Soul of the Assassin

1

Death had never particularly interested Bob Ferguson as a subject of study. It was a fact in and of itself, without nuance. His religious instruction — Ferguson had gone to parochial schools and a Catholic college — taught him to view death as a necessary passage, but the nuns, brothers, and priests who had instructed him tended to focus on either side of the gateway, rather than death itself.

As a CIA officer assigned to the Agency’s covert Special Demands team, Ferguson had had a great deal of experience with death; he had often been its agent and provocateur. Still, his relationship was purely professional; he remained neither intrigued nor moved by any aspect of the subject itself. The end of life was simply the end of life. The manner of its coming rarely interested him.

Ferguson’s nonplussed expression as the video played on the small screen at the end of the study bothered his host, CIA Director Thomas Parnelles. Unlike Ferguson, Parnelles contemplated death a great deal. It bothered him, especially in its most brutal forms, and particularly when it involved someone he knew. The fact that the death on the screen involved both was particularly upsetting; it had happened to a man who worked for him, and required justice, if not vengeance.

Parnelles had known Ferguson for a very long time — since Ferguson was born, in fact. He had been Ferguson’s father’s closest friend, and on more than one occasion served in loco parentis when Ferguson Sr. was out of the country. Parnelles assumed because of these things not only that he knew the young man well, but that Ferguson shared his feelings on any matter worthy of having one. So the half smile on Ferguson’s face, the completely unmoved expression that was characteristic of the young man, annoyed Parnelles greatly. He finally reached over and clicked the laptop key to end the video just as it focused on the dead man’s battered skull.

Unsure why the video had stopped, Ferguson took a sip of bourbon from the tumbler Parnelles had given him earlier. The liquor burned pleasantly at his throat as it went down.

“Technical problems, General?” Ferguson asked.

“There’s not much more,” said Parnelles. He flipped off the laptop, momentarily shrouding the study in darkness. When he turned on the light, Ferguson had the exact same expression on his face. “Are you feeling all right, Bobby?”

“Never better.”

“North Korea was difficult, I know.”

“Change of pace.” Ferguson tilted the glass. The bourbon was Johnny Drum Private Stock, a well-aged small-batch whiskey more distinctive than such standards as Maker’s Mark or Jim Beam. That was one thing about Parnelles — he did not have standard anything.

“Ordinarily, I would tell you to sit down for a while, and take some time off,” said Parnelles. “More than the few days you’ve had. But this is a priority. This is important.”

“Not a problem.”

“After this, maybe you should take two or three months off. Lay on the beach.”

“I’ll just get bored.” Ferguson leaned forward, stretching his back and neck. “So Michael Dalton was killed in Puys, France, two years ago. Then what happens?”

“Then we spend two years trying to figure out who did it.” Parnelles took his own drink from the edge of his desk and walked over to the chair near Ferguson. He told himself he was seeing the younger man’s professional distance, nothing more. “We found this video from the bank’s surveillance camera. We re-created Dalton’s movements. We checked everyone who had stayed in the hotels nearby for up to two weeks before.”

“Why was he there?”

“Vacation.”

Ferguson smirked.

“No, really, he was taking a vacation,” said Parnelles. “This is an out-of-the-way town on the Channel. He liked France, and he’d just spent a year in Asia. So it was different.”

“What did the French say about the murder?”

Parnelles settled down in his seat and took a sip of his drink — Scotch — before answering.

“The local police, of course, were incompetent. They believed it was a terrorist attack.”

“Just because a car blew up?”

“I really don’t know why you’re being sarcastic, Robert. You’re not taking this seriously”

Ferguson took another sip of the bourbon. Generally Parnelles wasn’t quite this worked up. In fact, Ferguson couldn’t remember the last time Parnelles had briefed him personally on a mission — let alone asked him up to Maine to do so.

“Yes, it did look as if it were the work of terrorists,” admitted Parnelles. “But why terrorists would blow up a car at that place and time — of course the police had no answers. A small village on the French coast? Terrorists would never operate there. Clearly, Dalton was the target. We went to the ministry, of course, but they got it into their heads that we were lying.”

“About what?”

“That Michael was working, instead of being on vacation.”

“Was he?”

“You’re being very contrary tonight, Robert. I just told you he wasn’t.”

Bad publicity about the CIA’s secret rendition program had caused a great deal of friction in Europe just prior to Dalton’s death. The French believed that the Agency was withholding information about what Dalton had been working on — they thought it involved something in France — and in Parnelles’s view had been less than cooperative out of spite.

Ferguson — who admittedly had never cared much for anything French, let alone their spies — knew that the French security service seldom displayed anything approaching alacrity, even when pursuing their own priorities. But he let that observation pass.

“If Dalton was targeted, then something must have happened in Asia,” Ferguson told Parnelles. “What was it?”

“Unimportant, Bob. The point is, what I’m getting to — we know who killed him. He was a contract killer known as T Rex.”

“Like the dinosaur.”

“Exactly. He kills everything in his wake. He’s extreme. T Rex.”

Actually the name had been used in a text message intercepted by the National Security Agency just before another assassination, this one of a wealthy businessman visiting Lisbon. Ferguson had already seen the information in the text brief of his mission. There had been other “jobs” as well: T Rex had been implicated in the murder of a Thai government minister and a suspected fund-raiser for Hezbollah, to name just two. Parnelles ran down the list of known and suspected victims, impressive in both length and variety.

Tired of sitting, Ferguson began bouncing his right leg up and down. His foot was just touching the fringe of a hand-woven wool rug Parnelles had retrieved from Iran toward the end of the shah’s reign — bad days, Parnelles had said once. It was all he said, ever, on the subject to Ferguson.

“You seem distracted, Bobby.” Parnelles glanced at Ferg’s foot, tapping on the carpet.

“Foot fell asleep.” Ferguson bounded up from the chair. “Can’t sit too long.”

He did a little jig in front of the chair. “So what’s the real story, General? Who is T Rex?”

“We don’t know.”

“The Israelis hired him, and we can’t figure it out?”

“The Israelis didn’t hire him,” said Parnelles. “Hezbollah has a lot of enemies. Including Hezbollah itself.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Figure out who he is. Apprehend him. Bring him here for trial.”

“That’s what Slott told me this afternoon.” Ferguson glanced at his watch. “Yesterday afternoon.”

He got up from the chair and walked around the study. It was as familiar to him as his own condo — more so. He’d played hide-and-seek here as a kid.

Taking T Rex in Italy was sensitive. The Agency was still smarting over a well-publicized trial of several of its members, fortunately in absentia, for the rendition of a suspected terrorist a few years before. The Italian court had found that the man was not a terrorist and had been kidnapped by the CIA, albeit with help from the Italian secret services. The political situation argued for the use of the elite First Team — officially, the Office of Special Demands — a small group of highly trained operatives headed by Ferguson and occasionally assisted by a Special Forces army group.

But the job might have been done by other CIA agents, including a special paramilitary team trained in renditions.

“So when I bring back T Rex,” said Ferguson, “what happens? You put him on trial?”

Parnelles frowned.

“If a situation develops where he can’t be brought to trial,” he said, picking his words very carefully, “that would be something we could all live with.”

2

It was simply and finally about the money, nothing else. Early on the assassin believed it was about the challenge, the chase and kill, but that was a lie. There was an element of that, certainly, but it was no more than an element, a small part, not the main motive.

The real motive was greed. Money. There was no denying that, not after all these years.

Many people lied to themselves; it was necessary in this business. But growing older, the assassin made it a policy to be honest when assessing personal motives and vices. Once begun, the practice had been liberating. It saved considerable time, and created clarity.

