Soul of the Assassin

“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?”

* * *

Rostislawitch 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.”

* * *

The 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.”