Soul of the Assassin

by Larry Bond

  Had T Rex really snookered him, or was he just thinking too much? Did they even have the right target in the first place?

  By their very nature, First Team missions tended not to move in a straight line; if figuring out who T Rex was and grabbing him was an easy job, someone else would have been assigned to do it. But difficulty wasn’t an excuse, Ferguson thought; they’d botched it this afternoon, and it was his fault, not Rankin’s.

  Ferguson’s body felt beat to piss, and his mind wasn’t sharp. He told himself it was because he hadn’t slept much and hadn’t had much of a break between missions, but he couldn’t shake the nagging suspicion that something else was going on.

  Maybe the cancer was sucking energy out of him, draining him like a short circuit in a car battery. There was going to come a time when he couldn’t do this job, where he’d be a second too late to react, and that would get not only him but the rest of the team killed.

  Thera was the one in harm’s way right now. If she died because he couldn’t figure out what was going on, he couldn’t live with that. He just couldn’t.

  “You just drink water?”

  “The bubbles give me energy,” he said, looking up into Thera’s green eyes.

  “You’re Irish.”

  “And you’re . . . something,” said Ferguson.

  “Greek.”

  “Your English is pretty good. How’d you know I was Irish?”

  “Your accent gives you away. I spent a year studying in Dublin, and two in London. I thought you were English at first.”

  “Have a seat.” She was getting better at lying, Ferguson thought. He almost would have believed her.

  “I don’t think so. Thanks.”

  “Your loss.”

  “Maybe.” Thera went to the bar and ordered a White Russian.

  “I’ll pay for that,” said Ferguson, getting up and walking toward the bar as the bartender brought Thera her drink.

  “Thanks. I don’t think so,” she said.

  “You sure?”

  “You’re cute, but—” Thera felt a pang of regret, as if she weren’t just playacting.

  “There’s always a but,” said Ferguson. He dropped a ten-euro note on the bar and walked out.

  Twenty minutes later, the team assembled in a suite in the Hotel Vespucci across the street: technically Guns’ room, reserved for him by Corrigan. Rankin, who’d had to park the car in a hotel garage several blocks away, was the last one in; he gave Ferguson a scowl and then went and sat at the far end of the sofa, glaring at him.

  One of these days, Rankin thought, no shit, he was going to punch Ferguson in the mouth.

  “Tough night,” said Ferguson. “I think we all oughta get some sleep. If Rostislawitch is the target, I figure we can take six hours. If he’s not, then it probably doesn’t matter how long we sleep.”

  “That’s it? That’s what we’re doing?” asked Rankin.

  “If you have another idea, Skippy, I’m all ears,” said Ferguson. “Fire away.”

  “I don’t see why anyone would want to kill Rostislawitch,” said Rankin.

  “Maybe the Russians,” suggested Thera.

  “Why wait until he’s out of the country then? No way. Corrigan’s brief says he’s teaching basic biology classes. That’s not a real important job.”

  “How do you know?” asked Guns.

  “ ’Cause unlike you, Marine, I went to college.”

  “Relax,” said Ferguson. “I agree, but he looks like the only guy at the conference who’s halfway worth targeting. By who, I don’t know.”

  “The Russians aren’t going to hire out to kill him,” said Rankin. “And they’re not going to wait until he’s out of the country.”

  “They killed Alexander Litvinenko in London,” said Thera.

  “ ’Cause they couldn’t lure him back to Russia.” Rankin folded his arms.

  “Skip’s got a good point,” said Ferguson. He leaned back in the seat, his head on the back cushion so that he was gazing at the ceiling. “Maybe I was wrong about this. Maybe the theory that he’s going to hit a public square is right. Maybe it is some sort of gas attack. Maybe a bomb, I don’t know. We’re missing too many pieces of the puzzle right now. Back to square one. But get some sleep first.”

  Rankin snorted. That was as close to a full-blown apology as Ferguson ever made. “I’ll take the watch,” Rankin said.

  “I got it, Skippy.”

  “You can’t let it be, huh?” shot Rankin. “You can’t just say you were an asshole and let it go.”

  Ferguson just grinned and said nothing.

  11

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Corrine glanced at her watch. It was a little past six p.m.—just after midnight in Italy. She picked up the encrypted phone and called Ferguson.

  “O’Brien’s Real Italian Delicatessen,” he said.

  “I have the name of the Italian SISDE liaison who’s on his way to Bologna,” Corrine said. She’d learned that the best way to deal with Ferguson was to ignore his jokes. “He wants to meet first thing in the morning.”

  “Can’t wait. I’ll try to remember to shave first.”

  “What did Rostislawitch do tonight?”

  “Not much. I’m not sure we got the right guy.”

  “The Italians have a theory. They think the target may be a drug company president who’s supposed to be the dinner speaker Thursday. He’s going through a messy divorce.”

  “Have to be pretty messy for T Rex to be involved.”

  “How about rich, too? The Italians say he’s worth a half-billion dollars at least.”

  “Well, that might do it,” said Ferguson, his voice enthusiastic for the first time since the conversation began. “You have information on that?”

