Soul of the Assassin (16 page)

Rostislawitch’s heart nearly stopped as a policeman pointed at him and said loudly, “
Signore!”

Rostislawitch froze.

“No, signore,
” repeated the officer.

“No parlo Italiano.
” Rostislawitch forced the words from his mouth.

“Non parla Italiano?”
said the policeman, asking if he spoke Italian.

“No.”

“We’ve closed this part of the street to foot traffic,” said the man, still speaking Italian though there was no hope of Rostislawitch understanding. “You’ll have to go over to the other side.”

He pointed, and said the words more slowly.

“Cross?” said Rostislawitch in English.

“Si,”
said the policeman. “Go there. Then you can cross. This way is blocked off.”

Rostislawitch, trembling, retraced his steps and went to the other side. His chest felt as if it were going to explode, and he worried that he was going to have a heart attack. By the time he reached the side street in front of the hotel, he was panting.

The street had been turned into a pedestrian mall years before, though cars occasionally drove up to make deliveries or drop off passengers. The hotel entrance was marked by two small trees in fancy buckets; precisely clipped, the trees were like slightly oversized bon-sais. Above them, a pair of video surveillance cameras stood guard, watching the nearby benches and the long planters that divided the walkway. Rostislawitch nodded at another policeman, then entered the hotel.

~ * ~

hen Ferguson noticed that the Italians were staying outside, he decided to follow Rostislawitch and find out what he was up to. Ferguson sauntered into the hotel lobby, smiled at the clerk at his left, and walked through to the lounge, figuring he’d check that first. Sure enough, Rostislawitch was sitting in a booth at the far end, talking to someone Ferguson couldn’t see. There were about a dozen people in the place, most of them having lunch. Ferguson walked through to the bar, tucked back around a corner to the left.

“Vermouth,” Ferguson told the bartender, leaning across. As he did, he noticed a familiar face in the booth nearby: Nathaniel Hamilton, a British MI6 agent. Staring at him.

Ferguson smiled, then raised his glass in a half salute. Hamilton’s frown deepened.

Which convinced Ferguson it would be a good idea to go over and say hello.

“So, how’s Her Majesty’s favorite public servant doing these days?” said Ferguson, slapping his glass down on the table and sliding into the booth.

“Keep your voice down,” Hamilton told him. “Jesus, man. Have a brain.”

Ferguson grinned, then sat back in the seat. “Who you following?”

“What makes you think I’m following anyone?”

Ferguson started to get up. Hamilton grabbed his arm.

“Tell me why you’re here and I’ll tell you what I’m doing,” hissed the MI6 agent.

“Fair enough.”

“Well?”

“You go first.”

“No.”

Once again, Ferguson started to get up. Hamilton had an unfortunate reputation for reneging on similar arrangements, and Ferguson wasn’t about to trust him.

Once again, the MI6 agent took his arm. “Just sit down and stop making a show of yourself. You’re always being a nuisance, Ferguson.”

“Nuisance is my middle name,” said Ferguson, sipping his drink.

~ * ~

16

Rostislawitch shook his head.

“The agreement was money in the account. Then I will give you the location.”

“I am just trying to make things more efficient,” said Atha. “But you seem not to trust me.”

“I take all the risk. You have all the benefit.”

“Now, now, the offer is a fair one. You will be a rich man.”

“Mr. Jahan—”

“No, no, call me Atha. It is my name since I was small.”

The Iranian sat back in his seat. When the technical leader of the project had suggested he meet Rostislawitch at the conference in Bologna, Atha readily agreed; it was easy to move around Europe, and the Italians were not generally as watchful as the Germans or even the French. But there had been a considerable increase in police activity in the city today, and he knew that as a foreigner he might very well be watched. While anyone listening in would think he and Rostislawitch were talking about coloring dyes for carpets—a simple code Atha had suggested in their earliest communication—-it was a thin veneer.

“The offer is fair if you carry through with it,” said Rostislawitch. “I have no guarantee.”

Atha sighed. “If you were to come with me to Tehran, you would see how trustworthy we are.”

“I’m not going to Tehran.”

“Your dyes are very important to us, at the right price.” Atha caught sight of the waiter and held up his glass. The waiter nodded, though in Italy that was not a guarantee that he would return before midnight. The only country with worse servers was Egypt, in Atha’s opinion.

“Maybe you should have some lunch,” he told Rostislawitch. “A full stomach calms the mind.”

“My stomach is already full.”

Rostislawitch glanced around the restaurant. There was a dark-skinned man at a table not far away—the Iranian’s bodyguard, he guessed. As for the other two dozen or so people here, most seemed to be international businessmen discussing deals, just as Rostislawitch and the Iranian were doing.

