Soul of the Assassin

by Larry Bond

  “Tired, huh?” said Guns.

  “She wore me out.” Ferguson laughed, then went to find a place to climb down.

  9

  SARATOV, RUSSIA

  Artur Rostislawitch set the culture dish down next to the microscope, then reached for the tray with the slides. He could feel his hands starting to tremble inside the thick rubber gloves that were built into the protective glass case enclosing his work area.

  Rostislawitch’s nervousness had nothing to do with the bacteria he was examining, even though the dish contained an extremely deadly and contagious form of E. coli—so dangerous, in fact, that the amount in the dish could kill hundreds of thousands if judiciously deployed. Handling it through the sealed work area, Rostislawitch knew he would not come into direct contact with it. Indeed, one of the bacteria’s assets was that it was relatively safe to handle if certain precautions were taken. Placed in a sealed glass container and suspended in the proper growth medium, the bacteria was essentially inert.

  Rostislawitch was nervous because he intended on taking some of the material out of the lab. Getting the bacteria to this workstation without arousing suspicion had been difficult; he’d had to make it appear as if it were a harmless form of E. coli rather than the superbug he had created some years before. Creating a false paper trail, preparing the transit vessels, establishing plausible alibis, studying the security system—he had worked for weeks to get ready. Now he needed five more minutes’ worth of patience until the cameras watching the lab went off-line before he could proceed. The video system went off-line every Tuesday at exactly 4:45 a.m. while the main computer that ran it backed itself up automatically. That would give him a ten-minute window to take the material without being seen.

  Rostislawitch pretended to be studying a specimen, twitching in his seat. He’d waited so long for this day; surely he could wait for a few more minutes.

  He rehearsed what he would do—separate two grams of the material, insert it into the medium dishes he’d positioned on the left. Return the material to its safe. Dispose of the other dishes by putting them into the incinerator bin.

  Put everything away. Go downstairs, retrieve the dishes from the bin, which he had disabled earlier.

  Remove his ID from the security lock. Punch the sequence to erase it.

  All within fifteen minutes.

  After that—the train, the conference in Bologna, the Iranian.

  Freedom.

  Rostislawitch knew he could do it. He had rehearsed it several times.

  He glanced at the clock. Four more minutes.

  10

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  Arna Kerr didn’t go back to her hotel until close to eleven a.m. Since she didn’t sleep, the team didn’t sleep. It didn’t bother Ferguson, but Guns’ eyes were sagging when they met at the Cafe Apollo just down the block. Thera felt stiff and was noticeably cranky. Rankin just frowned at everyone, one hand over his ear. He was monitoring the bugged transmissions from Arna Kerr’s hotel room, listening to the capture from the mike he’d planted on the opposite roof. All he could hear was the sound of drawers being slammed and then the shower being started in the bath.

  “So she takes the measurements of three public squares, and visits three different buildings belonging to the University of Bologna,” said Guns, trying to prop his eyes open with a long sip of coffee. “What’s the target?”

  “Movie star,” said Thera. “The university is hosting a film festival next month. She went to a theater.”

  “Who kills movie stars?” said Rankin.

  “There’s too much time in between,” said Ferguson. “It has to be within a few days. Maybe even tomorrow. The cars were rented for two weeks.”

  “I think he’s going after some Italian politician,” said Rankin. “Maybe the mayor.”

  “T Rex costs too much money to bump off a mayor,” said Ferguson. “Besides, nobody takes politicians seriously in Italy.”

  “Like you know how much he charges, right?” said Rankin.

  “Has to be a lot if he’s got an advance man. Last I heard, taking down a CIA officer cost a million.”

  “I’ll do it for half,” said Rankin, locking eyes with Ferguson. “Free, if I can pick the target.”

  Ferguson laughed.

  “All the spots she checked out were tourist spots,” said Thera.

  “Not all,” said Guns. “There was the university art building.”

  “Maybe some kid who flunked out of the university figures he got a bad deal,” said Rankin.

