Soul of the Assassin (4 page)

“She’s just doing the tourist thing,” Ferguson told Rankin.

Ferguson found a place to put the bike. Pulling on a pair of sunglasses, he began walking down the street, considering what to do next. The brief predicted that Arna Kerr would stay in Bologna for one more day or perhaps two. Following her around all that time would be easy, but Ferguson was never one to take the easy way on anything.

“Ah, you again,” he said, spinning as they passed on the street. This time he didn’t bump into her. “The lady from the hotel whom I knocked to the floor. I am still sorry for this.”

Displeasure flickered on her face, the slightest hint of uncontrolled emotion.

A good sign, thought Ferguson.

“I hope you have forgiven me,” he told her in Italian, pulling off his glasses. “Here I see you are a tourist, but I thought you were a student.”

Arna Kerr was used to men trying to pick her up. She smiled condescendingly, and continued taking photos of the square with her small camera.

“I can tell you’re not Italian,” said Ferguson, switching to English. “But I don’t think you are American. Too pretty.”

“Allez oust,”
she said in French. “Get lost.”

“Ah, oui.
But my French is so poor, I don’t know what you are saying. I wouldn’t have guessed French. Scandinavian.”

“I can call a policeman,” she said, this time in English.

“Let me,” said Ferguson. He swung around, held his hand up, and said in a soft voice,
“Polizia, polizia.”
Then he spread his arms in a gesture of apology. “None seem to be nearby. Which is good—I wouldn’t want to share.”

“You act like an Italian,” said Arna. “But your accent sounds American when you speak English.”

“Grazie,”
said Ferguson. “But it’s more Irish, don’t you think?”

Arna shrugged, suppressing a smile. If she weren’t working, she might find him attractive in an amusing way. He was good-looking, and glib of course, with a sense of humor. But she was working, and wanted to get rid of him as quickly and painlessly as possible.

Without calling the police, certainly.

“I can pretend to be American, if that will help,” said Ferguson. “I have been to Boston and New York. And as it happens, I have all morning free, and can give you a guided tour of the city.”

“You live here?”

“Just arrived. But in a past life, I must have lived here. Every street is familiar.”

“Really, signore—”

“Ferg. Everyone calls me Ferg.”

She shook her head. And yet she couldn’t help herself. He was attractive, with a certain air about him. “What do you do?” she asked.

“Art. I look at very old paintings and tell people with too much money whether to pay ridiculous prices for them or not. And you?”

“I’m a drug pusher,” she said in French. “A vicious woman who sucks the blood from obnoxious Americans.”

“Irishmen, too, I hope.”

Something about him struck her wrong, and it wasn’t just the fact that he so effortlessly figured out what she had said. Arna Kerr took a step toward him, then threw her right hand onto his back, reaching for his wallet pocket.

Ferguson caught her hand. She was quick, and strong. He thought it was possible she was on to him.

“I usually wait for the second date,” he said, but then he let her hand go; she reached in and took out his wallet and EU passport.

“Dublin?” she said, reading.

“Don’t you think that’s a good photo for a passport?” he asked.

Arna Kerr thumbed through the passport, noting that Ferguson
had
been to America several times over the past year—and to Russia, China, and Thailand besides.

His wallet had a few euros and some British pounds, along with a Presto card and American Express—black, so he wasn’t exactly poor.

Cute and rich. Well that
was
a good combination.

“Take a business card while you’re at it,” said Ferguson. “Do I get to feel up your wallet, too?”

“Don’t get fresh.” She handed the wallet and passport back.

“So, this means you want a tour? You see I can use the money.”

“You seem to have plenty.”

“Then I’ll pay for lunch.”

“I have to work,” she told him. “I’m late now.”

“Where’s your appointment?”

Arna Kerr blushed at the stupid lie. No harm done—but still, to be tripped up so easily.

“So dinner,” said Ferguson. “Nine?”

“Dinner. I don’t know.”

“You have to eat, right?”

He didn’t look like he was going to leave.

“I—”

“I’ll be at the hotel at nine.” Ferguson started away, then whirled on his heel. “Meet me in the lounge.”

Arna Kerr froze, sure suddenly that she had miscalculated, that he was Interpol or something.

“You never told me your name.”

“Arna,” she said.

“Arna what?”

“Just Arna.”

“Just Arna. It has a nice ring to it,” said Ferguson, bowing and walking away.

~ * ~

ankin had joined the First Team from the Special Forces; he was in fact still a soldier, even if it had now been nearly two years since he’d worn fatigues. Surveillance wasn’t really his specialty. He did know the basics, however, thanks to several weeks at the advanced spycraft school the Agency had sent him to when Special Demands was formed: change your appearance often, don’t be predictable, and above all else, don’t get too close.

