Assassin's Game (8 page)

The bed was made, but Slaton noted a lengthwise impression where Christine must have laid down, an indentation in the pillow where her head had been. He sat on it and pulled in the air, searching for any remnants of her presence.

“Where are you?” he whispered.

Slaton eased back on the bed, into the day-old crease, and closed his eyes. He had little solid information, but more than when he’d arrived. Anton Bloch had come here to meet Christine. Then he’d been shot and Christine was forced to run. Had Bloch shot the other man? Had he been protecting Christine? If it came to that, Slaton was sure he would have. But more importantly, who had Bloch been facing? The usual suspects? Arabs? Iranians? Israel had her share of enemies. Slaton saw but one unbreakable strand: Bloch, and whoever else was involved, had come to Sweden because Christine was here. And Christine had been targeted because of him. Of this he was sure.

Slaton felt a numbness begin to fall. He needed sleep, needed it every bit as much as he would soon need more conventional weapons. He considered his options for the next morning. His first idea was simplistic—find Inspector Sanderson and press him for every scrap of information. That was what Edmund Deadmarsh would do. But Sanderson had shared little so far, indeed no more than necessary to prod his witness down the desired paths. Slaton doubted the inspector was going to be more forthcoming, no matter how outraged the American stonemason became. His prognosis for that course of action: poor.

He searched for Plan B. Past experience had taught him that for all Israel’s enemies, there was often none more treacherous than Israel herself. Slaton had one confirmed character in the disaster that was playing out—Anton Bloch, former director of Mossad. Centering on this, and disregarding who else might be involved, his answer fell into place. He knew precisely what his next step had to be.

That settled, Slaton allowed his body to relax. He heard the sounds of the city outside his window—passing cars, shouted greetings, a far-off siren. Then, amid the asynchronous din, he extracted another sound, this more constant. It was deep and resonating, a distinctive signature to anyone who was familiar—the diesel rumble of a boat on the waterway. He knew nothing of the boat’s function, nothing about its destination, but that steady sound gave Slaton a fleeting peace of mind.

Minutes later, he was fast asleep.

NINE

Slaton woke at six-thirty. He’d slept well but was hardly refreshed, his body still in arrears to the tune of six time zones. At the bathroom mirror he weighed the question of whether to shave his thickening beard. He’d not bothered since Christine had left for the conference, almost a week now. Slaton decided to leave it as it was, reasoning that a disheveled look was ideal for a man in his circumstances.

He showered and donned fresh clothes, a pair of tan cotton pants and a long-sleeve button-down shirt. The shirt was a shade of red so bright it might have doubled as a bullfighter’s cape. He pocketed his passport and a wallet full of identification attesting him to be Edmund Deadmarsh, along with the grand sum of thirty-seven hundred dollars—he had cleaned out his and Christine’s joint checking account before leaving Virginia. Everything else went into his suitcase, and that went into the closet.

He passed under the Strand’s front awning at 6:55, turned left, and took up a leisurely pace. Rounding the waterway, Slaton passed the café where Christine had last been seen two days ago. The establishment, which he imagined had been cordoned off by police tape yesterday, was again open for business, the maître d’ ignoring a pressure cleaning crew that was busy removing a dark stain from the nearby sidewalk. Slaton might have stopped to take a seat, and from there sketch what had happened. He could ask questions of employees and regular customers, and study the hasty repairs.

He didn’t because his strategy precluded it.

Farther up the street, he stopped at a news kiosk and purchased the only English language newspaper on the stand, a day-old copy of the
New York Times
. He put the paper under his arm and walked toward the waterfront, stopping now and again as if taking in the sights. The air was still and crisp, and the sidewalks quiet on a languid Sunday morning. Along the waterfront he saw tour boats, water taxis, and a lone police runabout. Sanderson had not mentioned the type of vessel Christine used to escape her pursuers, and Slaton made a mental note to ask that question when the chance came.
If
the chance came.