And clarity was of the essence.

The person they called T Rex pushed back the curtains, watching the dawn come over the city. Bologna would be the perfect place. The assassin already knew it well, spoke Italian fluently, and envisioned an easy time at the borders.

Everything was already moving toward its resolution. It was like an opera, complicated and beautiful.

But again, it wasn’t about aesthetics; it was money.

This one would be the last. The payoff would be sufficient to guarantee that. Retirement waited in Thailand. The papers were already prepared.

There was more risk here than in any of the other jobs he had done, but that seemed only fitting. A capstone, a challenge at the endgame.

But really, it was about money, not the pleasure of killing people.

3

Ferguson woke around five a.m., and helped himself to the coffee the night watch team protecting Parnelles had made in the kitchen. The coffee was bitter and burnt, but it was enough to get him going. He went out onto the deck, nodding at the surveillance camera before carefully closing the door behind him. The high-tech security gear- not to mention the CIA detail — had been added only in the past two years, necessary precautions, though Ferguson knew Parnelles chafed at them.

As did he. If he’d been in a different mood, Ferguson would have spent a bit of time goofing on them — making faces for the camera, whispering Russian and Arabic curse words to the listening devices. But last night’s unofficial briefing had left him in a serious mood. He ignored the sensors and walked to the beach, guided as much by memory as the gray twilight. He wasn’t exactly alone — two low-light cameras and an infrared recorded his every move — but it was as close as he could get.

Kill an assassin?

Morally, Ferguson supposed, there was plenty of justification. He hadn’t known Dalton but assumed he was a good officer, on the right side. Probably not perfect, but good enough to be hated by the bad guys. Getting T Rex would mean doing justice for Dalton. And surely that was what Parnelles wanted; clearly Ferguson had been assigned the case not so much because of his ability, but because the Director of the CIA knew he could talk to him freely without fear of repercussion.

Yet he hadn’t spoken freely, had he? Even Parnelles, who wanted it done, had hesitated to speak openly of murder.

Would it be murder if T Rex resisted?

That would depend on the circumstances, thought Ferguson.

He laughed at himself. “I’m thinking like a Jesuit,” he told the waves.

There was plenty of reason for that, as he had been educated by them.

What would Father Francis have said? Intention, boys. That makes the difference. And it is known by God.

Yes. The Jesuits were always with him.

“Rest easy, Father Francis,” Ferguson told the waves.

He intended to take T Rex alive, if possible, despite his unwritten orders. He’d bring the bastard to justice, but in his way.

Ferguson looked out at the water and sky. He loved the ocean in muddy gray—”fisherman’s dawn,” his father called it, and though he wasn’t a fisherman, it was the elder Ferguson’s favorite time of day.

“Anything is possible then,” he used to tell Bob. And then he would smile, smirk really, and add, “Not really. But it feels that way.”

Ferguson walked toward the dock, intending to go out on the long pier. But he tripped a sensor as he climbed up the three steps; the lights switched on, destroying the mood. For a long minute, he stood staring at the edge of the darkness on the water, waiting impatiently for the floodlight to turn itself off. Finally he gave up and went back to his car.

That’s what you get for being nostalgic, he told himself, waving at the CIA bodyguard as he drove through the gate.

Three hours later, Bob Ferguson pulled off the highway to look for a diner and a pay phone. A place right off the interchange advertised itself with a flashing neon, but he didn’t want to make the call from a phone so obviously close to an interstate. He took a right onto the local county highway, following it for about ten miles before finally coming to a village. There was a diner on the main drag, a fifties-era bullet building that called itself The Real McCoy. It was a bit too selfconsciously cute, but it also looked like the only place to eat in town. Ferguson parked in the lot, then went inside, where his instincts were confirmed — the old-style diner fronted a consciously kitschy place with a fifties theme. But it was too late to turn back.

“Good hash browns?” he asked the girl at the cash register as she retrieved a menu.

“Best. Booth or table?”

“Booth.”

Ferguson ordered breakfast, then took his coffee to the phone booth near the men’s room. He took a phone card from his wallet, checked his watch, then dialed the number of his doctor in suburban Virginia.

“This is Bob Ferguson,” he told the receptionist. “I’m looking for Dr. Zeist.”

“He’s with a patient.”

“I can wait a bit. He wanted to talk to me. I’m out of town and may not get a chance to call back.”

The receptionist clicked him onto hold. Ferguson took a sip of coffee. He suspected that she’d told a white lie; the doctor generally didn’t see patients for another half hour.

“Hey, Ferg, how are you?” said Zeist, coming on the line.

“You tell me.”

“The results are the results,” said the doctor. “You know. My suggestion would be to have another treatment. The odds are good. I’ve only had two patients since I’ve started practice who, um, had flare-ups.”

Ferguson hadn’t heard Zeist use the word flare-zips before. Ordinarily, the doctor was extremely precise, even clinical, when talking about cancer. He was also generally upbeat, at least about thyroid cancer. The odds greatly favored a positive outcome — even for third-stage patients like Ferguson whose cancer had “escaped the thyroid capsule before detection,” the statistics favored a “full, or close to full, lifetime survival rate without recurrence.”

Problem was, the cancer didn’t seem to be listening. A recent set of tests had discovered the cells in different parts of his body.

“So the treatment here is to poison me, right?” said Ferguson.

“Well, not precisely, Ferg.”

“I swallow the baseball and sit in the hotel room for a couple of days,” said Ferguson. He’d undergone the treatment before.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” said Zeist.

“Nah, it’s not that bad,” Ferguson said. “Just was the worst five days of my life.”

Ferguson, who hated to be cooped up, wasn’t exaggerating, though Zeist thought he was.

“We have to do a little surgery first. Take out the adrenaline gland.”

The adrenaline gland was where the most cancer cells had been located on the scan; it was also relatively easy to remove and to do without.

“That’s really the best odds,” said Zeist. “The combination — a one-two punch. You’ll beat it. Let’s see. I’d like to set this up for next week—”

“Next week’s not going to be good.”

Zeist sighed. “Listen, Ferg, waiting a few days, even a few weeks maybe, won’t be a big deal. But we really do want to move ahead. The best—”

“Yeah, I’m not putting it off. I’m just kind of booked for the next week to two or three. Hard to tell right now. How much advance notice do you need?”

“I can get you to see the surgeon at the end of the week.”

“Too soon. What about Ferber?”

“I was thinking of Dr. Ferber since he knows you.”

“Good. Tell him I’ll be in touch.”

“Ferg, he’s going to have to see you himself. You know that.”

“I trust him. I’ve seen his work.” Ferguson turned toward the glass door to the restroom area, glancing at his neck in the reflection. “As a matter of fact, I’m looking at it now. Very nice work. No scars.”

“Ferg, this has to have a high priority. Really. As optimistic as I am, realistically, the sooner the better.”

“Looks like I have to go,” Ferg said, spotting the waitress carrying his food.

“Ferg—”

“Gotta run. Have a date with the world’s best hash browns.”

Ferguson had finished the home fries — decent, though the coffee nearly made up for it — and was just about to ask for the check when his secure satellite phone began to vibrate with a call. He took it out and slid against the wall at the end of the booth.

“The Real McCoy,” he answered. “Home of the world’s best hash browns.”

“Ferg?”

“Talk to me, Corrigan.”

“Where are you, Ferg?”

“On the road again,” sang Ferguson, slightly off-key.

“The GPS says you’re in Massachusetts.”

“Just paying my respects,” said Ferguson.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Jack Corrigan. “Your father’s buried up there, huh?”

