by Ward Larsen
Nearing the bottom of the mountain, the streaking blue dot that was Romanov whisked to a finish. In a cascade of white his athletic frame disappeared behind the lift station, no doubt to catch the gondola for a return to the top. The visitor canted his gaze back uphill and saw the red-jacketed Ovechkin. Intermittently visible through stands of trees, he was carving wide turns at a far more judicious speed.
The young man heard heavy steps behind him. He tensed almost imperceptibly, recalling the scene he’d witnessed only moments ago: the two security details had departed the lift station for the warmth of the lodge. Had one of them doubled back?
The young man turned slowly, and a woman in a red ski patrol jacket appeared at the corner of the building. She had a set of skis over one shoulder, and her boots thumped over the frozen sidewalk. She looked surprised to see him.
“Can I help you?” she asked in German.
He understood the language perfectly, but elected to reply in English, adding a heavy accent that further belied his abilities. “Oh, I am sorry. The resort … it is open now?”
“No, not yet. It is still too early in the season. We had a few good days of snow, so the employees are undergoing some training. I think a private party also arranged access for the next two days.”
“Two days skiing alone? How nice for them.”
She smiled. “Yes. Unfortunately, warmer weather is expected soon. I’m afraid everything will be shut down again by the weekend.”
“I understand … thank you.”
“Come back in December,” the woman said good-naturedly. “They say it will be a good season. Have you skied Davos before?”
“Oh, no. I am only a beginner.” The visitor looked around, and said, “Tell me … is there a trail map?”
The woman pointed to a brochure box near the shuttered lift ticket office.
He thanked her again, and she went on her way, boots crunching over ice. He walked to the ticket kiosk and pulled a map from the box. Unfolding it, he looked up the mountain and easily correlated which run Romanov and Ovechkin had just used. He studied the surrounding terrain carefully, paying particular attention to the topography at higher elevations.
Satisfied, he made a mental list of what he would need. The young man then turned away and walked toward town.
THIRTEEN
The drive back to Rome was even more scenic at night, the same timeless sights set under a wash of white light and neon. So lost in thought was Slaton, he barely noticed his surroundings. Somewhere outside Naples, Sorensen made a stab at conversation.
“I recently bought a house in Virginia,” she said.
“Sounds nice. Where exactly?”
“Woodbridge.”
“Really? That’s not far from Fredericksburg. Christine and I had a place there a few years ago.”
Sorensen’s eyes snapped back and forth between Slaton and the road. “You lived in Virginia?”
He grinned. “I guess that wasn’t in my file.”
“How long were you there?”
“Not as long as I would have liked.” She kept looking at him, but if he was supposed to fill the gap with more details he failed miserably. He was rescued when her phone rang.
Sorensen looked at the screen. “It’s the office. Hope you don’t mind if I take it.”
“Not at all.”
Sorenson talked while she drove, and Slaton took the chance to regard her more closely. She really was a stunner, but to her credit, never once had he sensed her trying to leverage her looks. He turned away and found himself thinking about Virginia. He remembered the three-bedroom house with its pine fence, half-acre yard, and broad back deck. For him and Christine it had been their last grasp at normalcy, and for a time it had worked. But the interlude had also been dangerous for its tranquilizing effect—when the ghosts of his past returned, as they inevitably did, he’d been caught off guard. Ever since, they’d lived a whipsaw existence. The Caribbean and South Pacific, minimal contact with the outside world. That kind of isolation had both benefits and drawbacks. Chief among the lessons learned—seize a little civilization when it could safely be had. Today, apparently, that meant a guest suite in the United States embassy in Rome.
On the outskirts of the city Sorensen ended her call.
“Anything useful?” he asked.
“Maybe—I’ll explain when we get to the embassy.”
“Okay.”
She eyed him again. “So tell me … where exactly did you go after Virginia?”
“If I tell you will it end up in my file back at Langley?”
She gave him a wounded look.
“Sorry. For what it’s worth, I like you as much as any CIA officer I’ve ever met … even if that is a pretty low bar.”
“Was that a compliment?”
“About as close as I come.”
The city seemed to pull them in, as it had travelers for millennia. In the distance Slaton saw countless basilicas, and took particular note of the Archbasilica of St. John Lateran. He had toured the place once, many years ago, in the days before his post-Mossad career as a stonemason. He’d marveled at the mosaics, a virtual lecture in Cosmatesque style. Intricate inlays adorned seemingly every floor and wall, as well as the papal throne. He himself had never aspired to such artisanship, his work being of the more practical variety—garden walls and terraces, the occasional restoration of classic facades. Still, Slaton recognized talent when he saw it.
It was then—on the notion of recognizing talent—that his thoughts drifted curiously back to the waters of Capri. Try as he might, he could not come up with a workable scenario to explain how Ivanovic had been targeted. He himself was a product of the best training on earth, a distinguished graduate of the Israeli Defense Forces Sniper Course. A hundred thousand rounds fired from dozens of different weapons. Years spent in the field, shooting in countless tactical settings. At that moment, none of it helped.
How had the shooter done it?
Try as he might, Slaton couldn’t come up with an answer.
