Assassin's Run

by Ward Larsen

  “Actually,” he said after a long pause, “that’s not what I was thinking at all. You may be onto something here, Anna. But you need to prove it.”

  * * *

  The loading crane Sorensen had pointed out in the satellite footage looked quite different from the vantage point of the ship’s deck. It was Captain Zakaryan’s habit to make one round each day across Argos, from stem to stern, seeking trouble spots and making assignments for the day’s maintenance detail. This morning he noted little. A bit of rust and some chipped paint, a frayed cable to be replaced on the main windlass.

  His inspection ended at the fantail, and there he paused and looked out to the horizon. In what was a peculiar scene for a sea captain, he saw brown desert on both sides. The Suez Canal was at its narrowest here. To port was the unsettled Sinai, and to starboard greater Egypt. He’d once frequented the nearby harbors, Alexandria and Port Said, but the troubles of recent years had curtailed those runs. In a reflection of the new Middle East, the Egyptian government was besieged by insurgencies, various Islamic groups vying for territory and power. Gone were the tours of the great pyramids and dinner along the Nile. The main roads were overrun by armored personnel carriers and checkpoints, the urban alleys beset by secretive gatherings. Egypt was not alone. From Argos’ aft rail, there wasn’t a shore within five hundred miles left untouched by the violence.

  A wistful Zakaryan made his way aft, and found himself drawn to the main cargo hold. The hatches were secure, yet he paused all the same and peered down through a gap into the darkened space below. He never heard the footsteps behind him.

  “You will find out soon enough,” said an all-too-familiar voice.

  He turned and saw Ivan the Russian.

  “I could lose my master’s license if we are carrying anything illegal.”

  “You could lose far more if you don’t follow my orders to the letter.”

  Zakaryan held the man’s stare, which likely surprised him. Ivan had brought three of his own men on board. Zakaryan had a crew of twenty who mostly followed his orders. It was fantasy, of course, to imagine mutiny—the Russians were well armed, and obviously trained soldiers. Still, it felt good to keep the man on guard.

  “Are we on schedule?” Ivan asked.

  “So far. We had to wait a bit longer than expected at the head of the waterway.” He explained that traffic on sections of the canal were one-way, and that the morning southbound convoy had gotten a late start. “The time can easily be recovered,” Zakaryan added.

  “I’m glad to hear it. Did you find anything requiring maintenance on your morning walk?”

  The captain paused. “Only a few routine items.”

  “It is good that you keep ahead of things. But just to give you warning—I suspect significant repairs may soon be required.”

  Zakaryan kept staring at the man, but could think of no possible reply. In the end, he only turned on a heel and headed aft.

  EIGHTEEN

  It was nine o’clock that same morning when Romanov and Ovechkin reached the top of the mountain in Davos. The hour was out of character for both men, neither of whom habitually kept early appointments—Romanov due to his penchant for late nights in the clubs, and Ovechkin because he enjoyed lingering over breakfast and a newspaper.

  “We have the mountain all day,” Romanov remarked.

  “I might keep up with you now,” said Ovechkin. “The weather is warming.” He unzipped the front of his jacket.

  “That will only slow you down.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Ovechkin watched Romanov speed off, no turns whatsoever to govern his speed. He kicked downhill himself, more aggressive in the bright daylight. He felt the strain come to his thighs, and soon wind was snapping at his face and the front of his open jacket. Ovechkin had to admit that it was invigorating. He was enjoying himself. Gaining confidence and running faster.

  Halfway down the mountain he rounded a sharp curve, and fought a brief bobble when he hit a patch of ice. He’d no sooner righted himself than he spotted Romanov’s red-jacketed figure sprawled in the middle of the run ahead. He was completely motionless, his arms and legs splayed at odd angles. One ski was still attached, the other trickling away far down the slope. Ovechkin angled toward him and cut to a stop. The impression up close was shocking—the snow beneath Romanov was red with blood.

