Soul of the Assassin - [First Team 04]

by Larry Bond

  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 group 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.”

  ~ * ~

  T

  he 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.”

  ~ * ~

  L

  ooks 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.

  “What’s going on?” Thera asked.

  “Hookers, I’ll bet,” said Rankin.

  “They’re going to kill him,” said Thera.

  “Maybe,” said Ferguson.

  “Jesus—we can’t let them.”

  “Yeah, we can,” said Ferguson.

  “Ferg!”

  He put his hand on her shoulder. “Relax and watch the screen.”

  ~ * ~

  14

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  Rostislawitch lay facedown on the bed, unable to sleep even though he felt very tired. All he could think of was Thera’s kiss on his cheek.

  What had she meant by that?

  Nothing, surely. It was the sort of innocent gesture that women sometimes made, young women especially, free with their emotions. It didn’t mean anything but I’ll see you later, thanks for dinner, you’re a nice old guy even if you bore me.

  It didn’t have to mean that. If he went through with the deal with the Iranian, he would have plenty of money. Money was the great equalizer; he’d seen young women attracted to older men because of it all his life.

  But Thera wasn’t like that. She wasn’t swayed by money. She was a scientist—young, not sure of herself or her work, but ambitious no doubt, or she wouldn’t be here. If he were to offer her a job, praise her work, that would be the way to seduce her, not telling her they would run away together and live on a desert isle.

  A knock on the door jerked him upright.

  “Yes?”

  “Professore?”

  Thera? Rostislawitch got up and went over to the door. “Who is it?” he asked.

  “Professore?”

  It didn’t sound like her. And yet his desire was so great that he had to see. He opened the door, letting it catch against the clasp.

  Not Thera. Two girls.

  “What do you want?” he said in English.

  The women did not understand. “Atha sent us,” they told him in Georgian-accented Russian.

  Atha, the fool: these must be whores.

  Rostislawitch started to close the door.

  “Wait, wait, professore,” said the girl closest to the crack. “If you don’t let us in, we won’t get paid.”

  “Please,” said the other. “Take pity on us. We are Russian like you.”

  “You sound Georgian.”

  “My mother was from Moscow.”

  Rostislawitch closed the door. Before he could turn away, the girls were banging on it, and crying.

  “Please, please, professore. You don’t have to do anything. Just let us in so we can say we were there. Please. We won’t get paid.”

  “Go away.”

  Something bumped against the door. One of the girls began to moan; the other sobbed loudly.

  Rostislawitch opened it again, but kept the clamp in place. The girl he’d spoken to was now sitting on the floor, her back against the door, crying.

  “Why is she crying?” he asked the other girl, who was kneeling next to her.

  “She needs the money for her boy,” said the other woman. “I need the money, too. Please. You don’t know how difficult it is for Russian girls in this country. Please let us in.”

  Sighing, Rostislawitch pushed the door closed, then opened it.

  “Get in before someone sees you,” he told them.

  The woman who had been sobbing rose, rubbing her eyes with her arm as she came in. Her companion followed.

  “It is just that your friend promised to pay us well, but only if you had a good time,” she told him.

  “Is he watching?”

  “He’s sure to be nearby somewhere.”

  “Well, get in,” he said, though they were already inside. “Not there.”

  The girl who was crying had thrown herself spread-eagle on the king-size bed. Her friend ran her hand on Rostislawitch’s shoulder.

  “We can make you feel very good,” she said.

  Rostislawitch pushed her hand away. “Stop or I will throw you out.”

  “Don’t yell.” She took a step back. “I am Francesca. That is Rosa.”

  “Francesca. Rosa. Those aren’t Russian names. Or Georgian.”

  “They’re the only names we use for this business.”

  “What are you doing in Italy? You should go back home.”

  “To do what? To be poor cleaning ladies?”

  “Why did Atha send you?”

  “To have a good time.” The girl’s collarbone poked out from the top of her dress. Her midsection was pinched—Rostislawitch would not be surprised if either of them hadn’t eaten properly in months.

  “Are you drug addicts?” he asked.

  “Drugs?” Francesca shook her head. “No drugs. We have no drugs for you.”

  “No. Do you take them?”

  “Professore.”

  Rosa slipped off the bed and came around to confront him. She had a tattoo of a green rose on the side of her neck, and a small snake on the top of her left breast. She was not overly endowed, but her boobs seemed as if they would burst out of the material. She told him in Italian that he had a lot of nerve talking about drugs when it was clear that he was such a dead dick he needed friends to find him whores. Rostislawitch understood none of it, though her anger was clear enough.