Soul of the Assassin

vest. He saw the water on the steps next to him as he descended into the restaurant and worried that he was going to slip.

Rostislawitch ignored the man at the maitre d’ lectern, walking toward the back as Thera had directed. His eyes had trouble adjusting to the low light; he saw shadows instead of people. The place was a lot more crowded than he thought it would be; every table seemed to be full. He looked right, and saw a man with a beard and glasses, smiling at him.

“Doctor.” Ferguson rose deferentially, and told him in Russian how good it was to see him. Rostislawitch replied automatically that the pleasure was his.

“We should speak English for our partner,” said Ferguson, gesturing toward Atha as he sat down. Ferguson poured Rostislawitch some vodka, but the scientist didn’t touch it.

“What is this virus?” demanded Atha. “How does it work?”

Rostislawitch’s mind blanked. He couldn’t understand the question.

“Do you need a technical explanation about the virus and how it prepares the bacteria?” asked Ferguson. “Is it important?”

“Why did you sabotage the bacteria?” Atha asked Rostislawitch.

“Why did you take it?” said Rostislawitch. “You did not pay. How did you know where it was?”

“I always intended on paying,” said Atha. “I just needed to hurry things along. I have time constraints. You do not understand this. You scientists think in terms of centuries. I have hours.”

“Do you know how dangerous it is?”

“That’s not your concern.”

“Thousands — millions of people could die.”

“If you don’t want to do business—” Atha started to rise. It was only partly a bluff; Rostislawitch’s attitude and tone angered him.

“Now, now, let us relax,” said Ferguson. “Sit, please. Have some vodka. Are you sure you won’t drink?”

Atha scowled, but sat back down.

“You’re doing great, Doc,” Ferguson told Rostislawitch in Russian. “But don’t be so angry. Relax. Just keep him talking.”

“Aren’t you insulting him by insisting he drink?” asked Rostislawitch. “He’s Muslim.”

“You think so?” Ferguson smiled. That was the general idea.

“How is this virus to be used?” asked Atha. “What is its purpose?”

Rostislawitch looked over at Ferguson. When he nodded, Rostislawitch began explaining that the process would be familiar to anyone experienced in modifying bacterial DNA; the virus was custom-designed to make the proper modification. He gave the Iranian a few lines from a graduate lecture in the subject, staying away from the complicated chemistry.

The explanation was sufficient to convince Atha that the scientist wasn’t bluffing.

“When you give it to me, then you will get your payment,” Atha said abruptly, cutting Rostislawitch off in midsentence. “Where is it?”

“It’s available,” said Ferguson. “Let us talk price.”

* * *

Nathaniel Hamilton pulled the rental car to the curb near the entrance to Laxy’s. The routine was getting old — go in, have a walk around, fail to spot Ferguson, leave. But the alternative was to simply sit in his hotel room and wait for Ferguson to send for him, as if he were a tart on call.

Oh, it was going to be so lovely to kill the son of a bitch. The money was almost not a consideration.

Almost.

Hamilton took out his satellite phone to call his room and check for messages before going into the club. As he dialed, a pair of black Mercedes drove up in front of him. The cars had plates from the Russian embassy.

A half-dozen people got out of the cars, five bulky men and a tall blonde. They looked up and down the block; then the men formed a wedge around the woman and headed into the building.

Clearly Russian agents, thought Hamilton. Maybe Ferguson was here after all.

* * *

Thera slipped the headphones into her ears so she could hear the conversation between Atha and Rostislawitch. She could just barely see the stairs from her table. Green and Griffen, two of the Special Forces soldiers dressed in civilian clothes who were backing them up, were sitting at a booth catty-corner across from her. Another pair of soldiers were farther back in the club, closer to Ferguson.

Thera’s sat phone buzzed with a call. It was the Cube.

“Thera, Ferg’s not answering his phone,” said Corrigan.

“No kidding. Why are you calling him?”

“Ciello just worked it out — Kiska Babev can’t be T Rex. She was in Georgia when Dalton was killed. The stop in Paris was just to set up some sort of alias. Ciello has her credit card charges. She never left the city and was out of town long before Dalton got to France.”

“All right,” said Thera.

She pushed down the phone’s antenna. Before she could figure out a way of telling Ferguson, she saw Kiska Babev and five other Russians walking down the steps at the restaurant entrance.

* * *

Two million more, or there is no deal,” Ferguson told Atha.

“American dollars, of course.”

“I can’t do it,” said Atha. “I just can’t.”

“Call whoever it is you’re working for,” said Ferguson. “They’ll pay.”

“I am working on my own.”

Ferguson made a face to show that he didn’t believe Atha. “Well, then you pay. It’s certainly worth it.”

“No.”

“Then you won’t get the virus. The bacteria you have is worthless.”

Atha thought the minister might be willing to provide the extra money, even though he would grumble about it.

The alternative was to call the intelligence people at the Iranian embassy and get them to help him force the Russians to talk. But that might be tricky — too much force and everything would be ruined.

“If it is the office of the President,” said Ferguson, leaning forward, “I have a friend who works there.”

“It is not the President,” said Atha. “How would you have friends in Iran?”

“I have many friends. Even among the Revolutionary Guard. And the Education Ministry.”

Atha felt his breath choking. What if the Russian cut him out of the deal?

No. Impossible. He was the one with the camp.

“Let us say, for a moment, that we agreed on the price,” said Atha. “I would need the material quickly.”

“You’ll have it within twenty-four hours of payment.”

“Far too late,” said Atha, shaking his head.

As Ferguson shrugged, he noticed Kiska Babev heading a pack of FSB officers in his direction.

“What a pleasant surprise,” he said loudly in Russian, rising. “Colonel Babev, what brings you to Tripoli?”

Kiska glared at him.

“Artur Rostislawitch, why are you in Tripoli?” Kiska looked across the table at Atha. “You — who are you?”

“Doesn’t speak Russian,” said Ferguson, still speaking Russian.

“I don’t know what sort of game you’re playing,” she said to Ferguson. “But I don’t like it.”

“I’m not playing a game. I’m conducting a business transaction.”

“What?”

“The education minister of Iran has authorized this man to buy Russian germ warfare material.”

Atha didn’t understand a word they were saying, but he knew it was time for him to leave. He started sliding out.

“Sit down,” Kiska told him in Russian.