Soul of the Assassin

by Larry Bond

  “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 apple 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 Helfers?”

  “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 Helfers 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. Helfers, 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.”

  Helfers 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 Helfers.

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

  Ferguson’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 Helfers.

  “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.

  The motel did not, however, have room service, and Ferguson was still not comfortable enough to let anyone go for food, even though there was a place just down the highway. The truth was, the attack on the street had caught him off-guard. If Kiska had orchestrated it—and Corrigan’s belated warning that she was in town certainly made that seem likely—then Ferguson not only had been wrong about her but had everything lined up in his head out of whack.

  The two men in the car who had fired at them looked to be local street thugs, not very good with guns, or maybe not paid enough to make sure they hit what they were theoretically aiming at. But turning on the gas in the building beforehand—he realized now that he had smelled it, which perhaps accounted for the split second of alertness that he did manage—that was a T Rex move. The assassin must have known that they were in Naples, and at the train station. He—or she—had then calculated that they would go somewhere nearby. The plan had to have been made at least a half hour before they were actually on the street, and the order to go must have been given by someone watching them. Someone Ferguson hadn’t seen.

  Ferguson knew he wasn’t omniscient. Even the best ops got blindsided occasionally; his father had. In truth, Ferguson knew he’d probably been caught off-guard like this dozens and dozens of times on every mission.

  He still didn’t like it.

  Then again, the master assassin was slipping, as well. Was the legend overblown, as most legends were, or was Rostislawitch merely very lucky?

  Maybe a little of both.

  Thera had Rostislawitch sit in the chair near the desk. She pulled up his pant leg and examined the line of cuts on his shin. They weren’t serious. She went into the bathroom and wet a washcloth to clean them.

  “Artur, how are you feeling?” Ferguson asked Rostislawitch in Russian.

  “Fine.”

  “She doesn’t speak Russian very well,” Ferguson said. “Would you mind if we used English?”

  “She’s a beautiful woman,” said Rostislawitch, still using Russian.

  “Yeah, she is,” said Ferguson.

  “Is she your lover?”

  “I wish.” Ferguson smiled. “English?”

  Rostislawitch nodded.

  “We have some people tracking Atha, but to be honest, he’s pretty clever,” said Ferguson. “If you help us, I have a way that we might be able to find him. If we do that, we can get the bacteria back before it does any harm.”

  “How?”

  “From what I’ve seen of Atha’s background, he’s not an expert on biological warfare.”

  “He knows nothing.”

  “What if we told him that what he took is missing a key ingredient? Then we offer to supply it to him.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” said Rostislawitch. ‘The bacteria—it makes an infection, like any disease; once it’s in your system, it is the same as having food poisoning.”

  “That’s not my point,” said Ferguson. He looked out the window, watching the parking lot. Helfers and the other Marine were watching from the other room.

  “There has to be something you could tell him,” said Thera. “What if you planned to modify the bacteria in some way before they were used?”

  “A specialist would know.”

  “Atha is not a specialist,” said Thera.

  “He’ll have specialists with him. He is working with scientists, at least one. They had questions only a scientist would know to ask.”

  “Well, you have to try something,” said Thera. She ros
e abruptly, angry with him: not because he had been planing to sell the bacteria to Atha or even because he had been foolish enough to let the Iranian take it, but because he was giving up.

  “She’s prettier when she’s mad,” said Ferguson in Russian.

  “I know this is part of an act,” answered Rostislawitch.

  “It’s no act,” said Ferguson.

  “What are you saying?” asked Thera. “I don’t speak Russian. Use English.”

  “I told your friend you’re both acting.”

  “I’m not acting, Artur. You said yourself, a lot of people could die.” She tossed the washcloth into the bathroom, then turned to Ferguson. “I need air.”

  He didn’t want to let her go outside, but the look on her face made it clear she was determined. If it was an act it was a good one, because it fooled him, too.

  “Be real careful,” Ferguson told her. “Here, swap guns.”

  His fingers lingered on hers for a moment as he took the small Czech hideaway. But that was the only luxury he allowed himself, and Thera quickly left.

  “A game,” said Rostislawitch in Russian. “Good cop, bad cop.”

  “No. She’s the good cop. I’m just a prick.”

  Rostislawitch looked at the younger man’s grin. He’d saved Rostislawitch’s life, so at least as far as he was concerned, Ferguson wasn’t a prick.

  “You were the one on the motorcycle, yes?”

  “The red Ducati,” said Ferguson. “Nice bike.”

  Rostislawitch saw it again, the man hurtling at him. The explosion had come a few seconds later.

  Twice Ferguson had saved his life. Once might be a coincidence or perhaps staged, but twice was not.

  And given these second chances to live, what should he do with them? Let Atha go, let him kill untold others?

  “Maybe I could tell them something that an expert would find believable. It would depend on how far they’ve gotten. But I don’t know if I can get to Atha. He didn’t always respond right away.”