Soul of the Assassin - [First Team 04]

by Larry Bond

  “I would,” said the MI6 agent. There was nothing like an intelligent man, Hamilton thought; he could be so easily fooled.

  Of course, it was possible that when they discovered that the gas pipes had been broken in buildings along three other nearby streets, in effect surrounding the train station, they would conclude that it was too much of a coincidence to be accidental. Then they would think of Hamilton’s theory. Or maybe they would find a witness who mentioned the men in the car, and the gun. That would set them in another direction entirely.

  Most likely, though, they wouldn’t. The Naples police had a great deal to do.

  The detective reached into his pocket for a business card. “You should call me if you get any other tips,” he told Hamilton. “We take terrorism very seriously. We are glad to cooperate.”

  “I will,” said Hamilton. “If you’ll excuse me, I should go and check in with my embassy, just to let them know that I’ve done my job.”

  ~ * ~

  5

  CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  Thomas Parnelles slid the yellow pencil between his fingers, then turned it around, spinning it across his hand as if he were a magician and it was his wand. Quick fingers and sleight of hand were great assets in the spy game, he’d been told as a young man, though as far as he could remember he’d never actually used either of those skills in the field.

  Magic—now that was something altogether different. That he had used many times. Or at least attempted to.

  The pencil fell from Parnelles’s hand and skittered across the desk, toward the tiny digital recorder that was replaying what the Russian scientist had told Ferguson less than a half hour before.

  Corrine Alston grabbed the pencil as it fell off the side of the desk.

  The player stopped.

  “That’s it?” she asked Dan Slott. The CIAs Deputy Director of Operations looked at Jack Corrigan, the First Team’s deskman. He nodded.

  “Atha may be back in Iran by now,” said Corrine.

  “He wouldn’t have gotten there yet,” said Corrigan. “The plane that Rankin says he took has only about an eight-hundred-mile radius. They’d have to stop and refuel.”

  “The part about him going south bothers me,” said Parnelles. “Iran has spread money around for camps in the Darfur area, allegedly for relief. It might be a cover for a base.”

  “If this material is as dangerous as it seems, they might not want to work on in it in Iran,” said Slott. “We are looking at the satellite data, and we’ve got a Global Hawk unmanned spy plane en route.”

  “A laboratory hidden in a relief camp will be difficult to detect by satellite,” said Parnelles.

  “Colonel Van Buren and the 777th Special Forces Group is being positioned to respond if necessary,” said Slott.

  “I think it’s premature to consider an assault,” said Corrine.

  “From what we know of the bacteria, it can be prepared to be used relatively easily,” said Parnelles. “They could launch an attack in a relatively short time.”

  “They’d be inviting massive retaliation,” said Corrine. “A full-scale invasion.”

  “If we could figure out what was going on,” said Slott.

  “It would reverse the entire course of their foreign policy over the past year and a half,” answered Corrine. “Everything they’ve been aiming to do—they’ve made major concessions on funding Hezbollah. Even without the nuclear treaty. This doesn’t fit in.”

  “It does if you’re Parsa Moshen and your power is slipping,” said Parnelles. “The best thing that could happen would be an attack by the U.S. The Revolutionary Guard would become the most important force in the country once more. Even if you were invaded. You look at A1 Qaeda in Afghanistan, in Iraq, and you say, ‘If they could do it, we can do it.’“

  “That’s dangerous thinking,” said Corrine.

  “Exactly,” said the CIA Director, slipping back in his chair.

  ~ * ~

  6

  MISRATAH, LIBYA

  The pilots Paul told Guns and Rankin about could generally be found in a hotel overlooking the sea in Qasar Ahmed, the town next to Misratah on the Mediterranean; it was a Western-style hotel, which meant it had a bar and served alcohol.

  “Very early,” Paul told them as they rode the elevator up to the bar, which was located on the roof. “We may not find anyone.”

  “We have time,” said Guns.

  The bar consisted of a small, air-conditioned room and a much larger open patio, shielded from the sun by a large piece of striped canvas. The material flapped in the breeze, pulling hard against the ropes that held it down against the metal poles. Rankin and Guns followed as Paul led them to the far corner, commandeering a table that had an unrestricted view of the sea.

  “Be back,” said Paul, jumping up a moment after sitting.

  “What do you think?” Rankin asked. “You think he’s completely nuts?”

  “I don’t know,” said Guns. “He definitely lost a few brain cells along the way.”

  “I hate hippies.”

  “My mom was kind of a hippy. For a while. When she was young.”

  “She doesn’t count.”

  A waiter appeared. “You want?” he asked, his accent and tone making it clear that while he knew some English, he was far from fluent.

  Then again, his English was miles ahead of their Arabic.

