Soul of the Assassin (24 page)

Kiska Babev.

“Ferg?”

“The answer is ‘D: all of the above,’“ said Ferguson. “I’m going to have to get back to you.”

~ * ~

8

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Corrine hung up the phone. She was used to Ferguson’s quick hangups by now and knew it was usually because he was working. Still, it was clear he was holding something back.

Of course he was. Ferguson never told the whole story about anything.

Her intercom buzzed. “The chief of staff just called. The President wants to move the two o’clock up to twelve fifteen and make it a working lunch,” said her secretary, Teri Gatins. “I ordered you a Caesar salad. OK?”

Corrine glanced at her watch. “It’s twelve thirty.”

“He said he was running fifteen minutes late.”

That was
so
Jonathon McCarthy, thought Corrine, getting up.

~ * ~

ecretary of State Jackson Steele ran his fingers through his curly white hair, pushing it back on his scalp. It was thick and so bright that it reminded people of the cotton his ancestors had once picked, and Steele sometimes wondered if the Lord had given it to him as a warning not to forget his humble beginnings.

“All I’m asking for is a week. Less. We’re almost there. The Iranian ayatollahs have already signed off on the agreement. Give me a week and we’ll have a full commitment. The bombs will be eliminated and inspections will begin.”

“What sense does it make to let them have a biological weapon?” asked Defense Secretary Larry Stich. “It’s potentially as devastating as a nuclear bomb. More so.”

“I didn’t say we should let them have it. I’m saying we should put off any overt action until the treaty is signed,” said Steele.

“The Revolutionary Guard is threatening a coup if the treaty is signed,” said Stich.

“That’s not going to happen. They don’t have the power. There’s a reason their leader is only education minister. If he was truly powerful, he would be the Prime Minister, or at least defense.”

Stich found the comment ironic—he didn’t feel particularly powerful at the moment, given that he clearly was failing to carry the argument.

“If we move too forcefully, there’s always the potential that word will get out,” said Steele. “That could change the balance in Iran. We have to keep things calm until the treaty is signed. Observe, yes. Act, no.”

“If the treaty is signed,” said Stich. “In the meantime, they may get away.”

“Ignoring a germ warfare program just to get this treaty signed seems like a very poor idea to me,” McCarthy said. “A very poor idea.”

There was a knock on the door.

“That will be either our food or Miss Alston,” said McCarthy, rising. “I doubt it will be Tom Parnelles. He is worse about schedules than I am.”

It proved to be both their food
and
Corrine Alston, who apologized for being late.

“Oh, you are not late, Miss Alston,” said McCarthy, settling back into his chair as a steward set down a tray for him. “We were taking advantage of a hole in the Secretary of State’s schedule to digest the situation vis-a-vis Iran.”

“There’s a joke in there somewhere, I’m sure,” said Steele. “Probably at my expense.”

“Well, I was about to call you a holy man,” said McCarthy, winking at Corrine. His mirth was short-lived. “Am I to understand that you have an update from Italy?” he asked Corrine.

“Yes, sir, I do.” Corrine explained quickly what she had been told, adding that their “people”—she never named the members of the First Team, of course—believed a Russian FSB agent might have been involved.

“The Russians are working with Iran?” said Steele.

“No. The thinking is that T Rex is freelancing. They’re still trying to work out what’s going on.”

That point was reinforced by the CIA Director, who made his appearance a few minutes later. Thomas Parnelles told the others what Slott had learned from MI6-—that the Iranian operative, Anghuyu “Atha” Jahan, was a supposed Iranian businessman who had arranged relatively minor deals in the past. One or two had been related to the nuclear program, though most involved getting around the economic boycott instituted because of the program. The Iranian seemed to be fairly close to the government’s education minister, Parsa Moshen— who was also the head of the Revolutionary Guard.

“Moshen opposes the nuclear treaty,” said Steele. “But his star is on the downside.”

“Maybe not if he can start up a biological warfare program,” said Parnelles. “This would give him a chip to come back with.”

“So they buy a scientist?” asked Steele.

“More likely they’re buying information from him,” said Parnelles. “Techniques, DNA sequences. Otherwise, they would have no need to kill him. We think we know who the killer is—a Russian FSB agent, probably freelancing for Iran. She may not even know who she’s working for. In any event, if they’ve authorized the murder, then the scientist has already given them what they want.”

“Excuse me, Tom,” said Corrine, “but our people—your people—aren’t convinced that the Russian is T Rex. They’re still looking for more data.”

Parnelles, annoyed by the “our people—your people” faux pas, snapped back.