* * *
It had been a quiet evening, and Franz Stoeckler surveyed the store he managed with his customary October glumness. For a retailer who sold outdoor gear, it was unfailingly one of the worst months of the year. Customers were not yet serious about skiing, and the fall clearance sales of hiking and camping gear were long wrapped up.
He saw two teenagers in his snowboard section, but they were only regulars from the neighborhood, boys who came to ogle expensive boards they would not be given for Christmas. Near the front an older woman was flicking through a skeletal rack of clothing on clearance. Stoeckler was considering closing a bit early when a young man walked in.
“Can I help you, sir?” he said in German, walking up briskly.
The young man gave him a blank look, and said, “Do you speak English?”
“We are the only full-service outfitter in Davos,” Stoeckler said, making the switch. “All of our sales associates speak English.”
The customer managed a thin smile. “Ah, very good. Then I would like to purchase some equipment for off-piste skiing.”
“Off-piste, is it? Yes, of course. We have everything you might need.”
As Stoeckler led to the correct section, his salesman’s brain evaluated the man behind him. He was average in height, lean build, and moved with a distinctly athletic carriage. His hair was light brown, cut short, and a thin growth of whiskers roamed across his face. The heavy accent on his English suggested an origin to the east and north. Probably Russian, but perhaps a Pole or a Latvian.
“Have you skied our backcountry in Davos before?”
“No.”
“We like to say it is the birthplace of off-piste. In 1894 Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was among the pioneers of the discipline. He honed his skills right here in Davos. Do you know who he was?”
A blank look on the customer’s face was his answer.
“Conan Doyle was the Englishman who wrote books about Sherlock Holmes, the famous de
tective.” Still the customer showed no reaction. Stoeckler abandoned his story. “How will you be climbing—Telemark or touring skis? Or perhaps a traditionalist who prefers snowshoes?”
“Alpine touring skis.”
“The most practical choice.”
They reached the skis, and before Stoeckler could make a recommendation the young man pulled a set of carbon fiber skis from a rack. He knew precisely what length he wanted, and within ten minutes a full set of equipment was lined up. To Stoeckler’s delight, there was no apparent concern for price.
“Will there be anything else?” he asked.
Yes, the young man replied, there would be a good deal more. As quickly as they could navigate the aisles, he selected a single ensemble of high-end ski clothing, a large backpack, energy bars, and a water pack. He also picked out a set of compact binoculars. Stoeckler was nearly out of breath by the time they massed it all at the checkout counter.
“There is one more thing,” the young man said. “I require a topographical map of the local mountains.”
“But of course.”
Stoeckler went to a glass cabinet and reached for an expensive GPS device.
“Actually,” the young man said, “I would prefer a simple paper map, laminated if possible.”
“D’accord,” said Stoeckler, diverting to a different cabinet. He pulled open a wide drawer and extracted a hiking map. “Is this what you had in mind?”
The customer took the map in hand and studied it for some time. “Yes, this should be accurate enough.”
“Accurate enough? It is issued by the Swiss Federal Office for Topography. There is none better.”
The young man seemed about to argue the point, but relented. “It will do nicely.”
Stoeckler began scanning the merchandise. “Will you wait here in Davos for the season to begin?” he asked.
“I thought I might train a bit tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? The snow is thin in places—it won’t last more than a few days.”
“Yes, so I’ve been told. But it is always best to test new gear in mild conditions.”
With a nod to his customer’s show of good sense, Stoeckler summed up the purchase. The total came to over three thousand Swiss francs. His customer produced not a credit card, but a wad of cash. It was curious, but not unheard of.
“Can I help you carry your purchase to your car?” Stoeckler offered once the transaction was complete.
“No, I will manage, thank you.”
He watched the young man walk outside with both arms full. He seemed to pause for a moment, then turned away from the parking lot and disappeared into the night. Stoeckler gave a slight shake of his head, then happily shut the cash drawer and began closing out the register.
FOURTEEN
When the embassy came into view, Slaton felt like a weight had been lifted. The complex looked different at night, luminous and festive, belying the vital work being done within the bastion-like walls.
He went straight to the visitors’ quarters, and at the entrance were two security men he hadn’t seen before. They both spotted him immediately, and one said something into a throat mic. The pair seemed alert and competent, no quarter given for the fact that they were already established in what was effectively a fortress. Once vetted and sent through to the suite, Slaton saw two guards outside in the courtyard. His wishes had so far been respected. Security was tight.
He found Christine in the bedroom. She was chatting up the housekeeper, a woman of roughly sixty whose name was Bella. Slaton was introduced, and Bella began talking. She was full of good humor and authentic Italian recipes, and claimed an encyclopedic knowledge of the embassy. She professed to be the longest-serving embassy employee, and it might have been true. She knew the history of the building and who worked in what department, and claimed to be privy to scandals going back to the Reagan years. She said it all with openness and enthusiasm, as well as a judicious lack of details that bolstered her case.