He began moving again, a red-shirted sightseer keeping a predictable pace. He never once looked behind him or reversed direction, and made not a single abrupt turn. He nodded cordially to two policemen riding past on bicycles, and ignored a white panel van that was parked crookedly at the mouth of an alley. Two blocks from the first café he paused at the entrance of a second, the Renaissance Tea Room, and pretended to study a breakfast menu that was posted on a stand. As if finding the fare agreeable, he turned inside and asked for a specific table, a request the host was happy to accommodate on what was clearly a slow morning.

Slaton sat overlooking the waterway and Strandvägen, much as Christine had done two days earlier only a few hundred yards away. Morning smells filled the air, coffee brewing and bacon on the grill. He lingered over the menu, and on the waiter’s third pass ordered a comprehensive breakfast—fresh fruit, eggs, sausage, and toast. As his meal was being prepared, Slaton addressed a pot of English Breakfast tea. He found it a nicely robust and flavorful blend, as one would expect from a tearoom.

He unfolded the
Times
and began to read.

*   *   *

When Sanderson arrived at work the air was stamped with the usual aromas of a waking police department—sweat, shoe polish, burnt coffee, all accented by more objectionable risings from the drunk tank on the backside of a Saturday night. He had dodged television reporters at the entrance, two attractive young women with enamel hair and blond smiles who were tethered to news vans sprouting tall, telescoping antennas. It was all to be expected. Two men had been shot nearly forty-eight hours ago, and so far neither the victims nor the assailants had been identified. Sweden’s nerves were increasingly thin when it came to terrorism, and this crime was looking more and more the part.

At his desk Sanderson searched for his cell phone, which he hadn’t been able to find at home this morning. He didn’t see it, but a check of his computer revealed a dozen messages. He scanned through, saw nothing of interest, and decided to press ahead with his most disagreeable task of the morning.

Assistant Commissioner Paul Sjoberg headed up the Criminal Investigation Unit of the Stockholm County Police. Younger than Sanderson by three years, and five years junior on the force, he was a man who lacked the edges of a street cop. Fair-skinned and carrying twenty more pounds than he should have, his well-tended wave of silvering blond hair framed an indoor face. This was all at odds with the image he tried to project. Sjoberg had started a career in Sweden’s navy before trading uniforms, dark blue for light, and signing on with the Stockholm police. It was a circumstance he played to great effect in his office—the room was brimming with bottled ships and rope-framed oil paintings depicting great sea battles. He was a decent man and a competent policeman—Sanderson would never say otherwise—but a better politician.

Sanderson paused at the door and saw Sjoberg pecking at his computer—an emphatic dagger to his swashbuckling image. Noting the helmsman’s wheel stuck to the far wall, Sanderson had a mischievous urge to ask permission to come aboard. What little careerism remained in him quashed the idea. “A word, sir?”

Sjoberg noticed him and clicked off his computer. “Arne—just the man I wanted to see. Have the bastards over at SÄPO given us anything yet?” He was referring to the Swedish Security Service, who handled matters of counterterrorism—the sea to which their investigation seemed to be drifting.

“Actually, they have. I told you yesterday that I’d had a few words with Edmund Deadmarsh, the husband of our damsel in distress.”

“Yes, I remember you said something about it.”

“When I ran a check on Deadmarsh’s passport there were some odd results. To put it simply, his information has disappeared from our immigration system. I asked SÄPO to take a look, since it seemed more up their street, and they contacted the American FBI.”

“And?”

With Sjoberg already sitting down, Sanderson said, “The FBI responded almost immediately. They claim that the U.S. has never issued a passport to anyone named Edmund Deadmarsh.”

“How could that be?” Sjoberg said in a rising inflection.

“I don’t know. They did find a driving record and two speeding tickets in the name, but a crosscheck of the corresponding driver’s license number came up blank.”

“So he’s using forged documents.”

Sanderson hesitated. “I’m not so sure. I saw the passport myself, and while I’m no expert, it looked quite authentic. There’s something here I don’t like.”

“Such as?”

“Deadmarsh entered Sweden yesterday at Arlanda. His passport cleared perfectly—we have him on video passing through immigration. Yet a few hours later, a search for his name in the records showed nothing. It’s as if the damned file vaporized. I talked to a man at Immigration who said it could only be a glitch at the source, on the American end. It’s almost as if…” Sanderson paused and rubbed his chin, “as if once he’d entered Sweden, his documents were somehow wiped clean. They were legitimate at one point, but now have gone lost in cyberspace.”

