Soul of the Assassin (17 page)

“Could you tell me how to get to Porta San Donato?” he said, pronouncing each English word as distinctly as possible. “I have a conference there. I’m late. The University of Bologna.”

He wanted to say that he was a scientist, but the word in English had left him.

“Dove il passaporto?”
asked the policeman.

“Scusi?
Excuse me?”

“Il passaporto,”
repeated the policeman. “Where is your identification.”

“I—my passport?”

“Si. Il passaporto.”

Rostislawitch patted his pocket, though he knew it wasn’t there— he’d turned it in to the desk at the hotel. Panic surged through him. The policeman got out of the car.

“Sir, where is your passport? Are you a member of the European Union?”

The policeman was speaking in Italian, but the gist of what he was saying was clear enough. Unsure what to do, Rostislawitch reached for his wallet.

“That’s not a passport.”

“At my hotel,” said Rostislawitch, using Russian and then English. “My passport is there.”

“Into the car please,” said the policeman, opening the door.

Rostislawitch hesitated. It had been quite a while since he had traveled outside of Russia. This couldn’t be normal. Did they know why he was really here?

“Signore, per favore,”
said the policeman. “In the automobile, please.”

He did not have a gun on his belt. Rostislawitch might be able to get away

But what would he do then?

“My hotel is on the Via Imerio,” he said in English. “If you take me there, they can give you the passport. They locked it in their safe.”

The policeman once more gestured toward the car. Seeing no other choice, Rostislawitch got in.

~ * ~

erguson got within ten yards of Rostislawitch while the police were questioning him. He saw Rankin on the other side of the street, ready to interfere.

“No, hang back,” Ferguson told him over the radio. “I’ll deal with this.”

“What the hell’s going on?” Rankin asked.

“This is what happens when you cooperate with the Italians,” said Ferguson. “They screw everything up. Go grab some lunch. Check on Thera when you’re done. I’ll call you.”

“You sure, Ferg?”

“Yeah. Better that there’s no witnesses when I strangle Imperiati.”

~ * ~

he SISDE officer was waiting for Ferguson in the upstairs squad room of the police station. In the few hours since Ferguson had left, the room had taken on the air of a television production room; there were several dozen screens, each clustered in a different area around the outside of the large room. Imperiati, sleeves rolled up but tie still tight to his collar, strolled back and forth among them. He was wearing a wireless headset.

“What have you done with Rostislawitch?” Ferguson demanded.

“Signor Rostislawitch lacks proper documentation. He is being questioned,” said Imperiati blandly.

“Come on, Imperiati. We were working together.”

“Partners, eh? And what do you call a partner who does not fully—
come si dice?
—disclose what he knows?”

“What didn’t I tell you?”

“Signore Rostislawitch had laboratories in Chechnya. Is he a war criminal?”

“Not that I know of. No.”

Imperiati turned the corner of his mouth upward in a wry smile. “Is he the target, or is he in a better position to be the murderer, signore?”

“He’s the target,” said Ferguson. “Maybe.”

“And why would someone want to kill him?”

“I haven’t figured it out yet.”

“You have a theory no?”

“No.”

Imperiati shook his head.

“Listen, you told me yourself that you have two other likely targets,” said Ferguson. “Why arrest him?”

“He has not been arrested. We are very careful about our legal procedures here in Italy, signore. It is within the police’s rights to ask for identification. If a foreign citizen does not have a passport, he can be detained.”

“When was the last time that happened? Nineteen thirty-nine?”

A uniformed police officer standing near the doorway signaled to Imperiati, who beckoned him over. Ferguson pulled out a chair and stared at the nearby surveillance screen.

Had T Rex been nearby when the police stopped Rostislawitch? Ferguson wondered. They hadn’t seen anyone on the street, but maybe he was in one of the buildings. Maybe the police arresting—or whatever Imperiati wanted to call it—Rostislawitch was a good idea. Maybe T Rex would be waiting outside, or feel anxious about getting the job over with. Maybe it would flush him out.

Lemonade out of lemons. More likely Rostislawitch would be killed right under the Italians’ noses.

“Do you know a Nathaniel Hamilton?” Imperiati asked Ferguson when he returned.

“Sure. MI6. British agent.”

“Why would he want to talk to me? Is he working with you?”

“Not with me. He has some interest in Rostislawitch as well.”

“Why?”

