Soul of the Assassin Read Online Free PDF

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.
     
    ~ * ~
     
    T
    he 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
     
    BOLOGNA, ITALY
     
    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