Soul of the Assassin (3 page)

The adrenaline gland was where the most cancer cells had been located on the scan; it was also relatively easy to remove and to do without.

“That’s really the best odds,” said Zeist. “The combination—a one-two punch. You’ll beat it. Let’s see. I’d like to set this up for next week—”

“Next week’s not going to be good.”

Zeist sighed. “Listen, Ferg, waiting a few days, even a few weeks maybe, won’t be a big deal. But we really do want to move ahead. The best—”

“Yeah, I’m not putting it off. I’m just kind of booked for the next week to two or three. Hard to tell right now. How much advance notice do you need?”

“I can get you to see the surgeon at the end of the week.”

“Too soon. What about Ferber?”

“I was thinking of Dr. Ferber since he knows you.”

“Good. Tell him I’ll be in touch.”

“Ferg, he’s going to have to see you himself. You know that.”

“I trust him. I’ve seen his work.” Ferguson turned toward the glass door to the restroom area, glancing at his neck in the reflection. “As a matter of fact, I’m looking at it now. Very nice work. No scars.”

“Ferg, this has to have a high priority. Really. As optimistic as I am, realistically, the sooner the better.”

“Looks like I have to go,” Ferg said, spotting the waitress carrying his food.

“Ferg—”

“Gotta run. Have a date with the world’s best hash browns.”

~ * ~

erguson had finished the home fries—decent, though the coffee nearly made up for it—and was just about to ask for the check when his secure satellite phone began to vibrate with a call. He took it out and slid against the wall at the end of the booth.

“The Real McCoy,” he answered. “Home of the world’s best hash browns.”

“Ferg?”

“Talk to me, Corrigan.”

“Where are you, Ferg?”

“On the road again,” sang Ferguson, slightly off-key.

“The GPS says you’re in Massachusetts.”

“Just paying my respects,” said Ferguson.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Jack Corrigan. “Your father’s buried up there, huh?”

Jack Corrigan was the First Team’s desk officer, the mission coordinator who spent most of his time in a bunker known as “the Cube.” His job was to support the First Team while they were in action, providing them information and arranging for assistance when necessary. He’d probably just been briefed on the mission.

The waitress came over with the coffee, but Ferguson waved his hand at her, adding, “Just the check.”

“Look, I have the plane all arranged. I have you going out of JFK instead of Logan, though. I didn’t know you were up there. I figured you’d want a direct flight to Bologna so—”

“Don’t worry about it. When’s the flight?”

“Three o’clock. Rankin should be there tomorrow night. Thera and Guns are going in through Rome so they can bring more equipment in.”

“That’s good.”

“You’re all packed? You need more gear?”

“I’m good, Mom, thanks. Even have a new toothbrush.”

“Rankin’s going to come with extra clothes.”

“He needs them. Never takes a shower.”

“How can you be so flip this early in the morning?”

“That’s what happens when you start off the day with great hash browns,” said Ferguson.

~ * ~

4

BOLOGNA, ITALY

(TWO DAYS LATER)

Stephen Rankin watched as the blonde pulled the strands of hair back behind her ear, pretending to preen in the hotel lobby’s mirror. She was actually checking to see if she was being watched.

Of course she was. Every male eye in the hotel lobby, including those of the overtly gay man at the front desk, was staring at her. She was just too gorgeous not to.

Which ought to be a liability in her line of business, Rankin thought.

The blonde finished playing with her hair and swept toward the doorway. Rankin watched from the corner of his eye—then nearly jumped as he saw her collide with someone and fall to the floor.

It was Ferguson.

Rankin had worked with the CIA officer long enough now that he shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. They were supposed to be shadowing the blonde, who’d been identified as T Rex’s “preparer,” a kind of advance man who made sure things were ready for the assassin to do his job when he arrived in town. Shadowing generally meant staying far in the background, but Ferguson had his own way of handling things.

“Scusi, signora,”
said Ferguson in Italian, bending to help her up. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

“Merci,
” said the woman in French.

“I hope you’re OK,” said Ferguson, first in English and then in Italian.

“Yes, OK” she said, her English heavily accented. She pushed down her skirt, scowled at him, then went back toward the door, hesitating ever so slightly before pushing it open.

Ferguson, meanwhile, strolled across the lobby. Seeming to spot Rankin for the first time, Ferguson greeted him in a loud voice.
“Ciao,
my American friend. How is the studying going today?”

“Just fine,” said Rankin, remaining seated. He still had no idea what Ferguson was doing, except that it wasn’t what they had planned just a half hour before.

“It is a fine day,
si,
” said Ferguson. “You will join me, yes, for a coffee?”

“Yeah, sure,” said Rankin sourly. He rose.

“If you’re busy—”

“Am I?” asked Rankin.

