Soul of the Assassin (50 page)

“She’s prettier when she’s mad,” said Ferguson in Russian.

“I know this is part of an act,” answered Rostislawitch.

“It’s no act,” said Ferguson.

“What are you saying?” asked Thera. “I don’t speak Russian. Use English.”

“I told your friend you’re both acting.”

“I’m not acting, Artur. You said yourself, a lot of people could die.” She tossed the washcloth into the bathroom, then turned to Ferguson. “I need air.”

He didn’t want to let her go outside, but the look on her face made it clear she was determined. If it was an act it was a good one, because it fooled him, too.

“Be real careful,” Ferguson told her. “Here, swap guns.”

His fingers lingered on hers for a moment as he took the small Czech hideaway. But that was the only luxury he allowed himself, and Thera quickly left.

“A game,” said Rostislawitch in Russian. “Good cop, bad cop.”

“No. She’s the good cop. I’m just a prick.”

Rostislawitch looked at the younger man’s grin. He’d saved Rostislawitch’s life, so at least as far as he was concerned, Ferguson wasn’t a prick.

“You were the one on the motorcycle, yes?”

“The red Ducati,” said Ferguson. “Nice bike.”

Rostislawitch saw it again, the man hurtling at him. The explosion had come a few seconds later.

Twice Ferguson had saved his life. Once might be a coincidence or perhaps staged, but twice was not.

And given these second chances to live, what should he do with them? Let Atha go, let him kill untold others?

“Maybe I could tell them something that an expert would find believable. It would depend on how far they’ve gotten. But I don’t know if I can get to Atha. He didn’t always respond right away.”

“He will if he thinks he has to.”

“He’s very clever. He may realize it is a lie.”

“Got to give it a shot, no?”

Artur nodded. “Let us try.”

~ * ~

8

NAPLES, ITALY

The area around the Naples train station was filled with police and emergency vehicles by the time Kiska Babev arrived. She joined the line of commuters going into the station. She spoke almost no Italian, and the local Neapolitan dialect was lost to her, but through English she managed to puzzle out that there had been some sort of gas explosion nearby. But that explanation didn’t quite fit with the increased security at the train station, where a policeman insisted on going through Kiska’s purse and briefcase before allowing her inside. She asked him what was going on, but he pretended not to understand English and then shooed her inside.

The Russian FSB agent had put a watch on Rostislawitch’s bank accounts and was alerted to both of his cash withdrawals within a few minutes of their being made. While the first one had alerted her to the fact that he was here, it was the second one that troubled her. The cash would be enough to buy a train or airplane ticket to dozens of places, and while he’d have to show ID to get out of the country, the cash would allow him to avoid using his credit card, which they were also monitoring.

She’d searched the airport without finding him, but had to wait until a backup officer arrived from Rome to take her place before coming here. There had been two dozen flights between the time the second withdrawal was made and when she had arrived; the number of trains was three times that. There were simply too many places for them to check.

The delay between the withdrawals suggested a change in plans following a meeting of some sort. Maybe he’d decided to go to Iran. If so, she might never find him.

Few, if any, of the travelers in the station seemed bothered by the extra security outside. Kiska walked through the concourse swiftly, wanting a feel for the layout of the place before actually searching more carefully. She walked over to the platform area, scanning the knots of waiting people. Once or twice she thought she saw the scientist, but closer examination proved she was wrong. She made her way to waiting areas, then began drifting through the shops when her pager buzzed.

She walked over to the far side of the station, making sure she had no one around her, and called her Moscow office.

“This is Colonel Babev. Antov?”

“Colonel, the scientist has just sent a text message using his private account.”

“From where?”

“We’re trying to trace it now. I have the message for you.”

“Tell me.”

“It is in English, addressed to the same account as the one last week saying he would be in Bologna. But this is very explicit: ‘You have taken the suitcase. I was afraid you were not honest. As a precaution, I kept the phalange virus necessary to convert the DNA. The price is now twice, and two European Union passports, clean. I will be in Tripoli at the Alfonse Hotel this evening. I estimate that the virus will survive for another twenty-four hours. For technical references, check these sites.’ And then there is a list of Web sites. Our consultants have not yet gone through them. They involve DNA in some way.”

“The phalange is a type of virus that is used to introduce specific mutations,” she told her lieutenant. “Get me a reservation at that hotel. Get me people—I want Stefan in Tripoli. Have him bring a team, Petra or—who was the girl from St. Petersburg?”

“Neda—on such short notice, Colonel, I think it would be impossible to get her. She’s working with Demidas.”

“Then tell Stefan to put together the best people he can find. In Libya, things are much more open. And ample weapons.”

“I understand, Colonel.”

“Get me a flight there. A ticket for Kiril as well. He’s at the Naples airport now. Make them separate flights if possible. How long will it take you to trace the computer?”

