Assassin's Run

by Ward Larsen

  With no small amount of bitterness, Vittorio packed up a few of his best machines and moved to Milan, a location that was both central to Europe and far removed from his troubles. There he set up a one-man shop and embarked upon a new business plan: His license to sell guns commercially had been revoked, but he was not banned from working with private parties. Over time his reputation quietly grew, and his client list became thick with shadowed men and women who sought the very best—and who, more importantly, never quibbled over price.

  Within five years he was doing modifications for Delta Force, the SAS, and a handful of lesser-known but equally lethal operators. Among them: a certain Mossad assassin who was destined for legend. To these select individuals, Pietro Vittorio was known not by his given name, but simply by his trade.

  He was l’Armaiolo.

  The Armorer.

  * * *

  Slaton had ditched the Mercedes on a residential street in Lugano, reasoning that it looked perfectly at home amid the rows of well-kept hillside residences overlooking the lake and a brooding Monte San Salvatore. He crossed into Italy by train, his passport never challenged, and reached Milan by midafternoon.

  There he wasted no time. Not wanting to use his CIA-issued phone, nor compromise the handset pair he shared with Christine, he took the time to purchase a new throwaway device. As he activated the burner, Slaton wondered what nuances of electronic tradecraft might now escape him. Communications intelligence was a fast-moving discipline, and he’d spent most of the last year at sea. Were burners still secure for one-time use? Could he use it more than once to call the same number? Should he limit his call to a set amount of time? It was all of course unanswerable, and he felt a distinct unease at having been away from the game for so long.

  Slaton departed the Milano Centrale station toward Porta Nuova, Milan’s primary business district. There the streets were clean and busy, lined with modernist facades representing a virtual who’s who of global commerce. As he walked, Slaton was reminded of yesterday’s climb—his legs felt as though he’d spent the entire day doing lunges at a gym. He knew he was in good shape, aided by the occasional masonry job, yet if life at sea had its charms, it also ruined the pursuit of any serious training regimen. Slaton decided that once this affair was behind him, it would be time for a serious self-appraisal: fitness, marksmanship, Krav Maga. Knowledge of the latest technologies. He could permit no weaknesses.

  He addressed the burner phone, dialing as he walked. There were roughly ten phone numbers in the world Slaton had committed to memory. The Armorer’s was one of them.

  Vittorio answered on the second ring, his Sardinian accent, with its core resonance of Latin, clear on every word.

  “Ciao,” Slaton said, keeping with Italian. “It’s your friend from Stockholm.”

  A pause, then, “It’s been some time.”

  “Three years, but who keeps track? I have need of your expertise.”

  “But of course.”

  “Are you available this evening?” Slaton asked.

  “Certainly. I am in the middle of a project, but the deadline is well off. Come around seven.”

  “All right. Are you still at the same address?”

  “I am. However, if this is only a consultation … perhaps we might meet for dinner.”

  Slaton weighed this proposal on two levels. Vittorio was inquiring if Slaton would be carrying a rifle to be modified. If so, fine dining was hardly an option. He also knew the armorer’s wife had abandoned him, and that he desperately missed her cooking. “I have something to show you,” Slaton said, “but nothing to draw attention.”

  “Good. Do you know Risoelatte?”

  “No, but I’ll find it.”

  “It is long one of my favorites. They have discreet tables, and the waiters are among the slowest in Milan.”

  Slaton could not suppress a grin. “Seven it is.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Risoelatte was situated in the center of town, south of Parco Sempione and easily accessible by the Cairoli metro station. Slaton arrived early enough to circle the block once. He had no specific reason to suspect a threat, but his guard had been high since stepping off Windsom in Amalfi.

  More concerning than anything on the streets was what he saw on entering the establishment. The restaurant was a multilevel affair, three floors connected by a haphazard series of stairs sided by hip-high wrought-iron rails. The waitstaff, enduring a floor plan that could never have been designed with a restaurant in mind, shuttled up and down the precarious staircases, and hesitated wisely at blind corners with full trays of food. Now I know why they’re slow, he mused. From a security standpoint the place was nothing less than a trap. There were too many physical obstacles, too few exits, and the haphazard seating layout seemed a recipe for innocent casualties. But then, few customers would view the restaurant’s layout with such admittedly black optics.

  In truth, Slaton saw why the place had so captured Vittorio. The blinding array of colorful chairs and tablecloths might have been taken from kitchens across Italy, and probably had been, via estate sales and secondhand stores. Risoelatte, in all its charm and frills and soothing textures, was a lonely man’s vision of home and hearth.

  Slaton found Vittorio seated at a table for two. On top of the table were flowers and a candle, all of it framed by a window dressed in curtains with a blue and white checkered pattern. He was a small man with thick dark hair going gray at the sides. High cheekbones were split by a prominent nose, the kind of features that projected a degree of character in an aging face—an aspect of worldliness and experience that in Vittorio’s case was not unearned.

  They shook hands warmly, and Slaton took a seat across from the armorer.

  Theirs was an established professional relationship, yet without the pretenses that might be expected of bankers or salesmen. There was no mention of shared acquaintances, which they certainly possessed, and neither man asked if business was good for obvious reasons. A basket of bread and a plate of fruit were already on the table, politely untouched. Vittorio asked for a bottle of wine and two glasses, and flinched only slightly when Slaton ordered tap water as well.

  “Three and a half years,” Vittorio said. “I checked my records.”

  “Then you must be right.”

  “You look very fit. Life has been treating you well.”

