Soul of the Assassin

“Want to get a drink?” Ferguson asked. “Or are you busy?”

“I’m never too busy for an attractive younger man.” Kiska rose. Best to find out what he was up to now. “Where would you like to go?”

“There’s a bar through that hallway over there.”

“I think perhaps another place. Quieter. Where we can find a corner alone.”

“Even better.”

* * *

Rankin wondered what the hell Ferguson was doing as he watched him walk out the front door with the blonde. She didn’t seem his type — sophisticated rather than trashy, in her thirties, with a scar on her right cheek. It wasn’t until they were out the door that Rankin realized she might be the Russian assassin, T Rex, the woman who had dialed in the explosion.

Was Ferguson out of his mind?

Rankin went upstairs to the room they were using to watch Rostislawitch, got out the laptop, and after punching in the security codes and sliding his thumb over the reader brought up the file.

It was Kiska Babev.

Christ.

* * *

Prosecco, perpiacere,” Kiska said to the waiter, ordering a bottle of the bubbly Italian wine.

“Italian. I’m impressed,” said Ferguson.

“Don’t be,” said Kiska. “That’s about all I know.”

“Your English is even better than the last time we met.”

“And your Russian?”

Ferguson told her in Russian that he would like to thank her by sleeping with her, the sooner the better.

“You are just as fresh as you always were, Bobby,” she said. “But you must work on your accent.”

“Now?”

“Later. I get so little chance to practice English these days.”

The waiter brought the wine, opening it with a flourish, popping off the cap with a bottle opener.

“Cheers,” said Kiska, holding up the glass.

“La’chaim!” said Ferguson, holding his up as well.

“Speaking Yiddish now?”

“Is that Yiddish or Hebrew?”

“Yiddish.”

“You’ve been to Israel lately.”

Puzzled, Kiska took a sip of her wine. “Why do you think that?”

“I thought maybe you were doing some side work with the Israelis,” said Ferguson. The theory had just occurred to him — the Israelis, seeking to keep Rostislawitch from helping the Iranians, hired T Rex to kill him. It made sense, though he thought from her reaction he was wrong.

Unless, of course, she wasn’t T Rex.

“The Israelis — I would think they would be very picky about whom they worked with,” said Kiska. “But you would know better than I.”

“Mossad can be very professional. You might not even know you were working with them.”

“But you, Bobby, you would know. You would know everything.”

“I didn’t know the man with the gun was at the end of the alley”

“I was happy to help.” Kiska thought about that day as she sipped her wine. She could easily have let Ferguson go, let him get killed — it would not have hurt her in the least. On the contrary: as things turned out later, it would have been better.

But she had warned him, and instead of the mafiya thugs killing him, he killed them. They were slime and deserved to die, but that hadn’t entered into her calculations, either.

No, it was as her section head had said later, accused her later: You were in love with the American. Not a lot, but a little. Just enough.

Just enough. Yes. And not love but infatuation. Mild. A kind of lust. Very different. And temporary, fortunately.

“So what were you doing on Via Bola,” said Ferguson.

“Via Bola?”

“When the truck exploded. You were nearby.”

“Was I?” Kiska put down her wine. “And how would you know that?”

“I saw you,” said Ferguson.

“You were there?”

“More or less.”

“I guess you could say the same for me.”

“You should talk to the Italians about it.”

“Why would I talk to the Italians, Bobby?”

“Maybe you saw something.”

“Are you working with them?”

“We have some common interests.”

“And would those include Artur Rostislawitch?”

“They’re not interested in Rostislawitch. Why are you interested in him?”

She’d thrown the name out, trying to see what his reaction would be. She expected a diversion — but that was what an ordinary operative would try. Ferguson had always been much more subtle, accomplished beyond his age.

It was a great shame that he worked for the U.S. He would have made an excellent protege. And lover. For a bit.

“We have an interest in all good Russian citizens,” said Kiska, sipping the wine.

“That would leave him out, wouldn’t it? Wasn’t he involved in some political scandal?”

“Ah, he was a pawn. An unfortunate in the wrong place at the wrong time. This happens.” Kiska drained her glass. “I’m on my way to talk to Dr. Rostislawitch right now. Would you like to come?”

It was a move right out of Ferguson’s own playbook — push the confrontation as far as possible; make the other side withdraw.

“You’ve gotten better,” Ferguson told her.

“Thank you.” Kiska rose. “Coming?”

“Unfortunately, I have some other business to attend to. Maybe we can trade notes later.”

“Gladly.” She reached into her pocket and took out a business card, pushing it on the table. “Call my mobile. Or send an IM.”

“Only for business?”

Kiska smiled, but said nothing else as she turned and left.

* * *

See if you can get a bug into his room.”

“Ferg?” said Rankin.

“No, it’s Santa Claus.”

“I thought it was too risky to go into his room.”

“Do it. Kiska Babev is on her way back over to the hotel. I want to hear what she says to him.”

“You don’t think she’s on her way to kill him?”

“If she is, we’ll have the whole thing on tape, right? Get a bug in there.”

“Ferg, Thera’s with him in the restaurant.”

“Yeah, I know. Go bug the room.”

“But—”

“Skippy. Just do what the hell I tell you, all right? I don’t have time to bullshit.”