Soul of the Assassin (43 page)

By this time, the train was more than halfway to the next station. Ferguson took off his jacket and unrolled a small watch cap from the pocket, changing his appearance as much as possible. Then he started a quick walk-through to locate Rostislawitch.

The scientist wasn’t in the next car or the one after that. Ferguson spotted the conductor asleep near the rear of the fourth car; he walked by as quietly and quickly as possible, continuing his search. Except for the conductor, this car was empty as well.

Rostislawitch was sleeping in the first car, hunched against the window. Ferguson retreated to the vestibule.

Ten minutes later, the train pulled into Campobasso. Ferguson got off, then trotted across the platform so he could see into the car where Rostislawitch was. The scientist didn’t stir, so Ferguson ran back to the train—just in time to see Rostislawitch hurrying out.

Not wanting to be seen, Ferguson turned his body away but stuck his foot and knee in the door, which squeezed hard before reopening. As Rostislawitch ambled past, the door started to close again; this time Ferguson sacrificed his other leg to delay the train.

The conductor appeared in the door of the coach.

“Wrong train,” Ferguson said, getting off. “I thought we were going to Naples.”

~ * ~

hirty minutes later, Ferguson was standing outside the station, watching as Rostislawitch dozed on a bench at the middle of the platform. Ferguson’s sat phone rang; it was Thera.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“I’m in Campobasso. Lovely place.”

“Why are you there?”

“I’m not sure. Rostislawitch came here. I don’t know why.”

“Do you want me to meet you there?”

“Where are
you?”

“At the Naples airport.”

“What the hell are you doing in Naples? I told you to get some rest.”

“I sleep better on planes.”

“Go over to the train station and stake out the left luggage area. There’s a train back to Naples in about a half hour. If you don’t hear from me, assume we got on it.”

“How’s Rostislawitch?”

“Looks a lot better than I do at the moment,” Ferguson told her.

~ * ~

14

MISRATAH, LIBYA

The plane that flew Atha from Tunis to Libya was an Embraer EMB 120 Brasilia, a small charter transport that was generally used to fly oil workers to various locations around northern Africa. The seats were hardly plush, but the Iranian managed to get some sleep anyway, angling his feet into the aisle and leaning against the side of the plane. He was the only one aboard the aircraft except for the pilot and copilot. He did not know either man; the minister had vouched for them, which made Atha somewhat wary, but neither of them spoke to him once the plane took off.

They landed several hours later in Misratah, a coastal city in Libya about two hundred kilometers east of Tripoli. Atha had had occasion to use this airport before, and knew he would not be held up for an additional “fee” or surprised near the hangar by a government official with his hand out.

When the plane stopped moving, the copilot came into the cabin and opened the door. The sun had not yet risen; all Atha could see outside was darkness. The copilot reached his hand out to block the way just as Atha was about to step through. The boarding ladder had not yet been rolled into place.

The ladder was set at the side of what looked like a 1950s pickup; the driver brought it against the fuselage carefully, gently nudging the aircraft as he got it into position.

Waiting at the base of the stairs was a tall, skinny Arab dressed in a dusty brown flight suit. The man gave Atha a bright smile and bowed as he left the ladder.

“Commander Atha,” said the man in Arabic. “I hope your flight was enjoyable.”

Enjoyable
was not the word Atha would have chosen, but he grunted in assent.

“Good morning, Ahmed. Are we all ready?”

“As soon as you called I had the plane fueled.”

“You’ve been waiting here all this time?”

“I wanted to be ready. You said you could not predict when you would arrive.”

Atha nodded. Ahmed had worked with him many times in the past; while he was not Iranian—his family came from Syria—he was trustworthy and conscientious to a fault.

Ahmed’s airplane was a Fuji FA-200, a four-passenger, one-engine aircraft that had two things to recommend it: it was extremely dependable, and it could land and take off from short runways. Ahmed had made a few alterations to the craft, including installing state-of-the-art avionics and tweaking the engine for a little more horsepower, but structurally it was little different from when it had left the factory in Japan more than thirty years before.

Atha strapped the suitcase into the seat directly behind his, then turned around to fasten his seat belt. He checked his watch, then remembered that he had planned to call Rostislawitch.

“Something wrong, Atha?” asked the pilot.

“I was going to make a phone call. Never mind.”

“If you have to make a call—”

“No, it’s all right.”

“Here’s my phone.” Ahmed reached to the dash of the light plane and took his satellite phone from its holster.

“No,” said Atha, “I’d rather not use your phone.”

“There is a landline in the hangar,” said the pilot.

Rostislawitch might be helpful in the future. In any event, keeping him on the hook for another day or so was probably a good idea. There was always a possibility that Dr. Hamid would need to speak to him.