“Another hour, maybe longer.”

“Was it in Naples?”

“We’re not sure.”

It would be easier to take him in Tripoli, Kiska thought. But he might be prepared as well. Surprise him here and be done with it.

“Call me directly when you find it,” she said.

“Yes, Colonel. I will.”

~ * ~

9

NORTHEASTERN SUDAN

Atha, tired from his travel, slept late. He rose just in time for the noonday prayers, then took a long walk around the camp. The buses and trucks he had hired were arriving from the Sudan. By nightfall, there would be seventy-three, enough to transport five thousand people. The buses would then drive three, four, five hundred miles, to A1 Jaw in Libya; Dunquiah in Sudan; Aswan, Abu Simbel, Al Kharijab, in Egypt; to Chad and Darfur. From there, their passengers would fly to France, Italy, Denmark, Egypt, Great Britain, the U.S. Within a week, many would be in hospitals, a few in the grave.

The West would be at the start of an epidemic of a sort unseen since the Black Plague of Medieval times.

It was a beautiful thought.

And he would be rich, and finally truly powerful. An even more beautiful thought.

Most of the refugees in the camp were busy bidding one another good-bye and getting their things together for the journey. Atha nodded at the families as he passed. They smiled at him; a few even lowered their heads in silent tribute to his status as their savior.

When he returned from his walk, Atha found Dr. Hamid was squatting on the floor of the lab in front of a sealed glass work area. He was wearing gloves and a special protective suit, though not a hood.

“Doctor?”

“Please stay near the door. Do not touch anything,” said Hamid. “I will be with you in a moment.”

The bacterial colonies that Rostislawitch had provided had bloomed and then crashed before their arrival; only a few thousand had survived the transport. Had these been ordinary bacteria and the conditions here perfect, those few thousand would have been more than enough to seed thousands of new colonies. But the hybridization of the bacteria and Dr. Hamid’s relatively primitive lab complicated matters. The colonies were growing only about half as fast as his models suggested they would.

“It is slower than we hoped,” said the scientist finally. “But it will do.”

He turned around and faced Atha. “I should be ready to give the first doses this evening. We’ll have to start slower than planned—just four hundred people. By tomorrow evening, we will be ready for the rest.”

Atha nodded. The delay meant that some of the transports would sit here overnight, but otherwise it was a trivial matter, not worth bothering the minister about. In all but a few cases, the airplanes waiting for them were chartered, and would wait indefinitely. For the others, new tickets would not be a problem. The travel documents, visas, medical certificates, had been prepared weeks ago.

“From now on, you should take proper precautions in here,” said Dr. Hamid. “A full suit. You must decontaminate carefully, wash very thoroughly. Remember, the material is very dangerous.”

“I thought you said as long as I wash I am all right.”

“If the bacteria gets into your mouth, it will enter your digestive tract. From that point, there is no stopping it.”

“I will be careful,” said Atha, deciding that he would simply not visit the laboratory again.

“Once we are ready, I would advise you not to eat or drink anything, either. Bottled water that you yourself handle, nothing else. The juice should be an incredible medium for the bacteria to grow, and I do not doubt that infection will be very easy. Remember, it is more potent than common E. coli. There waste is the main means of transmission. Here any fluid, even sweat, may make the transmission. A swimming pool, food, a washcloth, can become a medium of transfer. The bacteria is extremely virile. The professor was quite a genius.”

“I have no doubt,” said Atha.

“We should leave as soon as the distribution is complete,” said the scientist. “The longer we stay, the greater the risk of infection.”

Atha nodded. The final phase of the plan called for them to travel to northern Iran, where Navid would prepare additional cultures for storage and possible future use. Atha would look after his financial affairs, and take a vacation, assuming the minister did not have other plans.

The Revolutionary Guards were not universally appreciated in Iran, and Atha realized that the minister’s overt power play might elict a strong response. Atha was unsure exactly what the minister was planning, whether it would be a real coup or simply a putsch behind the scenes. Either way, Atha would be prepared, with money in several overseas accounts as well as Iranian banks.

Assuming the minister paid. Like anyone with power, he was not entirely to be trusted.

Atha took his leave of Dr. Hamid and went back to the hut that served as his quarters. He turned on his laptop computer to see that the minister had forwarded the payment to his accounts.

The money had not yet gone through.

Atha rose from his desk. He tried not to jump to conclusions— there must be an explanation.

And if there wasn’t?

Then he would send his hordes to Tehran rather than Europe and America. There the devastation would be considerably greater, as the sanitary conditions in the poorest areas were terrible.

Atha sat back down, calming himself. It must be an error, he decided. He considered whether it would be wiser to talk to the minister by phone or to send him an instant message. Messaging him had the advantage of letting Atha craft what he would say. But the phone would bring an instant response.