by Ward Larsen
He flashed a badge, and said, “Come with me.”
Slaton did so without complaint. The man, whose credentials introduced him as Inspector Stern, led the way inside. They ended in a small room that was otherwise unoccupied. It looked like an overflow waiting area of some kind, a few chairs facing a shuttered reception desk.
Before the detective could say anything, his phone rang. He moved to the far side of the room to take the call, and was clearly on the receiving end of the conversation. He shot Slaton a hard look before acknowledging his orders and ringing off. The detective was obviously unhappy, and he told Slaton, “Wait here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
As soon as he was gone, Slaton made a call of his own.
“How is Anna?” Bloch said straightaway.
“I don’t have any updates on her condition. I’m at the hospital but a policeman corralled me. He put me in a room and right now I’m alone.”
A pause on the Tel Aviv end. Slaton imagined Bloch weighing a reprimand, something along the lines of, And this is your idea of staying out of trouble? To his credit, he let it go.
“All right. We’re coordinating as we speak through official channels. You will be designated to oversee her care. I’m texting you a phone number, a direct line to a physician we keep on call. If any medical questions arise, forward them to our doctor.”
Slaton checked and saw the text. “Okay, I’ve got it. What’s my status? I was a wanted man an hour ago.”
“I think we can put you in the clear. There may be questions to answer in time, but we’re trying to fold you into the agreement we made to get Anna released. We explained that you were engaged in a surveillance mission on Moussa Tayeb, but that you had no hand in his death. It’s all being channeled at the highest levels. What just happened to Anna supports our version of things, which is mostly factual. By the way, she was not the only casualty. Roughly two hours ago a police detective was killed, likely by the same sniper.”
“Was the detective’s name Bausch?”
“How did you know that?” Bloch asked, clearly taken aback.
“I overheard the name—pure coincidence.”
“Then here is something that is not a coincidence—he was the inspector investigating Moussa’s murder.” Bloch gave an abbreviated version of what Anna had endured at the station, including that she’d beaten the hell out of Bausch in the interrogation room. Under better circumstances, Slaton might have smiled. Bloch continued, “These shootings can only be the work of the same individual.”
“Ramzi,” Slaton surmised.
“The name did cross my mind. And a theory is resolving to back it up. We’ve made more headway with the data from the laptop. It seems Bausch had links to the Tayebs.”
“A detective from Luxembourg in bed with them? What’s the tie-in?”
“Aside from investigating murders, which are rare in the Duchy, Bausch was on the financial crimes task force. He was well-connected in the local financial community, and of course had extensive knowledge of ongoing investigations.”
“You’re saying the Tayeb brothers kept Bausch on their payroll to keep the authorities off their back?”
“I can’t tell you the exact association, but communications we’ve come across leave no doubt: there was a relationship between Bausch and both Tayeb brothers. This could presumably have given Ramzi insider knowledge into the investigation of his brother’s death.”
Slaton tried to make sense of it all. “We still don’t know who killed Moussa. If it was Ramzi, he might have been trying to clean things up. Eliminate his crooked detective and kill the prime suspect before she could be cleared.”
“And if Ramzi didn’t kill his brother?” Bloch prompted. Slaton sensed he was trying to validate his own thinking.
“Then he might have decided to hunt down whoever did kill him, and as of this afternoon the odds were on Anna. Bausch had to be silenced in either case—he would have become too great a risk.”
“Agreed. Of course, this is all no more than speculation. The critical point is that Ramzi is likely the shooter.”
Slaton had no doubt whatsoever. He heard Inspector Stern’s voice just outside the door.
“I need to go,” he said.
“Understood. Call me with any updates on Anna’s condition. We can talk later—I may have more for you soon.” Bloch rang off.
Slaton stared at the phone. He’d sensed a change of tone in the director’s parting words. Ever so minor, but definitely there. I may have more for you soon.
His earlier instincts had proved right. Ramzi was the shooter. As he’d kneeled at Anna’s side, trying to keep her alive, his demon had been near. Very near. Then he’d ghosted into the ether once again.
* * *
Before Bloch had set down his phone there was a knock on his office door.
“Come.”
Rona Feldman hurried in, her usual officious veneer gone. She looked eager, energized. “We’ve been able to confirm it—the meeting is still on.”
“Your source?”
“Emails on the laptop, to begin. We were also able to insert ourselves into the lawyer’s network. It’s a boutique firm, a solo operation. Security wasn’t as tight as it should have been, particularly given the nature of his clientele.”
She handed a printout across the desk, one page showing the pertinent details. Bloch noted the time, date, and location of the meeting. He looked at his watch and corrected one hour for the time zone. “Twenty hours. It’s not much time.”
She looked at him noncommittally, either not understanding his meaning or not admitting that she did. He tapped his fingers on his desk as if keeping beat to an unseen song.
“All right,” he finally said. “I am changing your tasking immediately.” He explained what he wanted. Feldman’s expression reverted to its natural blank. She would make a good spy, Bloch thought.
“How much emphasis?” she inquired.
“Top priority. As much as you can tonight—call in whoever you need.”