  Ferguson put his coffee cup down as the waiter approached with a fresh one.

  “Why don’t they just refill the cup?” said Guns.

  “The dishwasher’s a union guy and gets paid on a percup rate,” said Ferguson.

  “Did Corrigan get anything from the fingerprints?” asked Rankin.

  “Nada,” said Thera. “They were narrowing down the credit card information when I last talked to him, but they hadn’t come up with anything significant. They have that address in Stockholm, but nothing else.”

  “How does T Rex contact her?” asked Guns.

  Thera shook her head.

  Rankin realized the shower had been turned off in the room and pressed his hand against his ear. He heard some shuffling, and then Arna Kerr began speaking.

  “It’s Italian,” Rankin said, handing the earphone to Ferguson.

  “She’s getting a taxi to the airport,” Ferguson told them, getting up. “Pardon me while I go bid her a tearful goodbye.”

  11

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  Arna Kerr was just putting her bag into the back of the cab when she heard Bob Ferguson calling her.

  “You,” she said, before even turning to look at him.

  “They say you’re checking out.”

  He took her in his arms, kissing her gently. She resisted, but only for a moment.

  “On your way over to my hotel, I hope,” said Ferguson.

  “I have to go.”

  “Didn’t sell enough drugs?”

  “Plenty.”

  “Stick around, you’ll sell some more. Maybe I’ll buy a few.”

  He really was cute, she thought, cute enough to change her plans—a few more hours here wouldn’t bother anyone.

  Or better, she could suggest they go down to Rome, or somewhere farther south, some little village somewhere that was still warm and sunny.

  She had to go. He was too tempting.

  “Duty calls,” she said, pushing him away gently.

  “It’s almost lunchtime. Come get something to eat.”

  “I have to go. I’m sorry.” She put her hand on the car door.

  “A little vino?”

  “No, grazie.”

  “Your Italian’s getting better.”

  “Prego. Another time, Bob.” She started to get into the cab.

  “Well, give me your card and tell where you’re going to be,” said Ferguson.

  Arna Kerr hesitated. “I don’t think so.”

  “No?” Ferguson ran his hand along the back of her arm. Even though she was wearing a winter coat, she felt a tingle all the way through to her spine. “Come on. Hang around.”

  “If you give me your card,” she said, “maybe I’ll call you.”

  “Didn’t I give you one already?” Ferguson asked.

  She cocked her hand slightly, gesturing that if he had, she had lost it. Ferguson pulled one from his pocket.

  “Call me,” he said, sliding her the card. “It’s a service. But they’ll get in touch.”

  She took the card and smiled, then got in the cab. Ferguson gave it a friendly pat as it left—placing a small global positioning device on its rear fender to make it easier to follow.

  12

  CIA BUILDING 24-442

  Thomas Ciello paced back and forth in his small office on the second floor of Building 24-442. It was a relatively large office—thirteen paces by eleven and a quarter paces—and he had arranged the furniture so that he
could stride in more or less a straight line. Building 24-442 was primarily located underground, so being on the second floor meant he had no windows. But this wasn’t a drawback as far as Thomas Ciello was concerned. On the contrary. The very blankness of the walls helped him focus.

  Thomas Ciello was the chief analyst for Special Demands, a somewhat nebulous job title that matched his somewhat nebulous job description. In theory, he liaisoned between the team and the CIA’s “regular” research and analysis side, digging up background and other information necessary for missions. The reality was considerably more complicated, as Ciello often found himself gathering information on his own, through whatever source he could think of.

  But analysts liked to say that the problem wasn’t so much obtaining information as making sense of it. Ciello was living that saying right now, as he tried to puzzle out what Arna Kerr’s work in Bologna meant.

  She’d left vehicles and taken rooms in several parts of the center city; obviously T Rex’s target was there. Most interestingly, she’d taken measurements of three public squares in the city of Bologna. From what the First Team had reported, she had documented the distances between the buildings as well as their heights.