“Nonsense. The Russian is the killer. And we have to take her into custody”

“Why don’t we just let the Italians handle that?” said Steele. “Have them apprehend her for this bombing, get her out of the way. You go on and follow these people, apprehend them after the treaty is signed.”

“They’ll be back in Iran by then.” Parnelles had little confidence in the Italians. He was also annoyed with Corrine, for undercutting him.

And with Ferguson, since clearly that’s where her information came from. Parnelles had reviewed the report from the desk man, Corrigan, himself; it looked pretty obvious.

“Given what we have discovered here,” said McCarthy, “this assassin is a side issue. We can let the Italians deal with her for the time being.”

“It’s not a side issue.” Parnelles struggled to keep his voice civil. “Jonathon, it’s not a side issue. This agent—this woman—killed one of our best people. One of my people. We need to bring her to judgment. Killing a federal officer is a capital crime.”

“I’ll have no trouble pulling the switch on her personally,” said McCarthy. “But I do not believe she is our first priority. Now that we know that there is a program to develop biological agents—germ warfare if you will—that is where our assets should be directed. We need more information about it. The First Team is in position to gather it. That is what they should be doing.”

“They can do both,” said Parnelles.

McCarthy looked over to Corrine.

“I agree,” she said.

“But we shouldn’t do anything that will disrupt the treaty,” said Steele.

“Let’s send the horse across that bridge when we come to it,” said McCarthy. “Now everyone eat up, because I’m going to have to kick y’all out in a few minutes so I can meet with the head of the National Restaurant Association. I wouldn’t want him thinking we’re not doing our share to support our nation’s restaurants.”

~ * ~

9

BOLOGNA, ITALY

Ferguson ran down the stairs from the second-floor room, slowing to a brisk stroll as he reached the lobby. Kiska Babev was standing in the middle of the reception area, glancing around at the bright yellow sofas and blue sideless chairs as if she were looking for someone.

He did an exaggerated double take when she turned her head toward him.

“Of all the people in all the gin joints in all the world,” Ferguson said, riffing on Bogart. “Kiska Babev.”

“Robert Ferguson.” It had been quite some time since Kiska had seen Ferguson, but she remembered him well. “How are you, Bob?”

“Good as ever. You?”

“Very good.”

“They let you out of Moscow?”

“Once or twice a year,” she told him.

“And you’re in Bologna. Italy. Of all places.” Ferguson twisted around examining his surroundings, as if he’d been dropped here. “What brings you to Bologna?”

“It’s a lovely city.”

“So is Moscow.”

“I needed a little break.”

“You needed a break? Work got to you?”

“You’re the one who lives a dangerous life, Bobby,” said Kiska. “What brings you to Bologna?”

“Renaissance art. I’ve always been fascinated by it.”

Kiska smiled. She suspected that Ferguson was here for the same reason she was here—Artur Rostislawitch. But there was no sense asking; Ferguson was a consummate liar, better than she was.

A very attractive one, handsome and intriguing in his own way, but still a liar.

“Want to get a drink?” Ferguson asked. “Or are you busy?”

“I’m never too busy for an attractive younger man.” Kiska rose. Best to find out what he was up to now. “Where would you like to go?”

“There’s a bar through that hallway over there.”

“I think perhaps another place. Quieter. Where we can find a corner alone.”

“Even better.”

~ * ~

ankin wondered what the hell Ferguson was doing as he watched him walk out the front door with the blonde. She didn’t seem his type—sophisticated rather than trashy, in her thirties, with a scar on her right cheek. It wasn’t until they were out the door that Rankin realized she might be the Russian assassin, T Rex, the woman who had dialed in the explosion.

Was Ferguson out of his mind?

Rankin went upstairs to the room they were using to watch Rostislawitch, got out the laptop, and after punching in the security codes and sliding his thumb over the reader brought up the file.

It
was
Kiska Babev.

Christ.

~ * ~

rosecco, perpiacere,”
Kiska said to the waiter, ordering a bottle of the bubbly Italian wine.

“Italian. I’m impressed,” said Ferguson.

“Don’t be,” said Kiska. “That’s about all I know.”

“Your English is even better than the last time we met.”

“And your Russian?”

Ferguson told her in Russian that he would like to thank her by sleeping with her, the sooner the better.

“You are just as fresh as you always were, Bobby,” she said. “But you must work on your accent.”

“Now?”

“Later. I get so little chance to practice English these days.”

The waiter brought the wine, opening it with a flourish, popping off the cap with a bottle opener.

“Cheers,” said Kiska, holding up the glass.

“La’chaim!”
said Ferguson, holding his up as well.

“Speaking Yiddish now?”