Soul of the Assassin

“Whose orders? What member of the government told you to do this work? The minister of defense? When did you last meet with him?”

Only then did Rostislawitch realize that he had somehow gotten himself into the middle of a political fight. He’d become a pawn in a struggle between Fradkov and the army.

Fradkov did not lose many battles at this stage of his career, and he did not lose this one. Rostislawitch’s work had played a minuscule role in the trial used by Fradkov and his allies to punish the defense minister, but it was enough to effectively end Rostislawitch’s career.

Worse, Olga became ill shortly after her husband’s “audience” with the Russian Premier. Sick with the flu, she was taken to the local hospital in Saratov, where they were living practically under house arrest. At the hospital, she caught a much worse infection — a strain of streptococcus resistant to antibiotics. She died within a week.

In a final irony, the strain was one Rostislawitch had considered but rejected for use as a weapon some twenty years before.

Fradkov’s campaign against the defense minister complete, the lab’s funding was restored. Rostislawitch’s project, however, was given short shrift. Supposedly newer ideas — one involved the bubonic plague, so how could that be new? — were in vogue, and researchers familiar with them received top priority. Rostislawitch, tainted forever by his political troubles, was shunted to the side. He was forced to take a job teaching introductory biology at a nearby college to earn money. The director of the lab was a friend of his, and so allowed him lab access, but only during off-hours. He had continued his work with E. coli B^589-A, keeping the strain alive, though by now no one else seemed to be much interested in it.

Except for the hour or two he spent in the lab each day, Dr. Rostislawitch hated life. Sometimes he thought of killing himself; other times he thought of killing a large number of people. He fantasized about killing Fradkov especially, until an airplane accident deprived him of the pleasure.

Then came the Iranian, with his offer. The Iranian didn’t know exactly what he was asking for; apparently he had heard of Rostislawitch’s work through Chechnyan friends who were fools and dullards. But to give the devil his credit, the Iranian sent a man to speak to him who did know what he was looking for, and who was intelligent enough to know that Rostislawitch could supply it.

And now he was here.

A new beginning. More like an old ending, a final gesture of payback to a world that had treated him so poorly. He had no doubt the material would be used. He wanted it to be.

He wished that weren’t true. He wished he could feel something, anything. Then he might have something to live for.

Shaving done, Rostislawitch retrieved his white shirt and began buttoning it slowly, rehearsing his English so that he could make his job pitch. For just one night, he decided, he would make himself believe that it wasn’t a cover story, or a fantasy, that he really did hope to get a legitimate job to put his skills to use. For just one night, for his dead wife’s sake, he would believe in himself and a future that did not involve destruction and terrible agony, let alone revenge.

5

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Even though the State Department had emphasized that the meeting was not only important but time sensitive, the Italian ambassador’s secretary claimed the earliest he could meet with Corrine was one p.m., and then only for ten minutes.

“Typical with the Italians,” said Undersecretary of State Gene Lashley as they drove up to the ambassador’s residence in suburban Washington. “My bet is that he doesn’t get out of bed until then.”

“I see.”

“Mention that we’re planning a reception at the embassy with free booze and women, they’ll be all over it,” Lashley said sarcastically as the State Department limo stopped at the front door. “They have a different set of priorities.”

Corrine kept her thoughts, not particularly charitable, to herself as she followed Lashley into the residence.

“Burn giorno, signor ambasciatore,” said an Italian, gliding across the tiled foyer as Lashley entered. “The ambassador is just finishing up his business.”

The Italian’s eyes found Corrine.

“Ms. Alston? Si? Such a beautiful woman to be working as counsel to the President,” continued the aide, who swept his hand to the side and bowed slightly at the waist. “Beauty and intelligence — America is a wonderful country.”

“The ambassador’s aide, Luigi Prima,” said Lashley.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Corrine, holding out her hand to shake.

Prima took it and raised it to his lips as he bowed still lower, kissing it. “So wonderful to meet you.”

“He’s a bit over-the-top, even for the Italians,” said Lashley after Prima showed them to a study to wait for the ambassador. “But I imagine you get a lot of that.”

“A lot of what?”

“Men fawning over you?”

“I really don’t.”

Lashley didn’t believe it. The President’s counsel — the daughter of McCarthy’s closest friend — was a beautiful woman, pretty much what you’d expect for someone whose mother had been a movie actress. Corrine might be wearing a dark blue suit, plain on anyone else, yet on her it could have been an evening gown.

“Undersecretary Lashley, good to see you, my friend,” said the Italian ambassador as he entered the room. Corrine and Lashley rose. Ambassador Rossi was a short man with jet-black hair combed straight back on his head. Like his aide, he was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit and exuded a slight scent of cologne. His walk was a strut, his head and chest jutting forward; he strode with confidence and just the slightest hint that he was in a hurry.

“Ms. Alston, the President’s counsel, so nice to meet you,” he said, taking her hand.

“Thank you.” Corrine was relieved that he simply shook her hand.

“Maybe you will join us for lunch?” said the ambassador.

“I’m afraid I don’t have the time,” Corrine told him.

“A pity.” The ambassador turned toward the door. “Bring some coffee please,” he said, though it appeared no one was there.

“The reason we’ve come, Mr. Ambassador —,” started Corrine.

“Wait now; you’ll have some coffee first.”

“I really don’t want to waste your time,” she said. “I know you’re very busy.”

“Ah.” He waved his hand and sat down. “I am not busy for a representative of the President. Sit. Stay.”

“It’s a very grave matter,” said Corrine. She gave a brief outline of the possible plot the CIA had discovered, leaving out any information about the operation that had discovered it.

The ambassador’s smile quickly turned to a frown.

“The President is greatly concerned,” said Corrine. “He has sent several officers to the city to help in any way that they can. He realizes that their presence may be very politically sensitive.”

“And what exactly was the nature of the operation that developed this information?” asked the ambassador. “It did not come out of the blue, I imagine.”

“No,” said Corrine. “It was standard intelligence gathering, but I’m not prepared to go into details about it at this time.”

“I see.” The ambassador’s tone indicated otherwise.

“It is of a secondary nature, certainly compared to this,” said Lashley.

“Another rendition?” The ambassador stared at Corrine. “That is why the President sends his personal lawyer?”