Soul of the Assassin (20 page)

The policeman hopped out of the car and opened the door.

“Once again, we apologize,” said the policeman, standing stiffly to emphasize the formality of his statement. “If we can help you, you must only call.”

“It’s OK. OK,” said Rostislawitch. He left the door open and began walking toward the building.

~ * ~

erguson swung the bike to the other side of the police car, then inched around it, moving in first gear. Rostislawitch began walking swiftly ahead in the direction of the building. Ferguson started looking for Rankin, who should have been nearby, when he caught sight of a woman on the corner opposite him. She was tall, about five-ten in flats, with windblown blond hair that came straight back from her forehead. She looked harried, her lips pale and parched, and she had a cell phone in her hand.

Ferguson knew the lips well. He’d kissed them several times, most memorably the night the woman had saved his life. Her name was Kiska Babev, and she was a member of the Russian Federal Security Service or Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, or FSB, the main successor to the KGB.

“Ferg!” shouted Rankin over the radio. “That yellow truck halfway down the block. I think it’s a bomb!”

Kiska was looking at her cell phone. Rostislawitch was walking swiftly, approaching the truck.

Ferguson cranked the Ducati, shooting forward with a burst of speed. Five yards from Rostislawitch he leaned hard and sent the bike into a skid; he put a little too much weight on the side and flew off, tumbling into Rostislawitch as the Ducati slid across the cobblestones.

Ferguson draped his body over the Russian, intending to grab him and run. But before he could get up, the van exploded.

~ * ~

~ * ~

1

BOLOGNA, ITALY

It was as if a twister had come at him sideways, throwing Rostislawitch down and then pummeling him with debris and grit, turning the day black. He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t hear. A man had been dropped on him, a helmeted motorcyclist. Something had exploded— Rostislawitch felt the concussion and thought of Chechnya in the final days he’d spent there.

There was a humming sensation—not people singing, but a kind of vibration that came from inside him. He thought of his wife, of the little church where they had gone to marry in the days when worship was still officially outlawed, though the authorities looked the other way or even attended themselves. The sensation was the same as what he felt standing near the altar as the pipe organ played, the floor, the walls, vibrating with its sonorous tones.

Sweat poured from his body. Someone looked at him, stared into his eyes. They might be speaking, but he couldn’t hear.

Was he dying? He didn’t think so. He didn’t wish it, even if it would be an escape. To wish for death was wrong.

The sky suddenly turned very blue. Rostislawitch thought of the girl at the conference, Thera. He’d like to see her again.

And the Iranian?

Maybe he had done this. Or was it perhaps the work of the Russian FSB, trying to eliminate him?

The humming stopped; Rostislawitch heard a scream and then the sound of a siren in the distance.

~ * ~

fter the initial shock of the blast cleared, Rankin froze, unsure whether to chase after the man who’d left the van or go for Ferguson, who’d been back on the other side of the van, closer to the bomb. Then Rankin’s instincts kicked in and he ran across the street, racing toward the prone figures curled against the side of a building. He started to touch Ferguson’s body, bracing himself for blood and worse; instead, Ferguson rolled over to his stomach and then jumped, unsteady but intact, to his feet.

Rostislawitch was a few feet away, dazed and breathing heavily, but seemingly OK. The nearby cars had taken the brunt of the explosion; one was on fire.

Ferguson pointed at Rostislawitch. “Is he OK?” he asked, his voice faint.

Rankin thought Ferguson’s helmet was muffling his voice. But as Rankin bent to check the Russian more closely he realized the explosion had temporarily damaged his hearing.

“He’s breathing,” said Rankin, straightening.

Ferguson pointed down the street. “Check and see if anyone’s watching,” he said.

“I saw a guy get out of the van.”

“Shit.”

“You sure you’re all right?”

“What’d he look like?”

Rankin described the glimpse he’d gotten—a man, five-eight, with a blue jacket and a green ski cap.

“Which way?” asked Ferguson.

“That way.”

“Go. I’ll talk to the Italians. Go.
Go!”

~ * ~

2

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Corrine Alston was in the middle of a meeting with lawyers from the FTC about the proposed language approving the merger of the two satellite radio companies when she got an alert on her Blackberry to call Daniel Slott. She stifled her angst, and waited a few seconds for the proceedings to reach a natural pause before excusing herself.

“Slott.”

“This is Corrine Alston.”

“There was an explosion in Bologna. Our people are OK.”

“T Rex?”