  He looked all around, left and right into the trees, and then downhill. There was no one in sight. Ovechkin looked up toward the summit and saw one of his security men staring down from the upper lift station. He waved his pole in distress, and the man pulled out his phone and began talking and gesturing frantically.

  Ovechkin took out his own phone and called the emergency number.

  “There has been a terrible accident!” he said. “Send help quickly!”

  * * *

  The ski patrol did exactly that. They arrived in five minutes, in no small part because they’d been practicing rescue procedures when the request for help arrived. Fifteen minutes after Ovechkin’s call, Romanov was on a stretcher at the bottom of the mountain. A pair of EMTs stood shaking their heads. Everyone could see it was no use.

  The police were nearly as prompt, not because they’d been undergoing training, but because organization is a deeply ingrained Swiss trait. Within an hour the scene had been declared safe and completely cordoned off. Soon after, a detective, a bookish man named Ottinger, was assigned to what was clearly a murder case.

  Here the local efficiencies began to falter, and by midafternoon poor Ottinger was as much at sea as the despondent Inspector Giordano had been in Capri. As was customary in murder investigations, he issued a brief initial report to the national police soon after arriving on scene. National, in turn, relayed the preliminary dispatch to a host of law enforcement agencies across Europe—a forwarding list that the CIA, through a well-embedded bit of computer trickery, had copied itself into. The name of the deceased, Alexei Romanov, flagged instantly with a particular Langley desk that had been performing searches on the Russian. At the speed of light, the dispatch from Davos’ chief inspector boomeranged back across the Atlantic.

  It landed on the virtual desk of a man named Mike in the United States embassy in Rome.

  * * *

  “It’s Romanov this time!”

  Slaton was on the floor building a Lego car with his son. He looked up and saw a visibly agitated Sorensen. Christine was also in the room, and looks were exchanged all around. What resulted was a single nod.

  Minutes later Slaton was with Sorensen in yet another briefing room, causing him to wonder how many existed in the embassy’s maze of corridors. This space was more contemporary than the others he’d seen, and he sat in an ergonomic chair, an artful blend of brushed nickel and leather. Sorensen was too excited to sit.

  “It happened in Davos,” she said. “Romanov was skiing, and halfway down the mountain he was shot.”

  Slaton skipped past the disconnect of skiing in October. “Shot,” he repeated.

  “I don’t have many specifics yet, it’s only been a few hours. There was apparently one wound from a large-caliber projectile. He died almost instantly. We have a good relationship with the Swiss, so the police should be helpful. If you and I go up there and—”

  Slaton held up a hand to cut her off.

  “What?” she asked.

  He averted his eyes to a blank wall, and silence ruled for a time. With those few critical pieces of information, his private landscape shifted yet again. Would his name be tied to this crime as it had been to the last? It seemed likely. At the very least, inspectors in Capri and Davos would soon be comparing notes. The thought of showing his face to yet another homicide investigator did not sit well.

  “That’s not going to happen,” he finally said.

  A look of defeat spread across Sorensen’s face. A kid whose team just lost the big game. “You mean you won’t go to Davos?” she said.

  “No … I mean you’re not going with me.”
r />   She eyed him critically.

  “If I go, it has to be solo. Sorry, but that’s nonnegotiable.”

  “Why?”

  “I won’t explain my reasoning. You want my help, it comes with my rules of engagement.”

  She stood straight and seemed to weigh it. A part of him hoped she would turn him down. She didn’t.

  “All right,” she said. “What do you need?”

  “Right now? I need to convince my wife this is a good idea. If that goes well, then I need you to take a picture…”

  NINETEEN

  Slaton was officially a CIA contractor early that afternoon. He was given a passport in a fictitious name—the photograph was thirty minutes old, the date of issuance backdated five months. He’d been correct in assuming that a big CIA station like Rome would have a supply of blanks—perfectly legitimate passports that came preloaded, ready to be issued on short notice. There was also a sat-phone that looked curiously like a standard iPhone, and next to that on the dining table in the suite was a stack of five thousand euros in various denominations, along with a credit card issued in the same name as the passport. As false identities went, it was both comprehensive and efficient.