Atha was starting to get used to the idea of not paying him, however.

“Where in the hangar is the phone?” asked Atha, undoing his belt.

~ * ~

15

BOLOGNA, ITALY

Having failed to find the Russian scientist at the reception, Nathaniel Hamilton turned to the tarts, hoping they might shed some light on where Rostislawitch was. It was even possible, Hamilton thought, that the scientist had sought them out once more.

Finding the women proved more difficult than Hamilton thought it would be; there were several locations in town where the ladies gathered, each with its own set of regulars and, it seemed, different classes of clientele. Hamilton had only his memory of their faces and the noms de sex he had overheard thanks to Ferguson’s bug—Francesca and Rosa. The names were hardly unique in the city, but eventually, thanks to a liberal sprinkling of incentives, Hamilton found a woman who looked a great deal like Rosa as she walked back from an assignation at a tourist hotel.

The MI6 agent saw fear in her eyes when he pulled his car alongside her. That was not an asset at this stage, and he immediately worked to assuage it, telling her that he knew it was late, but that she had been recommended by a friend, an Iranian friend named Atha. She was still wary, and so Hamilton told her that he was not looking for sex—true enough, though she didn’t believe it. He wanted to talk about a scientist she had been with, and he would gladly do so at a safe, public place where she wouldn’t feel threatened. And, of course, he would pay handsomely.

“Never talk about the customers,” she said, starting to pull away, “first rule of business.”

“It may be a rule better broken,” said Hamilton, easing the car forward to keep pace with her. “You can see that I am not a policeman.”

“You’re British; I can tell from your accent.”

“There. So have breakfast with me. I’ll buy you breakfast and we’ll talk. Quietly, with no one else to know. The money’s good.” He revealed the two hundred-euro notes in his hand. “Not bad for a few minutes of companionship.”

The woman hesitated, but was still not sold.

“There are things about the Iranian you should know,” Hamilton told her. “They may save your life. And some of these things you would not want the police to know, at least not in connection with you.”

Fear shot back into her eyes.
Now
it was an asset, reinforcing her instinct for survival.

“I’ll add another two hundred. You’ll be able to go away from the city for a few days,” said Hamilton. “When you come back, Atha will be entirely forgotten.”

Rosa had sensed that the Iranian was a very bad man—he’d paid far too much for what he wanted them to do—and a feeling of doom swept over her. Hamilton offered a way of pushing off the peril. She opened the car door.

They ate at a place that fancied itself an American-style diner, ensconced in a corner of Bologna that Hamilton had never visited. Brightly colored fenders from American cars hung on the steel wall above the long counter. Across from it sat bright turquoise booths with plush seats and Formica tabletops. Each featured an old-fashioned jukebox near the window, where the menu rather than songs was displayed. The decoration was garish, but not entirely American; large bottles of olive oil and trees of garlic were hung between the car fenders, and the dessert display was dominated by cannoli shells. The air smelled more of garlic and basil than cheap hot dogs, and the waiter didn’t chew gum.

Rosa ordered only coffee; Hamilton went for a full American-style breakfast. She listened quietly as he told her that Atha had been involved in the car bombing two days before.

Rosa’s eyes grew wide. Was the scientist involved?

Hamilton told her he wasn’t sure.

“This involves several international agencies,” he said breezily. “Your help would be greatly appreciated.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“Of course not. But if I can locate the scientist quickly, then perhaps the entire matter can be wrapped up.”

“How can you be investigating this if you are English?”

“Would you rather be talking to the police?” asked Hamilton, taking the euro notes from his pocket and pretending to examine them.

Speaking haltingly, Rosa told him all she knew of the scientist, where his hotel room was, and how they had found the ticket.

As she spoke, Hamilton finally realized that the scientist must have gone to Naples to retrieve the bag Atha had already obtained. He paid Rosa off, called Rostislawitch’s hotel room just to be sure he wasn’t there, then made his way out to the airport.

~ * ~

16

NAPLES, ITALY

“I’m here,” said Ferguson, answering the sat phone.

“Ferg, it’s Lauren DiCapri.”

“I was expecting Attila the Hun,” said Ferguson. He spotted the light from the Naples-bound train in the distance, and began jogging toward the ticket machine.

“We think Atha called Rostislawitch’s phone a little while ago.”

“Think?” Ferguson started to take his credit card out to pay for the ticket, then realized the train was a lot closer than he’d thought. No way was he climbing aboard this one from the back—he turned and began sprinting for the stairs leading to the platform.

“We don’t have a voice sample to match it, but he said he was Atha. He said he wasn’t feeling well and would talk to him tomorrow sometime. The thing is, we traced the call to Libya.”

“Good.”

“Not good. Rankin and Guns are on their way to Tunis. That’s where the helicopter—”