by Ward Larsen
Slaton veered away from the lift station toward a group of condominiums, a three-story affair near a motionless chair lift whose seats were covered in snow. At the base of the condos he saw a handful of people, including two young men in ski instructor jackets who stood gawking at the tragedy uphill.
He traversed the bottom of the mountain cautiously, his eyes sweeping across the high slopes. From the spot where the investigative crowd had gathered, he walked his gaze upward, estimating loosely how far it would take for a skier who’d been shot to fall, tumble, and come to rest. The precise answer, of course, depended on how fast that skier was moving. From where he stood, Slaton noticed that the section of run leading uphill from Romanov’s final resting place was a relatively straight track. Once his mid-mountain estimates were firm, he scanned upward and outward, glad to have arrived before the light completely faded.
Altogether, the scene before him was completely different from the one he’d seen yesterday on a yacht in Capri. Here a sniper could easily get close to his target, become lost in the trees in a hundred places. A close-in shot would render irrelevant many of the usual complications. Wind, air density, temperature, elevation—all were inconsequential for a trained sniper at a hundred yards. Unfortunately, as convenient as all that was, Slaton knew he wasn’t looking at a short-range shot. He knew because, just as in Capri, the round had been described as very large caliber. Slaton thought it likely that the shooter had used the very same weapon, and nobody lugged a fifty cal into the woods for a hundred-yard shot. More to the point, working in such close proximity with a heavy gun complicated a sniper’s ultimate end game—to escape to shoot another day.
Yet if all that extrapolation was correct—if the shooter had again used a fifty cal from long range—one mind-numbing complication emerged. In Capri, Ivanovic appeared to have been engaged at extreme distance, and while he was standing on a yacht that was rolling on heavy seas. Here the range could well have been less, but the target had been rushing downhill—judging by the slope, and depending on Romanov’s abilities and mood—at something between twenty and fifty miles an hour.
And there was the logic-shattering disconnect. Same gunman, same weapon, outrageously different circumstances. Each impossible in its own right. Yet the results spoke volumes. In each case, one shot giving a clean, center-of-mass kill.
But how?
It was then, as Slaton stood puzzling beneath a setting sun, that he was struck by another commonality between the shootings. It involved not a known fact, but a glaring deficiency. In both cases the bullet had disappeared, and was essentially unrecoverable.
This brought pause. In Capri the vexing issue had been excessive range. Here it was a target moving at high speed. Was there a common solution? Slaton was among the most experienced technical shooters on earth—not the competition variety who practiced by firing thousands of rounds from the same position, but the belly-in-the-mud, wait a full day for a half chance type. Whenever possible, his geometry and calculations were finalized beforehand, in briefing rooms using models and surveillance photos, then amended as necessary in the field. The high-end assassin, which was what he was dealing with, must have known Romanov would be here. He knew his target would be moving fast across the side of a mountain, and made a plan that was within the capabilities of his weapon. He would also have designed a convenient escape.
Combining Capri with what was before him, Slaton put himself in a briefing room. He looked across the base of the runs and saw a shuttered ski school. Next to that an equipment-rental barn was locked down tight. The two ski instructors were still to his right, and he walked in that direction. One was a thirtyish man, the other younger. It was the younger one who nodded amiably.
Slaton nodded back. “I heard someone died up there this morning,” he said in English.
“Unfortunately, yes,” the younger man said.
“Perhaps he could have used another lesson or two.”
The Swiss looked at him uncertainly. There was a chance the man didn’t appreciate black humor, but Slaton suspected his reaction was more an appraisal. The ski patrol would have been first to reach Romanov this morning. Rescuers who were accustomed to collisions with trees and other skiers, and who typically dealt with sprains and broken bones, would have seen something very different. Word about the shooting would have spread like wildfire among the staff. Yet Slaton was an outsider here, and therefore might not be trusted with such intimate knowledge.
“Actually,” said the young man, “I saw him making runs earlier. He was a very good skier—fast, but always in control.”
“Bad luck then,” Slaton said, adding a shrug of indifference.
In truth, he was encouraged by the answer, because it gave him more to work with: Fast, but always in control. Unfortunately, in the falling light, this new information could not be applied until morning. The idea percolating in his head was speculative, the least plausible of his implausible theories. But it was the only one that fit every fact, so he decided to run with it.
If I had come here with a long-range rifle, intending to kill Romanov under such circumstances … how exactly would I have gone about it?
The first concept that came to mind was curiously straightforward. He edged back toward the man in the red jacket. “Sorry to bother you again, but can you tell me if there is an outfitter in town?”
The Swiss smiled, and said helpfully, “Why, yes. There is only one, but they are a good shop—they will have anything you need.”
Slaton smiled back. He got directions, thanked the man politely, and with darkness finally blanketing the peaks, he headed into town.
* * *
“And you never heard a gunshot?” asked Ottinger.
An irritated Ovechkin shifted in the hard plastic seat. “There was nothing. I was headed downhill, wearing a helmet and a knit cap. What could I hear? Have you talked to Mikhael, my security chief? He was at the top of the mountain, in a much better position to see or hear something.”
