Soul of the Assassin (27 page)

“This is the placebo edition.”

~ * ~

ooks like Kiska called a cab,” Rankin said, watching the feed from the video bug on the laptop in the second-floor suite. He had the screen split; the left side showed the lobby, the right side Rostislawitch’s room upstairs.

“You sure she didn’t sneak a booby trap up there?” said Thera. She was pacing near the door.

“I would have seen her. Chill, would you? You’re making me nervous.”

There was a double knock on the door, followed by a buzz at the lock. Ferguson walked in.

“So?”

“Kiska is getting a taxi. Shouldn’t we be following her?” asked Rankin.

“Nah. She’s not T Rex.” Ferguson went to the minibar and took out a water.

“You sure, Ferg?” asked Thera.

“Pretty sure. How are you?”

“I’m OK. If she’s not T Rex, why did you go into the bar?” Rankin asked.

Ferguson shrugged. He was willing to bet his life that Kiska wasn’t T Rex, but not Thera’s. He let his eyes linger for a moment, memorizing how she looked: jeans and a sweater, no makeup, hair pulled back, consciously trying to look plain so she’d fit in easier undercover. But she couldn’t hide how beautiful she was.

What would he trade if he could change the circumstances? Money? He had plenty of that.

That was the first thing people thought of—money. Oh, the brothers would laugh at him, wouldn’t they? An abject lesson. Stand before the throne of Saint Peter, they’d say, and talk of money. See where it gets you, Mr. Ferguson.

Would Saint Peter have a throne? Or even a gate? And why was it Saint Peter, anyway? Why wasn’t it James or John?

“What are you thinking, Ferg?” asked Thera.

“I’m trying to think why someone would pay so much money to kill Rostislawitch. I can’t come up with an answer. He’s just not worth the expense.”

“I thought you said the Iranians would do it.”

“Why bother? Who’s he going to tell?”

“I think it’s pretty obvious,” said Rankin. “The Russians are going to kill him because he’s double-crossing them and dealing with the Iranians.”

“Then why not just arrest him in Russia?” said Thera.

“There’s probably some reason they can’t that we don’t know,” said Rankin.

“Maybe.” Thera straightened. She caught Ferguson staring at her, giving her a look as if she’d done something wrong.

“Hey, look at this,” said Rankin, pointing at the laptop screen.

Two young women in short dresses were in the corridor in front of Rostislawitch’s room. They knocked on the door.

“What’s going on?” Thera asked.

“Hookers, I’ll bet,” said Rankin.

“They’re going to kill him,” said Thera.

“Maybe,” said Ferguson.

“Jesus—we can’t let them.”

“Yeah, we can,” said Ferguson.

“Ferg!”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “Relax and watch the screen.”

~ * ~

14

BOLOGNA, ITALY

Rostislawitch lay facedown on the bed, unable to sleep even though he felt very tired. All he could think of was Thera’s kiss on his cheek.

What had she meant by that?

Nothing, surely. It was the sort of innocent gesture that women sometimes made, young women especially, free with their emotions. It didn’t mean anything but
I’ll see you later, thanks for dinner, you’re a nice old guy even if you bore me.

It didn’t have to mean that. If he went through with the deal with the Iranian, he would have plenty of money. Money was the great equalizer; he’d seen young women attracted to older men because of it all his life.

But Thera wasn’t like that. She wasn’t swayed by money. She was a scientist—young, not sure of herself or her work, but ambitious no doubt, or she wouldn’t be here. If he were to offer her a job, praise her work, that would be the way to seduce her, not telling her they would run away together and live on a desert isle.

A knock on the door jerked him upright.

“Yes?”

“
Professore
?”

Thera? Rostislawitch got up and went over to the door. “Who is it?” he asked.

“Professore?”

It didn’t sound like her. And yet his desire was so great that he had to see. He opened the door, letting it catch against the clasp.

Not Thera. Two girls.

“What do you want?” he said in English.

The women did not understand. “Atha sent us,” they told him in Georgian-accented Russian.

Atha, the fool: these must be whores.

Rostislawitch started to close the door.

“Wait, wait
, professore,”
said the girl closest to the crack. “If you don’t let us in, we won’t get paid.”

“Please,” said the other. “Take pity on us. We are Russian like you.”

“You sound Georgian.”

“My mother was from Moscow.”

Rostislawitch closed the door. Before he could turn away, the girls were banging on it, and crying.

“Please, please,
professore.
You don’t have to do anything. Just let us in so we can say we were there. Please. We won’t get paid.”

