“Ferg?”
“Talk to me, Corrigan.”
“Where are you, Ferg?”
“On the road again,” sang Ferguson, slightly off-key.
“The GPS says you’re in Massachusetts.”
“Just paying my respects,” said Ferguson.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Jack Corrigan. “Your father’s buried up there, huh?”
Jack Corrigan was the First Team’s desk officer, the mission coordinator who spent most of his time in a bunker known as “the Cube.” His job was to support the First Team while they were in action, providing them information and arranging for assistance when necessary. He’d probably just been briefed on the mission.
The waitress came over with the coffee, but Ferguson waved his hand at her, adding, “Just the check.”
“Look, I have the plane all arranged. I have you going out of JFK instead of Logan, though. I didn’t know you were up there. I figured you’d want a direct flight to Bologna so—”
“Don’t worry about it. When’s the flight?”
“Three o’clock. Rankin should be there tomorrow night. Thera and Guns are going in through Rome so they can bring more equipment in.”
“That’s good.”
“You’re all packed? You need more gear?”
“I’m good, Mom, thanks. Even have a new toothbrush.”
“Rankin’s going to come with extra clothes.”
“He needs them. Never takes a shower.”
“How can you be so flip this early in the morning?”
“That’s what happens when you start off the day with great hash browns,” said Ferguson.
4
Stephen Rankin watched as the blonde pulled the strands of hair back behind her ear, pretending to preen in the hotel lobby’s mirror. She was actually checking to see if she was being watched.
Of course she was. Every male eye in the hotel lobby, including those of the overtly gay man at the front desk, was staring at her. She was just too gorgeous not to.
Which ought to be a liability in her line of business, Rankin thought.
The blonde finished playing with her hair and swept toward the doorway. Rankin watched from the corner of his eye — then nearly jumped as he saw her collide with someone and fall to the floor.
It was Ferguson.
Rankin had worked with the CIA officer long enough now that he shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. They were supposed to be shadowing the blonde, who’d been identified as T Rex’s “preparer,” a kind of advance man who made sure things were ready for the assassin to do his job when he arrived in town. Shadowing generally meant staying far in the background, but Ferguson had his own way of handling things.
“I hope you’re OK,” said Ferguson, first in English and then in Italian.
“Yes, OK” she said, her English heavily accented. She pushed down her skirt, scowled at him, then went back toward the door, hesitating ever so slightly before pushing it open.
Ferguson, meanwhile, strolled across the lobby. Seeming to spot Rankin for the first time, Ferguson greeted him in a loud voice.
“Just fine,” said Rankin, remaining seated. He still had no idea what Ferguson was doing, except that it wasn’t what they had planned just a half hour before.
“It is a fine day,
“Yeah, sure,” said Rankin sourly. He rose.
“If you’re busy—”
“Am I?” asked Rankin.
“Of course not. Come then,” said Ferguson, and he swung around toward the doors.
“Should we be watching the mistress?” said Rankin once they were outside.
“I keep telling you, Skippy, she and T Rex aren’t like that. My bet is that not only has she never met him, she doesn’t even know what he does. Not specifically, anyway.”
“Like she couldn’t figure it out, huh?”
“He probably sends her on a couple of gigs a year that are just blinds. But maybe she does. The hair color’s a dye job.”
Ferguson glanced to his left. The taxi was just turning to the east, out of sight.
“We’re not going to follow her?” asked Rankin.
Ferguson smiled without answering. Rankin knew Ferguson was acting this way partly because he didn’t like explaining himself, and also partly because he liked to annoy people, especially Rankin. Some days Rankin could let it slide without saying anything; today he couldn’t.
“Why do you have to be such an ass when we’re workin’, for cryin’ out loud?” he snapped.
Ferguson just laughed and continued toward the mopeds he’d parked nearby. He grabbed the brown one, stepped over it, and got on.
“We’re going toward Via Zamboni, I think,” he told Rankin. “Stay back. Remember she’s seen you.”
“Hey—”
“And get your radio on. Channel eight — louder the buzz, the closer you are to her. I’m on channel two.”
Ferguson revved the bike’s small motor, then helped it get moving by pushing his feet along the pavement. Rather than turning in the direction the cab had taken, he went right; after glancing behind him to make sure Rankin was following, Ferguson reached into his pocket and took out the GPS receiver, glancing at the screen, which showed where the bug he’d placed in the cab was. The taxi had become bogged down in the narrow one-way streets. Ferguson continued to the north, then turned onto Via San Giacomo.
“You with me, Rankin?”
“I guess.”
“She said she was going to one of the university administration buildings. Probably bull, but we’ll see how patient she is.”
“You sure we got the right girl, right?”
“Got me, Skippy. Depends on how far we trust Corrigan.”
“Yeah. That makes me feel
One of Rankin’s redeeming qualities, in Ferguson’s opinion, was his deep distrust of Corrigan, largely because of the fact that Corrigan had been an army intelligence officer before joining the CIA. In this case, however, Ferguson believed that the identification of Arna Kerr as T Rex’s “preparer” was probably correct; he’d followed her the night before when she arrived in town, and watched her do the sorts of things Ferguson and the others did before they set up a mission — renting cars, casing buildings, getting the lay of the land. She’d originally been ID’d by matching various credit card and other records against T Rex’s known assassinations. Arna didn’t seem to work them all, but she had been around for the flashiest ones, including Dalton’s.
Though she had come in from Paris and was apparently claiming to be French, they had traced her credit cards to Stockholm, Sweden. If they decided they wanted her — which they might — they could get her there. Taking her now would tip off T Rex and ruin the entire operation.
As would letting her know she was being followed.
The GPS device beeped.