“Not sure. Not a bad guess, though. We’re still getting details. This was five minutes ago.”

“Does the President know?”

“I thought you’d want to update him yourself.”

“I will, thanks.”

Simple courtesy, Corrine wondered, or was Slott trying to make sure he wasn’t associated with a setback?

“I finally heard back from British MI6,” added the CIA’s Deputy Director. “They’ve promised to cooperate.”

“Will they?”

“Maybe,” said Slott. “They didn’t have much else about Atha. Some humint said he was worth watching in Italy. Human intelligence. The source was vague. That’s their story. I don’t think they’re lying, but it is thin.”

“I’m calling the President right now,” she told him, hanging up.

~ * ~

3

BOLOGNA, ITALY

Atha took a deep breath as the elevator opened, then walked out into the hallway of Rostislawitch’s hotel. Unlike most large hotels, there were no signs to show which way the numbers ran; Atha had to check on the doors and then guess the right direction. The hotel’s hallways were laid out in an intersecting H pattern, with an occasional dead end due to an oversized suite, and it took him five minutes to find the room. By then, sweat had begun dripping down his sleeves to the palms of his hands, and running down his back. When he found the door to Rostislawitch’s room, the Iranian hesitated a moment, then knocked.

There was no answer. By now the scientist would be at the conference several blocks away. Atha knocked again, then reached into his pocket for the electronic room key.

The device was an emergency key card that could be used as a master key. The one downside was that, like any key card, it would leave an audit trail in the hotel system; depending on how the doors and locks were wired and what procedures the hotel followed, it could alert the main desk. Atha had posted his driver in the lobby as a lookout to warn him if they sent someone in his direction.

His talk with the minister had left Atha jittery, even fearful. He had never been under such pressure for a deal before. The rewards would be much greater—many times so—but the sharp beat of his heart made him think that even if he was successful, he had traded several years of his life for it.

Atha’s hands were so wet with perspiration that the card slipped and fell to the floor. He quickly scooped the card back up, slid it into the slot and then out, and pushed the door open.

The room was small, and empty. The bed had been made. There was a small briefcase next to the desk and an old piece of luggage on the stand near the window. Atha reached into his pockets and pulled on some rubber gloves. Then he began pulling open the drawers.

There was nothing in them. He went to the minifridge below the desk, kneeling so he could look inside. Some orange drink, water, a few beers, and wine. Atha looked at each bottle carefully, making sure they were legitimate.

The problem was he didn’t know how big the package with the material would be. Dr. Hamid, the expert who had helped Atha set up the project and who was now waiting for him to return with the material, had said the material could be contained in a relatively small vessel, and could be stored for several days at room temperature—one of the benefits of the design. But beyond that, his description was vague. The material, Hamid believed, could be carried in a liquid or in a gel. Since only Rostislawitch had seen it, any description was only a guess.

Atha rose and opened the suitcase. There were clothes, and two photographs—one of Rostislawitch with a woman, and another of just the woman herself. Atha assumed it was Rostislawitch’s wife, who the scientist had mentioned had died some time ago. She was a small woman, with a ruddy, darkish face and brown hair. A handsome face, despite her years.

The Iranian continued hunting through the clothes, placing them on the bed carefully to make it easier for him to look. There was nothing in the bag but clothes. The socks at the bottom had small holes in the heels; the pants next to them were frayed at the bottom.

It was useless. Rostislawitch was a brilliant man, a scientist, a genius. He would not keep the material with him. That was a simple precaution.

Had he left it in Russia? He had promised to make it available within twenty-four hours.

So it
was
a ruse. A trap. Maybe Russian intelligence was behind the entire thing. Atha’s own intelligence service had assured him Rostislawitch would be acting alone, but what did those fools know? They were guessing, telling him what they thought the minister wanted to hear.

Atha returned the clothes to the suitcase and smoothed out the bed. He started to leave, then remembered the briefcase.

He stared at its position against the desk, memorizing it. Then he picked it up and looked at it. Made of leather, it had a flap over the top secured by a simple lock; Atha pushed the center clasp; it sprang open, the case pitching down because of its weight. Papers and pens flew onto the floor. Once again, Atha began to sweat profusely, his hands trembling.

He put the briefcase on the bed and looked inside. There was one large book, in Russian; he couldn’t tell what it was about, but it looked like some sort of reference or textbook. There was a spiral-bound notebook next to it. Atha pulled it out, looked at a few pages; it was completely blank. A folder in another compartment had loose-leaf paper filled with what looked like notes for a lecture.