“He wouldn’t tell me,” said Ferguson, rising. “I don’t think he likes me.”

~ * ~

mperiati told the policeman to show Hamilton to his office.

“Where are you going?” Imperiati asked Ferguson as he started to follow him down the hall.

“I thought maybe you could use a translator.”

“My English isn’t good?”

“It’s fine. Hamilton’s is pretty sub par.”

Imperiati frowned.

“I should have known you’d be here, torquing things up,” said Hamilton, spotting Ferguson as he came up the stairs.

“Come on, Hamilton. That’s your job.”

“This way, Signor Hamilton,” said Imperiati.

“I’m going to go grab a coffee,” Ferguson told Imperiati. “Want anything? Coffee, maybe a little cannoli?”

“No grazie.”

“Your loss.”

~ * ~

19

BOLOGNA, ITALY

Under other circumstances, Rostislawitch might have demanded to call the Russian consulate. Having just left the Iranian, however, he thought it best to keep his mouth shut until he could figure out what exactly was going on.

The police had taken him to a small police station on the outskirts of the city, shown him to a room, and asked him to fill out an identity paper. As soon as he sat down at the desk and picked up the pencil, they left, and hadn’t been back since.

He wondered if the Iranian had arranged this to intimidate him. It seemed unlikely; they already had an agreement.

Maybe it was nothing. Rostislawitch wanted it to be nothing—a desire he couldn’t trust.

There were other Russians at the conference. He knew two of the scientists vaguely; the others he didn’t recognize. Perhaps one was an intelligence agent, and had somehow learned what he was up to.

That was impossible. No, not impossible, but improbable.

Besides, the Russian intelligence agencies would
not
have the Italians arrest him.

The paper filled out, he got up and paced the room. If he got out of here, he would go back to his hotel, lock the door, and not leave until it was time for his train home.

He’d like to see the girl, Thera, with her curly black hair and darting green eyes. She might think of him as her father or a kindly uncle, but he’d like to see her anyway.

If he got out of here.

~ * ~

20

BOLOGNA, ITALY

“We’ve been looking at the photos you uploaded, Ferg,” Corrigan told Ferguson as he sat in a café across the street from the police station. “He’s not on any hot list we have.”

“The name doesn’t mean anything?”

“Supposedly a banker. Did some deals for Iran but nothing major that we know of. Nothing from MI6, but you know how that goes. I have Ciello working on it.”

“Get back to me.”

“Well yeah, but—”

Ferguson killed the connection and looked at his watch. It was now two in the afternoon—which made it 8 a.m. back in the States. He got up, went to the phone booth in the back, and after dumping in a few euros punched in the 800 number of his phone card, then Corrine Alston’s cell.

“This is Corrine.”

“This is Ferg.”

“Bob—”

“Call my sat phone from a secure line.”

“Bob—”

Someone had sat at the table near where Ferguson was, so he went outside and strolled down the street. A pair of police officers— plainclothes, but obvious—strolled by, and Ferguson started to wonder if maybe Imperiati had sent someone to watch him and listen in. Ordinarily he wasn’t too paranoid about having a conversation in a public place—he knew from experience that it was easy to leave out enough details to keep most eavesdroppers confused. But now he went over to an idling tour bus and stood by it, waiting for Corrine to find his number and call back.

“I was beginning to think you forgot me,” he told her when she finally did, about five minutes later.

“I do have other things to do.”

“Drop them.”

“I can’t drop the President, Ferg.”

“Too heavy, huh?”

“What’s up?”

“The British have been watching an Iranian named Anghuyu Ja-han. His nickname is Atha. He’s bought things for the Iranians before. You’re going to have to press Corrigan to find out exactly what. He had a meeting with our guy at lunch today. Could be he’s looking for information about weaponized bacteria.”

“Can you speak up? I’m having trouble hearing you. It sounds like you’re next to a bus.”

Ferguson laid out the situation for her, explaining that if the Russian was trying to set up some sort of deal with the Iranian, that might be a reason for him to be assassinated.

“What we need is information from MI6 on what the scoop is with the Iranian, why they’re following him for starters.”

“Is that related to T Rex?”

“No, but it’s a heck of a lot more interesting,” Ferguson told her. “I’ll keep looking for T Rex. See what you can do about this.”

“What about Rostislawitch?”

“Oh yeah, that reminds me. The Italians just picked Rostislawitch up on suspicion of failing to like red wine.”