Soul of the Assassin (15 page)

“You think someone would pay close to a million dollars to kill an art minister?” Ferguson asked.

“Well, this is Italy. We do take art very seriously.” Imperiati attempted a smile; it died about halfway to his lips. “But the fact that she is the niece of a Sicilian Mafioso involved in a power struggle may be relevant.”

“True.”

“We will cancel both visits at the last minute.”

“If you do that, we’re not going to catch T Rex.”

“That is not my concern.”

“If he’s really been hired to kill one of those people, he won’t stop just because the visit is canceled. If you have the minister, or a stand-in, come to the city, you’ll still be able to catch him.”

“Maybe. Or maybe he gets away. In the process, if there is a bomb, if there is a gas attack, even a gunfight, innocent people die. Innocent citizens. Those are the people whom I worry about.”

Ferguson figured this wasn’t the time or place to get into a philosophical discussion about who really was innocent in this day and age, so he let Imperiati’s statement pass without comment.

~ * ~

13

BOLOGNA, ITALY

While Ferguson met with the Italians, Thera and the others continued to watch Rostislawitch. Security at the conference had been tightened considerably; Thera had to show her forged pass, then wait as her name was checked against a master list of conference attendees. Fortunately, Corrigan had taken the precaution of having her name added overnight, as well as making sure that her credentials with the University of Athens were in order.

The back entrance Thera had gone out with Rostislawitch as well as the side doors, and all of the windows on the first floor, had been locked, with alarms attached, and a cell phone interrupter was now operating inside the building, making it impossible for anyone to call in or out, much less use a phone to trigger explosive devices. The team’s radios were not affected, but since the Italians were using detection devices, the radios were reserved only for emergencies. Thera kept hers in her purse while she attended a panel discussion on the function of enzymes in bacteria mutation. She found the topic fascinating, though somewhat over her head. Corrigan had forwarded a collection of papers on microbiology, DNA manipulation, and bacteria for her to study, and she read them when the lectures got boring.

Rostislawitch saw her as the session broke up. She waved, then waited for him to come over.

“Old news,” said Rostislawitch derisively. He’d read papers along similar lines nearly a decade before.

“Do you think?” asked Thera.

“Don’t you?”

“Everything is interesting,” she said.

“And tell me about your work.”

“If you found this old, you would run away if I say anything in the least about it.”

“Oh, I’m sure I wouldn’t.” Rostislawitch tried to think of something to say to encourage her—he’d been a fool to criticize the others’ work, making himself look more important but at the same time scaring her off.

Of course she had no interest in him, so she couldn’t be scared off. He was old enough to be her father.

“Lunch?” Thera suggested.

“My budget is very thin.”

“So is mine. But I saw a shop nearby where they sell sandwiches and little pizza tarts. The prices look cheap.”

“Let’s go then,” said Rostislawitch.

~ * ~

ou hear what they’re talking about?” Rankin asked Guns. Thera and Rostislawitch were in a small stand-up café a few blocks from the art building. The place had a counter facing the window where people could stand and have a quick bite to eat. Rankin, sitting on a Vespa a few yards down the street, watched from the outside; Guns had gone in behind them, and was pretending to talk on his cell phone.

“Stuff about Russia. You got the outside covered?”

“What do you think I’m doing? Picking my nose?”

Guns laughed. “You’re getting as funny as Ferg.”

Rankin practically bit his tongue to keep from replying.

A panel truck turned down the street. He watched nervously as it made its way past the building. T Rex liked big bombs, and even if this wasn’t the area he’d had scoped out, surely he could strike anywhere.

The one thing they had going for them was that he wasn’t suicidal; he wouldn’t drive the truck he planned to blow up. Then again, he could easily hire someone who was. Or get them involved unknowingly.

“Boom,” said Ferguson, coming up behind Rankin.

He jumped.

“Shit, man. Cut it out.”

“Wound a little tight, are we?” Ferguson turned and scanned the block, then took out a pack of cigarettes, as if he were asking for a smoke.

“I don’t like this spot,” said Rankin. “Thera’s too vulnerable.”

“Why’d you let her come here?”

“We checked it out beforehand,” said Rankin. Ferguson always put him on the defensive. “We sniffed all the cars. No explosives.”

“So why are you nervous?”

“I’m not nervous. I said it wasn’t the best place.”

“She’s moving,” said Guns.

Grateful for the interruption, Rankin started the bike.

~ * ~

14

BOLOGNA, ITALY

The assassin put down the field glasses. The shot was gone.

There was no point taking a risk. The aim, after all, was to retire after this hit: one last payoff would make things perfect. There was time.

