Soul of the Assassin (39 page)

“I’m sure that’s bullshit.”

“No doubt. But he’s on his way back to Bologna.”

“It’s a free country, I guess. You giving me Ciello, or what?”

A slight hush descended over the line as she made the connection. There was a low tone, followed by Thomas Ciello’s slightly hyper soprano.

“Ciello here.”

“So how’s the
razvaluha?”

“I don’t have a jalopy, Ferg. I take the bus.”

“Just joking, Ciello. What’s going on?”

“That Fibber guy. Good stuff. Too much stuff. But very good stuff.”

“Yeah. You didn’t give him your Social Security or your bank account number, did you?”

“No, why?”

“Just checking. What do you have?”

Kiska did, in fact, use her cousin’s identity for several credit cards and bank accounts. Ciello had not finished unraveling everything, but he had managed to figure out the pattern Kiska used, alternating credit cards and then getting new accounts.

“There’s still a lot I have to dig out. But one thing I thought you’d like to know. Well, two things.”

“Give me three if you want.”

“One, she was in Peru last August. The Vice President was killed. The murder hasn’t been, um, pinned to T-Rex, but it does have some similarities. Because, you know, he’s important.”

“That’s it?”

“Number two, she was in the Czech Republic right before coming to Bologna. The local police raided a warehouse where plastic explosives were stored.”

“Was the FSB involved?”

“I don’t know. Not in the news story, but of course they might not be mentioned. I sent a text message to our embassy there. They haven’t gotten back to me. Anyway, the point is, some of the explosives were missing afterwards.”

“Good work, Thomas,” Ferguson said, though neither item was all that useful. “Keep at it.”

“I will. Say, Ferg?”

“Yeah?”

“Does this Fibber really have an uncle who inherited ten million dollars but can’t collect it?”

~ * ~

7

BOLOGNA, ITALY

Thera examined her face in the mirror. Her eyes were drooping, her cheeks pinched.

She wished she could go to bed, sleep for three days, then get up and take a walk around Bologna without looking over her shoulder. She wished it were spring, not the start of winter. She wished she could simply look at the art and enjoy the food without worrying that someone with a gun or a bomb was nearby.

She wished she could make love to Ferg, and not think about the consequences.

Did she?

Yes, certainly. Though the way he acted about sex, the way he so casually used it as a tool, it was a good thing making love to him was just a fantasy.

Thera ducked her face to the sink. A little makeup and she’d be back on her game.

~ * ~

everal blocks away, Rostislawitch was examining his own face in the mirror, having just finished shaving. In the back of his mind, he was replaying his meeting with the Russian FSB agent, the blond she-wolf who’d tried to intimidate him in the back room of the café.

Before their meeting, he’d decided he would have nothing more to do with Atha. Now he was angry, insulted that he had been suspected of treason—even though, of course, the charge was correct.

More important, he wasn’t sure what to do.

Replaying the meeting, he realized that the woman hadn’t identified herself or who she worked for, but she didn’t have to. Her arrogance was as clear a sign that she was with the FSB as if she had worn a badge on her tight-fitting blouse. Like the KGB before it, the Russian Federal Security Service was used to bullying people, making demands instead of requests, insisting on getting its way. Its agents assumed the rest of the world would bow down to it in all matters, large and small. They were a law to themselves.

Loathe them, yes. But be careful. They would not simply fade away.

The question was not how much they knew about what he had planned to do, but what they
thought
they knew. If they had actually decided that he took the material, the worst thing Rostislawitch could do at this point was simply go home as he had planned. They would have no compunctions about arresting him. If they lacked evidence— and he was sure they did; he had taken every precaution—they would simply manufacture it.

Rostislawitch opened the drain and let the water run out of the sink, then wiped his face with a towel. If the choice was between running away and returning to a trap, the obvious thing to do was run away.

And his brother? Or the Grinbergs?

It was probable that the FSB would carry out the she-wolf’s threats. They would be somewhat careful about it—there were
some
differences between Putin’s Russia and Stalin’s, after all. But most likely the Grinbergs would lose their jobs.

A shame. They had stood by him through all of his troubles. Irena Grinberg had been Olga’s best friend, and had suffered greatly when she died.

He could give them Atha’s money. Little by little, small payments. That would more than balance things out.

As he dressed, Rostislawitch remembered his visit to the church, and what he had felt there. At that moment, it had seemed like a turning point, a revelation that pushed him in an unchangeable direction. But now, barely a few hours later, its force had faded. He was wavering again, unsure what to do.

Rostislawitch glanced at his watch. Atha hadn’t called, despite his promises yesterday.

Just as well. The FSB would find a way to listen in.

