Soul of the Assassin - [First Team 04]

by Larry Bond

  Guns tried it with the next crew member he met, but all he got in response was a blank stare. He tried describing Atha, but the man just shook his head. Part of the problem, Guns thought, was the difference between the Spanish spoken in the Philippines and Mexican Spanish, which was what he spoke. But he also wasn’t quite able to seem as smooth as Ferguson. Guns wasn’t as sure of himself, talking to people. He needed more of a pretext than Ferg did.

  Guns walked on, moving out to the narrow deck area behind the ship’s superstructure. There was a small boat tied there, a rigid-hulled vessel similar to the one the navy team had used to board. There was no way of telling if the boat had been out recently, or at least none that Guns could tell, but examining it gave him an idea. Back inside the ship’s corridors, he accosted the first man he saw, telling him that he’d noticed some of the ropes on the boat were loose and suggesting they be fixed before the rough seas caused the craft to go overboard. He went out with the man, and helped him secure the ropes.

  “Guess you guys didn’t tie it tightly enough this afternoon,” said Guns.

  “The boatswain is an ass,” said the man. “He doesn’t know his job.”

  That was as much of a confirmation that Guns could get that the boat had been used, despite more suggestions and hints. The search didn’t turn up anything, either, and after more than an hour of looking through the ship the navy sailors returned to the destroyer.

  While Guns had been over at the cargo vessel, Rankin had been in a satellite phone conference with Corrigan and two intelligence officers aboard the USS Anzio, an Aegis-equipped U.S. Navy cruiser that had joined the search. The Anzio had picked up a long-distance helicopter contact near the Tunisia coast; the helo had been on a flight vector that could have meant it came from the cargo vessel Guns had just searched. It had also been flying through the teeth of the storm just a few hours ago. Not necessarily suspicious, but worth checking, Rankin thought.

  “Corrigan, see what you can find out about Tunisia and tracking down helicopters there,” Rankin told him after the intel officers got off the line. “While I go see if can talk some of these navy guys into finding a way for us to get there.”

  ~ * ~

  13

  NAPLES, ITALY

  Rostislawitch had assumed that the left baggage office would be open around the clock. When he arrived at the station and found it closed, he stood and stared at the gate for so long that a policeman approached and asked what was wrong. Rostislawitch told him he’d left a bag and wanted to retrieve it—had to retrieve it, in fact—but the officer told him to come back in the morning when the office opened. The scientist next went to the stationmaster’s office, which was also closed; he couldn’t find anyone to help him at the information kiosk, either.

  He didn’t want to spend money on a hotel, but the police made him nervous. Finally he decided to buy a ticket for the next local train, which was due to leave Naples for Campobasso at four. He would get on the train, get off at its next stop, then come back; at that point it would be after seven and the station would be too busy for anyone to bother him.

  The only complication came when he tried to buy the ticket. He had only a five-euro note left in his wallet; the fare was eight-twenty.

  He didn’t want to use his credit card, assuming that it would be easy for the FSB she-wolf to trace.

  The clerk glared at him. Rostislawitch excused himself and walked away. He had made himself even more conspicuous, and wasn’t surprised when another policeman came up to him and asked what he was doing.

  “I have to retrieve a bag,” he explained in English.

  “Well, go home. You can’t wait here.”

  “But it’s a train station.”

  “And where is your ticket?”

  Rostislawitch dug into his pocket for his return-trip ticket to Florence. The police officer wasn’t impressed.

  “The train to Florence does not leave until after lunch.”

  “No,” said Rostislawitch. “It leaves in the morning.”

  The policeman showed him the ticket. Rostislawitch had bought an off-peak ticket, which meant that the officer was correct.

  “Whenever it leaves, you can’t wait here,” said the policeman.

  Rostislawitch strongly suspected that he was being given a hard time because he was a foreigner, but there seemed nothing he could do. He didn’t want to roam the streets; he’d heard stories about how dangerous Naples could be. He decided that his earlier plan was his only solution. He would buy a ticket, and if necessary explain later, saying that he had come for the day to see the sights.

  He’d stop in Rome as well.

  In that case, it would be smarter to take money from his ATM account—there would be no record of his comings and goings. He went to the cash machine, took out twenty euros, then went back to the ticket window.

  Ferguson had avoided the police’s scrutiny by heading outside and skulking in the shadows of the building with an assortment of rats, human and otherwise. Because of this, he didn’t realized Rostislawitch was boarding another train until it was almost too late. Ferguson managed to get inside just as the coach was leaving. He ran for it, but the platform ended about ten feet too soon.

  Ferguson jumped to the track and began following the train. Like most European engines, the power came from overhead wires, so there was no danger of his hitting a third rail. But like many local trains in Italy, this one had an engine at both end of the trains, which made it considerably harder to hop on.

