Soul of the Assassin

“What do you want? That’s how the room service people dress. Take it up with the management.”

“The hat’s pretty cool,” added Ferguson, helping Jimmy Ferrone up. Ferrone was the CIA’s Libyan station chief. “I like the tassel.”

“Long time no see,” said Ferrone. “How are you?”

He held his hand out, but Ferguson was ready — when Ferrone tried to throw him, he reversed the move and spun him onto the floor.

“All right, you win,” said Ferrone from his back. “I’m getting too old for this.”

Ferguson snorted, then ducked down to the bottom of the cart Ferrone had wheeled in. There was another Walther P88, along with an MP5 submachine gun and enough ammunition for a small siege.

“What happened to the smoke grenades?” asked Ferguson.

“In the ice bucket.” Ferrone stood up and straightened his clothes. He was about Ferguson’s height and weight, and it seemed to him that he had kicked the younger man’s butt not too long ago, or at least fought him to a draw. “You tapping into the security system?”

“No. I got bugs out quicker.”

“Yeah? Something we can use?”

“You’re not important enough.” Ferguson checked and then loaded the pistol.

“Screw yourself, Ferg. What are you working on?”

Ferguson grinned.

“Yeah, all right,” said Ferrone. “If you need more help, let me know.”

“I’m good, Jimmy. Thanks.”

Ferrone stuck out his hand. Ferguson shook his head. “I’m not shaking hands with you.”

Ferrone turned to go.

“Hey, you forgot your tip,” said Ferguson, pointing to the twenty.

“That’s all right. Your coffee’s cold.”

23

NAPLES, ITALY

Kiska Babev’s assistant called her just as the plane was about to board.

“Rostislawitch is at the hotel in Tripoli. He just checked in. Tried to get some money out when he landed. There wasn’t enough in his account.”

“Very good. Were you able to get a boarding list for the earlier flight?”

“Yes, and Ferguson wasn’t on it. That doesn’t mean he’s not on his way.”

“Antov, haven’t I taught you never to state the obvious?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

Kiska was just about to tell him that she wasn’t angry when she saw a man walking into the gate area who looked familiar. He had sandy hair, a thin face, and dressed like a British college student gone to seed.

Familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him.

Had she seen him in Bologna? Or before that, much before that?

British? Or German? Not American, a little too priggish with his clothes.

“Antov, what are the names of the British and German intelligence officers assigned to Italy?” she asked.

“Hold on, Colonel.”

She watched the man, trying to remember. She’d been shown faces of various foreign agents before traveling, but that wasn’t why he was familiar. It was further back than that.

“There are several dozen. You want me to read the names?”

“No. It’s someone who was in Chechnya a year ago. A British agent, I think.”

“Are you sure about Chechnya?”

“I’m not,” she admitted. “Have someone at the airport take his picture when we land. Then follow him.”

“You’re stretched thin, Colonel.” Her assistant began telling her about the problems he had encountered getting personnel into Libya; most of the people she wanted wouldn’t be there until the next day.

“Just have the photo taken then,” Kiska told him. “Get an identification. We’ll see who he is.”

“Yes, Colonel. It will be done.”

* * *

A half hour into the flight, his gin and tonic finished — aircrew could never be trusted with martinis — Nathaniel Hamilton went to the lavatory and sat on the toilet. He took out his cell phone and broke it open, then reached into his pocket for what looked like a metal pen. He put the tip in his mouth and twisted, loosening it after considerable effort. Once the tip was gone, he pushed the plunger at the opposite end and pulled out what, in a real pen, would have been the ink cartridge. In this case, it was a collection of 25mm bullets, molded together so that they would appear harmless under an X-ray, especially to a harried security examiner. Hamilton extracted the bullets and placed each one in the cell phone, filling it up. Then he flushed the toilet, thoroughly washed his hands, and went back to his seat, apologizing to the rotund woman on the aisle and the man who looked like a dachshund in the center seat.

Hamilton stuffed a pillow behind his head, then took out his Tripoli guidebook and studied the city map. Ferguson’s man had not told him where Ferguson, or Rostislawitch for that matter, was going to be. Even though Hamilton had a relatively clear idea of what would happen — obviously Ferguson had arranged for some sort of meeting between the scientist and Atha — Ferguson’s lackey had neglected to say in his message where it was going to happen.

Hard to tell with the Americans whether that was on purpose or not, but given that he had failed to answer Hamilton’s two requests for the information, it certainly appeared purposeful.

There were hundreds of hotels and restaurants in Tripoli, and the possible locations for clandestine meetings in the more usual suspects like back alleys and docks approached infinity.

Generally an operative like Ferguson would stick to a place he was already familiar with, especially if he didn’t have time to set up beforehand. The problem was, Hamilton had no idea whether Ferguson had even been to Tripoli before, let alone where he might have worked there. Once again Hamilton was flying blind, and he didn’t like it.

Hamilton paged through the book, refreshing his mental map of the city. More than likely, the meet would be a neutral place, public so that the Iranian would feel relatively safe. Ferguson had used hotels and restaurants in Bologna; since that was his modus operandi, Hamilton flipped to the restaurant listings and began looking at the entries.

The Tripoli Restaurant, owned by the Gadhafi family?

No. A connection with the government might be messy.

The Safari, featuring live animals as entertainment?

Too many distractions.

Ile de France? Ferguson hated French restaurants.

Hamilton flipped over to the hotel section. The Libyan Renaissance? Very high-class, very chic, the place to see and be seen for the restless, wealthy set.

No. Too much of a chance of a Paris Hilton type getting in the way of the action.

The Alfonse — once reputed to be owned by gangsters. Now that was the sort of place Ferguson would like.

Hamilton marked the page and continued down the list.

24