Jack Corrigan was the First Team’s desk officer, the mission coordinator who spent most of his time in a bunker known as “the Cube.” His job was to support the First Team while they were in action, providing them information and arranging for assistance when necessary. He’d probably just been briefed on the mission.

The waitress came over with the coffee, but Ferguson waved his hand at her, adding, “Just the check.”

“Look, I have the plane all arranged. I have you going out of JFK instead of Logan, though. I didn’t know you were up there. I figured you’d want a direct flight to Bologna so—”

“Don’t worry about it. When’s the flight?”

“Three o’clock. Rankin should be there tomorrow night. Thera and Guns are going in through Rome so they can bring more equipment in.”

“That’s good.”

“You’re all packed? You need more gear?”

“I’m good, Mom, thanks. Even have a new toothbrush.”

“Rankin’s going to come with extra clothes.”

“He needs them. Never takes a shower.”

“How can you be so flip this early in the morning?”

“That’s what happens when you start off the day with great hash browns,” said Ferguson.

4

Stephen Rankin watched as the blonde pulled the strands of hair back behind her ear, pretending to preen in the hotel lobby’s mirror. She was actually checking to see if she was being watched.

Of course she was. Every male eye in the hotel lobby, including those of the overtly gay man at the front desk, was staring at her. She was just too gorgeous not to.

Which ought to be a liability in her line of business, Rankin thought.

The blonde finished playing with her hair and swept toward the doorway. Rankin watched from the corner of his eye — then nearly jumped as he saw her collide with someone and fall to the floor.

It was Ferguson.

Rankin had worked with the CIA officer long enough now that he shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. They were supposed to be shadowing the blonde, who’d been identified as T Rex’s “preparer,” a kind of advance man who made sure things were ready for the assassin to do his job when he arrived in town. Shadowing generally meant staying far in the background, but Ferguson had his own way of handling things.

“Scusi, signora,” said Ferguson in Italian, bending to help her up. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

“Merci,” said the woman in French.

“I hope you’re OK,” said Ferguson, first in English and then in Italian.

“Yes, OK” she said, her English heavily accented. She pushed down her skirt, scowled at him, then went back toward the door, hesitating ever so slightly before pushing it open.

Ferguson, meanwhile, strolled across the lobby. Seeming to spot Rankin for the first time, Ferguson greeted him in a loud voice. “Ciao, my American friend. How is the studying going today?”

“Just fine,” said Rankin, remaining seated. He still had no idea what Ferguson was doing, except that it wasn’t what they had planned just a half hour before.

“It is a fine day, si,” said Ferguson. “You will join me, yes, for a coffee?”

“Yeah, sure,” said Rankin sourly. He rose.

“If you’re busy—”

“Am I?” asked Rankin.

“Of course not. Come then,” said Ferguson, and he swung around toward the doors.

“Should we be watching the mistress?” said Rankin once they were outside.

“I keep telling you, Skippy, she and T Rex aren’t like that. My bet is that not only has she never met him, she doesn’t even know what he does. Not specifically, anyway.”

“Like she couldn’t figure it out, huh?”

“He probably sends her on a couple of gigs a year that are just blinds. But maybe she does. The hair color’s a dye job.”

Ferguson glanced to his left. The taxi was just turning to the east, out of sight.

“We’re not going to follow her?” asked Rankin.

Ferguson smiled without answering. Rankin knew Ferguson was acting this way partly because he didn’t like explaining himself, and also partly because he liked to annoy people, especially Rankin. Some days Rankin could let it slide without saying anything; today he couldn’t.

“Why do you have to be such an ass when we’re workin’, for cryin’ out loud?” he snapped.

Ferguson just laughed and continued toward the mopeds he’d parked nearby. He grabbed the brown one, stepped over it, and got on.

“We’re going toward Via Zamboni, I think,” he told Rankin. “Stay back. Remember she’s seen you.”

“Hey—”

“And get your radio on. Channel eight — louder the buzz, the closer you are to her. I’m on channel two.”

Ferguson revved the bike’s small motor, then helped it get moving by pushing his feet along the pavement. Rather than turning in the direction the cab had taken, he went right; after glancing behind him to make sure Rankin was following, Ferguson reached into his pocket and took out the GPS receiver, glancing at the screen, which showed where the bug he’d placed in the cab was. The taxi had become bogged down in the narrow one-way streets. Ferguson continued to the north, then turned onto Via San Giacomo.

“You with me, Rankin?”

“I guess.”

“She said she was going to one of the university administration buildings. Probably bull, but we’ll see how patient she is.”

“You sure we got the right girl, right?”

“Got me, Skippy. Depends on how far we trust Corrigan.”

“Yeah. That makes me feel real confident.”

One of Rankin’s redeeming qualities, in Ferguson’s opinion, was his deep distrust of Corrigan, largely because of the fact that Corrigan had been an army intelligence officer before joining the CIA. In this case, however, Ferguson believed that the identification of Arna Kerr as T Rex’s “preparer” was probably correct; he’d followed her the night before when she arrived in town, and watched her do the sorts of things Ferguson and the others did before they set up a mission — renting cars, casing buildings, getting the lay of the land. She’d originally been ID’d by matching various credit card and other records against T Rex’s known assassinations. Arna didn’t seem to work them all, but she had been around for the flashiest ones, including Dalton’s.

Though she had come in from Paris and was apparently claiming to be French, they had traced her credit cards to Stockholm, Sweden. If they decided they wanted her — which they might — they could get her there. Taking her now would tip off T Rex and ruin the entire operation.

As would letting her know she was being followed.

The GPS device beeped.

“Uh-oh,” Ferg said. “Getting out of the cab. Low traffic tolerance. Stay with me, Skippy.”

“That’s not my name,” growled Rankin.

Ferguson pinched his elbows close to his body and ducked down a side street. He turned left and cruised onto Via Bel Belmbro. In the process he cut off a delivery truck; the Italian driver responded with a blast of his horn and a stream of curses. Under other circumstances, Ferguson might have stopped to listen — his Italian was not particularly deep — but he was a little farther from Arna Kerr than he wanted to be. So he merely hunkered down on his bike, pushing his head toward the handlebars and dodging a small car that shot out of a private courtyard. He turned onto Via San Vitale, where he remembered a parking lot; he was off his bike and trotting in the direction of the church before Rankin caught up.

“Go up two blocks; find a place to park. We’ll keep her between us,” said Ferguson.

“I thought you weren’t putting a tracker on her.”

“I didn’t. It was in the cab. Come on.”

Ferguson went far enough up the street so that he could see the next intersection, then leaned back against the facade of one of the buildings. The bricks were arranged in a way that made it look like the wall was a fireplace; for hundreds of years, there had been a marble relief on the lower panel and a statue in the upper niche. Now, though, the niche was empty, and the stone was covered with a thick, oily grime.

“Where is she?” asked Rankin.

Ferguson was just about to say that she was a slow walker when he realized that he had made a mistake: she’d be doubling back, not going ahead. That way, she could check the cars behind her to see if she was being followed.

Well, good for her, he thought.

“Come down the block, slowly,” he told Rankin, getting back on his bike. “I think she’s backtracking.”

“You lost her?”

“Not even close.” Ferguson went down toward Via San Vitale, then circled around and passed Arna Kerr as she walked toward Via Rizzoli at the center of the old city. Bologna’s two towers stood nearby.

“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.

Rankin 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

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.”

Ferguson 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.”

Ferguson had spent about an hour and a half the day before scoping out the surveillance cameras at the station, and fell silent now, not wanting his lips to be caught on the camera. He doubted the security people studied the video very closely before it was erased, but discretion now might pay off later.