  Why?

  A sniper would want to know distances. But Ciello thought it was unlikely a sniper would plan an assassination in the public squares; the buildings that surrounded them were mostly open to the public, which meant there would be a lot of people who might see him coming in and out. It would certainly be possible—Ciello had to admit that T Rex might know much more about the buildings and the business of assassination than he did—but he thought it unlikely.

  Besides the public squares, Arna Kerr had visited three university school buildings, math, computer science, and the Art School Annex, a temporary building being used while the main art buildings were renovated. None of them seemed likely to attract the sort of high-profile victim T Rex was generally hired to target.

  After a search of their faculty and student lists failed to turn up anything interesting, Ciello had set out to compile a list of conferences and lectures they were hosting. Getting information on the mathematics school was easy; it posted a calendar online. But the public lectures it listed weren’t exactly major hints: “The Evolution of Euclid” and “String Theory” were the highlights. “Computer Science” was equally esoteric; the focus seemed to be on graphic compression routines and video. The Art School Annex listed no guest lectures or conferences until after the Christmas break, when “Fresh Thoughts on Medieval Brushstroke Techniques” would start the new year off with a bang.

  Ciello put his thought process on hold and lay down on the floor. The ceiling tiles had a very interesting pattern. Probably they involved a code, but not being a cryptologist, he couldn’t decipher it.

  That wasn’t an excuse, though, was it? Cryptologists were just mathematicians, and everyone knew mathematicians were crazy.

  “Thomas, what are you doing?”

  Ciello looked up and saw Debra Wu, his executive assistant, standing by the door. She made a show of putting her hands over her dress, as if he were trying to look up it. A faint odor of perfume wafted from her. It tickled his nose and he stifled a sneeze.

  “Mr. Slott needs to talk to you,” said Wu, shaking her head. “He’s having a conference call with Ms. Alston.”

  Wu continued to talk, but Ciello had stopped listening. His mind was back at the piazzas.

  Arna Kerr was making a scale model of them.

  “Thomas, are you listening to me? Mr. Slott needs that report. Mr. Slott. The DDO. Your boss’s boss. Thomas?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  T Rex’s preparer was measuring the space between the buildings, which was another way of saying she was measuring the air.

  Air.

  Hadn’t the UFO sighting in San Diego in 1953 involved some sort of similar measuring devices? No one had figured out what that meant, either.

  Bad example.

  In his spare time, Thomas Ciello was working on a book that would be the definitive study of UFOs in the twentieth century. So far, he hadn’t worked on a case where UFOs were part of the solution—though there was always hope.

  “Thomas, are you going to have something or not?” she said finally.

  “Don’t know,” mumbled Ciello.

  She turned in disgust. Her sharp twist sent a fresh whiff of perfume in Ciello’s direction.

  “Oh!” said Ciello loudly. “That’s why she took the measurements!”

  “What?” demanded Wu.

  “Now I get it.”

  “You know who T Rex is?”

  “Of course not. But I know what they’re up to.”

  Wu waited for the answer as Ciello jumped to his feet and started pumping his keyboard.

  “Well?” she said finally.

  “Perfume.”

  13

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  Guns picked Ferguson up in the car two blocks away.

  “Ferg, you’re slipping,” Guns told him. “You couldn’t even get her phone number.”

  “I couldn’t even get her e-mail address,” said Ferguson in mock amazement. “Next time you take the romance angle and I’ll watch.”

  Guns laughed. Ferguson could always be counted on for a joke.

  Rankin and Thera were on Vespas ahead, following the cab as it headed out to the airport.

  Ferguson took out his sat phone and called the Cube.

  “Yes, Bob?” said Lauren DiCapri, the relief desk person.

  “Hey, beautiful, what happened? Corrigan went home?”

  “Something about working thirty-six hours straight got to him.”

  “Tough sitting in that chair, huh?” Ferguson leaned back in the seat. “You tracking us?”

