Soul of the Assassin (57 page)

Thera helped him put on the vest. Her touch felt good against his arms and sides, reassuring, as if she were taking care of him.

“Atha will shoot me?” he asked as she stepped away. It was funny—he didn’t actually feel afraid. If he was shot, then it was only justice.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen, Artur. Atha will probably threaten you. Don’t worry. You tell him that your associate has the virus and will handle the business from now on. Answer whatever technical questions you have to, then leave to let Ferguson handle the arrangements.”

“All right.”

“When the meeting’s over, we’re going to go to the embassy, OK? It’s the safest place for you. Then you can decide what to do.”

“I want to go home.”

“That might not be wise.”

“What else can I do?”

He meant it as a rhetorical question—Rostislawitch was resigned to his fate; whatever happened to him, including death, was simply his penance for taking the material, for being willing to let so many innocent people die. But Thera interpreted the question literally, and told him that he was bound to be in demand with drug companies and large food concerns, or he could get a job teaching at a university. The CIA could help.

“A man like you has so much knowledge,” she said. “There will be many offers.”

She was such a good girl, he thought. So optimistic.

“I think I would rather go home,” he told her.

“It’ll be up to you,” said Thera, disappointed. She picked up her sat phone to call the embassy “Let’s get through this first.”

~ * ~

29

OVER THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA

The pilot of the MC-17 laid out a course that would get them over the southern Libyan desert without their being detected by the Libyan radars; they weren’t worried about being shot at, but wanted to avoid any possibility that Atha might be on the lookout for an American combat transport. To get around the radars, the big plane flew at tree-top level for about a hundred miles, executing a number of tight turns along the way. Finally, as the sun was just going down, the pilot began climbing to a higher altitude. Colonel Van Buren looked out the window on the flight deck and watched the sunset; from where they were, it looked as if they had flown over it.

With the possibility of a long night ahead of them, Van Buren decided to go down and talk to his men. The bio/chem protective suits weren’t particularly comfortable to sit around in, and the colonel decided it was important to emphasize to each man how important the suits were to avoid contamination. The officers and squad leaders had gone over this, of course, but Van Buren sensed that a personal word from him might carry a little more weight, and possibly prevent unnecessary casualties. He made sure his own suit was zipped tight except for the headpiece, then went down and began talking to the elite teams sitting in the hold of the plane.

Van Buren was about a third of the way through when he was called back upstairs to the command center. Corrigan was on the line.

“Ferg says go as soon as you can,” said Corrigan.

“We’re on our way. Should be a little over two hours.”

“Godspeed.”

~ * ~

30

TRIPOLI, LIBYA

After an hour of driving around Tripoli, Hamilton realized he was unlikely to find Ferguson this way. There were simply too many choices, and Hamilton didn’t know the city well enough, let alone Ferguson, to narrow them down. Finally he pulled into a parking lot near the water and tried to come up with another plan. He called Ferguson’s number and got his unctuous assistant, who assured him that Ferguson would contact him “when the time is right.”

“Is there a special hotel I should stay at?” Hamilton hinted. “Or one to avoid?”

“Up to you.”

“Oh, quite,” said Hamilton, hanging up. Then he realized that ignorance was often a very valuable weapon.

And where did one find ignorance, if not in the intelligence community?

“I say, this is Nathaniel Hamilton. I’m in town on some company business,” he told MI6’s top resident Tripoli officer over the phone a short time later. “Looks like I may have to deal with some Americans. What is their favorite hotel?”

“The Hilton, Libya Regal, the Marriott. Not in any order. Any place with a good bar,” added the resident. He offered to drop around for a few drinks and give Hamilton a backgrounder on the city if he wanted, but he didn’t have time for that.

“I’ve been doing a good deal of traveling, so I’m going to check in and tuck myself in for an early night,” he said. “But maybe tomorrow. I’ll come round the embassy at noon or so. We’ll have lunch.”

“Very good.”

“While I’m thinking about it, are there any other places that the Americans like to, uh, do business at? I’d like to scope them out beforehand.”

“What sort of business?”

The resident had committed a faux pas, asking the sort of question one never asked of another officer on assignment, since of course it could not be answered truthfully. Hamilton ignored it, commenting instead on how difficult it could be to work with the Americans.

Realizing his mistake, the resident told Hamilton that he’d personally seen the Yanks use a number of places, including a club named Laxy’s that was a hangout for the gunrunning crowd, and a small hotel lounge on the south side of the city called the Oasis.

“Very good,” said Hamilton. “Well, then, I’ll just be ringing off. Make sure to keep lunch open tomorrow. It’ll be on my expense account, not yours.”

“Very good.”

“Oh, one more thing—I would like to pick up a weapon if possible. I feel rather naked without one.”

“Do you really feel that’s necessary?”

“One never knows.”

“I don’t suppose it will be a problem. Would you like me to bring it tomorrow?”

“I’ll just pop around and pick it up. Then it’s off to bed. Remember—lunch tomorrow.”