When she was gone, Bloch sat back thoughtfully in his chair. He blew out a long, steady sigh. Ordering a team of cyber specialists to work overtime was the easy part, and he suspected they might give him what he needed. Far more problematic was what to do with it.
22
Slaton had been in the hospital waiting room over an hour when it finally happened: a surgeon emerged from a pair of swinging green doors and beckoned him. The woman looked weary, her scrubs wrinkled and a surgical mask hanging limp beneath her chin.
“Mr. Lang?” she said.
The Israeli foreign ministry, apparently, was holding to his forged identity. Or more likely, Mossad hadn’t confessed to even them its inauthenticity.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“I’m Dr. Nystrom, I led the surgical team working on your friend.”
“How is she?”
“It was a serious injury, but she came through surgery well. I heard you instigated the use of clotting gauze at the scene—it’s a good thing you did. There was a small arterial bleed that could have been critical. By the time she got here she’d lost a lot of blood. We were able to repair that quickly, and we found no damage to vital organs. The bullet passed through cleanly, yet there were some bone fragments that had to be removed. All in all, she came through well. She’s stable now and heavily sedated, but I expect a full recovery in time.”
Slaton felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “That’s wonderful news. My heartfelt thanks to you and your team.”
The doctor smiled and covered a few administrative matters. When she was done, Slaton asked, “Can I see her?”
“She’s not conscious. We plan to keep her heavily sedated overnight.”
“I understand. But it would mean a lot to me.”
The doctor nodded. “Come with me.”
* * *
Dr. Nystrom led him to Anna’s room and gave Slaton five minutes alone.
He went through the door an
d was stilled when he saw her. Her injuries were mostly covered by bandages, but there was discoloration around her neck and one exposed shoulder. Her eyes were closed and she looked calm, even peaceful. She was receiving oxygen and an IV drip snaked into one arm. A vital signs monitor bounced in time with her heartbeat and breathing.
Something about the room hit him with a sudden, haunting weight. Terrible memories came flooding back. The monitors, the tubes, the battered body lying still. It was the image that tormented him, the one from his nightmares—that of his daughter. He had tried desperately to reach Elise that night so many years ago. He’d been studying for a test, with the aim of applying to graduate school, when a policeman knocked on the door to deliver the bad news. Your wife and daughter …
Katya had perished in the attack, but Elise was alive—clinging to life in a hospital room much like this one. Slaton didn’t have a car then, so the policeman had given him a ride. Owing to the bombing and subsequent security lockdown, however, the roads had gone to gridlock. He remembered feeling as if he would explode, stranded motionless in traffic, unable to reach his little girl. He’d thanked the cop, bolted from the car, and sprinted the last two miles to the hospital. When he got there, the elevator didn’t arrive immediately, so he flew up flights of stairs to reach her, his lungs bursting.
When he finally made it to her room, the trauma team were taking off their gear, heads drooping. One of the nurses, older and certainly a veteran of such horrors, was weeping uncontrollably. They saw him and right away knew who he was. The only words the doctor could manage were, “Just a few minutes ago …”
They tried to restrain him, but it was pointless. He surged into the room only to freeze at the scene before him: his tiny daughter, still and battered, lost on the great gurney and surrounded by a sea of technology that would never bring her back. A picture that seared forever in his mind.
Slaton squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself back to reality. Back to the living.
He walked closer and took Anna’s hand, felt its warmth, its life. A part of him wanted to kiss her, but something held him back. Of course, he knew what it was. Every time he got close to someone, every time he opened his heart, this was where it led. Slaton was not superstitious, but it felt like a curse, as if some otherworldly force was driving his life to ruin.
Had Anna been conscious in that moment, she would have seen his gray eyes go to mist, a veil dropping on what was behind. Then and there, Slaton made two vows.
The first was to never let this happen again.
He leaned down, put his lips near her ear, and said at a whisper, “It’s me, Anna. I’m here. You’re going to be all right.”
He thought he felt the slightest squeeze of his hand.
“I know who did this,” he added, moving on to his second promise. “And I’m going to take care of it.”
* * *
“She’s resting comfortably now,” Slaton said. “She’ll be in the hospital for a few days, but the doctors seem confident she’ll make a complete recovery.”
Bloch felt a wave of relief. He sank in the big chair behind his desk, a wad of putty into a mold. “Thank God. I have arranged for our doctor to fly in. He will oversee Anna’s care and coordinate her return home as soon as possible. For what it’s worth, the foreign office tells me the shootings have taken the pressure off us regarding Moussa’s death. You and Anna should soon be in the clear.”
“What about the rest of the team?”
“I saw no need to volunteer the fact that other operatives were involved. The pair from 8200 are already back in Tel Aviv.”
“And Yosy?”
“He’s in Paris—I wasn’t sure where things were going, so I told him to remain in place.”
“I don’t plan on leaving until Anna is on an airplane.”
“I understand. And since you’re there, I should give you an update. We’ve extracted something significant from the laptop, a string of emails that explains why Ramzi came to Luxembourg. The law firm his brother used for years is a one-attorney operation. The large firms in Luxembourg have taken to avoiding dubious clientele, yet a brisk network of micro-firms has filled the void and still happily deal with the likes of al-Qassam Front.”