  “Of course.” All four of the ops had GPS sending units in their satellite phones, showing the Cube where they were.

  “Find Arna Kerr’s flight yet?”

  “The flight for the round-trip ticket she bought doesn’t leave for another two days,” said Lauren. “So if she’s going to the airport, she used another credit card for the flight.”

  “And different ID,” said Ferguson.

  “Maybe, maybe not. We’re not working with the Italians, remember? I don’t have direct access to any of the booking systems, let alone their security lists. I’m working with the credit card companies.”

  “How could I forget?”

  Slott, the CIA Deputy Director in charge of covert action, had told Ferguson in the briefing that they wouldn’t work with Italy because of the rendition case. Indeed, Ferguson had a relatively low regard for the Italian intelligence agencies and preferred not to get them involved, either. If he got T Rex—when he got T Rex—the plan was to knock him out, bundle him in the trunk of a car, and take him directly to the U.S. air base at Aviano. He’d be in a federal lockup, waiting for a grand jury to indict him, within twenty-four hours.

  “Listen, Lauren, I gave Arna Kerr my card. Maybe she’ll call; maybe she’ll send an e-mail or check the Web site.”

  “Don’t worry. We’re ready.”

  “Good. I wouldn’t want to miss a date.”

  The thin wall separating caution and paranoia had melted by the time Arna Kerr cleared the ticket counter. A kind of panic regularly accompanied this stage of a job—when the fieldwork was done but before she returned to Sweden and safety.

  Arna Kerr forced herself to remain calm as she went through gate security, fiddling with her hair and fussing with her makeup to hide her jitters. Once through, she went into a washroom and checked her bags and clothes for a bug or tracking device, by going over them first with a detector and then painstakingly by hand, visually inspecting everything. She’d done this already at the hotel before leaving—and also examined the footage on the two digital cameras she’d left running on the desk—yet she still felt as if she had missed something.

  She told herself she was overcompensating for spending the night with the Irishman.

  God, wha
t a mistake.

  Arna Kerr leaned back against the toilet stall and pulled out his card. She started to throw it into the toilet, then stopped herself. She’d already had the license checked by e-mailing the number to one of her associates; a few speeding violations were the only blemish on the Irishman’s record. But he deserved more thorough scrutiny.

  Scrutiny? Or did she really want to contact him?

  She couldn’t.

  Her body nearly trembled, remembering how they’d made love.

  No, she told herself, dropping the card in the toilet. Not worth the risk.

  Thera waited until Arna Kerr’s plane had taxied to the runway before she left the terminal. Outside, the air smelled wet, heavy with moisture, as if it were going to snow. Thera zipped her jacket tighter. She was glad Arna Kerr was gone. Maybe now she could get some sleep.

  “Hey,” said Ferguson, appearing beside her. “You with us?”

  Thera jumped. “Jesus, Ferg. You scared me.”

  “You have to pay attention to where you are,” he told her. He was serious.

  “I am.”

  “You were daydreaming. Somebody could have snuck up on you like I did. Are you being followed?”

  Thera, embarrassed that she had let her guard down, said nothing.

  “You’re not,” added Ferguson. “But keep your head in the game, all right? We’re just at the start of this.”

  ACT II

  The face of things a frightful image bears,

  And present death in various forms appears.

  —Virgil, The Aeneid (Dryden translation)

  1

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  In some alternate universe, Corrine Alston was perpetually ten minutes ahead of schedule. Her habitual punctuality impressed friends and influenced enemies. Her hair always looked perfectly groomed, and her stockings never ran.

  But that was an alternate universe. In this one, Corrine was lucky if she managed to stay within fifteen minutes of the bulleted times her secretary prepared for her. As the President’s personal counsel, Corrine found her days filled with appointments, phone conferences, lunch and dinner meetings, and—on occasion—real legal work. She was three weeks past-due for a haircut, and finding time to buy a new pair of panty hose could take a month.