“Is that possible?” Sjoberg asked witheringly.

“I don’t know—we’re looking into it. In the meantime, I’ve asked Sergeant Elmander to keep an eye on Deadmarsh.”

“On a Sunday? You realize our extra pay accounts are already overextended this quarter.”

Sanderson bit down hard on the reply that was welling up.

Sjoberg raised his chin theatrically, in a way that made Sanderson think he might order canvas put to the mizzenmast. “Arne, I’m counting on you—we can’t drop the ball on this one.”

“Is that something I’ve made a habit of?”

“No, of course not. I put you in charge with every confidence. It’s just that…” Sjoberg hesitated, “well, this is a high-profile inquiry. I want you to know what’s at stake.”

Sanderson knew precisely what was at stake—Assistant Commissioner Paul Sjoberg’s step up to National. He said, “I think I have a good idea.”

“Good. Give me an update this afternoon. Three o’clock?”

“Three o’clock,” Sanderson repeated, retreating to the door.

Paul Sjoberg stared at the threshold long after Sanderson was gone, his fingers tapping the blotter on his desk. After a full minute, he went back to his computer. He called up his email and reopened a file near the top.

From: Dr. Ernst Samuels, M.D./NPMS

Subject: D/I Sanderson

Please be advised that Detective Inspector Sanderson has no-showed a second appointment. Given the nature of his evaluation, I recommend that he reschedule immediately, and if necessary be pulled from duty to accommodate. A third event will result in a formal letter of complaint through department channels.

Regards,

E. Samuels, M.D.

NPB Health Services

Sjoberg composed the most conciliatory reply he could muster and hit the Send button. He then wondered what the hell to do.

*   *   *

It took nearly two hours for Slaton to be proved correct. He was scanning a review for a thriller he would never read when a man sat down at his table. Slaton didn’t look up right away, but instead tipped the last of the tea into his cup, the dregs of the pot thick and flavorful. It was a good ten seconds before he lowered the
Times
.

“It took you long enough,” he said in Hebrew.

He was looking at a man roughly his equal in height, but considerably heavier. He had dark eyes, curly black hair shot with threads of gray, and was casually dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. One hand gripped the arm of his chair while the other, in an awkward set, was positioned near the open zipper of his dark windbreaker. Outside, there was not a breath of wind. The man responded to Slaton’s taunt by simply sliding a black iPhone across the table, angling between a spent glass of orange juice and a bowl of sweetener packets.

Slaton put the
Times
on the table. He ignored the phone and gave the man a level, dispassionate stare. The same look a headmaster might give a recidivist truant.

“How long have you been in country?” Slaton asked.

The man obviously didn’t want to chat, but Slaton waited, making it clear who was in charge.

“A week,” the man replied, keeping with Hebrew.

Slaton’s eyes drifted obviously to the street. “Where is your partner?”

To his credit, the man didn’t flinch. “Just take the damned phone.”

The waiter was bearing down. Slaton waved him away, and while his right hand swiped the air dismissively, his left foot inched forward under the table.

“Who will I be talking to?” Slaton asked.

“It’s a secure line.” The courier offered nothing more.

Slaton picked up the phone and saw that it was ready to connect to a number labeled
HOME
. He tapped the screen, and the call was answered before even a single ring had rattled the handset. “This is the director.” The voice was flat and featureless, like an ocean in the doldrums.

“How do I know that?” Slaton said. “We’ve never met.”

“No, but you were well acquainted with my predecessor.”

“Your predecessor is in a hospital fighting for his life. Why?”

“Anton put himself in a bad position.”

“I think
you
put him in a bad position,” said Slaton.

“That was never my intent. We are doing what we can for him.”

Slaton did not doubt that he was talking to Raymond Nurin. If he didn’t know the man, he recognized the thought process. A pragmatic viper.

“Who approached Christine?” he asked.

“We did.”

“Why? If Mossad saw a threat to her safety, I should have been told. Is she in danger?”