Soul of the Assassin - [First Team 04]

by Larry Bond

  “Renaissance art. I’ve always been fascinated by it.”

  Kiska smiled. She suspected that Ferguson was here for the same reason she was here—Artur Rostislawitch. But there was no sense asking; Ferguson was a consummate liar, better than she was.

  A very attractive one, handsome and intriguing in his own way, but still a liar.

  “Want to get a drink?” Ferguson asked. “Or are you busy?”

  “I’m never too busy for an attractive younger man.” Kiska rose. Best to find out what he was up to now. “Where would you like to go?”

  “There’s a bar through that hallway over there.”

  “I think perhaps another place. Quieter. Where we can find a corner alone.”

  “Even better.”

  ~ * ~

  R

  ankin wondered what the hell Ferguson was doing as he watched him walk out the front door with the blonde. She didn’t seem his type—sophisticated rather than trashy, in her thirties, with a scar on her right cheek. It wasn’t until they were out the door that Rankin realized she might be the Russian assassin, T Rex, the woman who had dialed in the explosion.

  Was Ferguson out of his mind?

  Rankin went upstairs to the room they were using to watch Rostislawitch, got out the laptop, and after punching in the security codes and sliding his thumb over the reader brought up the file.

  It was Kiska Babev.

  Christ.

  ~ * ~

  P

  rosecco, perpiacere,” Kiska said to the waiter, ordering a bottle of the bubbly Italian wine.

  “Italian. I’m impressed,” said Ferguson.

  “Don’t be,” said Kiska. “That’s about all I know.”

  “Your English is even better than the last time we met.”

  “And your Russian?”

  Ferguson told her in Russian that he would like to thank her by sleeping with her, the sooner the better.

  “You are just as fresh as you always were, Bobby,” she said. “But you must work on your accent.”

  “Now?”

  “Later. I get so little chance to practice English these days.”

  The waiter brought the wine, opening it with a flourish, popping off the cap with a bottle opener.

  “Cheers,” said Kiska, holding up the glass.

  “La’chaim!” said Ferguson, holding his up as well.

  “Speaking Yiddish now?”

  “Is that Yiddish or Hebrew?”

  “Yiddish.”

  “You’ve been to Israel lately.”

  Puzzled, Kiska took a sip of her wine. “Why do you think that?”

  “I thought maybe you were doing some side work with the Israelis,” said Ferguson. The theory had just occurred to him—the Israelis, seeking to keep Rostislawitch from helping the Iranians, hired T Rex to kill him. It made sense, though he thought from her reaction he was wrong.

  Unless, of course, she wasn’t T Rex.

  “The Israelis—I would think they would be very picky about whom they worked with,” said Kiska. “But you would know better than I.”

  “Mossad can be very professional. You might not even know you were working with them.”

  “But you, Bobby, you would know. You would know everything.”

  “I didn’t know the man with the gun was at the end of the alley”

  “I was happy to help.” Kiska thought about that day as she sipped her wine. She could easily have let Ferguson go, let him get killed—it would not have hurt her in the least. On the contrary: as things turned out later, it would have been better.

  But she had warned him, and instead of the mafiya thugs killing him, he killed them. They were slime and deserved to die, but that hadn’t entered into her calculations, either.

  No, it was as her section head had said later, accused her later: You were in love with the American. Not a lot, but a little. Just enough.

  Just enough. Yes. And not love but infatuation. Mild. A kind of lust. Very different. And temporary, fortunately.

  “So what were you doing on Via Bola,” said Ferguson.

  “Via Bola?”

  “When the truck exploded. You were nearby.”

  “Was I?” Kiska put down her wine. “And how would you know that?”

  “I saw you,” said Ferguson.

  “You were there?”

  “More or less.”

  “I guess you could say the same for me.”

  “You should talk to the Italians about it.”

  “Why would I talk to the Italians, Bobby?”

  “Maybe you saw something.”

  “Are you working with them?”

  “We have some common interests.”

  “And would those include Artur Rostislawitch?”

  “They’re not interested in Rostislawitch. Why are you interested in him?”

  She’d thrown the name out, trying to see what his reaction would be. She expected a diversion—but that was what an ordinary operative would try. Ferguson had always been much more subtle, accomplished beyond his age.

  It was a great shame that he worked for the U.S. He would have made an excellent protégé. And lover. For a bit.

  “We have an interest in all good Russian citizens,” said Kiska, sipping the wine.

  “That would leave him out, wouldn’t it? Wasn’t he involved in some political scandal?”

  “Ah, he was a pawn. An unfortunate in the wrong place at the wrong time. This happens.” Kiska drained her glass. “I’m on my way to talk to Dr. Rostislawitch right now. Would you like to come?”

  It was a move right out of Ferguson’s own playbook—push the confrontation as far as possible; make the other side withdraw.

  “You’ve gotten better,” Ferguson told her.

  “Thank you.” Kiska rose. “Coming?”

  “Unfortunately, I have some other business to attend to. Maybe we can trade notes later.”

  “Gladly.” She reached into her pocket and took out a business card, pushing it on the table. “Call my mobile. Or send an IM.”

  “Only for business?”

  Kiska smiled, but said nothing else as she turned and left.

  ~ * ~

  S

  ee if you can get a bug into his room.”

  “Ferg?” said Rankin.

  “No, it’s Santa Claus.”

  “I thought it was too risky to go into his room.”

  “Do it. Kiska Babev is on her way back over to the hotel. I want to hear what she says to him.”

  “You don’t think she’s on her way to kill him?”

  “If she is, we’ll have the whole thing on tape, right? Get a bug in there.”

  “Ferg, Thera’s with him in the restaurant.”

  “Yeah, I know. Go bug the room.”

  “But—”

  “Skippy. Just do what the hell I tell you, all right? I don’t have time to bullshit.”

  The line went dead. Rankin snapped the phone off. One of these days he was going to slam Ferguson’s head into a wall.

  ~ * ~

  10

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  Somehow, he started talking about Olga. Rostislawitch couldn’t help himself. The words just began pouring out, unbidden. Several times he asked the girl if he was boring her; she insisted he wasn’t.

  He thought she was fibbing, but he was grateful for it.

  In truth, Thera wasn’t lying at all. The scientist was genuinely fond of his wife. It fascinated Thera, his devotion, his love. How could someone who felt so deeply about another person develop a weapon that would kill thousands and thousands of people?

  Thera could ask a similar question of herself. She was prepared to kill people if necessary. There was a disconnect between the job and who she was, a deep line that let her function and remain human at the same time.

  Was it that way for him? Or did he simply not think about the implications of his work?

  Thera couldn’t ask those questions, of course. She tried to think of possible surrogates, c
onsidered steering the conversation to a topic like Bosnia or Chechnya, but there was no substitute that would really satisfy her curiosity. So mostly she just listened.

  At seven, the dining room opened and they went in and sat down. Rostislawitch continued to talk, laying out much of his history as a young scientist. They both ordered spaghetti and sole in a vermouth sauce.

  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 knick-knacks 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.

  ~ * ~

  R

  ankin 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.

  ~ * ~

  W

  hen 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?”

  ~ * ~

  R

  ostislawitch 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 wo
uld 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.