  “Juice,” said Rankin. “Apple juice.”

  “That’d be good,” said Guns.

  The waiter didn’t understand him.

  “Apple juice,” said Guns. “Yes.”

  “OK. Juice. OK,” said the waiter.

  Rankin stared at the light green water rippling toward the horizon. There were dozens and dozens of ships and countless boats bobbing on it.

  “Atha could go in any of those boats; we’ll never find him,” he told Guns.

  “Why are you always so grouchy?”

  “What do you mean, grouchy?”

  “Yeah, you’re always like, why are we doing this, or this won’t work, or whatever.”

  “I’ll try to be more cheerful for you.”

  “Be cheerful for yourself. Think positive.”

  Guns looked up and saw Paul coming through the door from the enclosed bar area. Another man, gray hair tied in a ponytail at the back of his head, followed him. He wore aviator frame sunglasses and a thick leather jacket despite the heat.

  “This is George Burns,” said Paul, introducing the man with a wink to let them know it wasn’t the pilot’s real name. “George, my friends Guns and Rankin.”

  “Hey.” George Burns sat down. He was Caucasian, though deeply tanned, and wore American-style work boots and Levi’s. But his shirt was the sort a native Libyan might wear, a loosely fitting tunic that fell below his waist. He reeked of alcohol.

  “These are the spies,” Paul told him. “They’re looking for Ahmed and Anghuyu Jahan—Atha.”

  “I know where Atha is,” said George Burns.

  “Where?” asked Rankin.

  “I’ll take you there. But it’ll cost you.”

  “You’re lying,” said Rankin.

  “No more than you.”

  “How much do you want?” asked Guns.

  “Fifty grand. American. Small bills.”

  “You’re out of your fuckin’ mind,” said Rankin, getting up.

  “A thousand,” said Guns, tapping his partner.

  “What is this, good cop, bad cop?” George Burns leaned back. “A thousand won’t even pay for my fuel. Fifty grand is a good price.”

  Still standing, Rankin pushed his chair back with his leg and folded his arms. The guy seemed like all bluff. “Five thousand,” he told him.

  “No way. You guys don’t realize what you’re getting into.”

  “Tell us,” said Rankin.

  “I ain’t worried about you.”

  The waiter came over with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and four glasses.

  “Where’s our a
pple juice?” Rankin asked.

  “They don’t serve juice,” said Paul.

  “Get us water then. Water?”

  George Burns smiled. He took the bottle and poured himself four fingers’ worth of the sour mash Tennessee whiskey into his tumbler. Paul asked for the water in Arabic, then put about a shot’s worth of Jack into his own glass.

  “Used to be this stuff was potent,” said George Burns, holding up the glass so he could gaze at the liquid. “Now it’s only eighty proof. Iced tea. Everything fades.”

  He drank the glass in a gulp.

  “We can get you ten thousand,” said Rankin.

  “Fifty. Before I fly.”

  “Can’t do it.”

  “Oh, well.” George Burns picked the bottle back up and poured another four fingers’ worth into his glass.

  “Maybe we could get you twenty-five,” said Guns. “But it would have to go into a bank account. We don’t carry cash.”

  “We could figure out a bank account,” said George Burns. “That we could do. But it would have to be fifty.”

  “You have no idea where he went,” said Rankin.

  George Burns turned toward him, stared for thirty seconds without saying anything, then looked back at Guns. “Put the money in my account, and we take off.”

  “You’re going to fly?” said Rankin.

  “I’m not walking. That’s a real desert out there, Jack. A real desert.”

  “You don’t have to fly us,” said Guns. “Just tell us where it is.”

  “No. I take you there. I don’t want any fighters on my tail, either. No paratroopers, nobody but you.”

  “My partner comes with me.”

  George Burns made a face, but didn’t object. “We fly over their place once, come back. You mark the location with a GPS or whatever you want. Nothing else happens until I’m back, safe on the ground. Capisce?”

  “Just tell us where it is,” said Rankin.

  “I take you there or no deal.”

  “You don’t know where it is, do you?” said Rankin.

  “You’d better tell your friend his attitude is about to bump the price another ten grand.”

  “We’re not doing fifty,” said Rankin. “Not even if you really do know where it is.”

  Guns got up and walked away from the table. Frowning, Rankin went with him.

  “I think we gotta take a shot,” said Guns.

  “No effin’ way,” said Rankin.

  “A flight of the Global Hawk probably costs twice that.”

  “I don’t think he really knows,” said Rankin. “He’s a drunk.”

  “Corrigan can figure out some way to put the money in an account and then get it back if it’s a bust, don’t you think?”

  “How do they get us back?”

  “I trust him for that. Ferg would do it.”

