Soul of the Assassin (45 page)

The drivers were even less considerate for Ferguson, whose appearance made him look like a native. He trotted across the avenue, hopping up onto the curb just as a red Fiat whipped within a few inches of his backside.

There was a line of people with bags at the luggage area, waiting to check them. Rostislawitch got in line, then decided to go and get money and come back. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a ratty-looking man watching him. The man seemed to be trying to get his courage up to ask for some money

That was me, the scientist thought to himself. One step from the gutter.

Rostislawitch went to the bank machine and put in his card. Another record for the FSB people to question him about.

But it would make sense. His mind was working now. A tourist trip to Naples; he’d wanted to see what it was like. He’d come early to the city, gotten something to eat, then realized the place was far more expensive than he thought. A typical tourist.

He’d worry about the details of the story later. He’d get rid of the material; everything else would fall into place once it was gone.

Rostislawitch took three hundred euros from his account. It was nearly all he had left. Hopefully it would be enough to bribe a laborer in a garbage plant.

Toss the suitcase in the back of a garbage truck as it went in and he was done, free. That might be even easier.

“You have your ticket?” asked the clerk at the left luggage counter.

Rostislawitch’s fingers began to tremble as he handed the ticket over. The man looked at it, nodded, then went to retrieve the bag from the locker in the next room. The bones in Rostislawitch’s chest began to press against his lungs as he waited.

“Here,” said the man, returning. He held up a green upholstered carry-on.

Rostislawitch’s throat constricted. “That’s not mine,” he managed, speaking in English.

“No?”

“Mine is black. Just plain black.” He glanced to his left and his right. Two people were behind him, waiting to check bags. “This isn’t mine,” he insisted.

The man looked again at the ticket, still in his hand. He frowned, then went back into the luggage room. Rostislawitch felt very hot. The back of his neck buzzed and his ears felt as if they were covered with an itchy wool.

“This is the right number,” said the attendant, returning. He spoke Italian with a strong local accent, but Rostislawitch understood what he was saying—it was obvious from his gestures.

“Then there was a mistake.
Problema.
It’s not mine.
Non il mio.
Mine was black. It had—it had thermos carriers.”

“Thermos carriers?”

The attendant did not understand. Rostislawitch searched for some way of describing the contents without actually doing so.

There was no way.

“It had—an experiment I’m conducting,” he blurted in English.

“I’m sorry, sir—”

“Let me look,” said Rostislawitch, starting past the desk.

“You’re not allowed back here,” said the man, putting out his hand to stop him.

“I just want to look for my bag. It’s very important. It’s very—it’s critical.”

Rostislawitch pushed past the man and turned the corner into the room with the luggage. There were rows of lockers, and larger bags collected along the wall. The door to the locker where his bag had been was open. He put his hand inside, even though he could easily see that it was empty. He ran his fingers around the space, rattling the side of the empty box.

Rostislawitch grabbed at the locker doors near it, but they were all locked. Spotting the bags against the wall, he slid down to his knees near one that looked like his. Pulling it out, he laid it on the floor and unzipped it—nothing but clothes.

“You’re not allowed here,” said a policeman behind him.

“I’ve lost my luggage. It’s very important that I get it back,” said Rostislawitch in Russian.

The policeman did not understand. “Can you speak English?” he asked.

“English, yes. I’ve lost my bag. I need it.”

“This may be true, but you’re not allowed here,” said the cop.

“Please. I have to find my bag.”

Rostislawitch grabbed another case. It didn’t look that much like his, but he had to do something—he had to find his bag.

The policeman took his shoulder. “You are not allowed here. Come.”

“My bag. There must have been a mistake.”

The clerk came over with his key and began opening the lockers nearby. Rostislawitch watched, trembling. None of the suitcases nearby looked like his.

“I need my bag,” he said, when the clerk held out his hands, indicating he had no idea where it had gone.

“You can file a claim,” said the policeman.

“It must be here.”

The cop took hold of Rostislawitch’s arm. Two more police officers had appeared at the doorway.

“I’m being very patient,” said the policeman in Italian. “Because I know what it is like to lose a bag. But if it’s lost, it’s lost. Come on now.”

Rostislawitch couldn’t think. He only half-understood what the policeman had said, but the prods were emphatic, and he started to go out. Then he stopped, looked back, started again. He was torn between rage and logic—the bag must be here.

“Come on, sir,” said another policeman. “Come on.”

The scientist walked out of the room, his head pounding. The clerk shoved some papers in his hand.