“No doubt for a bigger cut.”
“I can’t imagine otherwise. In this chain of emails, we discovered that the Moussa’s long-time lawyer has recently retired. He sold his practice to a young attorney who is striking out on his own. The transition is nearly complete, and Moussa came to finalize arrangements with the new attorney. As part of that, Ramzi was to be included for the first time.”
“Why? He’s an operational guy, not finance.”
“The reasons aren’t spelled out in the emails, but it appears that Ramzi wants more control. Perhaps he suspects his brother of skimming, or maybe he doesn’t trust the new lawyer. Then again, it’s possible he’s feeling the pressure of life as a wanted man. It could be he wants to distance himself from operations and become more like Moussa. Whatever the reason, Ramzi came to Luxembourg for this meeting.”
“When is it scheduled?”
“Four o’clock tomorrow afternoon. The office is in the Old City.”
Bloch waited, got what he expected—a very long pause.
“Ramzi might still make that meeting,” Slaton said.
“Actually, we know that he will. Our friends at 8200 are still receiving Moussa’s email traffic. He was copied in on a message Ramzi sent a few hours ago saying he is still looking forward to the meeting. The attorney, a man named Marc Vandenburg, replied with a confirmation to both brothers.”
“He hasn’t heard about Moussa’s death.”
“It’s hardly surprising. Moussa was killed only last night, and the recent news coverage has been dominated by the sniper attack.”
Slaton set into a flood of questions, many of which Bloch could not answer. Not yet. The director then allowed a moment for his most accomplished assassin to work things out. He was quite sure he knew what Slaton would want: permission to kill Ramzi Tayeb if he indeed arrived for tomorrow’s meeting. Bloch was prepared to allow it—if it could be done quietly. A quick and simple strike with no chance of repercussions.
What Slaton proposed was something altogether different.
23
Slaton had moved outside for his call to Bloch, taking a seat on a picnic table in the hospital’s inner courtyard. There were a few workers at nearby tables, some smoking, others talking in small groups. Inspector Stern had apparently gone home—Slaton hadn’t seen him in half an hour. Given the evolution of his exchange with the director of Mossad, that was highly convenient.
He spent five minutes laying out his idea. When he was done, Bloch probably felt like they’d switched jobs. “You can’t be serious, David.”
“Do you realize what an opportunity this is? We can wire the lawyer’s office, record every word, then send a copy to every benefactor along with an ultimatum: cut off funding, or it all goes public. It could shut down The Front. At the very least, set them back years.”
“Only if Ramzi and the lawyer discuss specific transactions, name those benefactors. It’s possible they’ll go no further than signing fee schedules.”
“No, we would get more than that.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because the lawyer is going to be on our team.”
“What?”
“Trust me, Anton, I can make it happen.”
“You’re mad! I’ve spent the entire day repairing one near-debacle, David. We don’t have enough diplomatic capital to—”
“Anton, we are at war! A war that won’t be won by the foreign office or its diplomats! Our adversary does not recognize half measures, and neither can we. You once told me your vision for Mossad, that you wanted to instill a new culture: Fate favors the bold.”
“Boldness is one thing, recklessness another.”
Slaton waited. He was getting to know Bloch. Time and again he’d watched him veer away fro
m caution in the name of results. He guessed nothing he could say in that moment would be as persuasive as the battle taking place in the director’s head.
He was right.
“What would you need?”
Slaton grinned, and he hoped his Mossad phone wasn’t giving it away on the Tel Aviv end. He said, “I need to know more about Vandenburg himself. Also background on every client he’s taking over. Most important, I want everything you can get me on the practice’s past dealings with Moussa and The Front.” Slaton’s brain went into overdrive, framing an operation he would create and run on the fly. The list of information kept building, along with a realization of how fast everything had to be put in place.
When he finished, an extended silence took hold, the most ruthless professor in Tel Aviv grading his star student’s thesis. “It leaves a great deal to accomplish in the next twenty hours.”
“Which is why we can’t waste time debating.”
“All right, David. I’ll set things in motion on a contingency basis, but I reserve the right to shut this down. It introduces a great deal of risk.”
Slaton thought but didn’t say, Far more than you realize.
* * *
Two hours after the call ended, a Learjet 45, the fastest available aircraft in Mossad’s small fleet, took off from Tel Nof Air Force Base near Rehovot. It climbed out quickly and chased a falling moon toward Europe to deliver everything Slaton had requested. Hardware, listening devices, along with a handful of individuals whose help would be vital. The jet itself would play a part, rapid cargo delivery on the front end, and a means of immediate exfil once the mission was done. It was all to support an operation that would take down not just one man, but the murderous organization he ran.
In Paris, Yosy Meier received a text. Within the hour he was on the road back to Luxembourg, driving through steady rain and wondering what his best friend was scheming across the border. Later that night, all of it— the jet, the passengers, the equipment being carried, and a friend from Paris—would converge in a tiny rental flat on the edge of the City of Luxembourg.