“I’m going to need the video bugs,” he told Guns as they reached the cab. “Do you have them?”

“This suitcase,” said Guns, lifting it slightly.

“All right. We swap in the cab. I want you to go to the Oxford Hotel. It’s about two blocks from where I left Rankin. Once you’re checked in, switch your radios to channel three and tell him you’re his relief. I’m getting out first at the Borgia. That’s where she’s staying.”

“What are you doing there?” Thera asked.

Ferguson saw a carabiniere walking in a bored circuit not far from the cab line. He waited until the man turned in the other direction to answer her.

“I have to seed some of these around where I’m going to be with her tonight. If we get a chance, we’ll all meet back at the Bene around seven. Two-eleven. If not, I’ll talk to you when I can. Get rid of the phone cards from Rome. Keep switching, OK?”

The Bene was one of several hotels in the city where they had reserved rooms for the operation.

“Did you say you’re going to be with her tonight?” asked Thera.

“We have a date. Jealous?”

Thera felt her face flush.

“Strictly business,” said Ferguson.

He was tempted to lean over and give her a kiss on the cheek, but didn’t, afraid he wouldn’t be able to hold himself back.

6

The Hotel Borgia traced its roots to a stable in the early Roman era, though even the hotel’s Web site admitted that any traces of that building or the two dozen that had occupied the grounds before the present one was built were long gone, probably carted away to form the rubble foundation of one of the local palaces. During the Middle Ages, the property had been used as a sculptor’s workshop, then razed and made into a set of houses for well-off artisans. In the sixteenth century, a distant relative of the Borgias — probably serving a semi-exile in the city — had the apartments consolidated into a minipalace. While it would have looked plain on the outside, inside its walls were covered with glorious frescoes and paintings exquisite enough to have earned the jealousy of Bologna’s leading citizens — one possible explanation for the owner’s untimely death. He died a few hundred meters away from the front door, killed by a knife wound — accidental, according to the available records, which neglected to explain how the weapon could have been thrust accidentally fifty-eight times into the man’s abdomen, chest, arms, and neck.

The building had fallen into disrepair and was razed during the beginning of the nineteenth century, not quite in time to see the birth of Italy as a modern nation. Its successor was destroyed during World War II. Its owner had been a notorious Fascist, and it was still said that when it was blown up — there was general agreement by an Allied bomb, though some held partisans had dynamited it — a thousand rats escaped from the cellar. The replacement building was a large, dull brown apartment building that was never successfully rented. In 2005, a German real estate investor bought the building and the rest of the block; he razed the interior and constructed what he called Italy’s “most modern accommodation.” This was a bit of poetic license, but the place was handsome, all polished wood and marble, accented by gleaming steel. The bar had plush carpet and material in the ceiling that deadened the acoustics — a plus for Ferguson, since it meant he could use a standard bug and not have to worry about background noise.

He ordered a drink from the waitress, then slid back in his seat, watching the doorway.

Arna Kerr might be T Rex, Ferguson thought. It didn’t fit the analysts’ profile, but she had that kind of vibe — danger lurking beneath her veneer.

She walked into the bar, her pace easy but her eyes darting back and forth, sweeping the room ahead of her, wary of an ambush.

She’s good, Ferg thought. He liked that.

Thera hunched over the coffee table in Rankin’s suite several stories above the bar, as if changing the angle she was watching the television from would change the aim of the small video bug Ferguson had planted at the edge of the booth.

Next to her, Rankin sighed and shook his head. “I hope he knows what the hell he’s doing. It looks to me like he’s just going on a date.”

“It’s supposed to look that way” Thera shifted uneasily.

“He just wants to get in her pants,” said Rankin.

“She dyes her hair,” said Thera. “And that ain’t all that’s fake.”

“You jealous?”

Thera ground her back teeth together, listening as Ferguson and their subject played verbal footsie in three languages. Ferg had once said he wasn’t very good in French or Italian — his languages were Russian and Arabic, which he’d grown up with — but he seemed fluent, joking easily, mentioning Rome, saying he’d spent a lot of time there as a kid.

“That’s true, isn’t it?” Thera asked.

“What?” said Rankin.

“Ferg. He spent time in Rome when he was a kid?”

“Got me. Half of what he tells us is bullshit. Who knows what he’s making up for her?”

Thera turned back to the screen as Ferguson suggested they leave for the restaurant.

“Which one?” said Arna Kerr.

Thera felt her heart jump as Arna Kerr put her hand on Ferg’s.

“I knew she wouldn’t go for it,” said Rankin as the woman made an excuse about not wanting to eat at the restaurant Ferg suggested.

“She’s just suggesting another restaurant,” said Thera.

“He’d better watch his ass or he’s gonna blow the whole thing.”

As they got up from the table, Thera reached for the radio to tell Guns they were coming out.

The restaurant Arna Kerr suggested was a Moroccan place perched on the edge of a semi-bohemian area; the clientele seemed to be mostly younger professor types from the University of Bologna, whose schools were scattered around the city. After suggesting the Limone — a contemporary restaurant that he had already checked out and bugged — Ferguson had let her choose. She didn’t seem to have scoped out the place beforehand; more likely she was being careful to keep him away from wherever it was she was scouting.

Ferguson wondered how she had become T Rex’s preparer; it wasn’t the sort of job that you found on Craig’s List. She didn’t seem like the type to have a military background. He knew a few women who’d gotten into arms dealing through family connections; maybe this was the same thing.

She was prettier than most of those women, good-looking enough to be a model.

“You seem pensive,” she said, noticing that he’d fallen silent.

“Beautiful women do that to me. And couscous.”

“Couscous?” Arna Kerr looked at the food on her plate and laughed, telling him in French he was one of a kind.

“Merci. So are you. Avery beautiful one of a kind.”

“You’re beautiful, too.”

“Handsome.” Ferguson winked. “Men are handsome. The English word.”

“Not pretty?”

“Pretty’s a different thing.”

They spent a few moments working out the linguistic nuances. Ferguson ordered more wine.

“I don’t think I need any more,” she said, putting her hand over her glass when the waiter arrived with the bottle.

The waiter smirked. Ferguson asked him if he was Russian.

“No, no.”

Ferguson reeled out some Russian, testing not the waiter but Arna Kerr. If she understood what Ferguson said, she didn’t let on.

Neither did the waiter.

“What did you tell him?” Arna Kerr asked.

“I said you were a beautiful woman and I was wondering if you would go home with me,” said Ferguson. He’d used saltier terms, but that was the gist.

“Home?”

“Home away from home. Bologna.”

“Where is your real home?”

“Near Dublin. Where’s yours?”

“Paris.”

We’re a pair of incredibly good liars, Ferguson thought, sipping his wine.

7

While Ferguson was wining and dining Arna Kerr, Rankin went upstairs to the floor where her room was. Breaking in was too much of a risk; even if she hadn’t left a detection device behind, if she was good enough to be working for T Rex most likely she’d be good enough to figure out if someone had been inside. Rankin intended on doing everything but.

Ferguson had already planted a video bug to cover the hallway. The size of an American dime, the unit sent a signal to a transmitter hidden in a fire hose box two floors below. The transmitter boosted and relayed the signal to a satellite system used by the First Team. The ops could tap in via laptops and small purpose-built viewers that looked like video iPods to see what was going on. The deskman also monitored the feedback in the Cube, giving the team another set of eyes and ears. They had installed a series of bugs, both video and audio, along with transmitters around the city to help them monitor what was going on. The major drawback to the tiny devices was their limited batteries; they had an average life of only eight hours, though occasionally could last for as many as twenty-four. Larger units had greater capacity, but were correspondingly easier to detect.