It was nearly Davy’s bedtime, and in the burst of energy all children display at that hour, he’d taken to running circles around an ornate oval rug as though it were a track in a stadium. Slaton played along and began giving chase. Soon the two women were cheering, and in a flurry of giggles Dad lost the race despite his rampant cheating. There was a brief wrestling match on the floor, followed by a well-orchestrated chase with a toothbrush. Bedtime rituals took fifteen minutes, and soon after Davy was fast asleep on a daybed. In happy disarray on the floor around him were makeshift toys acquired from the embassy kitchen: plastic bowls, wooden spoons, and a colorful assortment of nested measuring cups.
“All is well on the home front,” Slaton said, having caught his breath after the whirlwind.
“Is that what this is?” Christine responded as she pulled off her shoes.
“For one night, at least. I’ve got to go back upstairs. Anna wants to show me a few things.”
“I’ll bet she does.” A wry smile. “Guess I’m not invited?”
“Not specifically. But I’ll ask if you want.”
“Actually, I’ve got plans.” She tipped her head toward the bathroom. “There’s a claw-foot tub in there that looks glorious.”
“Okay, enjoy.”
“After a month at sea—are you kidding? How long will you be?”
“Not very.”
She looked at him doubtfully.
“I promise.”
* * *
Slaton found Sorensen in a briefing room that was every bit as high-tech as the visitors’ suite was antiquarian. There were banks of computers and monitors, and a technician whose name was Mike—Sorensen professed him to be a magician with information.
Slaton shook his hand, and Mike the Magician began working a keyboard while Sorensen talked.
“You asked me back in Vieste why we considered Ivanovic’s death important. The first reason, as I alluded to then, was that the FSB seems to think it is. The latest message traffic suggests they still think an assassin-for-hire is responsible.”
“Yours truly.”
“From what we’ve gathered, you seem to be the primary suspect.”
“Maybe that’s what they want you to gather.”
She stared at him quizzically. “Care to expand on that?”
“My name has come up in some high-profile incidents in recent years. That said, I doubt the FSB has any hard evidence that I’m still alive.”
“I’ll grant you that—what they know about you is probably more speculation than fact.”
“So there’s my point. What better way to divert attention from the real assassin than to point your finger at a ghost?”
“Meaning what? That the FSB itself is responsible?”
“The FSB? Not necessarily. Let’s just say someone on the Russian side of the fence.”
Sorensen shrugged her shoulders. “It’s a theory. But the FSB’s involvement could be a natural response. One of the president’s friends was murdered. That’s personal.”
“Did Ivanovic have a close relationship with Petrov?”
“Nobody in Russia amasses the kind of wealth Ivanovic did without the president’s seal of approval. Petrov dresses his little gang of crooks in a cloak of sovereignty, and they effectively control Russia. It’s gotten so brazen, we actually have a new desk dedicated to tracking these oligarchs—only a few dozen have real influence in the Kremlin, and it’s helpful to know who they are. Ivanovic was close to Petrov for a number of years, but according to our analysts their relationship had cooled recently. There was a dispute over development rights to a gas field in the Arctic.”
Slaton took a seat at a small conference table. The chair was comfortable and artfully designed. It had probably cost a thousand dollars. He leaned it back on two legs. “Okay, so there’s no way to be sure why the FSB is interested in Ivanovic’s death.”
“No … not really.”
“Then fill me in on the other side—why is the CIA interested?”
Sorensen no
dded to Mike, and a photograph appeared on the front-and-center monitor. Slaton studied the image in silence. Four men stood together on the deck of a large house. The forest at the margins of the shot implied a remote location, deep woods and steep terrain. It did not escape Slaton’s notice that the picture had been taken from a very high angle, implying an aerial shot. The resolution was spectacular, leading to two possible conclusions: it had either been sourced from a drone at medium altitude, or U.S. satellite surveillance had come a long way since his last Mossad briefing. A time and date stamp in the lower right corner had been electronically redacted, and in the lower left was another blacked-out field, most likely lat/long coordinates.
“Where was this taken?” he asked.
“Russia.”
Slaton leveled a hard look on Sorensen.
“Sorry, but I can’t be more specific. The level of classification is very high.”
He studied the faces of the four men. Slaton recognized Ivanovic immediately. Sorensen had already briefed him on two of the others, but he didn’t know which was which. “Who’s the one on the right?” he asked.
“That’s Alexei Romanov. He’s in Ivanovic’s league in terms of wealth. He owns the biggest mining company in Siberia, a telecom, and substantial natural gas holdings. He keeps a high profile, which is probably why you recognized his name earlier. He recently bought a second-division soccer team in England, and owns choice real estate in both London and New York. Next to Romanov, of course, is Ivanovic. I’ve already given you his background. The older man on the far left is Vladimir Ovechkin.”
Slaton saw a paunchy man in his fifties. He was pink-skinned, going bald, with a pronounced stoop in his posture.
Sorensen continued, “Financially, he’s nearly on par with the others. Interestingly, Ovechkin is one of the few surviving players from the nineties. He was at the front of the line when the old Soviet state-held companies were parted out to Yeltsin’s cronies. Today his corporate profile is centered around oil and gas infrastructure—a pipe and pump guy.”
“Okay. And the fourth man, center-left?”