“Of course not. Come then,” said Ferguson, and he swung around toward the doors.

“Should we be watching the mistress?” said Rankin once they were outside.

“I keep telling you, Skippy, she and T Rex aren’t like that. My bet is that not only has she never met him, she doesn’t even know what he does. Not specifically, anyway.”

“Like she couldn’t figure it out, huh?”

“He probably sends her on a couple of gigs a year that are just blinds. But maybe she does. The hair color’s a dye job.”

Ferguson glanced to his left. The taxi was just turning to the east, out of sight.

“We’re not going to follow her?” asked Rankin.

Ferguson smiled without answering. Rankin knew Ferguson was acting this way partly because he didn’t like explaining himself, and also partly because he liked to annoy people, especially Rankin. Some days Rankin could let it slide without saying anything; today he couldn’t.

“Why do you have to be such an ass when we’re workin’, for cryin’ out loud?” he snapped.

Ferguson just laughed and continued toward the mopeds he’d parked nearby. He grabbed the brown one, stepped over it, and got on.

“We’re going toward Via Zamboni, I think,” he told Rankin. “Stay back. Remember she’s seen you.”

“Hey—”

“And get your radio on. Channel eight—louder the buzz, the closer you are to her. I’m on channel two.”

Ferguson revved the bike’s small motor, then helped it get moving by pushing his feet along the pavement. Rather than turning in the direction the cab had taken, he went right; after glancing behind him to make sure Rankin was following, Ferguson reached into his pocket and took out the GPS receiver, glancing at the screen, which showed where the bug he’d placed in the cab was. The taxi had become bogged down in the narrow one-way streets. Ferguson continued to the north, then turned onto Via San Giacomo.

“You with me, Rankin?”

“I guess.”

“She said she was going to one of the university administration buildings. Probably bull, but we’ll see how patient she is.”

“You sure we got the right girl, right?”

“Got me, Skippy. Depends on how far we trust Corrigan.”

“Yeah. That makes me feel
real
confident.”

One of Rankin’s redeeming qualities, in Ferguson’s opinion, was his deep distrust of Corrigan, largely because of the fact that Corrigan had been an army intelligence officer before joining the CIA. In this case, however, Ferguson believed that the identification of Arna Kerr as T Rex’s “preparer” was probably correct; he’d followed her the night before when she arrived in town, and watched her do the sorts of things Ferguson and the others did before they set up a mission— renting cars, casing buildings, getting the lay of the land. She’d originally been ID’d by matching various credit card and other records against T Rex’s known assassinations. Arna didn’t seem to work them all, but she had been around for the flashiest ones, including Dalton’s.

Though she had come in from Paris and was apparently claiming to be French, they had traced her credit cards to Stockholm, Sweden. If they decided they wanted her—which they might—they could get her there. Taking her now would tip off T Rex and ruin the entire operation.

As would letting her know she was being followed.

The GPS device beeped.

“Uh-oh,” Ferg said. “Getting out of the cab. Low traffic tolerance. Stay with me, Skippy.”

“That’s
not
my name,” growled Rankin.

Ferguson pinched his elbows close to his body and ducked down a side street. He turned left and cruised onto Via Bel Belmbro. In the process he cut off a delivery truck; the Italian driver responded with a blast of his horn and a stream of curses. Under other circumstances, Ferguson might have stopped to listen—his Italian was not particularly deep—but he was a little farther from Arna Kerr than he wanted to be. So he merely hunkered down on his bike, pushing his head toward the handlebars and dodging a small car that shot out of a private courtyard. He turned onto Via San Vitale, where he remembered a parking lot; he was off his bike and trotting in the direction of the church before Rankin caught up.

“Go up two blocks; find a place to park. We’ll keep her between us,” said Ferguson.

“I thought you weren’t putting a tracker on her.”

“I didn’t. It was in the cab. Come on.”

Ferguson went far enough up the street so that he could see the next intersection, then leaned back against the facade of one of the buildings. The bricks were arranged in a way that made it look like the wall was a fireplace; for hundreds of years, there had been a marble relief on the lower panel and a statue in the upper niche. Now, though, the niche was empty, and the stone was covered with a thick, oily grime.

“Where is she?” asked Rankin.

Ferguson was just about to say that she was a slow walker when he realized that he had made a mistake: she’d be doubling back, not going ahead. That way, she could check the cars behind her to see if she was being followed.

Well, good for her, he thought.

“Come down the block, slowly,” he told Rankin, getting back on his bike. “I think she’s backtracking.”

“You lost her?”

“Not even close.” Ferguson went down toward Via San Vitale, then circled around and passed Arna Kerr as she walked toward Via Rizzoli at the center of the old city. Bologna’s two towers stood nearby.