Soul of the Assassin (26 page)

“Ciao,”
he said to the bartender. “
Peroni, per favore.”

The bartender nodded and put a beer glass to the spigot. He seemed to take an inordinate time to pour the beer, as if it were an arcane art in a country that greatly preferred wine.

But his timing was impeccable—the glass arrived just as Kiska entered the restaurant.

“Whoa!” yelled Ferguson, making the beer spill and jumping up as if it had gotten all over his pants.

“Bobby, what are you doing here?” asked Kiska, coming toward him.

“It’s happy hour,” Ferguson told her, grabbing a napkin and daubing his pants.

“Are you drinking or bathing?”

“Little of both,” said Ferguson. “Care to join me?”

~ * ~

ostislawitch turned back from the confusion at the bar. He was suddenly very tired, though he was only halfway through his meal.

“Would it be all right if I called it a night?” he asked Thera. “I don’t feel like dessert.”

“Are you OK?”

“Just tired.”

“Sure,” said Thera.

“I’m going to go up to my room.” Rostislawitch reached into his wallet, carefully sorting through the bills.

“I’ll pay my half,” said Thera, putting her hand on his as he started to leave enough for both of them.

“No, no,” said Rostislawitch.

Thera managed to convince him to let her cover the tip. She got up with him, and walked out, studiously avoiding looking at Ferguson and the woman with him.

“Good night,” Rostislawitch said at the elevator. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Thera hesitated, worried that she was sending the scientist to his doom. But she had no choice. Impulsively, she stretched up and gave him a peck on the cheek.

Caught off-guard, Rostislawitch managed a smile, then got into the elevator.

~ * ~

12

BOLOGNA, ITALY

MI6 agent Nathaniel Hamilton stared at the leaves of the fake fig tree in the hotel suite. It was a very good fake, so close to real that even Hamilton, who spent much of his spare time gardening, hadn’t been able to tell it was fake until he touched the undersides of the leaves. They’d even put real dirt in the planter. There were certain things the Italians were very adept at.

Blast forensics was another one, mostly because of their experience with the
mafiya.
They were not in the same class as the Israelis, of course, or even the British, but already the investigators had correctly identified the type of explosive and the general manner of the bomb’s construction, linking the design to weapons used in Chechnya. This was no small matter; it would have been very easy to look for a link to organized crime, to either the Mafia or one of the Balkan gangs that had lately begun to foolishly try to move into the country.

The general population, of course, would immediately suspect Al Qaeda, though the bombing had none of its typical earmarks. The spokesman for the Italian police had carefully explained this at the televised press conference a few minutes before, but Hamilton had no doubt that the news stories would continue to speculate that terrorists had been involved—especially since at least one group had claimed responsibility for the blast.

Hamilton folded his arms. The Italians and their investigation into the truck bomb was not really of concern to him; it wasn’t even clear that Rostislawitch was a target, after all. No, Hamilton’s bloody problem was the Americans, or one in particular: Bob Ferguson, a royal pain in the arse, as the chaps back at the pub would put it.

The MI6 agent found Americans to be annoying as a general rule, but Ferguson took it to a high art. He had
some
ability as an operative, Hamilton had to admit, but surely Ferguson owed a great deal of his career to fortunate blunder and judicious bluster. Like all Americans, he refused to admit this to anyone, most especially himself, and was therefore exceedingly hard to stomach, let alone deal with.

But deal Hamilton must. The main office had just made this clear in a terse IM:

Cooperate with the Americans. Highest authority.

Highest authority, yes. No doubt this had been agreed over tea and scones at the American embassy in London. Or Scotch and rocks at the British embassy in Washington.

Hamilton sighed, then erased the message from his mobile.

Best to get it over with as soon as possible. He tapped the number he had been given into the phone. With any luck, he’d get voice mail.

~ * ~

13

BOLOGNA, ITALY

Rankin reached the lobby just as Thera was turning away from the elevator. He froze for a half second, unsure what was going on, then tried to nonchalantly walk past her. But he was panting, out of breath from the long run.

“Hello,” said Thera. “Don’t I know you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Ferg’s in the restaurant,” she whispered.

“With Kiska?”

“He’s with a woman. I didn’t get a good look at her face.”

“Where’s Rostislawitch?”

“Went up to his room.”

“Come on,” said Rankin, backing toward the stairs. “We’ll go upstairs. I put a bug in Rostislawitch’s room.”

“We can’t leave Ferg alone with her, if she’s T Rex,” said Thera.