“Go away.”

Something bumped against the door. One of the girls began to moan; the other sobbed loudly.

Rostislawitch opened it again, but kept the clamp in place. The girl he’d spoken to was now sitting on the floor, her back against the door, crying.

“Why is she crying?” he asked the other girl, who was kneeling next to her.

“She needs the money for her boy,” said the other woman. “I need the money, too. Please. You don’t know how difficult it is for Russian girls in this country. Please let us in.”

Sighing, Rostislawitch pushed the door closed, then opened it.

“Get in before someone sees you,” he told them.

The woman who had been sobbing rose, rubbing her eyes with her arm as she came in. Her companion followed.

“It is just that your friend promised to pay us well, but only if you had a good time,” she told him.

“Is he watching?”

“He’s sure to be nearby somewhere.”

“Well, get in,” he said, though they were already inside. “Not
there.”

The girl who was crying had thrown herself spread-eagle on the king-size bed. Her friend ran her hand on Rostislawitch’s shoulder.

“We can make you feel very good,” she said.

Rostislawitch pushed her hand away. “Stop or I will throw you out.”

“Don’t yell.” She took a step back. “I am Francesca. That is Rosa.”

“Francesca. Rosa. Those aren’t Russian names. Or Georgian.”

“They’re the only names we use for this business.”

“What are you doing in Italy? You should go back home.”

“To do what? To be poor cleaning ladies?”

“Why did Atha send you?”

“To have a good time.” The girl’s collarbone poked out from the top of her dress. Her midsection was pinched—Rostislawitch would not be surprised if either of them hadn’t eaten properly in months.

“Are you drug addicts?” he asked.

“Drugs?” Francesca shook her head. “No drugs. We have no drugs for you.”

“No. Do you take them?”

“Professore.”

Rosa slipped off the bed and came around to confront him. She had a tattoo of a green rose on the side of her neck, and a small snake on the top of her left breast. She was not overly endowed, but her boobs seemed as if they would burst out of the material. She told him in Italian that he had a lot of nerve talking about drugs when it was clear that he was such a dead dick he needed friends to find him whores. Rostislawitch understood none of it, though her anger was clear enough.

“Rosa, Rosa. Relax,” said Francesca. “Just relax.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” Rostislawitch said. “Here. We’ll get something to eat. Call for room service.” He pushed over the menu.

“Are you sure you don’t want to relax?” said Francesca, once more touching his sleeve.

“No, thank you.” Rostislawitch pushed her away again, more gently this time.

He was tempted. How could a man not be tempted?

But no. He would not have sex with a whore, Russian or otherwise.

“Professore?
Can I use your bathroom?” asked Francesca.

“Go right ahead.”

Rosa had retreated to the chair, where she sat cross-legged, her dress showing much of her thighs. She was pouting.

“How long have you been in Italy?” Rostislawitch asked.

“Too long,” said Rosa.

“You are high on something, aren’t you?” said Rostislawitch.

“If I was high, I would be jumping around. Am I jumping around,
professore?”

He shook his head, but he wasn’t convinced.

“You should let us give you a good time. Your friend will be mad,” she told him.

“He’s not my friend.” Rostislawitch sat on the edge of the bed. “He’s a business acquaintance.”

“All the more reason,” said Rosa. “You do your business; we do ours.” Her face brightened as Francesca returned to the room. “Perhaps you would like to watch?”

Rostislawitch didn’t understand.

“Francesca, come here,” said Rosa in Italian. She stood up and kissed her.

Francesca resisted at first. Rosa ran her hands across the other girl’s back, down to her butt. She cupped both cheeks, raising the dress with fingers before slipping them into Francesca’s panties. Francesca began kissing back. The two girls pushed into each other, their breasts rubbing. Rosa slipped downward, pulling Francesca’s underwear down and nuzzling into her crotch.

Rostislawitch stared, mesmerized.

“Stop,” he said finally. “Stop.”

But they didn’t. Francesca slipped her hands to the back of Rosa’s dress, unzipping it. Then Francesca hooked her fingers around the top and pushed it down. Rosa let her arms fall and the dress slipped down, revealing a pink lace push-up bra. In a moment this, too, was unhooked, and Francesca began licking the other girl’s nipples.

Rostislawitch tried to push them apart. Rosa reached for his hands, grabbing at him to join them.

“No,” he told her. “No.”

“Professore
, come on. Live a little.”

Rostislawitch pulled back. Rosa fell onto Francesca and they collapsed giggling onto the bed.