Assassin's Game (13 page)

His final chore in Oxelösund was fixed in his mind as more of a question.
How to hide a lie?
The answer came in the voice of another long-forgotten Mossad instructor—
With a smaller, more obvious one
. Walking along the esplanade, this fluid pretense came solid in the form of a brassy lingerie boutique. Slaton dealt with a woman in her thirties who could well have modeled her wares, and he left the shop with a tiny pink bag in hand that contained one miniscule red negligee, matching panties, and two absurdly expensive chocolate bars. Back on the street, he initiated the GPS device and saw that Magnussen Air Charters was roughly a ten-minute walk from his present position.

Slaton set a quick pace, realizing that business hours for the day were nearing an end. The directions took him away from town, and he was soon drifting under long shadows in the low western hills. Evergreen walls swallowed a road that went from asphalt to crushed gravel, and finally, rutted dirt. Rounding a switchback turn, he broke into a clearing and saw the place he was looking for, a lone clapboard building, weathered and gray, and labeled with a hand-painted sign—
MAGNUSSEN AIR CHARTERS
. Above the sign he saw a second floor that likely doubled as a residence.

There were two small seaplanes. One was secured to a floating dock and bobbed aimlessly back and forth on tight mooring lines. The second craft was of the same type, a Cessna he thought, but this one stabled landside beneath an unwalled shed. The second craft was missing its engine, wheels, and the port float. Its innards had clearly been stripped, and open access panels swayed in the breeze. The approach seemed simple enough. One airplane was a flyer, and the other derelict and grounded, scavenged for spare parts like a wrecked car in a salvage yard.

Slaton walked to the building and knocked on the only door in sight, a wooden item in a bent frame that rattled under his knuckles. There was no answer, but he heard a small dog bark from the upstairs unit. Then from behind, “Can I help you?”

He turned to see a woman no more than five foot two. She was probably late fifties, blond hair giving to gray and a firm gaze that didn’t give a damn. She had a wrench in one hand, and grease stains on the sleeve of her navy coveralls. She looked like a diminutive Rosie the Riveter.

Keeping to the Swedish she’d begun, he said, “Yes, I’d like to inquire about a charter.”

“You’ve come to the right place.” She came closer, wiped her hand on a rag, and they shook hands. “Janna Magnussen.”

“Nils Lindstrom,” he said. “Are you the owner?”

“Owner, pilot.” She lifted the wrench and added, “Occasional mechanic.”

Her blue eyes were spirited and lively, and Slaton grinned as he corrected himself. A diminutive Amelia Earhart.

“Are you and your airplane available tomorrow?”

“We are. This time of year is slow. I don’t have anything until a supply drop to an island near Arholma on Wednesday.”

“Excellent. I represent CLT Associates. We’re a small company that contracts for private geological surveys. I need to reach an area near Bulleron Island tomorrow morning. I’d like to be dropped there for a day, then picked up and flown out the next morning.”

Janna Magnussen nodded as she considered it. Slaton was sure his request was not unusual. Bush pilots made their living flying people and supplies into places that couldn’t be reached any other way. Parts of Sweden were remote, islands and mountain lakes that might take a week to reach by more conventional means, some cut off completely in the winter. She walked toward the carcass of the dilapidated parts aircraft, bent down, and started working her wrench on the remaining float.

A woman with no time to waste, Slaton thought. That was good.

She said over her shoulder, “I charge fourteen hundred kronor per flight hour whether you’re on the aircraft or not. Bulleron is one hour north, so for two round trips…” she paused to calculate, “let’s say five thousand.”

Slaton converted to dollars and came up with approximately seven hundred. “Actually,” he said, “I may need more time. I want to do a visual survey when we get to the area, perhaps take a few pictures. Let’s plan for another hour tomorrow, two on Tuesday. The airplane seats four, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“I may need to bring a team member out on the return trip. Shall we call it seven hours?”

Now banging distractedly with a hammer, she said, “Eight thousand, then. Half up front.”

“Is cash all right?”

Janna Magnussen stopped what she was doing. She stood and stared at Slaton, her once-lively eyes stilled by suspicion. “Cash you say?”

