Assassin's Game (31 page)

Behrouz said, “I think I have proved in recent months that I am capable of ensuring it.”

“Your campaign in the synagogues has revealed nothing new?” the chairman asked.

“No, not yet.”

A nod from the center. “And have you conducted any other operations as of late?”

“Operations?” Behrouz said, trying to keep a level voice. He watched an exchange of glances along the table, tilted turbans and a flutter of brown cotton sleeves.

The chairman. “We have learned of a disturbance last night in Molavi. Your ministry had no involvement, I’m sure, as your recent efforts have been focused so completely on Geneva.”

There was a long and heavy pause. Behrouz knew better than to speak.

“I will leave you with one further thought,” the chairman picked up. “As head of our state security apparatus you have performed admirably, and this grants you a certain latitude in running your ministry. But remember one thing, Farzad—you are today not the most critical man in our Islamic Republic. Proceed with care.”

“Yes, Chairman, I understand. Thank you for sharing your wisdom.”

Minutes later Behrouz was descending the massive staircase, his feet stepping quickly. He checked his phone but saw nothing from Rafi. He was not surprised that the council had learned of his raid—the speed of the reprimand, however, spoke volumes. He had seen it happen to his predecessor, a series of small missteps that ended badly for the man. Very badly. He decided it was time to regain the initiative, lest he face a similar fate. As with most men of his ilk, Behrouz had spent a lifetime climbing to the top without consideration for what came afterward. Today, as he hit the bottom of the staircase, his feet skidding momentarily on the polished marble floor, he was beset by a new and disturbing perspective.

On reaching the top, Behrouz realized, there was only one place to go.

And it was not up.

*   *   *

Sanderson spent a slow cup considering Almgren’s hypothesis. Could the troubles in Stockholm be related to Israel’s pursuit of Iran’s chief nuclear scientist? It was a long shot to say the least. If Deadmarsh was truly a Mossad assassin, the chances were better that he was hunting down some deserving Hezbollah terrorist. More likely yet was that the erstwhile stonemason had not been tasked to kill anyone. Sanderson would lay odds that there was no cataclysmic plot at any level, but rather an alcoholic agent who’d gone rogue, or perhaps a man chasing his wife because she’d had an affair with her dermatologist. As any policeman could tell you, the real world was far less a manifestation of James Bond than Jerry Springer. All the same, Sanderson had to be sure, which meant disproving Almgren’s theory.

Only days ago he’d had Sweden’s largest police force at his disposal. Now, aside from the spare time of two distant friends, he was operating alone from a tiny German village. He left a nice tip for the waitress, and asked her if a computer was available for general use. She was happy to point him to a small side room where, for a fee, computer stations with Internet access were available.

The room was a disaster with dirty floors and overflowing wastebaskets, and from the sales flyers on the wall—instant energy shots and roadside assistance insurance—one didn’t have to be a detective to realize that the place was here for transiting truck drivers. Sanderson sat on a chair with ripped fabric and foam oozing out the seams, and addressed a brown-stained keyboard on which the lettering of the more frequently used characters had been worn clear. But the machine worked, and he was soon online. Sanderson began by researching articles relating to the assassination attempts on Hamedi. He noted the dates and locations of the botched missions—both occurring inside Iran—and he read the official releases from IRNA, the Islamic Republic News Agency. Not surprisingly, these pieces were scarce on detail and high on rhetoric, taking particular relish in pointing an accusatory finger at Israel.

He moved on to Israeli and neutral news outlets, and then a few blogs where conspiracy theorists congregated. Nothing inspired him. He entered Anton Bloch’s name and got hits relating to his retirement, along with a few critiques on the effectiveness of his administration—Mossad chiefs were meant to be anonymous during their active tenure, but apparently fair game once they reverted to the lowly status of private citizen. After an hour the waitress stepped in and brought him another cup of coffee. Sanderson could have kissed her.

He typed the name Edmund Deadmarsh into a search engine and drew blanks. Next he tried Dr. Christine Palmer—there were apparently four in the world—which produced nothing more enlightening than her physician’s website. He backtracked and typed in: Iran, nuclear program, Dr. Ibrahim Hamedi. A number of articles relating to the assassination attempts appeared, along with others of a more critical voice that vilified the mad genius and the weapons project he oversaw. None gave any insight to steer Sanderson in his search.