The one thing that bothered Rostislawitch was Kiska Babev’s accusation about the girl, Thera. Was she an American agent? He dismissed it, and yet. . . could it be true?

Rostislawitch pulled on his pants. It was an old trick, wasn’t it? Using an older man’s vanity against him. The Russian FSB, the American CIA, they were all the same.

~ * ~

s soon as he came off the elevator, Thera could tell that something had changed since she’d seen Rostislawitch last. It wasn’t just his meeting with the Russian intelligence agent. He’d been subdued after that, quieter; now there was something aggressive in his eyes, something harder. He’d made a decision about something.

Very likely Kiska had pushed him into making the deal with the Iranians, the exact opposite of what she intended. He acted aloof, as if he didn’t care about Thera or anyone else, as if he’d hardened himself to do something he didn’t really believe in.

She tried not to let her own knowledge of it show, keeping her voice upbeat, and slightly naive.

“Do you think the speaker will be interesting?” she asked as they walked outside. “More funding for research?”

“All of the drug companies are thieves,” answered Rostislawitch. At the corner, he went to the curb and put his hand up for a taxi, even though they were only two blocks from the art building.

“I thought we were walking?” said Thera.

“I don’t feel like going to the dinner.”

“Oh,” she said.

“I’ve made a reservation at a restaurant. The concierge recommended it. Come.”

Thera hesitated. “Don’t you think—”

“I’ll go myself,” said Rostislawitch as a cab pulled up.

Thera waited another moment, letting Rostislawitch start to pull the door closed before grabbing it.

“OK,” she said, sliding into the car beside him. “I suppose the talk would have been boring anyway.”

~ * ~

erguson was on a bicycle up the block when the scientist called for a taxi. He waited for them to pass, then turned up the radio volume, listening as Thera jabbered with the doctor, trusting that she would provide enough information for him to catch up if the traffic cleared and he lost them.

~ * ~

ou’re in a strange mood this evening,” Thera told Rostislawitch in the taxi.

The scientist grunted. He wasn’t sure what her reluctance to changed plans meant: it could be read as an honest desire to attend the event, in which case she wasn’t a CIA agent. But on the other hand, it might be because she had compatriots waiting for her there, and was afraid to cross them up.

“Why is a young girl like you interested in me?” said Rostislawitch abruptly.

Thera turned to the scientist. “I am not a young girl,” she said. “And what do you mean by
interested?”

“You have a boyfriend?”

“Oh.” Thera turned, facing the front of the cab. “Dr.... Artur . ..”

Thera stopped. This wasn’t acting anymore, was it? Partly it was, and partly it wasn’t. She did honestly feel concern for him. It wasn’t all she felt, but it
was
there.

Ferguson, had he been in a parallel situation, would have come up with some sort of glib line, pushed the sex angle, and ended up kissing the woman. But that wasn’t Thera.

“I do feel. . .
strongly . . .
toward you,” said Thera, stumbling over the word
strongly.
“I wouldn’t call it... I don’t know what it is. It’s really not boyfriend-girlfriend. You’re so much . . . smarter than me,” she said, substituting
smarter
for
older.

She turned to him. Rostislawitch looked as if she had hit him in the stomach.

“I don’t want to mislead you,” continued Thera. She put her hand on his. He started to pull away, but she grabbed his hand. “I—love is not something I think about much,” she said quickly. “I admire you. I do care—when I heard you were hurt my heart seemed to stop.”

“But it’s not sex,” said Rostislawitch.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”

Rostislawitch pulled his right hand from hers and scratched his ear. Her response confused him even more. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear. And yet it was not what a spy would say.

So perhaps he could trust her at least. Somewhat. Maybe.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said. “I feel that we can talk— when you talk I like to listen.”

Rostislawitch smiled, in spite of himself. It was something his wife used to tell him, when he asked why she didn’t answer him sometimes. He patted Thera’s hand, even as he reminded himself to stay on his guard—she had proven nothing.

“Is that OK?” Thera asked. “Is it all right? Do you still want to have dinner?”

“I am very hungry,” he said. “And I was told that this restaurant is very good. Of course we will eat.”

~ * ~

8

BOLOGNA, ITALY

The Italians were clearly among those who confused quantity with quality when it came to security. Not only had they blanketed the art building with soldiers, but they had carabinieri police officers surrounding the building. In addition, Nathaniel Hamilton counted at least five members of the Italian SISDE—the civilian intelligence force under the interior minister—as well as a SISMI or military intelligence agent. Admittedly, the latter seemed most interested in keeping an eye on his civilian counterparts, probably looking for details that could be used to blast them in an upcoming parliamentary debate.