Slaton stiffened noticeably. He’d carefully arranged his recent purchases in the outfitter’s shopping bag, now resting obviously on the ground by his knee. Magnussen came closer and her eyes slipped to the bag, or more succinctly, to what was in plain view on top—the red negligee held in a delicate shell of crimson tissue.

He sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m not really a geologist. I’m a—”

“A married man?” she suggested.

“Barely. I’ve arranged to meet someone I haven’t seen in a long time. Someone I care about very much.”

She eyed the bag. “Yes, I can see exactly how much you care. Tell me—how long have you been married?”

“Nine years. The first two were happy.”

She studied him for a long moment, and Slaton tried to look the part—no longer a man with a business proposition, but a caught-out philanderer. Janna Magnussen had the upper hand. Just as he’d planned.

“Join the club,” she finally said. “My bastard husband left me five years ago for a twenty-nine-year-old harpsichordist. But I got the last laugh.”

“How is that?”

She pointed to the rusted hulk behind her, an untidy skeleton of scrap metal that had once been a sleek seaplane. “I got her in the divorce settlement,” she said, a wisp of victory creasing her lips. “That was
his
airplane.”

*   *   *

They agreed to an eight o’clock departure the next morning. Slaton was doubly happy when Magnussen mentioned that her sister ran a small bed and breakfast only a short walk up the road, and given the season could likely be persuaded to accept a modest sum for a room and two meals. After a five-minute walk and the briefest of introductions, Slaton was shown to a room with a view of the harbor and Stjärnholmsslott Bay. He dined alone on authentic sjomansbiff, a hearty stew of potatoes in beef stock and dark beer. After dinner he took Aquavit, complimented Greta Magnussen on her cooking and hospitality, and arranged for an early-morning wakeup followed by breakfast. Back in his room by ten, Slaton organized his gear, and by ten-thirty, with the low sun creasing the western horizon over the bay, he shut his eyes for the last time that day.

*   *   *

As Slaton drifted to sleep, a deflated Arne Sanderson was walking into his apartment. He hung his overcoat on a hook by the door, making sure to pull out his cell phone and place it on the charger. It had been a wretched day, first getting bumped from the investigation and then suffering the humiliation of briefing his replacements.

The house seemed more quiet than usual and he turned on the television for company, only to find a press conference pertaining to the recent terrorist attacks. Sanderson turned the television off. Having just spent two hours explaining things to Anna Forsten, he was in no mood to watch her—lovely as she might be—preen in front of the camera.

He could not remember being more tired after a day of work, and to top it off he had a smashing headache. Overwhelmed by the idea of cooking a proper supper, he shoved a frozen beef entrée into the microwave and pulled a bottle of wine from his cabinet. Sanderson searched for the corkscrew but was unable to find it. Annoyed, he considered using a knife or a screwdriver, but in the end simply repulled the cork on the stale remains of a Merlot he’d begun a week earlier. He issued a tall serving, and by the time he’d sorted out the wine his main course was severely overcooked.

Sanderson ate in silence, stabbing and sawing at a slab of vulcanized beef. Divorced five years ago, he was accustomed to dining alone. The marriage had lasted nineteen years, and produced one daughter, two affairs, and considerable suffering all around. To this day the cause of the split escaped him. The infidelities—bilateral and concurrent—were an obvious enough excuse, but in fact only a symptom of some greater ill. He knew he shouldered much of the blame, his career having taken its predictable toll, but in the end the decision to separate had been a mutual one.

Ingrid, then fifty-two, had remarried quickly and well, latching on to a seventy-year-old bathroom fixture magnate whose relative age still permitted her trophy status. Sanderson saw her now and again, when she and the toilet king wintered in the city, and they remained friendly, always able to talk about their daughter who, in spite of her parents’ sufferings, had blossomed into a remarkably well-adjusted kindergarten teacher. Yet for all of Ingrid’s shortcomings, Sanderson did miss her cooking—and, if he were honest, her intermittent good humor. He’d seen a few women in the intervening years, but none who could make him laugh like Ingrid on a good day. And this was the time—quiet dinners over stale wine—when Ingrid had always been at her best. Not for the first time, he hoped the toilet king was an utter bore behind her braised veal and Chardonnay.