He stared at the detective, a hound-faced man with sad brown eyes, who said, “Yes, we have talked to him.”
Ovechkin looked overtly at his watch. He had been at the station for three hours, most of it in this barren interview room. He’d had enough. “Inspector, I wish I could help you. What happened to Alexei is a terrible thing. Believe me when I say I very much hope you catch who did this. My own safety is clearly at risk. Did you make the inquiry in Capri as I suggested regarding the death of Pyotr Ivanovic?”
Ottinger nodded to say he had. “Thank you for that. I discussed the case with an inspector there”—he referenced his notes—“Giordano was his name. There do appear to be similarities between the deaths.”
“Similarities?” Ovechkin grumbled. “They are identical—my business partners have both been shot by a sniper. My life is at risk, I tell you. The minute we finish here, I am leaving Davos for some place more secure.”
The inspector looked at him severely. “You expect to leave?”
“I do. And before you trouble yourself by suggesting otherwise, I should tell you I have already consulted my attorney in Bern. He assures me that by the laws of your canton there is no justification for my detention.”
The policeman seemed to consider arguing the point, but finally relented, perhaps imagining the army of lawyers Ovechkin could bring to bear. “Very well. But will you at least do me the courtesy of leaving a contact number?”
Ovechkin took a pen and a notepad from the table, and wrote down his mobile number. He got up and headed for the door, trying not to grimace as he did so. His quadriceps were feeling the effects of last night’s battle on the mountain—it was the most exercise he’d gotten in months.
He found Mikhael waiting in the lobby, and soon they were on the road. Ovechkin considered stopping at his chalet on the low slopes to pack a few clothes, but decided a quick exit would be better. Anyway, there was nothing there he couldn’t live without. He would call Estrella later and explain that business matters
had necessitated an early departure.
“Straight to the airport,” he ordered, “before they change their minds.”
Mikhael steered toward Samedan Airport, a small airstrip tucked in a bucolic valley outside St. Moritz. There his private jet would be waiting, fully fueled with the crew ready. As the snow-covered peaks fell obscured in thin evening light, Ovechkin knew what had to come next. From the back seat he fired off a text to Colonel Zhukov.
Romanov dead. I am very worried. Leaving Davos. We need to meet, somewhere safe. Suggest the same venue as last month.
He waited, but got no immediate reply. He wondered where the colonel might be.
TWENTY-ONE
For the second night in a row Franz Stoeckler surveyed the sales floor with his usual seasonal pessimism. For the second night in a row he was saved by a man he’d never seen before.
He came through the door and spoke briefly to a cashier, who pointed toward the back of the store. Stoeckler intercepted him at the camping aisle. “Can I help you, sir?” he asked, something telling him to go straight to English.
“Possibly. I am here in Davos to meet a friend. We’re planning to go into the backcountry, but he arrived before I did—I think he might already have purchased his gear.”
Stoeckler immediately thought of last night’s customer. He racked his brain for a name, but realized the man had never given one. “Yesterday evening, perhaps? There was a younger man with an accent—I thought he might be Russian, or perhaps Latvian.”
The customer smiled congenially. “Yes, that would be him. You helped him?”
“Indeed. He knew precisely what he wanted.”
“I fear we’ve gotten our signals crossed—his phone is failing. He didn’t mention where he was staying, did he?”
“No, I’m sorry. He said he was here for some off-piste skiing, and purchased everything he would need.”
The customer seemed to consider it. “Well, he is something of an expert … perhaps I should buy the same gear. Tell me, would you have an exact record of what he purchased? I don’t want to forget anything.”
Stoeckler nearly scoffed, but reminded himself that this customer was not a countryman, and therefore not necessarily acquainted with the Swiss obsession for records. “I can certainly help you with that, sir. Please come with me.”
Stoeckler led the way to an unused checkout stand and logged into the register. He called up last night’s transactions, and a list was displayed on the monitor. There were few to choose from, and he quickly highlighted the record in question. “Here we are,” he said, turning to find the customer already looking over his shoulder.
“Yes,” the man said. “That does look comprehensive. I see he paid in cash.”
For the first time Stoeckler hesitated. The man he was looking at was slightly older than last night’s visitor, taller and more strongly built. His English came with an accent Stoeckler couldn’t quite place. Combined with the fair hair, he thought perhaps Scandinavian.
“Can you help me find everything?” the man said.
Any reservations brewing in Stoeckler’s head were lost in that moment. “But of course.” He made a show of studying his customer. “I think an extra large for the jacket?”
The gray Nordic eyes smiled.
* * *
It took fifty minutes to fulfill the list, everything sized and fitted and ready for use. Slaton watched the salesman scurry around the store pulling skis and boots from racks, estimating and adjusting, unfailingly keeping to the most expensive brands. Several times, as Herr Stoeckler was otherwise occupied, Slaton studied the sales record from last night he’d printed out. He saw nothing of use, the entire customer information field being blank. He knew the store had a surveillance system that monitored the registers—he’d been doing his best to avoid a ceiling-mounted camera since coming inside.He suspected that last night’s star customer had done the same. Try as he might, Slaton could think of no reasonable explanation for asking the clerk to give him a look at the video.