So he was more than a little surprised to spot Ferguson talking to their subject.

Rankin almost stopped. He knew it would be the wrong thing to do, though, and he forced himself to look away, concentrating on the reddish brown bricks he was rolling over.

Rankin found a coffee shop about a block away. It was late November, and while not cold for Rankin—he’d recently spent some time in North Korea, where your sweat froze in its pores—it was well past the season when waiters would prowl outside. Needing some sort of reason for sitting there, he went in for a coffee, struggling to remember how to ask for milk until the woman behind the counter smiled and told him in Texas-accented English that it was right behind him.

When he came outside, Ferguson was waiting for him.

“What the hell were you doing?” Rankin asked.

“Getting a date. How’s the coffee?”

“Aren’t we following her?”

“She’s in the Commune. Give her a few minutes, then slip inside and make sure she’s still there.” Ferguson looked at his watch. “I’m going to run up to the train station and grab Thera and Guns. Watch her until I get back, all right? Then we’ll get those guys on the case.”

“Just me?”

“And don’t get too close. She’s already spoken for.”

~ * ~

5

BOLOGNA, ITALY

Thera Majed stared out the window as the train made its way through the mountain valley toward Bologna. Her eyes weren’t focused so much on the landscape as the blur of the brown fields she passed. She’d put her mind in a kind of holding pattern; the train was white noise around her.

She could have used a vacation. She hadn’t thought so; when Corrigan had called and asked if she was up for a mission she’d agreed without hesitation.

“Your option, totally,” he’d told her.

And meant it, she thought, though you couldn’t really be sure. The CIA was like a big corporation in a way—
what have you done for me lately?

Risked being arrested and God knows what else in North Korea and then South Korea, but that was two weeks ago; we’re on to something new now.

So what the hell. Yeah, she was up for it. Whatever. It was only now, looking at the beautiful countryside, longing to be
just
looking at it and not thinking about the mission, that she realized she was a little burned-out.

She looked forward to seeing Ferg. He could be difficult to deal with, but she liked him. She admired the hell out of him—they all did, even Rankin, who would put a pitchfork through his head rather than admit it.

Ferguson was good, really good. He’d spent pretty much his entire life as an op and so much of what he did just seemed to come naturally. That was a downside for having him as a boss—he didn’t understand that not everyone was like him, that other people were human.

He didn’t seem to be himself. He’d spent several days in a North Korean jail, probably been tortured, certainly been starved, but of course he wouldn’t say. Here he was, back in the middle of something new, undoubtedly gung ho about it.

He had another side to him. He was actually concerned about people. That was something
he
didn’t admit, but she’d seen something in the way he interacted with a kid on their first mission together. Something real, beyond the mask he manipulated as part of his job.

“You ready?” said Jack “Guns” Young, sitting across from her. “I figure we’re about ten minutes away.”

“I’m ready,” said Thera. She kept her gaze out the window.

“You look spacey,” said Guns. He was a Marine Corps gunnery sergeant, which accounted for his nickname. Originally he’d been chosen for the team because of his skills with weapons and demolitions, but he’d become adept as an all-around op. As Ferg put it, Guns had found his inner spy. There were still some rough edges, but Ferguson had taken a liking to him—partly, he suspected, because he didn’t talk that much.

“I’m with you,” she said, tapping his knee and getting up as the train began to brake. “It’s just a beautiful place to be.”

~ * ~

erguson stood at the end of the platform, hands dug into his pockets, sunglasses on though the day was overcast. The bright white earbuds of an Apple iPod were in his ears—though the music player was in reality a radio.

He could be a movie star, Thera thought.

“Hey,” said Guns, surprised Ferguson had come to meet them.

“Hey yourself,” Ferguson told the Marine. Guns was actually a couple of years older than Ferguson, but the CIA officer thought of him as the younger brother he’d never had. He was tall and on the thin side, with a face that could have belonged to a sixteen-year-old.

“Ms. Majed, you made it,” Ferguson told Thera.

“You could have warmed up the weather,” said Thera, feeling a chill as the wind blew through the platform. “Rome was warmer.”

“Next time, Italy in the spring.” Ferguson took one of the suitcases she was carrying and began walking toward the taxi stand. Cars needed a special pass to get into the central city. He’d rented three vehicles with the proper paperwork, stashing them in parking garages in case they were needed. In truth, bikes and scooters were much more practical. He and Rankin had placed a dozen around town, along with a pair of motorcycles.

“Where are we at?” Thera asked.

“We’re doing a surveillance. We could use you and Guns to switch off,” said Ferguson. “She came right in on the plane that Corrigan said she would. Even intelligence guys get things right once in a while.”