Soul of the Assassin Read Online Free PDF Page A

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
     
    BOLOGNA, ITALY
     
    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.
     
    ~ * ~
     
    T
    hera 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,”