“I wouldn’t worry about him. He’s probably talking his way into her pants right now.”

~ * ~

he conversation in the bar did concern pants, though they were Ferguson’s, not Kiska’s.

The Russian agent realized that Ferguson had shown up specifically to keep her from Rostislawitch. The Americans must be trying to woo him away; the attractive woman he’d been having dinner with was undoubtedly part of the plan.

If this had been the old days, during the Cold War, Kiska’s task would be clear: she’d call in backup, grab Rostislawitch, and return him to the Soviet Union. But the Cold War had ended when she was in grade school, and Russia was no longer the Soviet Union. Citizens, even those with classified clearances and important specialties like Rostislawitch, were in theory free to do what they wanted, and had to be treated carefully, especially in a country with a scandal-hungry media.

Which meant she had to be subtle.

“You really surprise me, Bobby,” she said, balling a beer-soaked napkin into her hand. “I didn’t think you did these sorts of cheap escapades.”

“Yeah, I’m a klutz sometimes.”

“I’ll see you around.”

Ferguson caught her hand. “Sure you won’t stay for a drink?”

She looked down at his pants. “I’m afraid of where it might go.”

Ferguson smirked, then watched her leave. He pulled out his sat phone, pretending to call while turning on the radio.

“Rankin,
dove vai?”

“What?”

“Where’d you go?”

“Thera and me are in the second-floor room. Rostislawitch is upstairs in his room.”

“Kiska just left the bar. She may be going up there.”

“We’re watching.”

“Where are the Italians?”

“They have two people in the car down the street, one guy on a roof watching the front of the building. Other guys knocked off. They’re not coming in, right?”

“Imperiati says they have to keep their distance. He’s not a suspect in the bombing.”

“Ferg, what’s going on?” asked Thera. “Is she going to try again?”

“You’re assuming she’s T Rex.”

“Well, is she?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t have it all together. I’ll be up in a minute.”

He had just flipped down the phone’s antenna when a call came through. It was Corrigan.

Ferguson glanced down the bar; the bartender was still at the far end, serving whiskeys to two Americans trying to look younger than they really were.

“Hey, Wrong Way,” Ferguson said to Corrigan. “What’s happening?”

“Wrong Way what?”

“You never heard of that? Pilot who flew the wrong way?”

“Listen, Ferg, I need an update. Mr. Parnelles wants to know what’s going on. He’s pretty hot.”

“Hey, I like the old guy myself, Corrigan, but I don’t think he’s much to look at.”

“Stop busting my chops, Ferg. He’s really leaning on me. He wants a report.”

Ferguson laughed. Corrigan had no clue what real pressure was like—
especially
from Parnelles.

“That’s all you called about?”

“The MI6 guy is trying to get ahold of you. He called your backup number. Message says he’s been told to cooperate with you. Doesn’t sound real overjoyed about it.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Wait; don’t hang up. Tell me what to tell Parnelles.”

Ferguson glanced down at his slacks. “Tell him my pants are wet.”

“What?”

“Did Ciello get that credit card information on Kiska?”

“That may take days, Ferg. You know the legal red tape.”

The bartender came over, pointing at Ferguson’s empty beer glass. Ferguson nodded. The man pushed the sodden napkins off the bar into a wastebasket, then went to get him a refill.

“Why do you want him to dig into that for? Don’t you think the Russian is T Rex?”

“No.”

“Who else could it be? She was in France when Dalton was killed. The Italians say the bomb is similar to ones used in Chechnya. Kiska worked in Chechnya. Bingo.”

“Completely settled, Corrigan. You’re a genius.”

Ferguson took the new beer from the bartender and took a swig; it shot immediately to his head. Then he realized it wasn’t the beer at all. He’d forgotten to take his pills that morning. No wonder he was speeding—missing a dose of the replacement hormones had the odd effect of boosting his energy level temporarily.

The doctors, of course, didn’t believe him; in theory it should do the opposite. But he knew a rush when he felt one.

He reached into his pocket for his pillbox and slipped the little pills onto the bar counter next to the glass.

“I’ll get after Ciello,” Corrigan was saying. “In the meantime, what can I tell Parnelles?”

“Tell him she wouldn’t sleep with me, but I still have hopes.”

“Ferg, come on. Be serious.”

The bartender was hovering nearby. “Talk to you later, Wrong Way,” said Ferguson, hanging up.

“What are those?” asked the bartender, pointing at Ferguson’s pills.

“Viagra,” said Ferguson, popping them into his mouth.

“I thought Viagra was blue.”