Soul of the Assassin - [First Team 04]

by Larry Bond

  Or kidnapped him. The Russians had no authority here, though that never stopped them.

  “I hope he comes soon,” Ferguson told Atha, using the phrase he and Thera had settled on as a signal. “I have some other business to attend to.”

  “What sort of business?” asked Atha.

  “Personal business,” said Ferguson, refilling his glass.

  ~ * ~

  33

  NORTHEASTERN SUDAN

  As Rankin and Guns scrambled back toward the truck, another vehicle came up the road toward them from the camp. When he saw the truck, the driver stopped, and another man got out to inspect it.

  Guns raised his rifle to fire.

  “No,” said Rankin, stopping him. “They’ll hear the gunfire. We won’t make it down to the camp.”

  The man who’d gotten out of the truck examined the broken window, then called to the other man. One walked up the road; the other came in their direction.

  Crouching by the side of the road, Guns tried to calculate if he could reach the other man before he managed to grab a gun. He was only fifteen yards away, but the rough terrain would slow him down.

  “Cover me while I charge him,” Guns told Rankin.

  “Listen, that’s not going to work. I’m having a lot of trouble using just one hand to fire,” said Rankin. “I have a better idea. Go back that way and cut up behind him. I’ll moan.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll pretend like I’m hurt. When he comes down to investigate, jump him.”

  “What about the other guy?”

  “He’s too far away. It’s dark. Come on. Go.”

  Guns slid down a few feet, then began backing around the curve.

  Rankin turned around so his face wouldn’t be visible from above, and then began to moan. It took several loud “args” before the man who was on the road heard Rankin and decided to investigate.

  “What are you doing?” yelled the man in Arabic. “What happened?”

  Rankin continued to moan. Finally the lookout started climbing down to see what had happened.

  Guns launched himself at the man, clipping his head and pushing him over. He lost his balance and tumbled into him, and together they slid down the ravine. Rankin, worried that Guns would roll all the way down into the cavern below, dove at them but missed. Jarred, Rankin’s arm shrieked with pain, and he began to groan for real.

  Guns got his feet in front of a rock and stopped his slide. He leapt up and hooked the lookout by the back of the neck, hauling him to his feet. The man kicked at Guns but got mostly dirt; he launched a roundhouse that caved in part of the guard’s cheekbone. Then Guns picked him up and threw him back against the rocks, knocking him out.

  Guns and Rankin scrambled up to the roadside. The first man was nowhere in sight.

  Guns started to walk up the path.

  “Forget him. Come on, let’s go,” said Rankin, trying to shake off the pain as he climbed into the truck that had just stopped. “We have to stop the buses and trucks now. Come on. Get the other truck. Come

  ~ * ~

  34

  TRIPOLI, LIBYA

  Kiska Babev was huddled with the head of the Russian FSB’s Libyan office when a young clerk knocked on the office door and entered with a folded piece of paper. Impatient at the interruption, Kiska rose from her seat, intending to get herself a cup of tea from the sideboard. As she turned, she found the clerk standing at her side.

  “It just arrived for you, Madame Colonel,” said the young woman. “A fax. We’re trying to trace it.”

  Puzzled, Kiska unfolded the paper. The message was printed in large block letters:

  LAXY’S.

  SIX P.M.

  —FERG

  “Is it important?” the head of the office asked.

  Kiska crumbled the paper and threw it into the wastebasket at the corner.

  “What is Laxy’s?” she asked.

  ~ * ~

  35

  TRIPOLI, LIBYA

  Thera had the driver go around the block twice, making sure that it was clear. When she finally decided they could go in, she took one last look at Rostislawitch, fixing the bulky suit over his frame.

  “OK,” she told him, but as he started to get out of the car she pulled him back. “Take this,” she said, passing a small pistol into his hand. “Put it in your pocket. If you need to, use it.”

  “I’ve never fired a gun,” said the scientist.

  “Use two hands. Hold it like this. There’s a safety catch here. Slide it before you shoot. All right?”

  He nodded, staring at the gun. Thera considered moving the catch off for him, but worried that he would accidentally shoot himself when grabbing for the pistol.

  “In you go,” Thera said, nudging him from the car. “Walk all the way to the back. Ferguson will be at the far table on the right. Remember the video—he has a beard and glasses now. If there’s a problem, I’ll be very close.”

  The scientist nodded.

  “Don’t worry,” added Thera. “Ferg has everything under control. He always does.”

  Rostislawitch felt the blood rush from his head as he got out of the car. He started walking slowly, gradually gaining speed, though not composure, as he reached the door. He was sweating profusely under the bulletproof vest. He saw the water on the steps next to him as he descended into the restaurant and worried that he was going to slip.