The Americans had clearly tipped off the Italians; the place was ringed with security people. That in itself was not necessarily a problem, merely a challenge to be overcome. More than likely the preparer had been spotted somehow, but that could play in the assassin’s favor: the preparer had been given many things to do to throw off the scent. Merely avoiding the plan suggested by those things would increase the chances of success tenfold. Improvisation, while something the assassin did not like, could be arranged.

Quickly, the assassin put the glasses back into the suitcase, then turned to the bed where he had put the RPG-7. The Russian rocket-propelled grenade launcher looked almost like a toy on the king-size bed.

“Another time,” said the assassin, packing it away

~ * ~

15

BOLOGNA, ITALY

Rostislawitch checked his watch. He was supposed to meet the Iranian in five minutes; it would take at least ten to reach the Orologio, which was over near the Piazza Maggiore.

And yet he continued walking with the girl back in the direction of the conference. Was he bewitched by her? Or was he having second thoughts about the Iranian?

Rostislawitch wasn’t sure.

He stopped abruptly. “I just remembered an appointment,” he told her.

“An appointment?”

“Yes, I—I promised to see a friend of a colleague. It’s a chore. Someone who has not been in good health and I am going to cheer her—him, I mean, I’m going to cheer him up. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

He berated himself—why had he said “her”? And then, why had he changed it? That only made it worse.

“Sure,” said Thera. “See you later?”

For a moment—a slim moment—Rostislawitch thought of asking if she’d come with him: not to the meeting, but away, far away, to America maybe, or any place where he might find a way to start over. But it was a foolish idea, and it evaporated long before he heard her ask if she’d see him later.

“Yes,” Rostislawitch replied. “Good-bye for now.”

~ * ~

oing back to the south,” said Guns, who was watching Rostislawitch from a bicycle.

“In that blue car, right?”

“Yeah.”

“They have anyone else?”

“Not that I’ve spotted,” said Ferguson. “Rankin, you see anybody?”

“No.”

“Ferg, what do you want me to do?” asked Thera, back on the radio circuit now that Rostislawitch had left.

“Go ahead back to the conference. See if you see anything suspicious. Guns, you shadow her. Rankin and I will follow Rostislawitch. Let’s see who he’s meeting.”

“You sure the Italians can keep him safe if T Rex is around?” asked Thera.

“Not my concern.” Ferguson turned and started walking down the Via Ugo Bassi, keeping Rostislawitch between himself and Rankin. “I want T Rex. I want him to take his shot or I won’t have a chance of getting him.”

“Ferg.”

“You sound like you’re worried about him, Thera. The stuff Rostislawitch works on can kill a few thousand people in the time it takes to sneeze. You know who his target was when he started working, right? Um, let’s see. That would be during the Cold War. Gee, could it be the U.S.A.?”

She didn’t answer.

“The Italians have another team on him,” said Rankin. “Couple of guys in a brown Fiat.”

Ferguson reached the corner and waited for the light. He saw the brown Fiat approaching. Up ahead, a pair of police cars were parked about two blocks from the piazza.

Rostislawitch came into view, walking quickly and holding a piece of paper in his hand. Ferguson guessed it was a map, since Rostislawitch kept looking at it.

“All right, I got him,” Ferguson told Rankin, crossing the street just ahead of the Russian. “We’ll let the Eyetralians get in close.”

Rankin grunted in reply. Ferguson reached into his pocket, tapping the radio control so that it played music; he cranked the volume as Rostislawitch neared, just in case the scientist wondered why he was wearing earphones.

Rostislawitch walked by without noticing. He was more than ten minutes late now, and walking so quickly that he felt almost out of breath. Nearing the piazza, he saw a pair of police cars blocking the road. Suddenly he was filled with fear.

Were they looking for him?

It was a ridiculous thought, and yet he couldn’t shake it. Despite all of his precautions, he was sure he was about to be caught.

Rostislawitch continued to walk. He lowered his gaze, focusing on the stones of the walkway. He turned left, moving toward the hotel. There were police everywhere around, some with dogs.

They weren’t after him. There were too many officers, too much of a commotion—he saw a police van ahead, a kind of a command post with men inside.

It must be something for the tourists, something to convince them that it was safe.

Even if the police weren’t here for him now, wouldn’t they be eventually? If he dared to return to Russia, would they get him there?

She was a good girl, that Thera. She reminded him of his wife in a way. Then again, every woman he met, everyone who was nice to him anyway, reminded him of his wife.

Greed pushed him through the square and down past the fortresslike building toward the hotel. Greed not for money, but for revenge. They’d let his wife die. He had to get back at them somehow. That was why he was doing this. He hated everyone—the autocrats who ran Russia, the Americans who had forced Russia into poverty, the world that spat on a dying woman who could have been easily saved with the proper care.