Rankin wanted to place one of the larger video bugs in the base of a fire extinguisher at the end of the hall. But first he had to make sure that Arna Kerr hadn’t placed her own devices here. He walked down the hall swiftly, holding what looked like a handheld computer in his hand; it was actually a bug detector.

Rankin had almost finished his sweep when one of the doors opened. He stopped at a room at the far end of the hallway as if he was going to knock. Two women and a small child came out and began milling around. The kid was watching Rankin, so he went ahead and knocked at the door he’d stopped in front of.

No one answered — perfect, he thought. He mimed being puzzled, knocking again, calling for a friend named Maurice. To his surprise, the door suddenly opened. A man big enough to be professional wrestler stood inside.

“Chi è Maurice?” said the man.

“Gotta be the wrong room,” said Rankin. “Made a mistake. Sorry.”

“Who’s Maurice?” repeated the man, angrily.

“Relax,” said Rankin. He didn’t know much Italian, and in fact couldn’t be sure that was what the guy was speaking. “Sorry I woke you up, all right? Sorry. Scusi.”

The man took a threatening step into the hallway. For a moment Rankin worried that the guy was going to start a fight. The last thing Rankin wanted to do was start a commotion — especially with someone who actually looked big enough to give him a serious fight.

If not beat the crap out of him.

“It’s OK; it’s OK,” Rankin said, holding his hands up. “Just relax. I made a mistake. Wrong floor.”

The women and kid by now had taken the elevator downstairs. Rankin waited by it, the anti-Maurice watching him the whole time, his eyes flickering with an unspoken threat until the elevator finally came back and Rankin got on.

Was he connected to Arna Kerr? No, thought Rankin — it was just an unlucky coincidence.

“Why doesn’t this shit ever happen to Ferguson?” he mumbled as he got out of the elevator on the floor above and walked to the stairs.

Thera was shown to the worst table in the house, a tiny half-moon squeezed between the waiters’ station and the ladies’ room. She couldn’t quite see Ferguson from where she was, but she did have a good view of Arna Kerr. The blonde was exactly the sort that turned men’s heads: perfect nose, thick lips, oversized breasts. Her arms looked sculpted.

Probably tennis muscles, Thera thought; all show, no power.

Thera pushed her jealousy away as the waiter approached. She had a little trouble with her Italian, confusing it with the Greek she’d learned as a child and still spoke with her relatives. Her pronunciation was so far off she had to repeat her order several times before she was understood.

Thera suffered through a limp pasta dish before Arna Kerr finally excused herself and headed for the ladies’ room. Thera waited until she passed, then rose and walked toward the lobby, taking her phone out as if intending to make a call. She detoured to her left, avoiding a party of eight and walking right next to Ferguson’s table. As she passed, he moved his chair back and bumped into her.

“Scusi, scusi,” he said in Italian, jumping to his feet. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing,” she said, pushing away.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

“Mi ammazzi,” she said. “You kill me.”

Thera went into the foyer, grabbed her coat from the rack, and then left the restaurant.

“I thought you were going to eat,” said Guns when she found him in the car down the block.

“I didn’t feel like it.” She pulled a pair of rubber gloves from the glove compartment and opened her pocketbook, where Ferguson had tucked Arna Kerr’s wineglass when he accidentally bumped into Thera.

“Think we got prints?”

“We’d better. I’m not going back in there.”

Thera put her hand inside the glass and then wrapped what looked like a thin electric blanket around it. Instead of an electrical plug, the blanket connected to a USB port in the team’s laptop, which was under the foot mat in the car. After fiddling with the sensitivity setting, she got an image of the glass on the screen. There were two smudges, a thumbprint, and what looked like the print of a middle finger.

It figures, she thought.

Ferguson suggested they go back to Arna’s room, but she preferred his.

“You don’t even know where it is,” he told her.

“It’s not at the Borgia?”

“I was there to see a friend. Who turned out not be in. Luckily for me. Or I wouldn’t have met you.”

“You look like the kind of man who would have a nice room. Sauna, right?”

“No sauna,” said Ferguson. “The marble sink is on the large size, though.”

“That sounds nice.” She brushed his cheek with her finger.

“Then let’s go,” said Ferguson, rising.

Arna Kerr ran her hands across his back as they waited in the lobby for the taxi, making sure he didn’t have a gun.

Maybe he was what he seemed — an attractive, well-off but somewhat lonely man about her own age. Maybe he’d seen her in the lobby of the Borgia and decided he wanted to sleep with her. Or maybe something else. She couldn’t be sure; the way he looked at her didn’t quite suggest lust.

She had never once been made while on a job. Would it go down like this? Would Interpol send some smooth Irishman — or whatever he was — to romance her?

No — that happened in movies. In real life, they arrested you. Or shot you.

Most likely shot you.

Which he might be planning to do when he got her to his room.

The wine she’d drunk was making her take chances she shouldn’t, Arna Kerr thought. She should just tell him good night, go up to her room.

But part of the attraction was the danger, or its potential.

“Here we go,” said Ferg as the cab pulled up. “Are you with me? You’re so quiet you might be sleeping.”

“I’m awake,” she said, and leaned up to kiss him.

After Rankin planted his video bug, he left the hotel and walked around the block to a building subdivided into apartments. He reached for one of the buttons, as if he were going to ring to be buzzed in. Instead, he pushed a thin plastic card into the jamb near the lock. The door opened easily.

Inside, the place smelled of boiling greens; the pungent, spinachlike smell reminded Rankin of his childhood, but not in a good way — he used to gag at the smell of spinach.

The building was five stories high. Rankin trotted up the steps to the top, stopping at the top landing to make sure no one was around. Then he moved quickly down the hall to a window that looked onto the side alley. He reached to the top, making sure the latches he had checked yesterday were still undone- then pushed the window up and stepped out onto the ledge.

When he’d done this the night before, the moon had been out and there was plenty of light to see the narrow ledge by. Tonight, however, it was cloudy, and damp besides; he felt his feet slip as he pulled himself up onto the narrow lip outside the building. He took a breath, holding himself against the old brown bricks. Then he gently pushed the window closed and began sliding to the right, where a small hip roof led to a wide, nearly flat roof overlooking the back of the hotel where Arna Kerr had her room.

Even at this hour, there was still plenty of traffic in the city. Rankin could hear the dull boom of stereos and smell the stink of exhaust as he moved sideways across the building. If she had gotten a room on the other side of the hotel, his job would have been easier — there was a bar with a broad terrace overlooking the street on that side; he could have gotten a drink and pretended to be copping a smoke.

If Ferguson had had this job, that’s where the room would have been.

Rankin made it to the hip roof and pulled himself over, knees scraping on the hard ceramic shingles. They were a lot more slippery than he remembered. He pushed on, got to the flatter roof. There he took his water from his backpack and took a long pull, resting for a moment. His breath back, he took out the small dish and screwed what looked like a boom mike into the center. The device worked by feeding an infrared laser onto a window and using it to “read” the vibrations, translating them back into sound waves. Rankin put on a pair of glasses tuned to the laser’s frequency and began aiming the device. He had just figured out the correct window when he heard Guns talking to him on the radio.

“Hang on,” he said, adjusting the volume. “What’s up?”

“Ferguson is going over to the Orologio,” Guns said. “How are you doing there?”

“Almost set.”

“You can take your time. She won’t be going back to her room tonight.”

“No shit.”