  “The Italians have it. Corrigan was going to have your analysts put together a report as well. He’s in Switzerland right now. He’s only flying in for the dinner, then leaving. They’ll keep him away from the squares.”

  “Piazzas.”

  “Right.”

  “We’re sure T Rex isn’t a terrorist, right?”

  “You tell me, Ferg. You’ve been working on this.”

  “No, I don’t think so. He tries to make it look that way sometimes, but that’s either to throw people off the trail or to make sure he gets his guy. He doesn’t mind killing people.”

  “You OK, Ferg?”

  “Fine. Why?”

  “You sound . . . tired.” Some weeks earlier, Corrine had discovered that Ferguson suffered from cancer. She felt sorry for him—sympathetic maybe, not sorry—but she wasn’t sure exactly how to express it. Ferguson hadn’t told anyone, and wouldn’t—Parnelles would take him off the First Team if he found out that he had that kind of illness. “Tired or down.”

  Ferguson scoffed. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll wear my peppy hat for our next phone call.”

  12

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  Contrary to Ferguson’s expectations, the SISDE intelligence officer in charge of the Bologna “situation” was extremely businesslike, efficient to the point of seeming Prussian.

  Italy had two different intelligence agencies that dealt with terror; SISDE answered to the interior minister, while SISMI was under the direction of the military. Their responsibilities overlapped, and they weren’t known for playing nice together. Italian politics favored complex ambiguities, not to mention mud, muck, and mayhem; rather than being above the fray, SISDE and SISMI wallowed in it.

  Most of Ferguson’s admittedly limited experience with the Italian intelligence community was with SISMI, military intelligence; the last liaison he’d dealt with was a drunk. The relationship was less than functional, though the meetings were a lot of fun.

  Marco Imperiati was 180 degrees in the other direction. Fifty years old, the SISDE officer was a short man; at five-four his face barely reached Ferguson’s chest. But Imperiati had an intense look that made him seem considerably taller, and his voice made his underlings move quickly.

&n
bsp; “You are late,” he told Ferguson when they met at the police station, where a suite of rooms on the third floor had been commandeered. Imperiati’s English had a British accent and a staccato rhythm.

  “Got stuck in your traffic,” said Ferguson. He glanced at the large paper map of the city on the office wall; it was dotted with arrows and pins indicating lookout posts.

  “Why have these people chosen Bologna?” asked Imperiati.

  “It’s one man. We call him T Rex.”

  “Why Bologna?”

  “I guess his target is here,” said Ferguson. “Other than that, I have no idea.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  Ferguson repeated what he knew would have been in the briefing paper Slott forwarded to SISDE. Imperiati listened without expression, his eyes locked on Ferguson’s. He didn’t trust the American; in Imperiati’s experience, the CIA always reserved some vital piece of information. And even if that was not the case here, he had no doubt that the Americans had a different agenda than he did. He suspected that they had known about the plot for weeks, if not months. Had they notified his government earlier, proper preparations could have been taken. Now he was playing catch-up, and it was very possible that he would not be able to prevent a catastrophe.

  “So who is he?” said Imperiati finally.

  “I wish I knew,” said Ferguson.

  “No theory.”

  “A very good assassin, but probably not as good as his reputation makes him seem.” Ferguson walked over to the map, looking at it.

  “You could say that about anyone.”

  “Pretty much. Present company excluded, of course.”

  The slightest hint of a grin appeared at the corner of Imperiati’s mouth, where it died a quick and lonely death.

  “His advance person checked these three squares out,” Ferguson said, pointing. “And these buildings. We have a theory the genetic conference is involved, because it’s being held in the art building. Maybe T Rex thinks his target will move through one of those squares. They may have tours organized—”

  “We’ll cancel them.”

  “Discreetly,” said Ferguson.

  “Of course.”

  “But it could just be a coincidence.” Ferguson looked back at the map.

  “Where is the advance person?”

  “I understand she left yesterday.” Ferguson wasn’t lying, of course, though he did suggest that he hadn’t been here. Imperiati didn’t buy it.

  “Had we been notified, I could have had her arrested. We would have interrogated her.”

  Ferguson nodded. Imperiati was surprised that he didn’t offer an excuse. It impressed him, though only slightly. “And you have no idea who his target is?”

  “We have a theory. Last night we did. Today I’m not so sure.” Ferguson told him about the Russian, again saying little more than what Imperiati would already have been briefed on. “I understand you have a candidate?” Ferguson added when he was finished.

  “Several.” Imperiati told Ferguson about the drug executive Corrine had mentioned last night, then added that two Italian ministers were supposed to be in the city within the next few days. One was addressing the genetic conference; the other was visiting a new exhibit at a small museum near Porta San Donato.

  “You think someone would pay close to a million dollars to kill an art minister?” Ferguson asked.

  “Well, this is Italy. We do take art very seriously.” Imperiati attempted a smile; it died about halfway to his lips. “But the fact that she is the niece of a Sicilian Mafioso involved in a power struggle may be relevant.”