  Rostislawitch ignored the man at the maitre d’ lectern, walking toward the back as Thera had directed. His eyes had trouble adjusting to the low light; he saw shadows instead of people. The place was a lot more crowded than he thought it would be; every table seemed to be full. He looked right, and saw a man with a beard and glasses, smiling at him.

  “Doctor.” Ferguson rose deferentially, and told him in Russian how good it was to see him. Rostislawitch replied automatically that the pleasure was his.

  “We should speak English for our partner,” said Ferguson, gesturing toward Atha as he sat down. Ferguson poured Rostislawitch some vodka, but the scientist didn’t touch it.

  “What is this virus?” demanded Atha. “How does it work?”

  Rostislawitch’s mind blanked. He couldn’t understand the question.

  “Do you need a technical explanation about the virus and how it prepares the bacteria?” asked Ferguson. “Is it important?”

  “Why did you sabotage the bacteria?” Atha asked Rostislawitch.

  “Why did you take it?” said Rostislawitch. “You did not pay. How did you know where it was?”

  “I always intended on paying,” said Atha. “I just needed to hurry things along. I have time constraints. You do not understand this. You scientists think in terms of centuries. I have hours.”

  “Do you know how dangerous it is?”

  “That’s not your concern.”

  “Thousands—millions of people could die.”

  “If you don’t want to do business—” Atha started to rise. It was only partly a bluff; Rostislawitch’s attitude and tone angered him.

  “Now, now, let us relax,” said Ferguson. “Sit, please. Have some vodka. Are you sure you won’t drink?”

  Atha scowled, but sat back down.

  “You’re doing great, Doc,” Ferguson told Rostislawitch in Russian. “But don’t be so angry. Relax. Just keep him talking.”

  “Aren’t you insulting him by insisting he drink?” asked Rostislawitch. “He’s Muslim.”

  “You think so?” Ferguson smiled. That was the general idea.

  “How is this virus to be used?” asked Atha. “What is its purpose?”

  Rostislawitch looked over at Ferguson. When he nodded, Rostislawitch began explaining that the process would be familiar to anyone experienced in modifying bacterial DNA; the virus was custom-designed to make the proper modification. He gave the Iranian a few lines from a graduate lecture in the subject, staying away from the complicated chemistry.

  The explanation was sufficient to convince Atha that the scientist was
n’t bluffing.

  “When you give it to me, then you will get your payment,” Atha said abruptly, cutting Rostislawitch off in midsentence. “Where is it?”

  “It’s available,” said Ferguson. “Let us talk price.”

  ~ * ~

  N

  athaniel Hamilton pulled the rental car to the curb near the entrance to Laxy’s. The routine was getting old—go in, have a walk around, fail to spot Ferguson, leave. But the alternative was to simply sit in his hotel room and wait for Ferguson to send for him, as if he were a tart on call.

  Oh, it was going to be so lovely to kill the son of a bitch. The money was almost not a consideration.

  Almost.

  Hamilton took out his satellite phone to call his room and check for messages before going into the club. As he dialed, a pair of black Mercedes drove up in front of him. The cars had plates from the Russian embassy.

  A half-dozen people got out of the cars, five bulky men and a tall blonde. They looked up and down the block; then the men formed a wedge around the woman and headed into the building.

  Clearly Russian agents, thought Hamilton. Maybe Ferguson was here after all.

  ~ * ~

  T

  hera slipped the headphones into her ears so she could hear the conversation between Atha and Rostislawitch. She could just barely see the stairs from her table. Green and Griffen, two of the Special Forces soldiers dressed in civilian clothes who were backing them up, were sitting at a booth catty-corner across from her. Another pair of soldiers were farther back in the club, closer to Ferguson.

  Thera’s sat phone buzzed with a call. It was the Cube.

  “Thera, Ferg’s not answering his phone,” said Corrigan.

  “No kidding. Why are you calling him?”

  “Ciello just worked it out—Kiska Babev can’t be T Rex. She was in Georgia when Dalton was killed. The stop in Paris was just to set up some sort of alias. Ciello has her credit card charges. She never left the city and was out of town long before Dalton got to France.”

  “All right,” said Thera.

  She pushed down the phone’s antenna. Before she could figure out a way of telling Ferguson, she saw Kiska Babev and five other Russians walking down the steps at the restaurant entrance.

  ~ * ~

  T

  wo million more, or there is no deal,” Ferguson told Atha.

  “American dollars, of course.”

  “I can’t do it,” said Atha. “I just can’t.”

  “Call whoever it is you’re working for,” said Ferguson. “They’ll pay.”

  “I am working on my own.”

  Ferguson made a face to show that he didn’t believe Atha. “Well, then you pay. It’s certainly worth it.”

  “No.”

  “Then you won’t get the virus. The bacteria you have is worthless.”