Ferguson had made love to the enemy plenty of times before, but tonight he was off-balance. He went through the motions smoothly, fingers gliding gently down the buttons of her blouse, undoing each one with a simple push, pulling the silk away from her shoulders, letting the shirt fall back and away from her torso. He ran the backs of his hands over her bra — black and silky — then around to undo the clasp.

He pushed his lips against hers. They gave way easily. Her tongue met his, rolling around it. Ferguson slipped the bra from her shoulders and cupped her breasts gently, her nipples hard.

But it wasn’t about sex. It was a job, and as smooth as his hands were, his mind felt as if it were watching through a peephole from another room.

He reached the zipper on her skirt and slipped it downward. The skirt caught against her hips but then gave way, falling to the floor.

It might not be about sex, but it wasn’t just the job, either. Power was involved: getting it, having it, keeping it. That was what spying was. Not that Ferguson considered himself a spy in the classic sense — it was rarely his job to simply get information, and he never had been a “runner of men and women” as his father had been for most of his career. A spymaster manipulated people — sex had probably been one of his tools, though until this moment Ferg had never really thought about that.

“The bed’s in the next room,” said Ferguson when Arna Kerr was down to her panties.

“The couch is right here.”

She leaned backward toward it ever so slightly. He took the hint, pushing against her gently, moving down with her as she gave way.

8

Thera had heard enough. She reached for the handle of the car door. “I’ll be back,” she told Guns.

“Where you goin’?”

“Time to run a check,” she said, though she had been around the block making sure they weren’t being watched only a few minutes before. She slapped the Fiat’s door closed and began walking away from the hotel — away from Ferguson and what he was doing with the blonde.

She shouldn’t care — she didn’t care — and yet her whole body vibrated with anger.

Something moved in the shadows at the edge of the street. Thera slipped her hand inside her jacket pocket, wrapping her fingers around the small pistol there. But it was nothing — a young man and woman, making out near the portico’s pillar.

Thera continued around the block, her sneakers rubbing on the pavement. She needed a mission, a mind-set: she became a tourist, coming home after dinner. She quickened her pace, slightly worried about the unfamiliar surroundings.

She turned the corner and saw a small crowd of people gathered near a café at the far end, spilling out into the street, laughing and having a good time.

Ferguson was just doing his job, Thera told herself. It shouldn’t bother her. It really shouldn’t bother her.

He fell asleep after they were done. Arna Kerr pretended to doze herself, then got up and went to the bathroom, grabbing his pants along the way.

No keys, a few euros of change, an Irish pence.

The license looked genuine, but that wasn’t much of a trick — her own documents, after all, were phony. She repeated the number to herself three times, enough to memorize it: Arna Kerr had always been good with numbers. She slipped the credit card receipt out, thinking she would take it as well, but most of the account number was x’d out.

The license would be enough. She fingered the wallet. There wasn’t much in it besides money: the credit cards she’d seen earlier, a few business cards. No photos, no phone numbers of lovers, just the bare essentials. Very businesslike.

The sex had been businesslike as well. She sensed he was holding back. Maybe he was married, despite the lack of a ring.

Arna Kerr flushed the toilet and ran the water, purposely making enough noise so he could hear and stir if he was awake. She cracked the door to see, but he was still lying motionless on the bed.

Reaching for the light, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Arna didn’t like to see herself naked. Being naked meant being without defenses.

That was what sex was, wasn’t it?

She turned off the light and tiptoed into the room, went to the bed, and ran her fingers across the side of his face, tickling his ear and neck. He didn’t move. Between the wine and the sex, he was totally out.

She went back around to the other side of the bed and picked up her underwear. Pulling on her panties, she went to the bureau and eased open the drawers. The top one was empty; the bottom held a pair of pants and a sweater. She slipped her hand in and checked: nothing.

There were more clothes in the drawer to the right. Underwear — silk boxers — a soft, thick T-shirt, socks. A pair of jeans.

In the closet, she found a leather briefcase and a suiter. These she took, one at a time, into the bathroom so she could search them thoroughly. The suitcase was empty, except for some tissues and a disposable razor. The briefcase had four yellow folders, some pens, and two pieces of paper that had addresses and phone numbers, all in Bologna. At least two belonged to galleries, and from what she knew of the locations she guessed the others were galleries as well.

Wouldn’t a man like this have a laptop with him, or a PDA? If so, it wasn’t in the luggage. She put everything back the way she found it, then searched some more. Finally satisfied that her lover was at least roughly who he said he was, she got dressed to go.

Arna Kerr hesitated at the door. There would be no possibility of seeing him ever again.

No?

No.

Outside, she saw someone in a car half a block from the hotel. He seemed to be looking at her. But then she saw a woman coming along the street behind her, crossing to the car — he’d been waiting for a girlfriend.

Well, she thought to herself, that was a nice diversion. Now it’s time to get back to work.

Ferguson gave Arna Kerr ten minutes to change her mind and come back, then pulled on his pants and a sweatshirt and crossed the hall to the safe room where he’d left his gear. Inside, he powered up his laptop and entered the surveillance program, checking to make sure she wasn’t down in the lobby. Then he turned on his radio and asked the others what was going on.

“Looks like she’s taking a midnight tour of the city,” said Guns.

“Going back to her hotel?”

“Doesn’t look like it. Walking to the east. Maybe she’s got another date.”

“Jeez, I would’ve thought I wore her out.” Ferguson pulled out his map, trying to psych out where she was going. “She might be trying to make sure she’s not being followed,” he said finally. “Be careful.”

“We don’t need you to tell us our jobs,” snapped Thera.

“I’ll try to remember that,” said Ferguson, reaching for his shoes.

The more Arna Kerr walked, the more she sensed someone was following her. And yet, whether she turned suddenly or double-backed or used the mirror in her compact case, she couldn’t see anyone.

Subconsciously I’m expecting to be punished for having sex, she told herself. Like a schoolgirl who’s stayed out late.

The night had turned cold. Arna Kerr circled the block twice more; finally, failing to see anyone — and yet still not entirely free of the sensation of being watched — she went to the parking garage of the Hotel Borgia and found the small Ford she’d rented earlier in the day. She slipped the key into the trunk and opened the lid. Reaching to the side, she checked the small motion sensor, making sure the trunk hadn’t been opened. Then she took out the backpack, reset the alarm with her key code, and checked the interior of the car.

Upstairs in the hotel, she mussed up the bed in her room, and then she slipped out, this time taking the stairs to the lobby. Before going back out she pulled an American-style baseball cap over her head, tucking her hair up until it was hidden. The security cameras at the outside door would see her, but her face would stay in the shadows.

Outside, Arna Kerr walked quickly to the piazza three blocks away. When she reached it, she pulled a laser measuring device from her pocket, then stood against the wall and began taking the measurements she needed. She recorded the measurements on a small voice recorder, adding Ferguson’s driver’s license number.

It would take her an hour to get the measurements, and another half hour to check the security systems on the street. The rest of what she had to do could easily wait until daytime.

Plenty of time to go back to Ferguson’s hotel and slip back into bed with him.

A foolish thought, she told herself, pocketing the laser and walking to the next piazza.

Ferguson grabbed hold of the portico’s smooth stone pillar and pulled himself upward, wedging the sides of his sneakers against the stone and shimmying to the top of the archway. Bologna was filled with porticos and covered walkways: a climber’s paradise.

His grip slipped as he scrambled up onto the fake balustrade of the building. Ferguson grabbed the side of the window above and pushed himself up, trying to regain some balance. The building rose several more stories, and the climbing would be relatively easy — the blocks were spaced almost like ladders in a decorative pattern at the corner of the building — but first he had to get by the windows on the second floor. Fortunately the Bolognese — or at least these Bolognese — believed in sleeping with their windows open; Ferguson was able to get a grip between the window and the ledge and then swing his legs across to the next. A few minutes later, he was on top of the building.