  Ferguson was nearly out of breath when he finally got his hand on one of the large bumpers at the lip of the engine. He couldn’t find a grip, and tried curling himself around it, but instead he was dragged along, half-hopping, unable to get enough leverage to pull himself onto the narrow fender protecting the wheels. He finally grabbed the couple assembly to his left, pitched himself forward, and managed to wedge the tips of his shoes into the small space between the bumper and the cab. The toehold gave him a moment to rest, but the train’s shocks squeezed the compartment down against his toes, and he had trouble extricating his left shoe in one piece. Finally he got it out and climbed up on the coupler, gripping the window ledge and wiper assembly as he made his way over the cab.

  The power car’s cab was empty, but the door to get in was at the side of the train, and Ferguson decided it would be easier to get in through one of the connecting vestibules. He crawled past the pantographs, one hand holding on to the metal rail along the roof and his legs leaning off the side. By now the train was moving at a good clip, and in the darkness he couldn’t be sure exactly where the car’s roof ended. Finally, he came to the end of the coach and saw that the cars were joined by a cowling whose rubber seam was too tight to squeeze through.

  Ferguson worked his way back to the power car and climbed down the side near the cab. Steel handrails flanked the door, but stopped about halfway up, a good five or six feet from the roof. He tried slithering down headfirst, but he couldn’t hook his legs around anything secure enough to get down without dropping. Finally he managed to grip a piece of the insulation behind the driver’s compartment and lowered himself down to the railing, his feet wedged precariously against the slick metal. After that, the six-inch ledge at the bottom of the door seemed as wide as Montana.

  Picking the lock on the door would have been a simple matter if he had big enough tools—a pair of screwdrivers would have done it in thirty seconds—but the only large tool he had with him was his pocketknife. He pried the lock with the screwdriver blade, but he couldn’t get it deep enough to get all of the internal gates to trip. Finally he realized he could fashion a crude lock spring from the plastic key card to his hotel room; he cut a sliver from the card, and together with the blade got the door to unlock.

  By this time, the train was more than halfway to the next station. Ferguson took off his jacket and unrolled a small watch cap from the pocket, changing his appearance as much as possible. Then he started a quick walk-through to locate Rostislawitch.r />
  The scientist wasn’t in the next car or the one after that. Ferguson spotted the conductor asleep near the rear of the fourth car; he walked by as quietly and quickly as possible, continuing his search. Except for the conductor, this car was empty as well.

  Rostislawitch was sleeping in the first car, hunched against the window. Ferguson retreated to the vestibule.

  Ten minutes later, the train pulled into Campobasso. Ferguson got off, then trotted across the platform so he could see into the car where Rostislawitch was. The scientist didn’t stir, so Ferguson ran back to the train—just in time to see Rostislawitch hurrying out.

  Not wanting to be seen, Ferguson turned his body away but stuck his foot and knee in the door, which squeezed hard before reopening. As Rostislawitch ambled past, the door started to close again; this time Ferguson sacrificed his other leg to delay the train.

  The conductor appeared in the door of the coach.

  “Wrong train,” Ferguson said, getting off. “I thought we were going to Naples.”

  ~ * ~

  T

  hirty minutes later, Ferguson was standing outside the station, watching as Rostislawitch dozed on a bench at the middle of the platform. Ferguson’s sat phone rang; it was Thera.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “I’m in Campobasso. Lovely place.”

  “Why are you there?”

  “I’m not sure. Rostislawitch came here. I don’t know why.”

  “Do you want me to meet you there?”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the Naples airport.”

  “What the hell are you doing in Naples? I told you to get some rest.”

  “I sleep better on planes.”

  “Go over to the train station and stake out the left luggage area. There’s a train back to Naples in about a half hour. If you don’t hear from me, assume we got on it.”

  “How’s Rostislawitch?”

  “Looks a lot better than I do at the moment,” Ferguson told her.

  ~ * ~

  14

  MISRATAH, LIBYA

  The plane that flew Atha from Tunis to Libya was an Embraer EMB 120 Brasilia, a small charter transport that was generally used to fly oil workers to various locations around northern Africa. The seats were hardly plush, but the Iranian managed to get some sleep anyway, angling his feet into the aisle and leaning against the side of the plane. He was the only one aboard the aircraft except for the pilot and copilot. He did not know either man; the minister had vouched for them, which made Atha somewhat wary, but neither of them spoke to him once the plane took off.

  They landed several hours later in Misratah, a coastal city in Libya about two hundred kilometers east of Tripoli. Atha had had occasion to use this airport before, and knew he would not be held up for an additional “fee” or surprised near the hangar by a government official with his hand out.

  When the plane stopped moving, the copilot came into the cabin and opened the door. The sun had not yet risen; all Atha could see outside was darkness. The copilot reached his hand out to block the way just as Atha was about to step through. The boarding ladder had not yet been rolled into place.

