Soul of the Assassin

“Maybe,” said Ferguson. “But I’m going to guess Captain Heifers there is probably faster than both of us.”

Heifers was standing a few feet away, his Beretta trained on Kiska’s head.

“He’s a Russian citizen,” she told Ferguson. “He can’t escape justice.”

“Did you take the Iranian?” Ferguson asked.

“We have him. You want him?”

“No. I think he belongs with you. I think he was your target all along. When the smoke clears, I think it will turn out that the FSB actually set up the entire sting,” said Ferguson. “I think you used the scientist to lure the corrupt Iranian businessman here. I don’t think the CIA was involved at all. Or MI6.”

Kiska frowned, though she had a feeling that what Ferguson was proposing would, ultimately, make a lot of sense. It had in the past.

“Who is he?” she said, pointing to the man she had shot.

“Nathaniel Hamilton. Also known as T Rex. I wish you hadn’t shot him. But e’est la guerre.”

“If I hadn’t shot him, you’d be dead, Bobby.”

Ferguson, who’d had his gun ready, disagreed. But he didn’t like arguing with a lady.

“You’re probably right,” he told her.

“You owe me another one, Bobby,” said Kiska, lowering her weapon. “I expect to collect someday.”

“You know me. I always pay my debts.”

38

TRIPOLI, LIBYA

Thera felt her heart jump as Ferguson and Rostislawitch emerged from Laxy’s. She shouted to them. Rostislawitch ran to the car; Ferguson strolled behind, as if he had not a care in the world.

“Take us to the hotel,” said Ferguson, getting in the back. “My friend needs a shower.”

Rostislawitch reached into his pocket and took out the pistol to hand it back to Thera.

“Careful where you point that, Doc,” said Ferguson, grabbing it.

“I — thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

“There is something you could do for us,” Ferguson told him. “Tell us everything you know about the Russian germ program.”

“I don’t think I should. No. I don’t think I could.”

“Thing is, Doc, they’re going to assume you did anyway. They probably won’t prosecute you, because we’ll give Kiska the evidence to back up my version of the story, and they wouldn’t want to risk that coming out. Kind of make them look bad. But they won’t let you do anything important, either. They’re not completely stupid.”

“I’ll have to think,” said Rostislawitch.

“Totally up to you,” said Ferguson. “Don’t let the fact that we saved your life enter into your consideration at all. Because it is irrelevant.”

Ferguson started to laugh. The others couldn’t figure out why.

“What happened to Kiska Babev?” Thera asked. “Did you get the message?”

“What message?”

“Corrigan called, Thomas Ciello figured out she wasn’t T Rex.”

“Oh yeah, I knew that.”

“You did?”

“I’ve been telling you that. T Rex wasn’t after Rosty. T Rex wanted me.”

“You?”

“Sure.” He pulled off his coat and began undoing the bulletproof vest he’d been wearing. He hated wearing them, but then, he hated being shot even more. Hamilton’s first bullet had hit him square in the chest, right over his heart — he could still feel the pain. The bruise would be with him a long time, but it was considerably better than the alternative.

“Why was he hired to kill you?”

“I guess the Syrians are a little pissed off about the fact that the nuclear material they bought a few years back never made it to Damascus.”

“So who is T Rex?”

“It was Hamilton,” Ferguson explained. “Unfortunately, Kiska shot him in the head. It wasn’t her fault, though. She didn’t think I had a vest. Or a gun. If it were me, I would have preferred in the kneecaps so we could bring him home. Not going to bother Parnelles, though.” Ferguson pushed his legs out, trying to stretch. He was tired; he needed about twenty-four hours of sleep before he’d feel human again. “I knew Rosty wasn’t the target. Killing him isn’t that hard. He lives alone, lives in Russia. Piece of cake to kill him. No offense, Doc.”

Rostislawitch forced himself to nod.

“T Rex didn’t mind a lot of blood, but he always took the easy way out when he killed someone. He only used car bombs because the victims had bodyguards or were generally on their guard. Rosty was too easy. The trick was to make us think he was the target. That was pretty clever.”

“How long did you know it was Hamilton?”

Actually, Ferguson hadn’t been positive it was Hamilton until he showed up in front of him at the restaurant. He also didn’t know how much of the Iranian plot Hamilton himself had known, and while he suspected that he had purposely set up his preparer to lure Ferguson here, he couldn’t be sure of that, either. But he just shrugged without answering, as if he knew the whole story, and had from the very beginning. Explaining things took away much of the mystery, kind of like a woman without any clothes.

Now that he didn’t need to be on his guard, now that they were done and others could watch out for him, fatigue rolled over Ferguson like a tsunami wave. He closed his eyes, drifting. The song he’d heard in the background of the club played in his head. It was Cole Porter, an old love song. The music swelled and he got up to dance.

Ferguson turned to find a partner, and there was Thera, dressed in a long gown, pearls draped from her neck. He was in a tux.

“Shall we dance?” he asked.

“I’d love to,” she said.

He took her hand and swirled her once, then held her close. And in the dreamworld that had suddenly descended on him, everything was perfect.

39

WASHINGTON, D.C.

“The site is secure,” Corrine Alston told the President. “The decontamination teams are another two hours away.”

“The bacteria has been contained?”

“We think so. Two of our people were at the edge of the camp. They’re going to be isolated, but we don’t think they were infected.”

“A cure?”

“We hope they weren’t exposed,” said Corrine. “The Russian scientist is cooperating. But the strain is resistant to antibiotics. The people who were exposed may very well die. At a minimum, they’ll be very sick.”

“That’s unfortunate,” said President McCarthy.

“Dan Slott is arranging for medical care to be flown in.”

McCarthy got up from his desk and walked to the small globe at the side of his office, spinning it around