He finished dinner quickly and, relishing the one recompense of frozen entrées, tossed the plastic tray into an overflowing trash bin. Realizing that misery was getting the better of him, Sanderson did what he always did when he was feeling low—he poured a second glass of wine and turned his thoughts to work. He might have been put off the case, but it was not so easy to jettison the routines of a thirty-five-year career.

His instincts about Edmund Deadmarsh had been accurate. Unfortunately, he had not acted on them. He should have ordered comprehensive surveillance, not just a single man to watch over a target who was an unknown entity; indeed, one whose very identity had become an open question. As he’d been doing for hours, Sanderson thought about Sergeant Elmander. Had he put the man at risk? It was a discomforting idea, and one that made his head hurt even more.

He went to the medicine cabinet for ibuprofen, and in the mirror saw a tired man. He’d not been sleeping well in recent weeks, and today’s events weren’t going to help matters. Returning to the kitchen, he considered his schedule for the next day. He was to see Dr. Samuels at nine in the morning, with any mercy no more than an hour. After that, for the first time in thirty-five years, Sanderson had nothing on his agenda. He supposed he would go to the station. On principle he did not dispute Sjoberg’s authority to pull him from the case, yet as a practical matter he could never sit still while Edmund Deadmarsh, or whoever the man was, remained at large. Even more, Sanderson knew his vindication wasn’t going to come from any crackpot medical evaluation. Far better it should come from finishing the job he’d today put on a platter for Anna Forsten.

Tired, but increasingly restless, Sanderson checked the clock. Quarter past eight. It took no more than a minute of silence, a minute of staring at the dregs of the Merlot, to make up his mind.
I might as well go back in. Sjoberg won’t be anywhere near the place. An hour, maybe two. Long enough for the ibuprofen to kick in. After that I might get some sleep.

There were still three fingers in the bottle when Sanderson recorked it. He put his coat back on and tapped the pockets to make sure everything was where it ought to be. Credentials, phone, wallet. He then cursed himself for succumbing to Sjoberg’s accusations.
Alzheimer’s my ass.

Sanderson stepped outside and set a brisk pace in the cool evening air.

SIXTEEN

Hamedi watched the video feed with intense interest. The half-cut spherical encasement turned slowly as it was sprayed with an etching solution, the composite cubic boron nitride cutting tools performing their work with computer precision. When the casings were complete, they would be shaved to a precision measured in thousandths of an inch. Hamedi knew the value of such demanding specifications. The issue was not a matter of function—to initiate a reaction was simple enough—but rather efficiency. Once the fission began, every minute flaw brought a resultant decrease in yield. And Hamedi, with all his heart, was determined to maximize the weapon’s yield.

“Gently,” he ordered. “Bring down the speed.”

The technician seated next to him entered a command, and the machine tools three floors below decreased their revolutions. The machining vault was on the lowest level of the complex outside Qom. Sealed and secure, the entire room was built on dampers to resist the slightest seismic tremor, and the climate was stabilized to provide constant temperature and humidity. But most importantly, the vault lay beneath eighty yards of earth and reinforced concrete, making it safe from Israeli and even American warplanes.

“There, yes. Now let’s measure.”

More commands were sent. The cutting tools pulled away, and seconds later the surfaces were measured using laser interferometers. The numbers that lit to the control display fell just outside the desired tolerances.

“Almost,” Hamedi said. “Keep going.”

The operator took the control stick in hand and was about to reengage the grinding surfaces when Hamedi saw him hesitate. The man seemed frozen, his face twisted in an odd expression.

“What is wrong, Ahmed?” Hamedi demanded.

The man almost answered, but then his head rocked back and he sneezed. The sudden muscle contractions caused his hand to jolt the control grip. The alarm sounded instantly, red lights and an audible warning blaring from the console, as the emergency system began its automated shutdown sequence. Hamedi sucked in a deep breath and watched the video feed in horror. He saw the mechanical arms pull away cleanly from the hemispheric casing, and watched the grinding heads spin to a stop. Only then did he begin to breathe again.

“You fool!” he shouted.

“I am sorry, Doctor. I … I went home to see my family last weekend, the first time in a month. My son had a cold. I promise it will not happen again.”