Soul of the Assassin (13 page)

“These are God’s creatures, hallowed be his name,” Atha’s father complained. “You should show compassion.”

For several years, Atha avoided spiders and insects of all kinds. Finally—in a mosque, as it happened—he saw an imam squash one as they walked together. And from that moment Atha realized that was the way of the world.

The powerful squashed the less powerful. He did not have to look very far for examples. At the time, Saddam the Iraqi butcher was sending missiles into Iran, killing hundreds of innocents. Brave young men, including two of Atha’s cousins, sacrificed themselves in suicidal charges to beat back the Iraqi army from their land.

All the while, the West stood by and encouraged the butcher, supplying the Butcher of Baghdad with missiles and intelligence. Later, they discarded him as callously as a farmer killing unwanted cats, snapping his neck after a show trial.

That was the way of the world.

Atha believed that his life started at that moment the imam squashed the spider. He had put his talents to great use, working with friends high up in the Revolutionary Guard and the government. Parsa Moshen, officially the education minister but unofficially the head of the Revolutionary Guard’s overseas operations sector, was one of his closest mentors.

Not a friend. The minister did not have friends. Even Atha, who’d known him many years, remained fearful of him.

Atha’s realization that the strong ruled the weak had paid off for both him and Iran. He had worked to make himself strong, as measured by money, and to make his country strong, as measured by weapons and other modern conveniences such as pharmaceuticals and aircraft parts. And now his greatest contribution to the country, as well as to his fortune, was just a day or two away.

By the grace of God, a large number of people—millions of people even, it was very possible—would die in the process. It was the way of the world.

Atha jerked his hands apart, maiming the spider. Its mangled body dropped to the floor, squirming, unable to stand.

As an act of mercy, he crushed it with his toe.

~ * ~

8

BOLOGNA, ITALY

Thera grabbed Rostislawitch’s arm as soon as the alarm sounded.

“This way,” she said, pushing him toward the hall.

“But the door.”

“Come on,” she insisted, tightening her grip.

Surprised by the woman’s strength and persistence, Rostislawitch let himself be led down the hall as the fire alarm began to bleat. The others seemed momentarily stunned by the noise.

“Go; there’s fire; get out,” said Thera, yelling in Greek-accented Italian and then English. She reached the end of the hall and pushed Rostislawitch with her into the reception room, pointing toward a door at the far side. “There, go,” she told him.

“What’s going on?” he said.

“Come on. There’s a fire. I know the way out.”

Rostislawitch wondered if this was the Iranian’s doing—if he had decided on an unconventional way of meeting. He started through the door, then froze, seeing that it led to a set of steps down toward the basement.

“Not down there—go right! Right! Hurry,” said Thera, nudging him again. She’d pulled the headset of her radio out and heard Rankin say there was a bomb inside the building.

“Which way?” asked Rostislawitch.

“The window there,” she said. “It’s on an alley. Come on!”

“I don’t smell smoke.”

“Come on!”

~ * ~

he man who’d taken the suitcase into the reception hall hurried toward a Fiat across the street. Ferguson trotted to catch up.

“Guns, you on the bike?” he asked as he drew closer to the man.

“Yeah.”

“Black Fiat. I’ll get the plate.”

The fire alarm was ringing and people were starting to file out of the building, though not in much of a rush.

“Rankin, call in some sort of bomb alert to the police,” said Ferguson.

“I already did.”

“Where’s Thera?”

“She’s going out the back.”

“I’m here, Ferg,” said Thera.

“Get out; there’s a bomb.”

“No shit. We’re in the alley.”

Meanwhile, the man who had left the suitcase under the table had stopped at the trunk of his car. He popped it open and reached inside. Ferguson, thinking the man had spotted him, ducked into the nearby doorway and reached to his belt for his pistol. He watched as the man pulled another suitcase out of the car.

“Ferg, what’s going on?” asked Guns. He was a few yards down the street, sitting on a motorcycle. Like many Italians, he hadn’t bothered putting on his helmet.

“I’m not sure,” answered Ferguson. “Let’s see. Get ready to grab him.”

The man closed the trunk and started back toward the art building. Ferguson kept his gun down and pressed against the door, staying in the shadows as the man passed a few feet away.

“Coming at you, Guns,” Ferguson whispered.

“Yeah, I see him. What’s he got? Another bomb?”

“Don’t know.” Ferguson trotted to the car, glanced at the empty interior, then knelt in front of the trunk. He picked the lock, lifting the lid cautiously; there was nothing inside except an undersized spare and some crumpled plastic grocery bags.

Ferguson pulled the small bomb sniffer out of his pocket. The “sniffer” would react to the chemicals used in plastic explosives, such as Semtex, by sounding a tone and lighting a red LED on the outer casing. The light stayed off.

