Soul of the Assassin (56 page)

In this case, the lack of information suggested not that he was dealing with a UFO incident—Ciello knew he could not be so lucky— but rather that he was missing a great number of accounts. Clearly, Kiska had other credit cards that he was not yet aware of. If he found them, he reasoned, he would undoubtedly find more definitive proof that she was T Rex.

And when he found it, he would be able to expunge—another of his favorite words, though not linked to a UFO case—the dark cloud hanging over him for his alleged misidentification of the nature of the Bologna attack.

Corrigan, of course, thought that two connections, along with the air trip to France, were proof enough. He had sidetracked Ciello with other assignments, telling him to dig up information about Iran’s biological research labs and Libyan hotels. But finally, scut work done, Ciello began trying to puzzle out how to find the accounts.

Comparative searches—looking for similar expenses—were useless in this case, because the accounts were used so sporadically that the pattern they established matched three-quarters of the bank’s accounts. He had to work the other way—he needed to know Kiska’s other aliases.

Ciello couldn’t come up with anything that wasn’t already in her file. It was fairly easy to forge documents in Russia, so Kiska could be literally anyone. The problem for most people when they adopted a phony identity, however, was that they needed some way to keep track of it. That was why many agents who used different names to cloud their identity kept their first name or some variation; it was much easier to remember.

Kiska’s cousin in the mental institution had six different accounts, all apparently used by Kiska. Her parents, who lived nearby, had one—which was clearly not used by Kiska, since the charges were all made within a fifty-mile radius of their home.

Ciello felt his back tightening up again and decided he had best take a break. He got up from his computer and stretched gently. Then he lay down on the floor, arms over his head, legs straight out. He closed his eyes.

The harsh overhead lights of his office shone through his eyelids. The white spots hovered together, like a fleet of spaceships spinning together.

Friends.

Or rather, other patients.

Ciello jumped up and began entering the address of the nursing home into one of the search scripts for the bank companies.

~ * ~

26

TRIPOLI, LIBYA

Ferguson walked out of the elevator and turned right past the back of the grand staircase. He swung around past the restaurant, avoided the maid cleaning the carpet with a vacuum that looked fifty years old, and headed toward the Steinway piano. He pointed his gaze straight ahead, oblivious to everything around him. He passed Atha, then spun around quickly, pointing at the Iranian’s face.

“Anghuyu Jahan, you are here to see Dr. Rostislawitch,” he said in Russian.

Atha said in Farsi that he didn’t speak Russian. Ferguson pointed at Atha, turned his head left and right to look around, then sat down in the chair across from him.

“Do you speak English?” said Atha.

“I can speak English,” said Ferguson, injecting a heavy Russian accent into his voice. “You are here for Dr. Rostislawitch. Your name is Anghuyu Jahan. You have people call you Atha. You are not to be trusted.”

“Wait just a second.”

Ferguson leaned forward. “No, Mr. Atha, as you call yourself, you wait. Who do you think you are dealing with? Just a professor from a laboratory? What do you think?”

Atha was not about to be bullied. “Tell Dr. Rostislawitch when he is ready to talk with me, he can communicate in the usual manner,” he said, rising.

“I suggest you sit down, Mr. Atha,” said Ferguson, showing his drawn pistol.

The Iranian frowned. “What is this?”

“This is a discussion to see if it is worth Dr. Rostislawitch’s trouble to meet with you.”

“Why did he want me to come to Tripoli?”

“Because someone tried to kill him in Naples,” said Ferguson.

“Who would want to kill him?” said Atha sharply.

“Perhaps you can tell me.”

“I don’t deal with the
mafiya.
It’s bad for business.”

“What is the
mafiya
? What is it?” said Ferguson, his voice just a notch too loud. “A figment of a newswriter’s imagination. I am just a business consultant.” Ferguson slipped his gun back in his belt and modulated his voice. “A friend.”

“How do I know you’re not FSB?”

“Perhaps I am.”

Atha scowled, but behind the mask he presented to the Russian he began to relax. This was a businessman with whom he could make a deal. The arrangements made more sense now—the scientist wouldn’t have thought about holding back an essential ingredient on his own, but a man like this, probably fronting for other men, a network, would. And he would have wanted the meeting to take place here, in Tripoli, where the authorities could be counted on if necessary. Italy would be too problematic.

It also explained what had happened on the dock in Naples. Of course. He should have realized that a man like Rostislawitch, all brain, would need some brawn to complete a transaction. More than likely he was part of some sort of network; very possibly they had made these sorts of deals before.

The only question was how to make sure he wasn’t cheated. He’d dealt with the type he saw across from him before; you couldn’t show weakness, but on the other hand, if you were too antagonistic they became irrationally angry.

“Maybe, if Dr. Rostislawitch is willing, we can make an arrangement to our mutual benefit,” said Atha. “But I have to talk to him.”

“That can be arranged. If it is worthwhile.”

