Soul of the Assassin (32 page)

“Calm down,” said Hamilton. “We know where he’s going.”

“Do we?” snapped Rankin.

Someone up ahead began honking their horn. The road ahead, barely two lanes wide, had four cars abreast, all trying to get into an intersection that seemed jammed as well. Traffic came to a complete halt.

Rankin grabbed the door latch.

“What are you doing?” asked Hamilton.

“I’ll follow him. Keep your phone line free.”

“Americans,” muttered Hamilton as Rankin slammed the door.

The cars were packed so tightly that it was difficult to get through. Rankin finally decided that the only way he could get to the side was to climb on bumpers, which elicited curses and even more horn blowing. When he reached the sidewalk, he had to duck around a fully loaded garbage Dumpster that smelled as if it hadn’t been emptied since the Second World War.

He pulled the radio’s earbud up from beneath his shirt collar. “Hey, Guns, you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here, man.”

“Atha’s coming your way”

“I’m ready.”

“I’m on foot. Hamilton’s stuck in traffic with Jared.”

“OK. You get something to eat?”

“No.”

“I’m sitting in a pastry shop. I can get you something. They have these very nice cheese danish things. Don’t know what they’re called, but they’re killer.”

“No thanks.”

“Hey, I see him.”

“All right. Don’t get too close.”

Rankin began trotting, ducking around a pair of businessmen who were themselves ducking a vendor selling umbrellas. When Rankin reached the main entrance, a nine-year-old boy stepped in front of him and asked if he wanted his shoes shined. At that moment, someone bumped into Rankin on the right. As he started to duck out of the way, a third man attempted to take Rankin’s wallet.

Rankin plunged his elbow into the first man’s stomach, then swung his left hand out and grabbed the man trying to take his wallet, throwing him to the ground. The first man took a swing at Rankin, who managed to push him off. Rankin reached for the Beretta at the back of his belt, then stopped, a policeman running through the door of the station.

“Get the hell away from me,” Rankin told the would-be pickpockets. “Go!”

But instead of running off, the first man made a run at him, plunging his head into Rankin’s midsection. Rankin smacked the side of the man’s head with his fist, then punched him in the gut with his other hand. The man crumbled to the ground, out of breath.

The policeman had paused to figure out what was going on. Now he sprang into action, blowing a whistle and unholstering his weapon. Rankin looked for a way to sneak away without having to deal with the authorities, but a police motorcycle had managed to find a way through the traffic jam behind him and was riding up on the sidewalk. He stepped back, watching as the pickpockets began pleading that they were the victims, calling Rankin a brute and saying that he was the one who should be arrested. A plainclothes detective approached Rankin, and asked in Italian what he had seen happen.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian,” said Rankin.

“Non parla Italiano?”

“I only speak English.”

“I see. Wait
un momento,
please.”

“I have to get a train.”

“Un momento,
please,” repeated the man, gesturing to someone on the now-crowded steps. “A moment.”

“How come this kind of stuff
never
happens to Ferg?” Rankin muttered to himself.

~ * ~

23

BOLOGNA, ITALY

Ferguson was having his own problems in Bologna.

Neither he nor Thera had been able to find where Rostislawitch had gone. He wasn’t in any of the small cafés and coffee bars within ten blocks of the hotel, nor had he gone over to the conference building early. Ferguson finally conceded to himself that they’d lost Rostislawitch, at least temporarily; he planted some fresh video bugs and booster units, then met Thera in a hotel restaurant near the art building.

“I’m sorry, Ferg. I’m really sorry,” she told him as he sat down. “I’m really sorry.”

“He’ll turn up. I’ve lost people before.”

“I checked the hotel. He’s still registered. I left him a message on his voice mail, saying he should call me.”

“Great.”

The waiter came over. Ferguson ordered a
caffèllatte,
then sat back in his seat, watching the people pass outside.

“The old guy really likes you, doesn’t he?” said Ferguson.

“He’s not that old.”

“So you like the mature type, huh?”

The waiter appeared with Ferguson’s coffee.

“He seems very nice,” said Thera.

“Sure, for a guy who’s perfecting ways to mass murder people,” said Ferguson, stirring his coffee.

“I didn’t say he was perfect.”

“Unlike me, huh?”

Thera flushed. “You’re always fooling around,” she said angrily.

The air drained abruptly from Ferguson’s lungs, as if he’d been punched in the stomach without any warning.

Oh, Christ, he realized, she loves me.

He tried to think of something to say, something to tell her—he wanted to say how he felt, but to temper it with reality, with their jobs and what was happening to him, the cancer, everything—but before he could think of what to say a face loomed in the crowd passing by the window.

“Rostislawitch,” hissed Thera. “He’s going to the conference.”