He closed his eyes tightly and pinched the bridge of his nose.
What? What would prove or disprove?
He opened his eyes and typed: Dr. Ibrahim Hamedi, travel. He opened the first result:

IAEA Requests Emergency Meeting in Geneva

www.reuters.com/IAEAemergencymeeting

October 9—Iran has agreed to an emergency request from the International Atomic Energy Agency for information pertaining to its nuclear program. Recent inspections have been denied by Iran, the Tehran government claiming that certain inspectors are unacceptable. Visa problems have also arisen, although IAEA spokespersons insist that these difficulties are a result of intentional delays by Iran. Independent observers estimate Iran to be only months away from a successful transition of its peaceful nuclear program to weaponization, in particular the mating of a nuclear warhead to its Shahab-4 ballistic missile. Dr. Ibrahim Hamedi, head of the Atomic Energy Organization of Iran, will travel to Geneva and present Iran’s case to a group of inspectors and diplomats on October 20.

Sanderson read it again. Could this be why Deadmarsh had run south? The odds were long—but perhaps a ray of hope. An Israeli assassin heading in the general direction of Israel’s clearest target? The coincidence could not be more slim. Yet it
was
a coincidence, and if the last thirty-five years had taught Sanderson anything, it was to seek just such connections.

But how to continue? Sanderson had already hidden from Sjoberg a pursuit that had taken him across the Baltic and into Germany. To forward this new theory would get him no more than a one-way ticket home and a follow-up session with Dr. Samuels. He could mention his suspicions to Blix or Almgren, but he doubted they would have any more luck in convincing their superiors—it was simply too thin a link for anyone to chase. At least anyone in their right mind.

Sanderson’s time on the computer came to an end. He did not purchase more. He left the restaurant, thanking the young waitress as he passed the main counter, and after a cool five-minute walk found himself in the main Sassnitz transfer terminal. He stopped in front of a machine that sold tickets for the ferry north to Malmö. From there, he could reach Stockholm easily by train, and be home late tonight. An adjacent machine sold tickets for German rail. With a connection, perhaps two, he could be in Geneva by early evening. Sanderson stood still for a very long time with his hand poised over his pocket. North or south? Either was an improvement, he reasoned.
At least I don’t have to get on another godforsaken seaplane.

Comforted by this thought, he made his selection, and ten minutes later was waiting patiently in the busy boarding area.

*   *   *

Slaton settled his business with Krueger that evening. He signed the name Natan Mendelsohn to documents authorizing his banker to manage a series of accounts. After this, Krueger handed over the agreed upon funds.

A visibly nervous Krueger asked, “When will I hear from you again?”

“More likely later than sooner. I’ll be leaving Zurich tonight.”

“Then I wish you happy travels, my friend. Is there anything else I can do before you leave?”

“Two things. First, I owe a debt to a charter pilot in Sweden. I’d like you to send her a check in the amount of twenty-two thousand U.S. dollars. Here is the name and address.” Slaton handed over a folded slip of hotel stationery.

Krueger took it without looking. “And the other?” he asked tentatively.

“How many cars do you have?”

“Cars?” the banker stuttered. Slaton had once again made a diagonal move in Krueger’s parallel world. “Well … two. A Range Rover and an Audi.”

“Which did you bring here tonight?”

“The Rover.”

Slaton smiled thinly.

Without even being asked, the banker handed over a key.

THIRTY-SIX

Christine stood in front of a bank on Kungsgatan Street trying to avoid the gaze of passersby, and hoping that no one would pay attention to a distracted American woman loitering near an ATM. It was shortly after closing time, and for the last thirty minutes she had watched tellers and mortgage officers vacate the branch office, one by one, until a security guard locked the door behind them. She’d studied each bank employee, but none fit the profile she was looking for. David, of course, had anticipated this and briefed her on a contingency plan. Given the time of day—the Thursday evening rush to get home—Christine was sure she would find her man soon enough.

As planned, she’d spent the previous night with her friend Dr. Ulrika Torsten. Christine had lied convincingly, a breathless account of her escape from the Strandvägen shootings, and ending with an offhand mention that the police had sought her out for an official statement. All variations of the truth. She’d built on this by telling Ulrika that the whole affair had left her shaken and in need of a quiet place in Stockholm to relax for a few days. When she added that her husband would arrive in a few days to escort her back to the States, Ulrika had insisted that Christine stay at her home.

