Soul of the Assassin - [First Team 04]

by Larry Bond

  Rosa ordered only coffee; Hamilton went for a full American-style breakfast. She listened quietly as he told her that Atha had been involved in the car bombing two days before.

  Rosa’s eyes grew wide. Was the scientist involved?

  Hamilton told her he wasn’t sure.

  “This involves several international agencies,” he said breezily. “Your help would be greatly appreciated.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “Of course not. But if I can locate the scientist quickly, then perhaps the entire matter can be wrapped up.”

  “How can you be investigating this if you are English?”

  “Would you rather be talking to the police?” asked Hamilton, taking the euro notes from his pocket and pretending to examine them.

  Speaking haltingly, Rosa told him all she knew of the scientist, where his hotel room was, and how they had found the ticket.

  As she spoke, Hamilton finally realized that the scientist must have gone to Naples to retrieve the bag Atha had already obtained. He paid Rosa off, called Rostislawitch’s hotel room just to be sure he wasn’t there, then made his way out to the airport.

  ~ * ~

  16

  NAPLES, ITALY

  “I’m here,” said Ferguson, answering the sat phone.

  “Ferg, it’s Lauren DiCapri.”

  “I was expecting Attila the Hun,” said Ferguson. He spotted the light from the Naples-bound train in the distance, and began jogging toward the ticket machine.

  “We think Atha called Rostislawitch’s phone a little while ago.”

  “Think?” Ferguson started to take his credit card out to pay for the ticket, then realized the train was a lot closer than he’d thought. No way was he climbing aboard this one from the back—he turned and began sprinting for the stairs leading to the platform.

  “We don’t have a voice sample to match it, but he said he was Atha. He said he wasn’t feeling well and would talk to him tomorrow sometime. The thing is, we traced the call to Libya.”

  “Good.”

  “Not good. Rankin and Guns are on their way to Tunis. That’s where the helicopter—”

  “Tell them to divert.”

  “OK. I thought you’d want—”

  “It’s all right,” said Ferguson, taking the steps two at a time. “Listen, I’ll call you back. I have to make this train.”

  Downstairs on the platform, Artur Rostislawitch waited for the train to pull in. He hadn’t decided what to do with the material once he got it. Disposing of it properly was not a simple matter. Short of bringing it to a proper disposal station, which couldn’t be done for obvious reasons, the best solution was to burn the material in a very hot fire. But the fire had to be very hot, like that generated by an iron-smelting plant. He wasn’t sure where he could find one, or how he would talk his way in.

  The train doors opened. Rostislawitch stepped inside. The train was about three-quarters full with early-morning commuters bound for the city, and he had to go to the middle of the car to find an open seat. He found a spot next to a pretty-looking woman wearing too much perfume. He attempted a smile; she gave him a frown in return.

  When Rostislawitch looked up, he found the conductor staring at him expectantly. He reached into his pocket for his ticket and handed it to the man, who turned it over, then shook his head.

  “It’s not stamped,” said the conductor. Rostislawitch had forgotten to validate the ticket at the entrance to the platform.

  “I must have forgotten,” Rostislawitch muttered in Russian.

  The conductor, of course, didn’t understand.

  “Turista,” said Rostislawitch. “Io sono turista.”

  “Whether you are a tourist or not, you must validate your ticket,” said the conductor. “Do you speak English?”

  “I can speak English.”

  “You must validate your ticket,” explained the conductor. “How can you be a tourist at this hour?”

  “I was to visit a friend, but arrived too early, then realized—”

  “Enough,” said the conductor. “Next time, make sure to stamp the ticket at the yellow box.”

  ~ * ~

  T

  hera looked at the arrival board, then walked back toward the café diagonally across from the left luggage area. The shop had just opened, and the cup of Café Americano—espresso with enough extra water to make a cup’s worth—was piping hot. She sat down, fanning it with a napkin. According to her watch, she had ten minutes before Rostislawitch’s train would get there.

  Her sat phone rang. Thera grabbed it from her purse.

  “You’re kind of obvious there,” said Ferguson.

  “Where are you?”

  “On the train.”

  She jerked her head around. He didn’t know where she was; he was just guessing.

  “Ferg, where are you really?”

  “I’m on the train to Naples, in the next car from Rostislawitch. We’ll be there in five minutes. He’s going to have to hang out for a while; the left baggage place doesn’t open until eight. Plant a couple of bugs so we can watch, and meet me at the south door. OK?”

  “The bugs are already in place.”

  “So get the hell out of the station.”