  Rankin looked across the patio. George Burns had just downed his second glass of whiskey.

  “Talk to Corrigan,” Rankin told Guns. “Let me stop this guy from drinking anything else before he gets too loaded to talk, let alone fly.”

  ~ * ~

  7

  NAPLES, ITALY

  Ferguson watched from the doorway as the three Fiats drove slowly up the street and stopped near the entrance to the factory. Two men got out of the first car and walked forward, scanning the area.

  Ferguson waited until they had passed, then slipped out the door, his Glock pistol in hand.

  “You find anything, let me know,” he said to them.

  The man sitting in the passenger seat of the second car rolled down his window.

  “You Ferguson?”

  “Captain Heifers?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You know where the Ramada is?”

  “No, sir, but the cars have Magellan units.”

  “Program it in. Once we go, we don’t stop. All right? Nobody stops. Tell them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ferguson went back into the building. Rostislawitch was still sitting on the cement floor, legs folded yoga-style.

  “Come on, Rosty, time to hit the road,” Ferguson told him.

  The scientist didn’t move. He was very tired, and still in shock.

  “We have to go in case our friends come back,” said Ferguson. “We’re only a couple of blocks away. This isn’t safe.”

  Ferguson slipped the gun into the front of his belt. “Thing is, Rosty, T Rex has taken two shots at you and missed both times. I’m sure he’s missed opportunities before, but I don’t know what the odds would be on your surviving shot number three.”

  “Artur, it’s the only way,” said Thera, kneeling next to him. “Come with us now. At least you’ll be safe.”

  Rostislawitch turned his head and looked into her eyes. It was possible, still possible, that they had staged everything for his benefit.

  “I know it’s hard to trust us,” said Thera, putting her hand on his shoulder. “But come with us now. We can get you cleaned up, get you something to eat. Then you can decide.”

  Rostislawitch rose. He’d already decided. He had to trust them. He just had to. Whatever doubts remained.

  Ferguson was already out the door. The civilian-clothed Marines were now at either end of the block, scanning up and down. He opened the door to Captain Helfers’s sedan, then waited as Rostislawitch and Thera emerged from the building.

  “You’re in the middle,” Ferguson told the scientist as Thera ran around the other side. After Rostislawitch was inside the car, Ferguson took a last look down the block, then got in and slammed the door. “Go; let’s go,” he said. “Just go.”

  “I’m not supposed to ask any questions,” said Heifers as the cars sped down the block and turned toward the highway.

  “Which is good because I’m not going to give any answers,” said Ferguson.

  “But I just—”

  “No buts. You ask me no questions, I tell you no lies.” He patted the Marine captain on the shoulder. “Tell the car behind us to get out in front at the next turn.”

  “You sure?”

  Ferguson just laughed. Heifers, who was in touch with the others via radio, passed along the instruction.

  They’d gone two miles on the highway when Ferguson leaned forward again. “Take a right and get down that exit,” he told the driver. “Wait until the last second.”

  “But you said—”

  “Right here. Don’t tell the other cars.”

  Heifers started to protest.

  “Relax, Captain. I’ve done this before.” Ferguson turned and watched the road, making sure they weren’t being followed.

  “Looks clear, Ferg,” said Thera, who’d been watching herself.

  “Yeah. But that street looked clear when they tried shooting us up, too.” Ferguson leaned into the front. “Straight. Then two more blocks, you take a left. We’re not going to the hotel.”

  “Where then?” asked Heifers.

  Ferguson shook his head. “When we get there, I’ll let you know.”

  ~ * ~

  F

  erguson’s directions took them out of the city and down along the coastline five miles, to a small motel overlooking the sea. He’d considered taking Rostislawitch to the American air base, where he could provide much better security, but decided it might spook him worse. The scientist was still unsure whether he was doing the right thing or not.

  Ferguson jumped out of the car as soon as they pulled up. He went inside and rented two rooms, checking and scanning them himself before letting Thera, Rostislawitch, and the two Marines in.

  “Actually, we should get back to the base,” said Heifers.

  “Sorry, Captain, you’re with us for a while.”

  “Can we call our men at least and tell them we’re OK?”

  “Corrigan will take care of that,” Ferguson told him. “Don’t worry. No one’s going to accuse you of going AWOL. Park the cars over there,” he added, pointing across the lot. “Away from our rooms, but where we can see them.�
��

  The two rooms Ferguson had taken were on the top floor of the two-story motel. Built in the 1970s, the hotel was similar to many American motels, with the rooms opening directly onto an exterior balcony or walkway. They had a good view of the highway and surrounding area, and while there was only one entrance from the road, there were trails down the hillside that would make it easy to escape by foot.