“Get over there,” said Ferg. “I’m right behind you.”

“Ferg—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go.”

~ * ~

24

NAPLES, ITALY

Guns spotted Atha coming into the train station, walking briskly with a shiny black carry-on bag rolling at his side. Taking out his fake MP3 player, Guns tuned to the channel for the bug he’d planted near the luggage area. Then he drifted toward the men’s room near the baggage check-in counter, listening as Atha walked up to the attendant and asked to check his bag. Guns thought it must be part of an exchange, but the suitcase didn’t contain wads of cash; the clerk opened it and found only a pair of sweaters.

Atha took his receipt, then left, walking up in the direction of the train platforms.

Guns checked around, trying to catch anyone who might be trailing Atha, then slowly started in that direction himself.

“Rankin, what’s going on?” he asked, switching his “player” back over to the radio circuit.

“I have a problem. Stay away.”

“Huh?”

“Pickpockets tried to roll me. I’m with the police. I’m going to have to give up my cover.”

“Are you kidding?”

“I don’t sound like I’m making a joke, do I?”

Rankin said something Guns couldn’t make out to a policeman.

Guns wanted to ask Rankin what he thought was going on—why would Atha check a bag rather than retrieve one? But obviously Rankin was in no position to answer.

Probably he’d be just as baffled as Guns was.

Ferg would know—he always knew. He had some sixth sense about things that none of them quite shared.

Atha, meanwhile, went into a small store that sold mineral water, bought himself a bottle, then walked across to a magazine kiosk, where he got a copy of the newspaper, then went and sat down on a bench at the far side of the station. He dug into his pocket for the luggage receipt, then took out the slip of paper with the numbers the prostitute had copied for him.

The luggage ticket was a simple piece of white paper, with the word
scontrino
—ticket—stamped above a black line where the clerk wrote the letter and number of the locker or bin where he had placed the bag.

Rostislawitch’s number was only one digit different from his—4 rather than 8—and Atha considered simply altering the number with a pen. But he decided to stick with his original plan and, after satisfying himself that the carabinieri were no longer watching him, walked back toward the exit. There he saw the policemen in the process of arresting a pair of pickpockets; rather than walking close by, Atha went out the side. Avoiding the police entirely, he circled around the block until he came to the Hotel Naples. There he walked through the lobby to the business center. Within a few moments he had a photocopy of the baggage ticket. A pencil eraser lifted the original claim number; he made another copy, put in the right number, and then used the center’s paper cutter to fashion a
scontrino di bagaglio
that looked so much like the original that after folding it and putting it into his pocket he had to pull out the prostitute’s note to make sure he had the right one.

~ * ~

he war against pickpockets and other scammers at the Naples train station had been going on for over a hundred years. The policemen detaining Rankin were therefore somewhat resigned to the fact that there would be many battles, and knew they would have to husband their resources for the long haul. The repeated protests of the American finally convinced them that he would never do as a witness, and thus they released him, even as they pushed the miscreants into a car for a ride to the station, where their names would be recorded and their photos taken. It was of some consolation, the policemen thought, that the criminals had chosen a victim willing to fight back; both of the would-be pickpockets looked considerably worse for wear, and were likely to take at least a few days off nursing their wounds.

Rankin went inside and grabbed a table at one of the small food kiosks. Guns had followed the Iranian into the hotel, where Atha had created a new luggage ticket, then turned him over to the two British MI6 agents so he could go and rent some scooters in case they needed more transportation.

In a dark mood, Rankin sipped his coffee and waited for Atha to return to the station. The incident with the pickpockets had thrown Rankin off. Until then, he’d thought he had everything under control.

His cell phone rang.

“All right, Yank. Atha just gave something to a ratty-looking man who walks with a limp,” said Hamilton.

“When he comes out with the bag, brush into him, then call for the police,” Rankin told Hamilton. “I’ll come up behind you and grab the bag. Worst case, the police will end up with it, and we can examine it at the station.”

“We don’t want the Naples police involved in this,” said Hamilton. “They’re too corrupt. It will be better to grab him on the street. We’ll be closer to the car.”

“The traffic sucks.”

“Relax, Stephen. I’ve done this sort of thing before.”

Rankin ground his teeth together.

A man with a limp and a tattered sweater headed toward the luggage check. Rankin started toward him, then spotted Atha only a few feet behind him. He put his cell phone back to his ear.

“Hamilton, Atha’s right behind this guy. He’s going with him to the luggage check.”

“Very good, very good. I’m just coming in the door.”

Rankin stayed back, expecting Hamilton to close in. But the British agent stayed back as well. The video bug showed the Iranian getting a bag and then standing nearby as the other man got a similar bag. In seconds, they were both outside the luggage area, moving in opposite directions.