  Christine eyed the cash and docs with an unease that was all too familiar—she knew such benefits came with a price. “You’re getting pulled into something, David. I don’t like it.”

  They were having lunch at the table, Slaton cutting up pizza for Davy, who was on his second slice. “It shouldn’t be any different from Capri. I go up and have a look, then tell Sorensen what I find.”

  “But she’s not going.”

  “No. I wanted to go alone—I figured you’d be less jealous that way.”

  A hard stare.

  “I’ve got to cross a border this time, and I want to stay under the radar. The more people involved, the more difficult that gets. Anna will be more useful here, coordinating things.”

  His wife regarded him thoughtfully. She wasn’t second-guessing or being critical. She was trying to understand. “David … tell me why you’re doing this.”

  He slid the plate in front of Davy, who instantly began shoveling in chunks of authentic Italian pizza. With his son preoccupied, he drew in a long breath and said, “The FSB has already tried to tie me to one killing. Stands to reason they’ll do it again. Somebody out there is gunning for these Russians. Somebody like me. Not many tears will be shed for the people who are being targeted, but Sorensen has one thing right—there’s a larger agenda here, with at least a loose connection to the Russian president. What happened in Davos today might not be the end of it.”

  She kept her eyes on his, unwavering.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You’re thinking this isn’t our battle. But as long as my name is getting thrown into the mix, I really don’t have any choice.”

  “I understand that.” Christine calmly refilled their son’s cup with juice. “But what happened to Ivanovic in Capri—I think it bothers you that you can’t figure it out. Or maybe … maybe you’re worried there’s someone out there who’s better than you.”

  He blew out a laugh. “Really? You think this is some kind of ego trip on my part?”

  “I don’t know what to think. In all honesty, and for reasons I don’t understand, I actually agree. I think you should go to Davos.”

  He looked at her with something between surprise and admiration.

  “Just promise me one thing,” she added.

  “What’s that?”

  “The minute you figure out what’s going on—you tell the CIA about it, and we get the hell out of here.”

  * * *

  News of Romanov’s demise swept into Moscow by a number of paths. The intelligence services regularly scoured police reports for incidents involving Russians abroad. Of these there was no shortage, although entanglements with prostitutes in Thailand and banking violations in Liechtenstein were far more prevalent themes than finding a dead oligarch on the side of a mountain. On an official level, the Swiss Ministry of Foreign Affairs immediately notified its counterpart agency in the Russian Federation, as per diplomatic protocol, of the murder of a Russian citizen.

  As usual, however, it was the informal networks that ran the quickest. In the case of Romanov, such a thread began when the deceased’s suddenly unemployed chief of security notified an old friend in army intelligence of the tragedy. This instigated a water-cooler gabfest inside the GRU’s halls along Grizodubovoy Street, one that ultimately bubbled up to its leadership.

  The ultimate end user, of course, was President Petrov, who was notified of the calamity by a whisper in his ear during a closed-door meeting with senior Duma members. By all accounts, the president appeared little moved by the news.

  Yet of all those informed, the one who perhaps showed the most interest was a guest in the process of checking out from Moscow’s Four Seasons Hotel. Colonel Zhukov studied at length an email on his phone, which described what could only be another sniper attack. On finishing, he internalized the same two questions he’d been pondering for a week.

  Could Slaton really be alive?

  And if so, who had hired him to kill two of the three principals of MIR Enterprises?

  Zhukov was helpless for answers as he stepped outside, leaned into a fierce wind, and boarded a taxi that would deliver him to the ongoing calamity that was Sheremetyevo Airport.

