He was tempted to lean over and give her a kiss on the cheek, but didn’t, afraid he wouldn’t be able to hold himself back.
6
The Hotel Borgia traced its roots to a stable in the early Roman era, though even the hotel’s Web site admitted that any traces of that building or the two dozen that had occupied the grounds before the present one was built were long gone, probably carted away to form the rubble foundation of one of the local palaces. During the Middle Ages, the property had been used as a sculptor’s workshop, then razed and made into a set of houses for well-off artisans. In the sixteenth century, a distant relative of the Borgias — probably serving a semi-exile in the city — had the apartments consolidated into a minipalace. While it would have looked plain on the outside, inside its walls were covered with glorious frescoes and paintings exquisite enough to have earned the jealousy of Bologna’s leading citizens — one possible explanation for the owner’s untimely death. He died a few hundred meters away from the front door, killed by a knife wound — accidental, according to the available records, which neglected to explain how the weapon could have been thrust accidentally fifty-eight times into the man’s abdomen, chest, arms, and neck.
The building had fallen into disrepair and was razed during the beginning of the nineteenth century, not quite in time to see the birth of Italy as a modern nation. Its successor was destroyed during World War II. Its owner had been a notorious Fascist, and it was still said that when it was blown up — there was general agreement by an Allied bomb, though some held partisans had dynamited it — a thousand rats escaped from the cellar. The replacement building was a large, dull brown apartment building that was never successfully rented. In 2005, a German real estate investor bought the building and the rest of the block; he razed the interior and constructed what he called Italy’s “most modern accommodation.” This was a bit of poetic license, but the place was handsome, all polished wood and marble, accented by gleaming steel. The bar had plush carpet and material in the ceiling that deadened the acoustics — a plus for Ferguson, since it meant he could use a standard bug and not have to worry about background noise.
He ordered a drink from the waitress, then slid back in his seat, watching the doorway.
Arna Kerr might be T Rex, Ferguson thought. It didn’t fit the analysts’ profile, but she had that kind of vibe — danger lurking beneath her veneer.
She walked into the bar, her pace easy but her eyes darting back and forth, sweeping the room ahead of her, wary of an ambush.
She’s good, Ferg thought. He liked that.
Thera hunched over the coffee table in Rankin’s suite several stories above the bar, as if changing the angle she was watching the television from would change the aim of the small video bug Ferguson had planted at the edge of the booth.
Next to her, Rankin sighed and shook his head. “I hope he knows what the hell he’s doing. It looks to me like he’s just going on a date.”
“It’s supposed to look that way” Thera shifted uneasily.
“He just wants to get in her pants,” said Rankin.
“She dyes her hair,” said Thera. “And that ain’t all that’s fake.”
“You jealous?”
Thera ground her back teeth together, listening as Ferguson and their subject played verbal footsie in three languages. Ferg had once said he wasn’t very good in French or Italian — his languages were Russian and Arabic, which he’d grown up with — but he seemed fluent, joking easily, mentioning Rome, saying he’d spent a lot of time there as a kid.
“That’s true, isn’t it?” Thera asked.
“What?” said Rankin.
“Ferg. He spent time in Rome when he was a kid?”
“Got me. Half of what he tells us is bullshit. Who knows what he’s making up for her?”
Thera turned back to the screen as Ferguson suggested they leave for the restaurant.
“Which one?” said Arna Kerr.
Thera felt her heart jump as Arna Kerr put her hand on Ferg’s.
“I knew she wouldn’t go for it,” said Rankin as the woman made an excuse about not wanting to eat at the restaurant Ferg suggested.
“She’s just suggesting another restaurant,” said Thera.
“He’d better watch his ass or he’s gonna blow the whole thing.”
As they got up from the table, Thera reached for the radio to tell Guns they were coming out.
The restaurant Arna Kerr suggested was a Moroccan place perched on the edge of a semi-bohemian area; the clientele seemed to be mostly younger professor types from the University of Bologna, whose schools were scattered around the city. After suggesting the Limone — a contemporary restaurant that he had already checked out and bugged — Ferguson had let her choose. She didn’t seem to have scoped out the place beforehand; more likely she was being careful to keep him away from wherever it was she was scouting.
Ferguson wondered how she had become T Rex’s preparer; it wasn’t the sort of job that you found on Craig’s List. She didn’t seem like the type to have a military background. He knew a few women who’d gotten into arms dealing through family connections; maybe this was the same thing.
She was prettier than most of those women, good-looking enough to be a model.
“You seem pensive,” she said, noticing that he’d fallen silent.
“Beautiful women do that to me. And couscous.”
“Couscous?” Arna Kerr looked at the food on her plate and laughed, telling him in French he was one of a kind.
“You’re beautiful, too.”
“Handsome.” Ferguson winked. “Men are handsome. The English word.”
“Not pretty?”
“Pretty’s a different thing.”
They spent a few moments working out the linguistic nuances. Ferguson ordered more wine.
“I don’t think I need any more,” she said, putting her hand over her glass when the waiter arrived with the bottle.
The waiter smirked. Ferguson asked him if he was Russian.
“No, no.”
Ferguson reeled out some Russian, testing not the waiter but Arna Kerr. If she understood what Ferguson said, she didn’t let on.
Neither did the waiter.
“What did you tell him?” Arna Kerr asked.
“I said you were a beautiful woman and I was wondering if you would go home with me,” said Ferguson. He’d used saltier terms, but that was the gist.
“Home?”
“Home away from home. Bologna.”
“Where is your real home?”
“Near Dublin. Where’s yours?”
“Paris.”
We’re a pair of incredibly good liars, Ferguson thought, sipping his wine.
