am just going to have to apologize. I assure you that I do not think you are a horse, young or otherwise.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Now what is so important that my chief of staff has to answer his e-mail personally, which I believe he has not done in six or seven months.”

  “Italy and Special Demands.” Corrine gave him a brief summary of the phone conference.

  “If the assassin is planning an attack in a public square, we have to notify the Italians,” she told him. “We can’t let an attack like that go off without warning them to take steps. If the situation were reversed, we’d want blood.”

  McCarthy tore off the top page of the notepad he had on his desk and rose. “I don’t suppose Tom Parnelles likes the idea very much.”

  “He didn’t voice his opinion.”

  “That would be the answer right there, I suspect.” McCarthy crumpled the paper and tossed it into the basket.

  “Ferguson—the lead op on the First Team—is worried that if we bring the Italians in on it, we’ll tip off the assassin he’s supposed to capture,” said Corrine. “He argued against it.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Parnelles and Mr. Ferguson are on the same page on this,” said McCarthy. “There is an argument to be made there.”

  “It’s overweighed. Think of a hundred people dying in Minnesota or Omaha because the Italians wanted to capture a person they thought killed one of their intelligence officers. We wouldn’t stand for it.”

  “No. We wouldn’t. This would make the rendition flap look like a Sunday school debate over the devil’s favorite lie.”

  Corrine nodded.

  “The Director feels personally responsible for his officer’s murder,” continued the President. “Do you remember the incident, Corrine? No, actually you wouldn’t, as it was just before you came on board,” said McCarthy, answering his own question. “You hadn’t joined the intelligence committee staff yet, had you? Well, Mr. Parnelles had just been appointed as chief of the CIA when his man died, and he took it almost as a personal insult. I believe the officer who was killed had had some association with him earlier as well. I believe he may have worked for him at one time, if memory serves.”

  “I think he feels responsible for his people,” said Corrine. “I think that’s natural.”

  “Yes, dear, that is natural, but you see, there are sometimes more important things to consider.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell the Italians. Find a way to do it while preserving our operation. And please, take care of this personally.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  McCarthy drummed his fingers on his desk. “The wording on the Iran finding—have you finished it?”

  “It’s ready,” she said, mentally changing gears. “We’re not on the strongest grounds, Jonathon.”

  “Hopefully we won’t need it. Secretary Steele continues to assure me that the Iranians are about to sign the treaty and give up their weapons, just as North Korea has done. It is a solution I much prefer. I just wish that the Secretary of State would get them to move with a little more alacrity.”

  Several weeks before, McCarthy had decided that the Iranian nuclear program had progressed to a point where it would have to be dealt with decisively. While his administration had been working beh
ind the scenes to get the Iranians to abandon their program, Iran’s Sunni neighbors, especially Saudi Arabia and Egypt, had concluded that they needed nuclear weapons to counterbalance their traditional Shiite enemies and had secretly begun to work on a bomb together. If they developed one, McCarthy believed, the odds of nuclear war in the Middle East or of terrorists obtaining the weapons would be astronomical.