Manually adjusting the magnification on his lightweight night glasses, Ferguson scanned the block, trying to see where Arna Kerr had gone. He spotted the light from her laser device before he saw her; when he finally saw her he thought she was being targeted by the infrared laser sight on a gun.

His heart jerked, his impulse to help. Then he realized that she was the one with the laser, and that she was taking measurements — maybe distances for a sniper. Ferguson settled down against the tiles, watching her continue her work.

Pretty, but not as beautiful as Thera. Thera had an attraction that other women couldn’t match.

Ferguson leaned back as Arna Kerr began walking up the street in his direction.

“She’s moving,” he said into the radio as she passed. Then he yawned.

“Tired, huh?” said Guns.

“She wore me out.” Ferguson laughed, then went to find a place to climb down.

9

Artur Rostislawitch set the culture dish down next to the microscope, then reached for the tray with the slides. He could feel his hands starting to tremble inside the thick rubber gloves that were built into the protective glass case enclosing his work area.

Rostislawitch’s nervousness had nothing to do with the bacteria he was examining, even though the dish contained an extremely deadly and contagious form of E. coli — so dangerous, in fact, that the amount in the dish could kill hundreds of thousands if judiciously deployed. Handling it through the sealed work area, Rostislawitch knew he would not come into direct contact with it. Indeed, one of the bacteria’s assets was that it was relatively safe to handle if certain precautions were taken. Placed in a sealed glass container and suspended in the proper growth medium, the bacteria was essentially inert.

Rostislawitch was nervous because he intended on taking some of the material out of the lab. Getting the bacteria to this workstation without arousing suspicion had been difficult; he’d had to make it appear as if it were a harmless form of E. coli rather than the superbug he had created some years before. Creating a false paper trail, preparing the transit vessels, establishing plausible alibis, studying the security system — he had worked for weeks to get ready. Now he needed five more minutes’ worth of patience until the cameras watching the lab went off-line before he could proceed. The video system went offline every Tuesday at exactly 4:45 a.m. while the main computer that ran it backed itself up automatically. That would give him a ten-minute window to take the material without being seen.

Rostislawitch pretended to be studying a specimen, twitching in his seat. He’d waited so long for this day; surely he could wait for a few more minutes.

He rehearsed what he would do — separate two grams of the material, insert it into the medium dishes he’d positioned on the left. Return the material to its safe. Dispose of the other dishes by putting them into the incinerator bin.

Put everything away. Go downstairs, retrieve the dishes from the bin, which he had disabled earlier.

Remove his ID from the security lock. Punch the sequence to erase it.

All within fifteen minutes.

After that — the train, the conference in Bologna, the Iranian.

Freedom.

Rostislawitch knew he could do it. He had rehearsed it several times.

He glanced at the clock. Four more minutes.

10

Arna Kerr didn’t go back to her hotel until close to eleven a.m. Since she didn’t sleep, the team didn’t sleep. It didn’t bother Ferguson, but Guns’ eyes were sagging when they met at the Café Apollo just down the block. Thera felt stiff and was noticeably cranky. Rankin just frowned at everyone, one hand over his ear. He was monitoring the bugged transmissions from Arna Kerr’s hotel room, listening to the capture from the mike he’d planted on the opposite roof. All he could hear was the sound of drawers being slammed and then the shower being started in the bath.

“So she takes the measurements of three public squares, and visits three different buildings belonging to the University of Bologna,” said Guns, trying to prop his eyes open with a long sip of coffee. “What’s the target?”

“Movie star,” said Thera. “The university is hosting a film festival next month. She went to a theater.”

“Who kills movie stars?” said Rankin.

“There’s too much time in between,” said Ferguson. “It has to be within a few days. Maybe even tomorrow. The cars were rented for two weeks.”

“I think he’s going after some Italian politician,” said Rankin. “Maybe the mayor.”

“T Rex costs too much money to bump off a mayor,” said Ferguson. “Besides, nobody takes politicians seriously in Italy.”

“Like you know how much he charges, right?” said Rankin.

“Has to be a lot if he’s got an advance man. Last I heard, taking down a CIA officer cost a million.”

“I’ll do it for half,” said Rankin, locking eyes with Ferguson. “Free, if I can pick the target.”

Ferguson laughed.

“All the spots she checked out were tourist spots,” said Thera.

“Not all,” said Guns. “There was the university art building.”

“Maybe some kid who flunked out of the university figures he got a bad deal,” said Rankin.

Ferguson put his coffee cup down as the waiter approached with a fresh one.

“Why don’t they just refill the cup?” said Guns.

“The dishwasher’s a union guy and gets paid on a per-cup rate,” said Ferguson.

“Did Corrigan get anything from the fingerprints?” asked Rankin.

“Nada,” said Thera. “They were narrowing down the credit card information when I last talked to him, but they hadn’t come up with anything significant. They have that address in Stockholm, but nothing else.”

“How does T Rex contact her?” asked Guns.

Thera shook her head.

Rankin realized the shower had been turned off in the room and pressed his hand against his ear. He heard some shuffling, and then Arna Kerr began speaking.

“It’s Italian,” Rankin said, handing the earphone to Ferguson.

“She’s getting a taxi to the airport,” Ferguson told them, getting up. “Pardon me while I go bid her a tearful good-bye.”

11

Arna Kerr was just putting her bag into the back of the cab when she heard Bob Ferguson calling her.

“You,” she said, before even turning to look at him.

“They say you’re checking out.”

He took her in his arms, kissing her gently. She resisted, but only for a moment.

“On your way over to my hotel, I hope,” said Ferguson.

“I have to go.”

“Didn’t sell enough drugs?”

“Plenty.”

“Stick around, you’ll sell some more. Maybe I’ll buy a few.”

He really was cute, she thought, cute enough to change her plans — a few more hours here wouldn’t bother anyone.

Or better, she could suggest they go down to Rome, or somewhere farther south, some little village somewhere that was still warm and sunny.

She had to go. He was too tempting.

“Duty calls,” she said, pushing him away gently.

“It’s almost lunchtime. Come get something to eat.”

“I have to go. I’m sorry.” She put her hand on the car door.

“A little vino?”

“No, grazie.”

“Your Italian’s getting better.”

“Prego. Another time, Bob.” She started to get into the cab.

“Well, give me your card and tell where you’re going to be,” said Ferguson.

Arna Kerr hesitated. “I don’t think so.”

“No?” Ferguson ran his hand along the back of her arm. Even though she was wearing a winter coat, she felt a tingle all the way through to her spine. “Come on. Hang around.”

“If you give me your card,” she said, “maybe I’ll call you.”

“Didn’t I give you one already?” Ferguson asked.

She cocked her hand slightly, gesturing that if he had, she had lost it. Ferguson pulled one from his pocket.

“Call me,” he said, sliding her the card. “It’s a service. But they’ll get in touch.”

She took the card and smiled, then got in the cab. Ferguson gave it a friendly pat as it left — placing a small global positioning device on its rear fender to make it easier to follow.

12

Thomas Ciello paced back and forth in his small office on the second floor of Building 24-442. It was a relatively large office — thirteen paces by eleven and a quarter paces — and he had arranged the furniture so that he could stride in more or less a straight line. Building 24-442 was primarily located underground, so being on the second floor meant he had no windows. But this wasn’t a drawback as far as Thomas Ciello was concerned. On the contrary. The very blankness of the walls helped him focus.