  “I wasn’t going to let him see me.”

  “By the south door.”

  “OK.”

  ~ * ~

  17

  OVER THE MEDITERRANEAN

  Rankin and Guns were about five minutes from touching down in Tunis when Lauren DiCapri called Rankin and told him about the phone call Atha had made. There was no possibility of diverting at this point; Misratah was several hundred miles away. The navy lieutenant piloting the Seahawk helicopter told Rankin he’d have to not only refuel, but ask permission from his commander to fly them there.

  “You’ll get permission,” Rankin told him. “That won’t be a problem.”

  “How long is it going to take us to get there?” Guns asked.

  “Top speed, once we’re in the air, two or three hours.”

  “It’d be better if it were faster,” said Rankin.

  “It’d be better if this were a jet,” said the pilot. “But it’s not.”

  ~ * ~

  18

  NAPLES, ITALY

  Rostislawitch tried consciously to slow himself down as he walked from the train to the luggage office, but he was brimming with nervous energy. He walked directly to the left luggage area even though he knew it would be closed. Then he paced for a few minutes, and went back toward the platforms. He remembered that he hadn’t had anything to eat, and decided to get some breakfast, not because he was hungry but to have something to do. He left the station, walking along the edge of the sidewalk as he surveyed the neighborhood around the station. The city was now wide-awake: trucks jostled to find an opening in the traffic; businessmen walked with a determined pace to their offices; sidewalk vendors growled at beggars as they set up their wares.

  The thing that Rostislawitch noticed most was the smell—the scent of garbage mixed with diesel and the sea. Naples was a dirty city, dirtier than Moscow, which even Rostislawitch thought was a filthy place.

  He found a large café near the intersection two blocks from the train station and went inside. Sitting at a table near the window, he ordered a sfogliatella—a breakfast pastry—and coffee, using English. He stared out of the window, stirring his coffee mindlessly, still trying to puzzle out how to get rid of the material.

  What would the consequences be if he dropped it in the ocean?

  So long as the containers remained sealed, there would be no problem; even without the heavy tape he had wrapped around them and the carrying container, the canisters were waterproof. The problem would come if someone found the containers later. Anyone opening the vials while the bacteria was still active would be infected and die within a few days. Once they were infected, they would infect other people; there would be at least a small outbreak.

  What happened after that w
ould depend largely on how long it took the health authorities to recognize what was going on. In a worst-case scenario, a hundred million people could be killed—though an accidental exposure of the nature Rostislawitch was contemplating more likely would only affect a hundred or a thousand before the authorities could take measures to stop it.

  Could they? Dealing with epidemics was not his forte, but he knew from the research data that the outbreak was likely to be misdiagnosed at the very beginning. Two or three days’ delay in instituting quarantines and changing procedures at hospitals would have an exponential impact down the line.

  Why had he not let such thoughts stop him earlier? What sort of man had he allowed himself to become?

  A foolish, vain, hateful man. One he hated as well.

  And one who deserved to be punished. He should turn himself in to the FSB she-wolf, let her lock him away in whatever modern gulag the state was using now. He didn’t deserve to live.

  Rostislawitch rubbed his face, still chilled by his stay in the suburban station.

  He was not beyond redemption. That was the true message of the epiphany in the church the morning before—he was not beyond redemption. He had to persevere, stop wavering. He would dispose of the material, go back to Bologna, return to Russia.

  And then?

  Put his talents to work somewhere that could make better use of them. He could work in western Europe, or at least try.

  And talk to Thera, every now and then. Other new friends as well.

  He put his mind back to the problem at hand: how to dispose of the material.

  There must be a city incinerator. He would find it, then bribe his way in.

  ~ * ~

  S

  till having breakfast,” Ferguson told Thera. “Anybody watching us?”

  “Not that I see.”

  Ferguson turned the corner. A man in an old Italian army jacket was sitting on the sidewalk panhandling.

  Ferguson sized him up. “How much for your coat?” he asked in Italian.

  “Scusi?”

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll swap. This one doesn’t have enough pockets.”

  “I like my coat.”

  “Fifty euros, plus mine.”

  The beggar bolted to his feet. Ferguson retrieved everything from his pockets, placing them in the jacket, which was just a little tight at the shoulders. When he pulled on his stocking cap, he looked like a regular Naples bum.

  “Like my new look?” he asked Thera, walking back near the restaurant.

  “God, I can smell you from here. You smell like a dog pound.”

  “Your glasses are dumb.”