Ferguson slammed the trunk closed.

“Guns, why don’t you circle the block, get out of here,” he said.

“What?”

“Just go. This may be some sort of trick to flush us out. That or Rankin got his underwear twisted again.”

~ * ~

9

BOLOGNA, ITALY

The alleyway was dark, and Rostislawitch tripped over a small pile of boxes as he strode toward the street. Thera grabbed his back and steadied him, helping him oat to the light. A fire truck was just turning up the block; they watched it veer left and right as the driver overcorrected, its bumper barely missing the cars parked on either side of the street.

“What’s going on?” Rostislawitch asked.

“I don’t know,” said Thera.

“Did Atha send you?”

Thera considered saying yes, but was afraid he’d catch on if she bluffed. Better to play it straight, she thought.

“Who’s Atha?” she asked.

“Who sent you?” demanded Rostislawitch.

“No one sent me. I’m from the University of Athens. I’m a post-doc student. I thought I might come here and see what chances I had of getting a job. I’m not sure whether I want to teach or just do pure research. It might be selling out.”

“Oh, Athens.” Despite her claim, Rostislawitch was now convinced that Thera was in fact working for the Iranian, probably checking him out before the meeting.

“You’ve been to Athens?” asked Thera.

“I’ve stopped in the airport a few times. Never in the city.”

“A shame,” Thera told him. “There’s so much history there, in the countryside. The city itself is like any city, unless you have family. But the ruins, those are impressive.”

“I see.” Rostislawitch stepped back as another fire engine roared around the corner.

“Would you like to get something to eat?” asked Thera.

“Yes,” said Rostislawitch. “I am a little hungry.”

~ * ~

mong the many lessons Ferguson’s father had taught him was always to look as if you belonged where you didn’t. A slight frown, a firm glare, and a determined stride were far more valuable than an identification card—though he could have produced a card showing he was a police investigator had anyone stopped him as he strode into the art building.

“Ferg, what are you doing?” Rankin asked over the radio.

Ferguson ignored him. Spotting the suitcase, he walked to it and pulled it from under the table.

“Ferg!”

Combination locks on either side of the suitcase held it shut. Ferguson placed his thumbs on them, then pushed the levers simultaneously. The loud clicks echoed against the high ceiling.

“Jesus, Ferg,” said Rankin.

“I don’t see the big guy here.” Ferguson pushed the lid up. The suitcase was filled with pamphlets.

“You see this, Rankin?”

“Yeah, I see it, Ferg. What the fuck do you want me to say?”

“Something along the lines of, ‘I screwed up big-time,’ would do it.”

“Like I’m supposed to have X-ray vision? The guy acted exactly as if he was planting a bomb. I didn’t want Thera to get killed. I thought it was T Rex.”

Ferguson straightened. A pair of firemen came through the door; one of them had an axe.

“Dove il fuoco?”
they asked. “Where is the fire?”

“Non so,”
said Ferguson. “I don’t know.”

The firemen rushed toward the hallway. Ferguson took out his small bug finder and scanned the room, looking for bugging devices. He smelled a setup—someone must be watching, and now knew they were there.

“Maybe you ought to get out of there, don’t you think?” said Rankin.

“I’m already burned as it is,” said Ferguson. He was in no mood to realize he’d made a pun, let alone laugh at it.

“The guy with the suitcases is coming in,” said Rankin.

“Maybe I’ll arrest him. I noticed a spelling mistake on the brochure.”

~ * ~

10

BOLOGNA, ITALY

They spent the next few hours trying to figure out if they had been watched. Rankin was mad at Ferguson for saying he’d screwed up when really he’d done the most logical thing under the circumstances. Ferguson was mad at himself for not having realized that it might be a trap. Guns, who’d cycled back around the city and was watching Thera, wasn’t quite sure what either of them was angry about, and tried to ignore the sniping in his headset. The only person completely focused on her job was Thera, who’d bought Rostislawitch dinner and listened to him talk about how much he missed his wife. It was a touching story, heartrending in a way, and not the sort of thing she’d expected from a man who according to the Cube had spent his life working on efficient ways of killing large numbers of people with microscopic bugs.

When Rostislawitch went back to his hotel to go to bed, Thera planted a video bug outside his room, then went downstairs and tapped into the phone interface unit in the boiler room. Ferguson, meanwhile, rented a suite on the second floor that they could use to watch him if necessary. After checking the room, he went down to the lounge to check it out and wait for Thera. Afraid to drink because he was so tired, he ordered a bottle of Pellegrino and sat at a booth that gave him a good view of the doorway.