Thomas Ciello was the chief analyst for Special Demands, a somewhat nebulous job title that matched his somewhat nebulous job description. In theory, he liaisoned between the team and the CIA’s “regular” research and analysis side, digging up background and other information necessary for missions. The reality was considerably more complicated, as Ciello often found himself gathering information on his own, through whatever source he could think of.

But analysts liked to say that the problem wasn’t so much obtaining information as making sense of it. Ciello was living that saying right now, as he tried to puzzle out what Arna Kerr’s work in Bologna meant.

She’d left vehicles and taken rooms in several parts of the center city; obviously T Rex’s target was there. Most interestingly, she’d taken measurements of three public squares in the city of Bologna. From what the First Team had reported, she had documented the distances between the buildings as well as their heights.

Why?

A sniper would want to know distances. But Ciello thought it was unlikely a sniper would plan an assassination in the public squares; the buildings that surrounded them were mostly open to the public, which meant there would be a lot of people who might see him coming in and out. It would certainly be possible — Ciello had to admit that T Rex might know much more about the buildings and the business of assassination than he did — but he thought it unlikely.

Besides the public squares, Arna Kerr had visited three university school buildings, math, computer science, and the Art School Annex, a temporary building being used while the main art buildings were renovated. None of them seemed likely to attract the sort of high-profile victim T Rex was generally hired to target.

After a search of their faculty and student lists failed to turn up anything interesting, Ciello had set out to compile a list of conferences and lectures they were hosting. Getting information on the mathematics school was easy; it posted a calendar online. But the public lectures it listed weren’t exactly major hints: “The Evolution of Euclid” and “String Theory” were the highlights. “Computer Science” was equally esoteric; the focus seemed to be on graphic compression routines and video. The Art School Annex listed no guest lectures or conferences until after the Christmas break, when “Fresh Thoughts on Medieval Brushstroke Techniques” would start the new year off with a bang.

Ciello put his thought process on hold and lay down on the floor. The ceiling tiles had a very interesting pattern. Probably they involved a code, but not being a cryptologist, he couldn’t decipher it.

That wasn’t an excuse, though, was it? Cryptologists were just mathematicians, and everyone knew mathematicians were crazy.

“Thomas, what are you doing?”

Ciello looked up and saw Debra Wu, his executive assistant, standing by the door. She made a show of putting her hands over her dress, as if he were trying to look up it. A faint odor of perfume wafted from her. It tickled his nose and he stifled a sneeze.

“Mr. Slott needs to talk to you,” said Wu, shaking her head. “He’s having a conference call with Ms. Alston.”

Wu continued to talk, but Ciello had stopped listening. His mind was back at the piazzas.

Arna Kerr was making a scale model of them.

“Thomas, are you listening to me? Mr. Slott needs that report. Mr. Slott. The DDO. Your boss’s boss. Thomas?”

“Uh-huh.”

T Rex’s preparer was measuring the space between the buildings, which was another way of saying she was measuring the air.

Air.

Hadn’t the UFO sighting in San Diego in 1953 involved some sort of similar measuring devices? No one had figured out what that meant, either.

Bad example.

In his spare time, Thomas Ciello was working on a book that would be the definitive study of UFOs in the twentieth century So far, he hadn’t worked on a case where UFOs were part of the solution — though there was always hope.

“Thomas, are you going to have something or not?” she said finally.

“Don’t know,” mumbled Ciello.

She turned in disgust. Her sharp twist sent a fresh whiff of perfume in Ciello’s direction.

“Oh!” said Ciello loudly. “That’s why she took the measurements!”

“What?” demanded Wu.

“Now I get it.”

“You know who T Rex is?”

“Of course not. But I know what they’re up to.”

Wu waited for the answer as Ciello jumped to his feet and started pumping his keyboard.

“Well?” she said finally.

“Perfume.”

13

Guns picked Ferguson up in the car two blocks away.

“Ferg, you’re slipping,” Guns told him. “You couldn’t even get her phone number.”

“I couldn’t even get her e-mail address,” said Ferguson in mock amazement. “Next time you take the romance angle and I’ll watch.”

Guns laughed. Ferguson could always be counted on for a joke.

Rankin and Thera were on Vespas ahead, following the cab as it headed out to the airport.

Ferguson took out his sat phone and called the Cube.

“Yes, Bob?” said Lauren DiCapri, the relief desk person.

“Hey, beautiful, what happened? Corrigan went home?”

“Something about working thirty-six hours straight got to him.”

“Tough sitting in that chair, huh?” Ferguson leaned back in the seat. “You tracking us?”

“Of course.” All four of the ops had GPS sending units in their satellite phones, showing the Cube where they were.

“Find Arna Kerr’s flight yet?”

“The flight for the round-trip ticket she bought doesn’t leave for another two days,” said Lauren. “So if she’s going to the airport, she used another credit card for the flight.”

“And different ID,” said Ferguson.

“Maybe, maybe not. We’re not working with the Italians, remember? I don’t have direct access to any of the booking systems, let alone their security lists. I’m working with the credit card companies.”

“How could I forget?”

Slott, the CIA Deputy Director in charge of covert action, had told Ferguson in the briefing that they wouldn’t work with Italy because of the rendition case. Indeed, Ferguson had a relatively low regard for the Italian intelligence agencies and preferred not to get them involved, either. If he got T Rex — when he got T Rex — the plan was to knock him out, bundle him in the trunk of a car, and take him directly to the U.S. air base at Aviano. He’d be in a federal lockup, waiting for a grand jury to indict him, within twenty-four hours.

“Listen, Lauren, I gave Arna Kerr my card. Maybe she’ll call; maybe she’ll send an e-mail or check the Web site.”

“Don’t worry. We’re ready.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want to miss a date.”

The thin wall separating caution and paranoia had melted by the time Arna Kerr cleared the ticket counter. A kind of panic regularly accompanied this stage of a job — when the fieldwork was done but before she returned to Sweden and safety.

Arna Kerr forced herself to remain calm as she went through gate security, fiddling with her hair and fussing with her makeup to hide her jitters. Once through, she went into a washroom and checked her bags and clothes for a bug or tracking device, by going over them first with a detector and then painstakingly by hand, visually inspecting everything. She’d done this already at the hotel before leaving — and also examined the footage on the two digital cameras she’d left running on the desk — yet she still felt as if she had missed something.

She told herself she was overcompensating for spending the night with the Irishman.

God, what a mistake.

Arna Kerr leaned back against the toilet stall and pulled out his card. She started to throw it into the toilet, then stopped herself. She’d already had the license checked by e-mailing the number to one of her associates; a few speeding violations were the only blemish on the Irishman’s record. But he deserved more thorough scrutiny.

Scrutiny? Or did she really want to contact him?

She couldn’t.

Her body nearly trembled, remembering how they’d made love.

No, she told herself, dropping the card in the toilet. Not worth the risk.

Thera waited until Arna Kerr’s plane had taxied to the runway before she left the terminal. Outside, the air smelled wet, heavy with moisture, as if it were going to snow. Thera zipped her jacket tighter. She was glad Arna Kerr was gone. Maybe now she could get some sleep.

“Hey,” said Ferguson, appearing beside her. “You with us?”

Thera jumped. “Jesus, Ferg. You scared me.”

“You have to pay attention to where you are,” he told her. He was serious.

“I am.”

“You were daydreaming. Somebody could have snuck up on you like I did. Are you being followed?”

Thera, embarrassed that she had let her guard down, said nothing.

“You’re not,” added Ferguson. “But keep your head in the game, all right? We’re just at the start of this.”