  “Thank you.” Thera had put on a pair of glasses and tied her hair back to help change her look. “Listen, Ferg. I’ve been thinking. Maybe I should meet him right after he comes out. He’ll be vulnerable, looking for help. That’s when I should talk to him.”

  “No, it won’t work that way.”

  “The FSB is on to him. His only option is to come with us. We can help him.”

  “He’s not quite ready yet, Thera. And he won’t be then, either. Trust me. You walk up to him and blow your cover, he’ll just freak. It’ll be the final straw. Do it my way, OK? Then we’ll be able to help him.”

  “All right.”

  Ferguson knew they weren’t really going to help Rostislawitch. They might pump his brain for everything he knew about the Russian biological warfare program, but after that he was expendable. Worse. He’d stolen a weapons system—an experimental one, maybe, but one that was at least as dangerous as a nuke. The U.S. would not only turn down a request for asylum; they might very well hand him over with whatever evidence he gave them. They’d done the same thing to two men in the nuclear weapons case that had almost cost Ferguson his life.

  But of course that wasn’t what Thera wanted to hear.

  “Keep an eye out for T Rex,” he told her.

  “She’s not here, Ferg. She’s back in Bologna.”

  “(A), T-Rex is not Kiska, and (B) she may show up here, too. They were following him in Bologna.”

  “You really don’t think she’s the killer, huh?”

  “Nope.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Inside the restaurant, Rostislawitch checked his watch and got up from his table.

  “We’re in business,” Ferguson said. “Lay back.”

  ~ * ~

  I

  t was now exactly eight a.m. Rostislawitch walked swiftly from the restaurant, taking long, quick strides, practically running. He would get the bag, go to an ATM machine for cash, then find a cab and ride to the incinerator. Bribe his way in. They could ask questions, but he would pretend not to understand. He could even show them the material if they wanted—it would look like pudding gone bad.

  His heart raced as he walked. He was excited, in a strange way happy, glad to be taking action, even jubilant. He’d managed to tear the great weight that had covered him these past several years away. He was back to being himself.

  Rostislawitch waited at the curb, looking for an opening in the traffic. Finally he decided to plunge ahead. Staring across the street, he stepped out and began walking swiftly. Cars continued to fly past, somehow missing him.

  The drivers were even less considerate for Ferguson, whose appearance made him look like a native. He trotted across the avenue, hopping up onto the curb just as a red Fiat whipped within a few inches of his backside.

  There was a line of people with bags at the luggage area, waiting to check them. Rostislawitch got in line, then decided to go and get money and come back. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a ratty-looking man watching him. The man seemed to be trying to get his courage up to ask for some money

  That was me, the scientist thought to himself. One step from the gutter.

  Rostislawitch went to the bank machine and put in his card. Another record for the FSB people to question him about.

  But it would make sense. His mind was working now. A tourist trip to Naples; he’d wanted to see what it was like. He’d come early to the city, gotten something to eat, then realized the place was far more expensive than he thought. A typical tourist.

  He’d worry about the details of the story later. He’d get rid of the material; everything else would fall into place once it was gone.

  Rostislawitch took three hundred euros from his account. It was nearly all he had left. Hopefully it would be enough to bribe a laborer in a garbage plant.

  Toss the suitcase in the back of a garbage truck as it went in and he was done, free. That might be even easier.

  “You have your ticket?” asked the clerk at the left luggage counter.

  Rostislawitch’s fingers began to tremble as he handed the ticket over. The man looked at it, nodded, then went to retrieve the bag from the locker in the next room. The bones in Rostislawitch’s chest began to press against his lungs as he waited.

  “Here,” said the man, returning. He held up a green upholstered carry-on.

  Rostislawitch’s throat constricted. “That’s not mine,” he managed, speaking in English.

  “No?”

  “Mine is black. Just plain black.” He glanced to his left and his right. Two people were behind him, waiting to check bags. “This isn’t mine,” he insisted.

  The man looked again at the ticket, still in his hand. He frowned, then went back into the luggage room. Rostislawitch felt very hot. The back of his neck buzzed and his ears felt as if they were covered with an itchy wool.

  “This is the right number,” said the attendant, returning. He spoke Italian with a strong local accent, but Rostislawitch understood what he was saying—it was obvious from his gestures.

  “Then there was a mistake. Problema. It’s not mine. Non il mio. Mine was black. It had—it had thermos carriers.”

  “Thermos carriers?”

  The attendant did not understand. Rostislawitch searched for some way of describing the contents without actually doing so.

  There was no way
.

  “It had—an experiment I’m conducting,” he blurted in English.