Soul of the Assassin

“Uh-oh,” Ferg said. “Getting out of the cab. Low traffic tolerance. Stay with me, Skippy.”

“That’s not my name,” growled Rankin.

Ferguson pinched his elbows close to his body and ducked down a side street. He turned left and cruised onto Via Bel Belmbro. In the process he cut off a delivery truck; the Italian driver responded with a blast of his horn and a stream of curses. Under other circumstances, Ferguson might have stopped to listen — his Italian was not particularly deep — but he was a little farther from Arna Kerr than he wanted to be. So he merely hunkered down on his bike, pushing his head toward the handlebars and dodging a small car that shot out of a private courtyard. He turned onto Via San Vitale, where he remembered a parking lot; he was off his bike and trotting in the direction of the church before Rankin caught up.

“Go up two blocks; find a place to park. We’ll keep her between us,” said Ferguson.

“I thought you weren’t putting a tracker on her.”

“I didn’t. It was in the cab. Come on.”

Ferguson went far enough up the street so that he could see the next intersection, then leaned back against the facade of one of the buildings. The bricks were arranged in a way that made it look like the wall was a fireplace; for hundreds of years, there had been a marble relief on the lower panel and a statue in the upper niche. Now, though, the niche was empty, and the stone was covered with a thick, oily grime.

“Where is she?” asked Rankin.

Ferguson was just about to say that she was a slow walker when he realized that he had made a mistake: she’d be doubling back, not going ahead. That way, she could check the cars behind her to see if she was being followed.

Well, good for her, he thought.

“Come down the block, slowly,” he told Rankin, getting back on his bike. “I think she’s backtracking.”

“You lost her?”

“Not even close.” Ferguson went down toward Via San Vitale, then circled around and passed Arna Kerr as she walked toward Via Rizzoli at the center of the old city. Bologna’s two towers stood nearby.

“She’s just doing the tourist thing,” Ferguson told Rankin.

Ferguson found a place to put the bike. Pulling on a pair of sunglasses, he began walking down the street, considering what to do next. The brief predicted that Arna Kerr would stay in Bologna for one more day or perhaps two. Following her around all that time would be easy, but Ferguson was never one to take the easy way on anything.

“Ah, you again,” he said, spinning as they passed on the street. This time he didn’t bump into her. “The lady from the hotel whom I knocked to the floor. I am still sorry for this.”

Displeasure flickered on her face, the slightest hint of uncontrolled emotion.

A good sign, thought Ferguson.

“I hope you have forgiven me,” he told her in Italian, pulling off his glasses. “Here I see you are a tourist, but I thought you were a student.”

Arna Kerr was used to men trying to pick her up. She smiled condescendingly, and continued taking photos of the square with her small camera.

“I can tell you’re not Italian,” said Ferguson, switching to English. “But I don’t think you are American. Too pretty.”

“Allez oust,” she said in French. “Get lost.”

“Ah, oui. But my French is so poor, I don’t know what you are saying. I wouldn’t have guessed French. Scandinavian.”

“I can call a policeman,” she said, this time in English.

“Let me,” said Ferguson. He swung around, held his hand up, and said in a soft voice, “Polizia, polizia.” Then he spread his arms in a gesture of apology. “None seem to be nearby. Which is good — I wouldn’t want to share.”

“You act like an Italian,” said Arna. “But your accent sounds American when you speak English.”

“Grazie,” said Ferguson. “But it’s more Irish, don’t you think?”

Arna shrugged, suppressing a smile. If she weren’t working, she might find him attractive in an amusing way. He was good-looking, and glib of course, with a sense of humor. But she was working, and wanted to get rid of him as quickly and painlessly as possible.

Without calling the police, certainly.

“I can pretend to be American, if that will help,” said Ferguson. “I have been to Boston and New York. And as it happens, I have all morning free, and can give you a guided tour of the city.”

“You live here?”

“Just arrived. But in a past life, I must have lived here. Every street is familiar.”

“Really, signore—”

“Ferg. Everyone calls me Ferg.”

She shook her head. And yet she couldn’t help herself. He was attractive, with a certain air about him. “What do you do?” she asked.

“Art. I look at very old paintings and tell people with too much money whether to pay ridiculous prices for them or not. And you?”

“I’m a drug pusher,” she said in French. “A vicious woman who sucks the blood from obnoxious Americans.”

“Irishmen, too, I hope.”

Something about him struck her wrong, and it wasn’t just the fact that he so effortlessly figured out what she had said. Arna Kerr took a step toward him, then threw her right hand onto his back, reaching for his wallet pocket.

Ferguson caught her hand. She was quick, and strong. He thought it was possible she was on to him.

“I usually wait for the second date,” he said, but then he let her hand go; she reached in and took out his wallet and EU passport.

“Dublin?” she said, reading.

“Don’t you think that’s a good photo for a passport?” he asked.

Arna Kerr thumbed through the passport, noting that Ferguson had been to America several times over the past year — and to Russia, China, and Thailand besides.

His wallet had a few euros and some British pounds, along with a Presto card and American Express — black, so he wasn’t exactly poor.

Cute and rich. Well that was a good combination.

“Take a business card while you’re at it,” said Ferguson. “Do I get to feel up your wallet, too?”

“Don’t get fresh.” She handed the wallet and passport back.

“So, this means you want a tour? You see I can use the money.”

“You seem to have plenty.”

“Then I’ll pay for lunch.”

“I have to work,” she told him. “I’m late now.”

“Where’s your appointment?”

Arna Kerr blushed at the stupid lie. No harm done — but still, to be tripped up so easily.

“So dinner,” said Ferguson. “Nine?”

“Dinner. I don’t know.”

“You have to eat, right?”

He didn’t look like he was going to leave.

“I—”

“I’ll be at the hotel at nine.” Ferguson started away, then whirled on his heel. “Meet me in the lounge.”

Arna Kerr froze, sure suddenly that she had miscalculated, that he was Interpol or something.

“You never told me your name.”

“Arna,” she said.

“Arna what?”

“Just Arna.”

“Just Arna. It has a nice ring to it,” said Ferguson, bowing and walking away.