But maybe not. Maybe the place was packed with spies. Rostislawitch had no way of knowing.

Was this the way he wanted to spend the rest of his life, looking over his shoulder? Rich, yes, but at what price?

What did it matter? His life was over anyway. Wasn’t it?

The waiter arrived with Atha’s iced tea.

“Do you want another vodka?” Atha asked Rostislawitch.

The Russian shook his head. They had to use English to communicate, the only language they had in common. Atha’s Italian was good, though heavily accented. He felt his Spanish was better. His English, of course, was superb, a matter of great pride.

Atha sipped his drink for a short while, considering what to do. Much depended on his obtaining the material very quickly. What had begun some months before as a fantastical project now had assumed great importance; indeed, the minister demanded that the action Atha had arranged be launched within a few days. Atha was prepared to do so, but only if he got the material. Without it, he was ruined.

But he must act confident. It was the prerequisite for success in such situations. The lion could tremble on the inside, but his roar needed to be strong and shattering.

“You are having second thoughts. I understand,” Atha told the scientist calmly. “It is a difficult task. And to become rich in one transaction—it seems almost too good to be true. As if the Prophet, all praise be to him, were to suddenly invite you to his home.”

Rostislawitch said nothing.

“It’s a tremendous thing,” said Atha. “We will talk tomorrow. I will call you at your hotel.”

“The money first,” said Rostislawitch, looking up into Atha’s eyes as he rose.

Atha sat back down. “I don’t know if I can give you the money first.”

“It’s the only way I can do it.”

“Perhaps an installment.”

“No. All of it. In accounts only I can access.”

Atha searched Rostislawitch’s face. The Russian was greedy or he wouldn’t be here, but exactly how greedy was he? Enough to run off without delivering?

Atha did not think he was. But avarice was a notoriously difficult vice to gauge. Rostislawitch showed no outward sign of it—no fancy watch, no chauffeur waiting at the curb. His suit was ill fitting and old. But that might only mean he liked to hoard his money. Only a saint could know a man’s soul and sins, and Atha was not a saint.

Rostislawitch’s face was pale, his eyes a little too wide-open. Atha saw desperation in his stare; he was a man pushed to the edge.

That was as close to an assurance as Atha was going to get.

“The material is available?”

“You’ll have it as soon as I have the money.”

“Good,” said Atha. “I will call you tomorrow. I will arrange for the accounts to be opened and the money transferred.” He reached into the pocket of his sport coat and took out an envelope. “A token for you. Some spending money for you, as a gesture of friendship, not as a payment.”

Rostislawitch frowned, but then took the envelope and stuffed it into his pocket.

He was greedy enough to do business with, Atha decided, rising from the table. The rest would fall into place.

~ * ~

17

BOLOGNA, ITALY

“The man’s name is Anghuyu Jahan. They call him Atha for short,” Hamilton told Ferguson. “Though why I’m not sure. It was some sort of baby name that stuck.”

“Who calls him that?”

“Anyone and everyone. Why are you here?”

“Vacation.”

“Sod off, Ferguson.”

“I’ve tried.”

“Who is the Russian?”

“Rostislawitch something or other.”

“Come now. We have a deal.”

“Just like we had in Nigeria?”

“Am I going to hear about that the rest of my life? I was under orders.”

That wasn’t entirely true, but Ferguson let it pass.

“His name is Artur Rostislawitch. He’s a biologist who knows a lot about making germs. Got into some sort of political trouble a few years ago, and now is underemployed.”

“Germs? As in bacterial warfare?”

“That’s what they say.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

Ferguson sipped his drink, trying to decide whether Hamilton’s reaction was real or not. It was tough to tell with the Englishman—he was such a rotten actor that sometimes his genuine reactions seemed fake, and vice versa.

But now suddenly a plot to kill Rostislawitch made sense to Ferguson. The scientist was offering something up to the Iranians; they’d want to get rid of him as soon as the deal went through.

And they’d want someone good to do it. T Rex.

Hamilton saw Atha get up from his table.

“I am afraid you’ll have to excuse me, Robert,” he said. “Her Majesty does not pay me to sit around in bars drinking all day.”

“What exactly does she pay you for?”

Hamilton smirked, then left the restaurant. It was only when the waiter approached that Ferguson realized Hamilton had left him with his bill.

~ * ~

18

BOLOGNA, ITALY

Rostislawitch turned the wrong way out of the hotel; when he finally realized it he had walked several blocks in the wrong direction, down Via Farini, and was lost. So when the police car pulled up next to him, he was relieved.