“Looking forward to it.”

Obviously a man who had been out in the boonies too long, Hamilton thought as he hung up the phone.

~ * ~

31

NORTHEASTERN SUDAN

Rankin tightened his right hand on the truck’s steering wheel to fight off the pain as he drove up the trail. It came and went in odd bursts— his arm would feel numb for a while, then all of a sudden, without even being jostled or smacked, the pain seemed to explode.

“Truck coming,” said Guns.

“They’ll think we’re their friends,” said Rankin. “Until we’re close.”

Guns checked the AK-47, making sure he was ready to fire. Rankin took a deep breath as the other truck got closer. The winding path through the mountains was too narrow for both trucks to pass.

“Let’s do it,” said Rankin. He turned the wheel hard, throwing the truck into a slide perpendicular across the roadway. Guns brought the rifle up and blasted out the front of the guards’ pickup. Then he threw himself backward over the seat, following Rankin out the other side.

Both men crouched behind the pickup, waiting for more gunfire. When there was none, Guns started around the back end of the truck, while Rankin crouched near the front. He held the AK-47 in his right hand, cradling it against his hip, as he cautiously looked around the front of the truck.

“Damn!” yelled Guns from the rear, jumping up as he saw a dark figure running up the hillside. Guns fired a burst and then started to follow, but the man had too much of a lead.

Rankin checked the truck. Two men lay dead in the cab, their torsos riddled with Guns’ bullets.

“You are a pretty good shot,” Rankin said after Guns gave up the chase. “For a Marine.”

“You think we oughta try and catch him?” asked Guns.

“I don’t know. Took us damn long to get this far.” He glanced at his watch. It was past seven. “I think we let him go and keep trying to find the camp. Give Van the heads-up.”

“Call in.”

“I’m not calling Corrigan every five minutes,” said Rankin.

“Call in anyway.” Guns went up ahead, scouting the road for signs of the man who’d gotten away. He was somewhere nearby, but Rankin was right—they couldn’t both look for him and find the camp. They’d already lost several hours on the tangle of paths and half paths in the hills.

The road was too narrow to turn around. Guns got in the back of the truck they’d blasted while Rankin drove backward, looking for a safe spot to turn around. They found one about a quarter mile away, a pull-off around a bend—which also gave them a view of the canyon, and the camp at its end.

“There it is,” said Guns. He jumped out and worked his way down and around the ridge, trying to get a better view. By the time Rankin found him, he was lying on his stomach with his field glasses.

“No fixed guns or anything like that,” said Guns. It was getting dark; even with the glasses Guns had a little trouble making out the camp’s layout.

“Hold on; hold on,” said Rankin. He took out the phone and called Corrigan, then began relaying what they saw. Buses and trucks were clustered near a pair of small buildings at the northern end of the camp. People were lined up around a table near them. Torches were being lit, and their shadows flickered across the desert sand.

“What are they doing?” Rankin asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Rankin, are you sure you don’t see any missile posts?” asked Corrigan. “We need to know for Van.”

“There are no launchers around,” Rankin told him. “They got us with a shoulder-launched weapon. You tell them to jump from altitude and they’ll be safe.”

“Van and his people are less than a half hour away. Just hold tight.”

“Hey, Rankin, check this out,” said Guns. “Looks like they’re getting on the buses.”

~ * ~

32

TRIPOLI, LIBYA

Patrons entered Laxy’s by walking down a wide staircase made of long, flat stones. Water ran down a shallow channel at the center of the staircase, pooling on a landing at the middle where the stairs pitched around to descend into the cavernlike main room. A separate waterfall filled the entire right-hand wall of the stairs. The mist and sound made it seem as if you were entering a secret underground oasis in the middle of the desert.

Inside, the lighting was low and indirect. Couches and tables were located around panels faced with stone veneers, adding to the ambiance as well as privacy. A small orchestra played in the front corner, filling the space with strains of American music from the 1930s and ‘40s, songs that evoked an era of romance. As in most other places in Tripoli that catered to foreigners, liquor was served freely. The servers were all women; they wore low-slung miniskirts beneath sheer tops that teased patrons with a clear view of the fancy embroidery on the women’s bras.

The food, though overpriced, was excellent. It was almost very Western; it was said that one could not find a better filet mignon in all of northern Africa, and the salmon was flown in daily from Scotland.

Atha had been to Laxy’s two or three times before. He wasn’t surprised that the Russian had chosen it; Rostislawitch’s associate would surely think it was out of the way as well as exotic. Russians usually used hotels on the northwestern end of town for business, and with the FSB looking for them it would make very good sense to head to a place more often associated with Westerners.

The Iranian wasn’t as worried about the Russian intelligence service as he was about closing the deal. He was willing to give Rostislawitch what he’d originally been promised, but coming up with more money at this point would mean going to the minister. Worse, it could easily involve a delay of a day, if not more. The minister would like that even less.