So it was, for one night she had imposed on a friend’s gracious hospitality. But late this afternoon Christine gave her regrets for dinner, missing out on a home-cooked meal, and claimed the need for fresh air and an invigorating walk. She was now back at work. David’s work.

It took fifteen minutes, but the candidate she saw was perfect. Slightly on the tall side, perhaps a bit blonder. Otherwise, a perfect match. He was moving fast with a briefcase in one hand and an umbrella in the other.

She hurried away from the wall near the ATM.

“Excuse me!”

The man stopped.

“Do you speak English?” she asked.

“A little, yes.”

“Could you please help me? I’m trying to get money from this machine, but the instructions are in Swedish.” She gave him her most engaging smile and made sure her wedding band was behind her hip.

The man smiled back. Just as David had said he would.

*   *   *

The use of Deadmarsh’s credit card at a midtown ATM machine registered almost instantly with the Stockholm police. The nearest officers were dispatched, and reached the bank in five minutes. They were three minutes too late.

Headquarters built a head of steam, and Commissioner Forsten and Assistant Commissioner Sjoberg were soon meeting in a side room with technicians. They poured over video that had been fed directly from the bank’s security office, and everyone saw a tall blond man in an overcoat withdrawing money from the machine.

“He withdrew a thousand kronor,” Sjoberg said. “He’s running low on cash. Maybe he’s trying to get out of the country.”

“Are we sure it’s him?” Forsten asked.

Sjoberg looked at the screen uncertainly. “It’s not the clearest image … the lighting is poor. Let’s ask someone who’s seen him.”

Sergeant Blix was summoned to join them. When he arrived Forsten explained, “An hour ago there was a cash withdrawal on Deadmarsh’s credit card. We have video from the bank surveillance camera. Unfortunately, since his passport dumped we don’t have a decent photo to compare. Of all the people in the building, Blix, you had the best look at him.”

The video footage looped and Forsten froze it on the clearest image. “Well?” she asked. “Is that him?”

Blix stared at the grainy black-and-white image, but didn’t answer immediately. He finally said, “It does looks like him, but it’s hard to say. I can’t be certain.” Under two disbelieving looks, he tried again.

“It’s a good likeness,” he said, “but something about it…” Blix’s face contorted as he racked his brain. “He’s keying the numbers with his left hand.”

“Was Deadmarsh left-handed?” Forsten asked.

Blix shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t remember.”

“I know who could give us a definite answer,” Sjoberg said.

They all stared at one another in turn.

“All right,” Forsten ordered, “call him in.”

“Ah…” Blix hesitated, “I’m not sure Inspector Sanderson is available right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I believe he’s taken a holiday,” Blix replied.

“Holiday?” Sjoberg burst.

“Well, sir—you did just let him go.”

*   *   *

Slaton exercised his newfound wealth in customary Zurich fashion—with a shopping spree on Bahnhofstrasse.

In perhaps the world’s epicenter of casual self-indulgence, he caused barely a ripple with his shotgun approach: a pair of Peter Millar twill trousers were partnered with a button-down cotton shirt and Chanel tie, followed by a charcoal Armani sportcoat, and finally a set of black Nike warm-ups with trail shoes. Just off Bahnhofstrasse, he paid a reasonable price for a down sleeping bag and a Prada travel case—somehow relegated to the clearance rack—and an unreasonable one for a Movado wristwatch, a high-end sport version with luminescent dials. With full arms and half-empty pockets, Slaton decided he’d done enough damage for one evening.

He found the Rover in Krueger’s reserved parking spot, an upgraded model with four-wheel drive and a massive engine. Before leaving the garage he circled the Rover’s exterior once, checking that all the exterior lights were operational, and that the license plate and vignette, or autobahn sticker, were current and not obscured. He would be driving a perfectly valid vehicle, and wanted no excuse for a random traffic stop. Slaton brought the machine to life and was rewarded with a heavy purr under the thick leather and walnut trim. He wheeled out of the parking garage into a thin mist, turned north and gathered speed.