Soul of the Assassin

22

NAPLES, ITALY

The strong coffee helped Atha think, and by the time he had finished breakfast he had concocted a plan for getting whatever was in the locker with a minimum of exposure. It was still very early, but the vendors had begun setting up their wares on the streets near the station, and Atha had no trouble finding a good price on a piece of cheap luggage. More difficult was finding a street person whom he could provisionally trust. They were all thieves, of course, hardly a handicap under the circumstances; the difficulty was to find one who might be counted on to return the bag — or whatever was in the locker — to him for a sum approaching what they had agreed on. Atha finally settled on a man in his early twenties who walked with a limp; in the worst case he should be able to chase him down.

Atha gave the man a small advance and told him to meet him near the train station at precisely nine a.m., then went to a small osteria or restaurant to make some phone calls. His first was to the minister, who had left several messages on his voice mail demanding to know what was going on. Atha called and told him that he was in Naples and not to worry; they would soon have the material as planned.

“Why are you in Naples?” demanded the minister. “Where is the Russian?”

“The Russian is not important,” said Atha. “The material is here.”

“Everything is waiting. You are a day late already.”

“These things take time. When I obtained—”

“That’s immaterial. We must move quickly. The timetable is not our own.”

The barely suppressed rage in the minister’s voice made Atha tremble.

“I will need to make some new arrangements concerning my transportation. I had originally arranged for a merchant ship—”

“The arrangements will be made,” said the minister. “You are behind schedule.”

“Actually, Minister, I said that—”

“Do not argue. Just get it done!”

Atha pulled the phone from his head as the receiver was slammed down on the other end.

* * *

Still on the phone?” Rankin asked Hamilton.

“Bloody hell he hasn’t left, has he?”

Rankin folded his arms. “I could have bugged the damn place and we’d know what he’s saying.”

“We’re not taking risks, Yank. This is my show, remember?”

Rankin pushed back against the seat. Ferguson might be a jerk, but he sure as hell knew what he was doing, unlike this British bozo.

“He’s off the phone,” said the driver. “Coming out.”

Rankin pulled his baseball cap lower on his head, shielding his face as the car pulled out of its space. The Iranian walked out of the store and turned right, heading in the direction of the train station. Traffic had picked up considerably and within half a block they had lost sight of him.

“Shit,” said Rankin, banging on the dashboard.

“Calm down,” said Hamilton. “We know where he’s going.”

“Do we?” snapped Rankin.

Someone up ahead began honking their horn. The road ahead, barely two lanes wide, had four cars abreast, all trying to get into an intersection that seemed jammed as well. Traffic came to a complete halt.

Rankin grabbed the door latch.

“What are you doing?” asked Hamilton.

“I’ll follow him. Keep your phone line free.”

“Americans,” muttered Hamilton as Rankin slammed the door.

The cars were packed so tightly that it was difficult to get through. Rankin finally decided that the only way he could get to the side was to climb on bumpers, which elicited curses and even more horn blowing. When he reached the sidewalk, he had to duck around a fully loaded garbage Dumpster that smelled as if it hadn’t been emptied since the Second World War.

He pulled the radio’s earbud up from beneath his shirt collar. “Hey, Guns, you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here, man.”

“Atha’s coming your way”

“I’m ready.”

“I’m on foot. Hamilton’s stuck in traffic with Jared.”

“OK. You get something to eat?”

“No.”

“I’m sitting in a pastry shop. I can get you something. They have these very nice cheese danish things. Don’t know what they’re called, but they’re killer.”

“No thanks.”

“Hey, I see him.”

“All right. Don’t get too close.”

Rankin began trotting, ducking around a pair of businessmen who were themselves ducking a vendor selling umbrellas. When Rankin reached the main entrance, a nine-year-old boy stepped in front of him and asked if he wanted his shoes shined. At that moment, someone bumped into Rankin on the right. As he started to duck out of the way, a third man attempted to take Rankin’s wallet.

Rankin plunged his elbow into the first man’s stomach, then swung his left hand out and grabbed the man trying to take his wallet, throwing him to the ground. The first man took a swing at Rankin, who managed to push him off. Rankin reached for the Beretta at the back of his belt, then stopped, a policeman running through the door of the station.

“Get the hell away from me,” Rankin told the would-be pickpockets. “Go!”

But instead of running off, the first man made a run at him, plunging his head into Rankin’s midsection. Rankin smacked the side of the man’s head with his fist, then punched him in the gut with his other hand. The man crumbled to the ground, out of breath.

The policeman had paused to figure out what was going on. Now he sprang into action, blowing a whistle and unholstering his weapon. Rankin looked for a way to sneak away without having to deal with the authorities, but a police motorcycle had managed to find a way through the traffic jam behind him and was riding up on the sidewalk. He stepped back, watching as the pickpockets began pleading that they were the victims, calling Rankin a brute and saying that he was the one who should be arrested. A plainclothes detective approached Rankin, and asked in Italian what he had seen happen.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian,” said Rankin.

“Non parla Italiano?”

“I only speak English.”

“I see. Wait un momento, please.”

“I have to get a train.”

“Un momento, please,” repeated the man, gesturing to someone on the now- crowded steps. “A moment.”

“How come this kind of stuff never happens to Ferg?” Rankin muttered to himself.

23

BOLOGNA, ITALY

Ferguson was having his own problems in Bologna.

Neither he nor Thera had been able to find where Rostislawitch had gone. He wasn’t in any of the small