  The ladder was set at the side of what looked like a 1950s pickup; the driver brought it against the fuselage carefully, gently nudging the aircraft as he got it into position.

  Waiting at the base of the stairs was a tall, skinny Arab dressed in a dusty brown flight suit. The man gave Atha a bright smile and bowed as he left the ladder.

  “Commander Atha,” said the man in Arabic. “I hope your flight was enjoyable.”

  Enjoyable was not the word Atha would have chosen, but he grunted in assent.

  “Good morning, Ahmed. Are we all ready?”

  “As soon as you called I had the plane fueled.”

  “You’ve been waiting here all this time?”

  “I wanted to be ready. You said you could not predict when you would arrive.”

  Atha nodded. Ahmed had worked with him many times in the past; while he was not Iranian—his family came from Syria—he was trustworthy and conscientious to a fault.

  Ahmed’s airplane was a Fuji FA-200, a four-passenger, one-engine aircraft that had two things to recommend it: it was extremely dependable, and it could land and take off from short runways. Ahmed had made a few alterations to the craft, including installing state-of-the-art avionics and tweaking the engine for a little more horsepower, but structurally it was little different from when it had left the factory in Japan more than thirty years before.

  Atha strapped the suitcase into the seat directly behind his, then turned around to fasten his seat belt. He checked his watch, then remembered that he had planned to call Rostislawitch.

  “Something wrong, Atha?” asked the pilot.

  “I was going to make a phone call. Never mind.”

  “If you have to make a call—”

  “No, it’s all right.”

  “Here’s my phone.” Ahmed reached to the dash of the light plane and took his satellite phone from its holster.

  “No,” said Atha, “I’d rather not use your phone.”

  “There is a landline in the hangar,” said the pilot.

  Rostislawitch might be helpful in the future. In any event, keeping him on the hook for another day or so was probably a good idea. There was always a possibility that Dr. Hamid would need to speak to him.

  Atha was starting to get used to the idea of not paying him, however.

  “Where in the hangar is the phone?” asked Atha, undoing his belt.

  ~ * ~

  15

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  Having failed to find the Russian scientist at the reception, Nathaniel Hamilton turned to the tarts, hoping they might shed some light on where Rostislawitch was. It was even possible, Hamilton thought, that the scientist had sought them out once more.

  Finding the women proved more difficult than Hamilton thought it would be; there were several locations in town where the ladies gathered, each with its own set of regulars and, it seemed, different classes of clientele. Hamilton had only his memory of their faces and the noms de sex he had overheard thanks to Ferguson’s bug—Francesca and Rosa. The names were hardly unique in the city, but eventually, thanks to a liberal sprinkling of incentives, Hamilton found a woman who looked a great deal like Rosa as she walked back from an assignation at a tourist hotel.

  The MI6 agent saw fear in her eyes when he pulled his car alongside her. That was not an asset at this stage, and he immediately worked to assuage it, telling her that he knew it was late, but that she had been recommended by a friend, an Iranian friend named Atha. She was still wary, and so Hamilton told her that he was not looking for sex—true enough, though she didn’t believe it. He wanted to talk about a scientist she had been with, and he would gladly do so at a safe, public place where she wouldn’t feel threatened. And, of course, he would pay handsomely.

  “Never talk about the customers,” she said, starting to pull away, “first rule of business.”

  “It may be a rule better broken,” said Hamilton, easing the car forward to keep pace with her. “You can see that I am not a policeman.”

  “You’re British; I can tell from your accent.”

  “There. So have breakfast with me. I’ll buy you breakfast and we’ll talk. Quietly, with no one else to know. The money’s good.” He revealed the two hundred-euro notes in his hand. “Not bad for a few minutes of companionship.”

  The woman hesitated, but was still not sold.

  “There are things about the Iranian you should know,” Hamilton told her. “They may save your life. And some of these things you would not want the police to know, at least not in connection with you.”

  Fear shot back into her eyes. Now it was an asset, reinforcing her instinct for survival.

  “I’ll add another two hundred. You’ll be able to go away from the city for a few days,” said Hamilton. “When you come back, Atha will be entirely forgotten.”

>   Rosa had sensed that the Iranian was a very bad man—he’d paid far too much for what he wanted them to do—and a feeling of doom swept over her. Hamilton offered a way of pushing off the peril. She opened the car door.

  They ate at a place that fancied itself an American-style diner, ensconced in a corner of Bologna that Hamilton had never visited. Brightly colored fenders from American cars hung on the steel wall above the long counter. Across from it sat bright turquoise booths with plush seats and Formica tabletops. Each featured an old-fashioned jukebox near the window, where the menu rather than songs was displayed. The decoration was garish, but not entirely American; large bottles of olive oil and trees of garlic were hung between the car fenders, and the dessert display was dominated by cannoli shells. The air smelled more of garlic and basil than cheap hot dogs, and the waiter didn’t chew gum.