“Make the report, sir,” said the man. “Here is a pen. Just make the report. If the luggage turns up—sometimes this happens—we will be able to give it to you. If not, a claim. They are good about paying.”

“You all right?” asked the policeman who’d been with him in the room. He was speaking English again; Rostislawitch could understand every word.

“I need a drink of water,” said the scientist.

“There’s a store right over there.”

“Yes.”

Rostislawitch started away. The FSB she-wolf must have taken the bag. She’d probably followed him here from Moscow.

What was he going to do?

He walked into the store and bought a bottle of water.

He could use something much stronger.

A few yards from the water store, Ferguson sat head down on the floor, watching as Rostislawitch sorted through his change. Ferguson rocked forward, then ambled in Rostislawitch’s direction.

“I wonder if you have a coin for a smoke?” he asked in Italian.

Rostislawitch thought the disheveled man looked vaguely familiar but couldn’t place him. He told him in Russian to get lost.

“You’re Russian?” said Ferguson, answering in Russian as well. He pulled his head back, as if he didn’t trust the man, then looked all around the station, as if they might be overheard.

“You understand me?” said Rostislawitch. He glanced left and right—was this one of the she-bitch’s agents?

Unlikely, thought the scientist. He smelled to high heaven.

“Be careful, friend,” said Ferguson quickly in Russian. “There are thieves all over, watching for Russians. They take their bags. Sell them.”

Ferguson turned and began walking away.

“What?” said Rostislawitch.

Ferguson pretended not to hear.

“Hey, you, what do you know?” Rostislawitch practically shouted.

“I know a lot,” mumbled Ferguson, just loud enough for Rostislawitch to hear.

“Tell me about this.” People nearby were staring.

“First I get something to eat,” said Ferguson. “Not here.”

Rostislawitch was unsure whether to trust the man. He looked as if he’d lived on the streets for some time, and his Russian was authentic, from Moscow. But his face wasn’t Russian; it didn’t have the Slavic thickness that Rostislawitch expected.

“Where do you come from?” Rostislawitch asked.

“Around.”

“Where in Russia?”

Ferguson shrugged.

“Where in Moscow?” demanded the scientist.

“When I was young, Moscow.”

“Why are you in Naples?”

“Hmmmm,” said Ferguson, nodding.

“That’s not an answer.”

Ferguson started away.

“All right. I’ll buy you something to eat,” said Rostislawitch. “Where?”

“Outside the station. Some place where they can’t hear.”

“Who?”

“The KGB. They’re everywhere.”

“Yes,” said Rostislawitch, not sure if the man was crazy or very sane.

~ * ~

19

CIA BUILDING 24-442

Thomas Ciello put his fingers to his temples and squeezed, trying to relieve his headache. He’d been staring at the computer for so long that his neck and shoulders seemed to have welded themselves into a permanent forward slope. He tried twisting in his chair to loosen his muscles, but even the chair seemed frozen solid. Finally he pushed backward with his feet and rose slowly. Every joint in his body creaked.

“Argh,” he moaned. He hadn’t worked this hard or this long without a break since he set out to solve the August 2004 Alabama Black Triangle UFO sighting.

“Are you all right?”

Corrigan was standing in the doorway. This was a momentous occasion, thought Ciello—Corrigan never visited the research offices.

“I’m just a little tense,” said Ciello. He bent over at his trunk, trying to stretch out his back. His fingers stopped a good foot above his toes.

“OK,” said Corrigan, backing away. “When you get a chance, give me an update.”

“Wait!” yelled Ciello. He started to unfold himself, but his back was locked. He couldn’t move.

“Yes?” asked Corrigan.

“I—Kiska Babev is on her way to Naples.”

“Excuse me?”

“Kiska Babev, the FSB agent. I’ve been tracking her credit card accounts. She bought a plane ticket to Naples a couple of hours ago. Air One. She got it right before for the flight. It’s an hour flight. She may be there by now.”

Corrigan stepped into the room. Ciello was still bent over at the waist. It seemed a little odd, but then again, intelligence analysts were supposed to be odd.

“You’re sure about that?”

“I tracked all her bank accounts down. It hasn’t been easy. I talked to this guy Ferguson knows and—”

“Put it in a report. I have to go to tell Ferg.”

“OK.” Ciello tried again to straighten, but couldn’t. “You think you could help me get unfolded here?” he asked, but Corrigan was already gone.

~ * ~

20

THE SUDAN DESERT

The small airplane was flying low to avoid being picked up on radar. It was so low, in fact, that Atha thought several times they would hit a dune. He grabbed hold of the handle at the side of the windshield strut, gripping it tightly.