He obliquely learned a bit more as the process ran. He asked the colors of his companion’s jacket—gray—so as to choose something different, and discovered that the man was between a medium and a large in clothing, and wore size nine shoes. All useful, but hardly telling. The most intriguing purchase was a laminated topographical map, and Slaton requested his own copy without hesitation. His purchases ended up in a mountainous pile on what had become his private checkout stand.
Stoeckler began the math, and asked, “Will there be anything else?”
“I hope not,” Slaton replied in good humor. “But if my friend and I come up short, we’ll know where to come.”
“Of course. I can tell you he may have gone out today—he seemed eager to test his new gear.”
“As am I,” Slaton said.
He paid with the credit card, not wanting to dent his cash cushion so severely. Stoeckler began putting everything into a shopping cart.
“Is this how my friend took his gear to the parking lot?”
“Actually, no,” Stoeckler said. “It must have been quite a workout, but he carried everything by hand. He must have been staying nearby.”
“Probably,” Slaton said, as he thought, But he’s not here anymore. “What makes you think I wouldn’t do the same?” he asked good-naturedly.
“It is quite simple, sir. I saw you drive up earlier.”
Slaton looked outside. His Mercedes was parked in the front row. The smallest of mistakes, but a mistake all the same. He didn’t dwell on it.
The two exchanged wishes for a pleasant evening, and Slaton headed outside feeling he’d made considerable headway. And completely unaware he was making his second mistake.
* * *
As he walked out of the store, Slaton had no way of knowing that three blocks away, from the fourth-floor window of the tallest hotel in town, a wiry young man stood watching him closely. He used binoculars, indeed a pair exactly like the ones Slaton was at that moment loading into the back seat of his Mercedes rental.
The watcher was transfixed. He would very much have liked to take a photograph of the man standing behind the SUV, but the lights in the parking lot were feeble, and he had no equipment for long-range night imagery.
Could it really be him? he wondered.
Only yesterday it had seemed little more than fiction. The whispers about David Slaton to begin with, planted by the FSB and SVR, he knew to be no more than maskirovka—a bit of deception to keep the authorities in Italy and beyond guessing. It served to keep his own name from being added to any suspect list, not that it likely would be.
As a sergeant in the Russian Special Forces he’d often performed work abroad, although it had always been in a military capacity, embedded in units operating largely inside combat zones, and always with the utmost of discretion. Places like Chechnya and Ukraine, where generic, sanitized battle dress was the uniform of the day, and where identity cards were little more than nostalgic remembrances. It was a notable reversal of classic military norms: the avoidance of attribution for a mission. For the units in which he typically operated, to be recognized for battlefield success, and by extension for Russia herself to be credited, was tantamount to failure. Obfuscation was the new primary objective. Medal ceremonies became private affairs, unit citations closely guarded secrets.
And now? the sergeant mused. Now we have taken things to the next level.
He had become part of a new shadow army—in his case, a unit of one. His clothes were strictly civilian, his identities forged by the finest craftsmen in the FSB. His weapons and tactics were the only vestige of his military heritage. In bygone days, during wars between great nations, such subterfuge would have labeled him as a spy—the most grievous of offenses, and, if he were captured, punishable by death.
But who bothered to declare war anymore?
Irregular warfare—that was the new normal, and he had put himself at the forefront. So confident was the sergeant in his cover, he’d not giv
en a second thought to the fact that the police in Capri were searching for a hired assassin. Now he sensed an error.
His first warning had been the call that came yesterday: a man had shown up on Cassandra, in the company of an American woman who was almost certainly CIA. They were looking into Ivanovic’s death. The man was tall with slate-gray eyes, and had asked knowledgeable questions. That was how Cassandra’s captain had reported it—the skipper had been retained to keep an eye on more than just his boat. Now, the very next day, a man of vaguely the same description had appeared in Davos, and only hours after the strike on Romanov.
Coincidence?
The sergeant had first spotted him an hour ago at the bottom of the slope. He’d watched the man blend casually into the meager crowd that was gawking at the proceedings mid-hill. He seemed no more than a curiosity in those first moments. Then something about the way he moved, the way he surveyed the mountain, seized the sergeant’s attention. He’d noted the watchful manner in which he approached a ski instructor, and the way he’d taken directions into town. Then—most incredible of all—the man had walked straight to the outfitters. Through the tight angle of the storefront window, the sergeant watched the same salesman he’d dealt with last night collect a pile of equipment for the newcomer. As far as he could tell, a purchase identical to the one he himself had made.
No, he decided. There could be no doubt. Someone was tracking him. But … could it really be Slaton?
He watched the Mercedes pull out of the parking lot and disappear into a maze of buildings. He couldn’t tell where it was headed.
The sergeant weighed his options. He was tempted to go back to the outfitters. He was sure he could manipulate the salesman into talking about this new customer. He reckoned the man who was tracking him had done much the same. I think my friend came in last night. I’d like to buy the same gear. Whoever he was, he was clever.