  Atha thought the minister might be willing to provide the extra money, even though he would grumble about it.

  The alternative was to call the intelligence people at the Iranian embassy and get them to help him force the Russians to talk. But that might be tricky—too much force and everything would be ruined.

  “If it is the office of the President,” said Ferguson, leaning forward, “I have a friend who works there.”

  “It is not the President,” said Atha. “How would you have friends in Iran?”

  “I have many friends. Even among the Revolutionary Guard. And the Education Ministry.”

  Atha felt his breath choking. What if the Russian cut him out of the deal?

  No. Impossible. He was the one with the camp.

  “Let us say, for a moment, that we agreed on the price,” said Atha. “I would need the material quickly.”

  “You’ll have it within twenty-four hours of payment.”

  “Far too late,” said Atha, shaking his head.

  As Ferguson shrugged, he noticed Kiska Babev heading a pack of FSB officers in his direction.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” he said loudly in Russian, rising. “Colonel Babev, what brings you to Tripoli?”

  Kiska glared at him.

  “Artur Rostislawitch, why are you in Tripoli?” Kiska looked across the table at Atha. “You—who are you?”

  “Doesn’t speak Russian,” said Ferguson, still speaking Russian.

  “I don’t know what sort of game you’re playing,” she said to Ferguson. “But I don’t like it.”

  “I’m not playing a game. I’m conducting a business transaction.”

  “What?”

  “The education minister of Iran has authorized this man to buy Russian germ warfare material.”

  Atha didn’t understand a word they were saying, but he knew it was time for him to leave. He started sliding out.

  “Sit down,” Kiska told him in Russian.

  “Doesn’t speak Russian, remember?” said Ferguson.

  “Sit,” she said in English. She emphasized the point by raising her hand, revealing the pistol she was holding.

  ~ * ~

  H

  amilton, at the door, saw the Russians standing around Ferguson’s table. Things looked far too placid for his taste, almost amicable.

  He decided to remedy that. He took out his pistol and fired into the air.

  The gunshot was like a switch, silencing the gentle buzz that had pervaded the place. For a moment, all of the patrons sat, stunned.

  Then someone screamed.

  People began running for the door. A man at a table in a corner— a member of Hamas who was meeting a financer—rose and pulled out his gun. He saw someone moving toward him; believing it was a Mossad agent, he shot him dead.

  Ferguson pushed Rostislawitch to the ground. Atha tried to get by, but one of the Russian agents threw him down.

  A Libyan who’d been hired as a bodyguard for the Hamas member began firing a submachine gun. One of the Russians returned fire; then the rest followed suit. The bullets flashed over the banquette and couches, ricocheting with bright sparks off the stone walls.

  Ferguson took hold of Rostislawitch and pulled him with him as he scrambled out into the aisle between the tables. He kicked a smoke grenade behind him to cover their retreat, then pushed Rostislawitch down, low enough to evade the gunfire.

  “No, Ferg, you’re not going anywhere,” said Kiska, pointing her gun at his face.

  “The Iranian is the one you want,” Ferguson told her. “He stole the bacteria with the help of the mafiya. Your scientist has been helping us get it back.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “That’s why he didn’t go to you in the first place,” Ferguson said. “Because you thought he stole it.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Better grab the Iranian before he escapes,” said Ferguson, pointing behind her. “He’s got the material with him.”

  Thinking Ferguson was simply trying to divert her, Kiska hesitated before turning around. By the time she did, Atha had nearly disappeared into the smoke.

  “Grab him!” she told the others. “Go.”

  As soon as Kiska turned, Ferguson pulled the scientist with him back into the smoke billowing from below the table. They crawled past a row of couches into the kitchen. An alarm began to sound over the gunfire and screams outside.

  “You with me, Rosty?” Ferg asked, pulling him to his feet near the table used to prep salads.

  “What are we going to do?” asked the scientist.

  “The back door’s this way,” said Ferguson. He’d used it before. “But get down!”

  Ferguson pushed Rostislawitch down as a spray of bullets from an AK-47 ripped through the kitchen door, clanging against the hanging pots and the stove. Flames leapt from a damaged burner, and within seconds the stove and a nearby work counter were on fire.

  “We’re going to have to go back out the front,” Ferguson told Rostislawitch. “Sorry. I didn’t think we’d be having this much fun.”

  Rostislawitch gripped the pistol in his pocket as Ferguso
n pulled him back toward the doorway. They hit a thick patch of smoke and he began to cough. Ferguson and Rostislawitch crawled out of the kitchen and down the side of the room near the bar. The gunfire had mostly stopped, but now pieces of the place were exploding or crashing to the floor as the fire gathered force, feeding on the flammable sound insulation used on the ceiling and some of the banquettes.