  “True.”

  “We will cancel both visits at the last minute.”

  “If you do that, we’re not going to catch T Rex.”

  “That is not my concern.”

  “If he’s really been hired to kill one of those people, he won’t stop just because the visit is canceled. If you have the minister, or a stand-in, come to the city, you’ll still be able to catch him.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe he gets away. In the process, if there is a bomb, if there is a gas attack, even a gunfight, innocent people die. Innocent citizens. Those are the people whom I worry about.”

  Ferguson figured this wasn’t the time or place to get into a philosophical discussion about who really was innocent in this day and age, so he let Imperiati’s statement pass without comment.

  13

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  While Ferguson met with the Italians, Thera and the others continued to watch Rostislawitch. Security at the conference had been tightened considerably; Thera had to show her forged pass, then wait as her name was checked against a master list of conference attendees. Fortunately, Corrigan had taken the precaution of having her name added overnight, as well as making sure that her credentials with the University of Athens were in order.

  The back entrance Thera had gone out with Rostislawitch as well as the side doors, and all of the windows on the first floor, had been locked, with alarms attached, and a cell phone interrupter was now operating inside the building, making it impossible for anyone to call in or out, much less use a phone to trigger explosive devices. The team’s radios were not affected, but since the Italians were using detection devices, the radios were reserved only for emergencies. Thera kept hers in her purse while she attended a panel discussion on the function of enzymes in bacteria mutation. She found the topic fascinating, though somewhat over her head. Corrigan had forwarded a collection of papers on microbiology, DNA manipulation, and bacteria for her to study, and she read them when the lectures got boring.

  Rostislawitch saw her as the session broke up. She waved, then waited for him to come over.

  “Old news,” said Rostislawitch derisively. He’d read papers along similar lines nearly a decade before.

  “Do you think?” asked Thera.

  “Don’t you?”

  “Everything is interesting,” she said.

  “And tell me about your work.”

  “If you found this old, you would run away if I say anything in the least about it.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I wouldn’t.” Rostislawitch tried to think of something to say to encourage her—he’d been a fool to criticize the others’ work, making himself look more important but at the same time scaring her off.

  Of course she had no interest in him, so she couldn’t be scared off. He was old enough to be her father.

  “Lunch?” Thera suggested.

  “My budget is very thin.”

  “So is mine. But I saw a shop nearby where they sell sandwiches and little pizza tarts. The prices look cheap.”

  “Let’s go then,” said Rostislawitch.

  You hear what they’re talking about?” Rankin asked Guns. Thera and Rostislawitch were in a small stand-up café a few blocks from the art building. The place had a counter facing the window where people could stand and have a quick bite to eat. Rankin, sitting on a Vespa a few yards down the street, watched from the outside; Guns had gone in behind them, and was pretending to talk on his cell phone.

  “Stuff about Russia. You got the outside covered?”

  “What do you think I’m doing? Picking my nose?”

  Guns laughed. “You’re getting as funny as Ferg.”

  Rankin practically bit his tongue to keep from replying.

  A panel truck turned down the street. He watched nervously as it made its way past the building. T Rex liked big bombs, and even if this wasn’t the area he’d had scoped out, surely he could strike anywhere.

  The one thing they had going for them was that he wasn’t suicidal; he wouldn’t drive the truck he planned to blow up. Then again, he could easily hire someone who was. Or get them involved unknowingly.

  “Boom,” said Ferguson, coming up behind Rankin.

  He jumped.

  “Shit, man. Cut it out.”

  “Wound a little tight, are we?” Ferguson turned and scanned the block, then took out a pack of cigarettes, as if he were asking for a smoke.


  “I don’t like this spot,” said Rankin. “Thera’s too vulnerable.”

  “Why’d you let her come here?”

  “We checked it out beforehand,” said Rankin. Ferguson always put him on the defensive. “We sniffed all the cars. No explosives.”

  “So why are you nervous?”

  “I’m not nervous. I said it wasn’t the best place.”

  “She’s moving,” said Guns.

  Grateful for the interruption, Rankin started the bike.

  14

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  The assassin put down the field glasses. The shot was gone.

  There was no point taking a risk. The aim, after all, was to retire after this hit: one last payoff would make things perfect. There was time.

  The Americans had clearly tipped off the Italians; the place was ringed with security people. That in itself was not necessarily a problem, merely a challenge to be overcome. More than likely the preparer had been spotted somehow, but that could play in the assassin’s favor: the preparer had been given many things to do to throw off the scent. Merely avoiding the plan suggested by those things would increase the chances of success tenfold. Improvisation, while something the assassin did not like, could be arranged.

  Quickly, the assassin put the glasses back into the suitcase, then turned to the bed where he had put the RPG-7. The Russian rocket-propelled grenade launcher looked almost like a toy on the king-size bed.

  “Another time,” said the assassin, packing it away.

  15

  BOLOGNA, ITALY

  Rostislawitch checked his watch. He was supposed to meet the Iranian in five minutes; it would take at least ten to reach the Orologio, which was over near the Piazza Maggiore.