Ferguson looked over and saw a blond-haired woman coming through the door—Kiska Babev.

Impeccable timing.

“What?” said Atha, immediately sensing something was wrong.

“The Russian FSB. Very inconvenient.”

Before Atha could say anything, Ferguson jumped up and jerked Atha with him to the right. A loud pop echoed under the piano. Its strings vibrated loudly, and suddenly smoke began to fill the lobby.

“Fire!” yelled Ferguson in English as he pushed Atha toward the hall. “Fire!”

A woman who had just come down the steps began to scream. At the desk, Kiska turned and caught a glimpse of someone running away, but the smoke was so thick she couldn’t make out if they were man or woman. Kiska began to choke.

“The blue car across the street,” Ferguson told Atha as they reached the side hall.

Atha, unsure whether this was real or a performance, tried to slow his pace, but Ferguson wouldn’t let him.

“The car. Now. Quickly,” Ferguson said, pushing Atha through the door. He switched to Russian, calling the Iranian a fat toad who was going to get them killed.

The car was parked across the street where Ferrone had left it earlier. Ferguson opened the doors with the remote key and slid in, bumping his legs on the bottom of the dashboard because the CIA station chief liked to drive right on top of the wheel and had left the seat that way. Ferguson cursed—in Russian, and in character—and started the engine. As soon as Atha closed the door, he peeled out.

“I don’t believe any of this,” said Atha.

Ferguson yanked the wheel hard, turning down a narrow side street. He mashed the accelerator, then slammed the brakes and took another turn.

Atha’s fingers fumbled to connect his seat belt. By the time he had gotten it buckled, Ferguson had turned back onto the street in front of the hotel. He drove to the corner, then pulled over. A pair of black Mercedes had driven up in front of the hotel; large men, obviously concealing weapons beneath their coats, were waiting near the door. The blonde Atha had just seen inside—Kiska, though he didn’t know her name—came out coughing with another woman and a man. They got into the cars and sped off.

Ferguson pulled out from his spot, running the light as he hit the gas.

“What are you doing?” asked Atha.

“Following to see if they go to the Russian embassy. You want proof that they are FSB.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Atha. “Let’s go somewhere and discuss our business.”

~ * ~

27

NORTHEASTERN SUDAN

“The truck has not returned yet. If the plane was shot down, they should have found it. If not, they should be back.”

Dr. Navid Hamid looked up from his computer. It took considerable effort to comprehend the Palestinian’s words, not because they were spoken in a foreign language—Dr. Hamid had learned Arabic as a child—but because he was absorbed in the scientific language of bacteria and DNA. He had been studying information published by one of Rostislawitch’s associates on the techniques they had used to manipulate the genes in E. coli. Understanding the papers was difficult, even for Hamid, though it was written in French, which he was fluent in.

“The airplane that flew over the camp was not shot down?” Hamid asked.

“It was hit. We saw smoke. But what happened we do not know for sure. The men we sent out to look for it have not returned. It was three hours.”

“Why did you wait so long to tell me?”

The Palestinian did not like to be berated, especially by a man who spent his days inside and did not understand the difficult strain of running the camp.

“There was much else going on, and you said you should not be disturbed.”

“They don’t have radios?”

“The radios don’t work over the ridge.”

Dr. Hamid rubbed his eyes. “Send someone.”

“As you wish,” said the Palestinian, starting to leave.

“Wait. Tell Muhammed we are ready to prepare the buses. We will be leaving this evening.”

“I thought Atha said to wait until morning.”

“No.” Hamid rose. As he read the papers, there was no way to alter the bacteria strain in the way that Rostislawitch had claimed he’d done; introducing a second virus mutation consistently failed. It had to be a bluff. “We’ll move as originally planned: the first bus leaves at nine.”

~ * ~

TRIPOLI, LIBYA

Thera couldn’t quite understand Ferguson’s Russian. She covered the phone and waved across the hotel room to Rostislawitch, who was sitting glumly in a chair, watching the audioless television.

“Come here,” she said in a stage whisper. “It’s Ferg. Talk to him in Russian.”

“Zdrástvuitye
,” said Rostislawitch, picking up the phone. “Hello.”

“Professor, the meeting is on. One hour. At Laxy’s.”

Rostislawitch looked at Thera. “Laxy’s?”

She nodded.

“We’ll be there,” said the scientist.

Thera took the phone and hung up. Laxy’s was an exclusive club on the waterfront that had been used as a meeting place by gunrunners and similar businessmen since it had opened in the late 1990s. Libya’s rapprochement with the West had cost it some of its sparkle, but its reputation was still sufficiently tattered to draw a large and disreputable crowd.

It was also one of several places in the city the CIA had bugged. Ferguson had worked there before, so he was familiar with the layout.

“You have to wear the bulletproof vest,” Thera told Rostislawitch. “The sport coat and shirt will be brought from the embassy in a few minutes. They’ll go right over it.”