  * * *

  If there was compensation for the burdens of Rome’s Fiumicino Airport, it was convenience of schedule. On being dropped at the departures level, Slaton booked the next available flight to Zurich—a mere thirty-minute wait for a one-hour journey on Alitalia. The passport and credit card he’d acquired only hours earlier worked seamlessly, and by four o’clock that afternoon he was standing in a rental car queue in Zurich.

  He selected a boutique rental company that dealt in specialty vehicles, and there he requested the most rugged vehicle available. It turned out to be a Mercedes-Benz SUV, and came at a substantial premium, but if there were expense reports to file, he reasoned, Sorensen would be the one filing them. Slaton knew he was heading into the Swiss Alps on the cusp of winter, and he wanted no complications that could be avoided.

  He was intimately familiar with Zurich, having visited a number of times in recent years. As with so many of the places he’d been, however, the memories were not kind ones to be dwelled upon, and so he felt little nostalgia as the bustling skyline faded in his mirror.

  The Mercedes whisked him effortlessly through farmland for a time, and then the terrain began to make its demands. Straight stretches of road were lost to curves, gentle at first, and later the kind for which guard rails were requisite. Hills became mountains, the peaks invisible in mist and broken clouds, like curtains to the sky itself. The townships became gradually smaller, many set on lakes whose darkened surfaces belied crystalline Alpine water.

  Slaton should have thought it all appealing. Should have recorded it as a place where he might take his family one day. As it was, he only hoped the Alpine canton around him wouldn’t fall into the same category as Zurich: a once-charming backdrop tainted by memories of violence.

  The next twenty-four hours would tell.

  * * *

  Slaton waited until he was just outside Davos before calling Sorensen on his new faux iPhone. She’d told him it was a secure device, but he no longer gave allowances to any such technology. At the moment, it hardly mattered anyway—what he wanted to know was of minimal intelligence value.

  There were perfunctory greetings, and when Slaton inquired about his family he felt like some kind of traveling salesman. Once that was settled, Sorensen asked, “Have you reached Davos yet?”

  “I’m still en route, but getting close. Do you have any more details about Romanov’s death?”

  “It took some work, but one of my people talked to the detective in charge, a guy named Ottinger.”

  “How did you—”

  “Don’t ask. The important thing for you
to know is that Romanov was killed by a single high-caliber round, probably a fifty cal. It struck center of mass.”

  “Just like Ivanovic.”

  “Almost identical.”

  “Almost?”

  “Yeah, there was one difference. The bullet very clearly entered his back—he was shot from behind.”

  “Okay. What else?”

  “My guy asked the detective if they’d found the round—I figured you’d want to know.”

  “And?”

  “The detective laughed, and said they’d work on it in the spring. Since Romanov was shot from behind, the bullet would have kept going downslope. Because it was such a big round, and depending on the angle, it could have gone another thousand yards in almost any direction. The mountainside is covered in a foot of new snow.”

  “I’m starting to see a pattern.”

  “Me too—Ottinger’s investigation is headed for a ditch, just like Giordano’s in Capri.”

  At that moment the mountain they were talking about came into view in Slaton’s windscreen. He saw ribbons of snow cutting through the tree line on a massive rising slope. It looked stately and imposing, yet amid that grand scale Slaton sensed something peculiarly comforting. A feeling that it could be made much smaller.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe it’s not so hopeless after all.”

  TWENTY

  Slaton pulled into Davos as the sun left the day behind, halfhearted shafts of light casting their closing palette across the peaks. He drove directly to the ski area, and left the Mercedes in a remote corner of a broad and nearly empty gravel parking area. On the other side of the lot, near the Alpine-themed lodge and ski lifts, a half dozen police cars and vans were parked in a cluster. None of them had their lights rolling, signifying the passage of the crisis stage on the mountain above.

  He set out on foot and surveyed the scene. Halfway up the slope he saw a group of men and women in ski jackets, three idle snowmobiles around them. The snowmobiles were parked in a triangle, their headlights converging on the point in the snow that was the center of everyone’s attention. He noticed that the gondola lift was running, two uniformed policemen standing watch at the entrance.