but not in a good way — he used to gag at the smell of spinach.
The building was five stories high. Rankin trotted up the steps to the top, stopping at the top landing to make sure no one was around. Then he moved quickly down the hall to a window that looked onto the side alley. He reached to the top, making sure the latches he had checked yesterday were still undone- then pushed the window up and stepped out onto the ledge.
When he’d done this the night before, the moon had been out and there was plenty of light to see the narrow ledge by. Tonight, however, it was cloudy, and damp besides; he felt his feet slip as he pulled himself up onto the narrow lip outside the building. He took a breath, holding himself against the old brown bricks. Then he gently pushed the window closed and began sliding to the right, where a small hip roof led to a wide, nearly flat roof overlooking the back of the hotel where Arna Kerr had her room.
Even at this hour, there was still plenty of traffic in the city. Rankin could hear the dull boom of stereos and smell the stink of exhaust as he moved sideways across the building. If she had gotten a room on the other side of the hotel, his job would have been easier — there was a bar with a broad terrace overlooking the street on that side; he could have gotten a drink and pretended to be copping a smoke.
If Ferguson had had this job, that’s where the room would have been.
Rankin made it to the hip roof and pulled himself over, knees scraping on the hard ceramic shingles. They were a lot more slippery than he remembered. He pushed on, got to the flatter roof. There he took his water from his backpack and took a long pull, resting for a moment. His breath back, he took out the small dish and screwed what looked like a boom mike into the center. The device worked by feeding an infrared laser onto a window and using it to “read” the vibrations, translating them back into sound waves. Rankin put on a pair of glasses tuned to the laser’s frequency and began aiming the device. He had just figured out the correct window when he heard Guns talking to him on the radio.
“Hang on,” he said, adjusting the volume. “What’s up?”
“Ferguson is going over to the Orologio,” Guns said. “How are you doing there?”
“Almost set.”
“You can take your time. She won’t be going back to her room tonight.”
“No shit.”
Ferguson had made love to the enemy plenty of times before, but tonight he was off-balance. He went through the motions smoothly, fingers gliding gently down the buttons of her blouse, undoing each one with a simple push, pulling the silk away from her shoulders, letting the shirt fall back and away from her torso. He ran the backs of his hands over her bra — black and silky — then around to undo the clasp.
He pushed his lips against hers. They gave way easily. Her tongue met his, rolling around it. Ferguson slipped the bra from her shoulders and cupped her breasts gently, her nipples hard.
But it wasn’t about sex. It was a job, and as smooth as his hands were, his mind felt as if it were watching through a peephole from another room.
He reached the zipper on her skirt and slipped it downward. The skirt caught against her hips but then gave way, falling to the floor.
It might not be about sex, but it wasn’t just the job, either. Power was involved: getting it, having it, keeping it. That was what spying was. Not that Ferguson considered himself a spy in the classic sense — it was rarely his job to simply get information, and he never had been a “runner of men and women” as his father had been for most of his career. A spymaster manipulated people — sex had probably been one of his tools, though until this moment Ferg had never really thought about that.
“The bed’s in the next room,” said Ferguson when Arna Kerr was down to her panties.
“The couch is right here.”
She leaned backward toward it ever so slightly. He took the hint, pushing against her gently, moving down with her as she gave way.
8
Thera had heard enough. She reached for the handle of the car door. “I’ll be back,” she told Guns.
“Where you goin’?”
“Time to run a check,” she said, though she had been around the block making sure they weren’t being watched only a few minutes before. She slapped the Fiat’s door closed and began walking away from the hotel — away from Ferguson and what he was doing with the blonde.
She shouldn’t care — she
Something moved in the shadows at the edge of the street. Thera slipped her hand inside her jacket pocket, wrapping her fingers around the small pistol there. But it was nothing — a young man and woman, making out near the portico’s pillar.
Thera continued around the block, her sneakers rubbing on the pavement. She needed a mission, a mind-set: she became a tourist, coming home after dinner. She quickened her pace, slightly worried about the unfamiliar surroundings.
She turned the corner and saw a small crowd of people gathered near a cafe at the far end, spilling out into the street, laughing and having a good time.
Ferguson was just doing his job, Thera told herself. It shouldn’t bother her. It really shouldn’t bother her.
He fell asleep after they were done. Arna Kerr pretended to doze herself, then got up and went to the bathroom, grabbing his pants along the way.
No keys, a few euros of change, an Irish pence.
The license looked genuine, but that wasn’t much of a trick — her own documents, after all, were phony. She repeated the number to herself three times, enough to memorize it: Arna Kerr had always been good with numbers. She slipped the credit card receipt out, thinking she would take it as well, but most of the account number was x’d out.
The license would be enough. She fingered the wallet. There wasn’t much in it besides money: the credit cards she’d seen earlier, a few business cards. No photos, no phone numbers of lovers, just the bare essentials. Very businesslike.
The sex had been businesslike as well. She sensed he was holding back. Maybe he was married, despite the lack of a ring.
Arna Kerr flushed the toilet and ran the water, purposely making enough noise so he could hear and stir if he was awake. She cracked the door to see, but he was still lying motionless on the bed.
Reaching for the light, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Arna didn’t like to see herself naked. Being naked meant being without defenses.
That was what sex was, wasn’t it?
She turned off the light and tiptoed into the room, went to the bed, and ran her fingers across the side of his face, tickling his ear and neck. He didn’t move. Between the wine and the sex, he was totally out.
She went back around to the other side of the bed and picked up her underwear. Pulling on her panties, she went to the bureau and eased open the drawers. The top one was empty; the bottom held a pair of pants and a sweater. She slipped her hand in and checked: nothing.
There were more clothes in the drawer to the right. Underwear — silk boxers — a soft, thick T-shirt, socks. A pair of jeans.
In the closet, she found a leather briefcase and a suiter. These she took, one at a time, into the bathroom so she could search them thoroughly. The suitcase was empty, except for some tissues and a disposable razor. The briefcase had four yellow folders, some pens, and two pieces of paper that had addresses and phone numbers, all in Bologna. At least two belonged to galleries, and from what she knew of the locations she guessed the others were