  “More or less.” Slaton nearly added something about marriage agreeing with him, but recognized the pitfall. “I’m effectively retired.”

  Vittorio raised one eyebrow before reaching for the bread. “A man of leisure? Now there is something to which I can aspire.”

  “You enjoy your work too much to give it up.”

  The Sardinian cracked a roll and dipped it into a plate of oil. With a shrug, he said, “Yes, I do see your point. My end of things is rather more sustainable.”

  The waiter came with the wine, then presented the daily specials. They agreed to share a plate of salmon tartare, after which Slaton selected wholemeal pasta, Vittorio veal with asparagus. The waiter whisked up a half staircase and disappeared. Still, the two men at table twelve did not immerse themselves in business. They instead succumbed to the time-honored flow of Italy: the natural progressions of food and conversation.

  Slaton explained that he’d been away from Europe for some time, and gave an enthusiastic account of cruising the world’s oceans. Vittorio countered with vigor, updating him on the two mainstays of all Italian debate: politics and soccer. Slaton chased tiny meatballs around his plate and found that he was enjoying himself. As happy as he was with his family on Windsom, the isolation of living at sea, together with their self-imposed communications blackout, was a departure from social norms.

  The meal was exquisite, and only at the end, with a well-constructed tiramisu in front of him, did Vittorio take the final turn. “So tell me what has brought us together.”

  “I’m doing a bit of detective work for a friend. I recovered a spent round that’s got me mystified.
It’s not like anything I’ve seen, and I’d like your opinion.”

  “What caliber?”

  “Fifty, most likely, but possibly twelve-seven.” The latter referred to the Russian fifty-cal equivalent, a 12.7mm round. The Russian round packed punch, but was primarily intended for anti-materiel use—employed not on people, but rather against helicopters and big-block truck engines.

  Vittorio was clearly intrigued. “I will help if I can.”

  Slaton took his napkin from his lap and reached into a pocket. He wrapped the spent round in the soft cloth and pushed it across the table. He watched the armorer closely.

  Vittorio uncovered the round but left it bedded in the half-folded napkin. His eyes went narrow, and he reached into his jacket for a pair of readers. Balancing them on his long nose, he dragged the round into better light. He looked up once at Slaton. Then a second time. He said nothing for a full five minutes, his craftsman’s hands turning the bullet as a jeweler would a rare gem.

  “Do you know what it is?” Slaton finally asked.

  Vittorio hesitated mightily. “It’s very unusual. Not like any fifty I have ever seen.”

  “But?” Slaton prodded.

  Vittorio folded the napkin to cover the round. “I would like to take a closer look, perhaps make some inquiries. Is this something that might be considered evidence by the police?”

  “If it were in their possession … yes.”

  Another look. “Then I should be discreet in my inquiries.”

  “That would be best.”

  “Can you tell me anything about the circumstances of how it was employed?”

  Slaton had been expecting the question. “I can and will. But I don’t want to color your evaluation. Once you’ve had a good look, I’ll explain the rest.”

  Vittorio seemed to understand. “Very well. To study it properly, I would have to take it to my shop.”

  Slaton nodded in agreement.

  “Let us meet again … say noon tomorrow?”

  “Done. Can I ask what you’re going to do?”

  “I will begin by trying to determine the metallurgy. That might narrow down the manufacturer, or at least the country of origin. I also have a good customer who is a dentist.”

  “A dentist?”

  “The man is an avid hunter, big game. I’ve done a fair amount of work for him. As it happens, he keeps an advanced X-ray machine in his office and lets me use it on occasion.”

  Vittorio discreetly pocketed the round, then attacked his tiramisu with vigor.

  Slaton sipped coffee, and at the end he reached for the check. When Vittorio protested, he gave the armorer an explanation that was in equal measure satisfying and informational.

  “Don’t worry, our meal will be expensed to the United States of America.”

  “In that case,” the armorer said with a thin smile, “perhaps a touch of amaretto would be in order…”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Captain Zakaryan woke at two that morning to take in the proceedings. While he was not directly involved, Ivan had been forced to tell him the schedule since Zakaryan was the one who would issue orders to the crew: an unloading operation was to take place in the small hours of that morning, essential personnel only, under cover of darkness.

  Given the circumstances, Zakaryan wanted to be present. The unloading of a freighter at sea, he knew, was a delicate undertaking, and for that reason exceedingly uncommon. To begin, the weather had to cooperate, and here, at least, fortune was on their side. The Red Sea air was still and warm, and a scimitar moon gave a bit of illumination to the proceedings. The greater problem, and the reason that open water transfers were a highly irregular maneuver, was the matter of placing two ships in close proximity to one another.

  Standing on the bridge shortly before 3 a.m., Zakaryan made his case to Ivan. “It is exceedingly dangerous for ships of Argos’ class to rendezvous at sea. If at any time I feel the safety of my vessel is compromised, I will intervene.”

  The Russian glanced at him dismissively. “There is no need to worry, Captain. The risks you envision will not come to pass.”

  Ivan was proved correct ten minutes later. Not one, but three boats appeared on the radar screen, and soon after materialized on the murky marine horizon. The largest was no more than fifty feet long, on appearances a light fishing trawler. The other two were no more than large dhows, open-deck merchant boats with both a mast and an engine—the kind of coastal traders that were endemic to the region. In the lightest of breezes, and in single-file formation, the little fleet pulled near Argos’ leeward port side like remoras to a shark.

  Zakaryan watched intently as the trawler came in tight, tied on, and took the first load. The two smaller boats idled in wait fifty yards seaward. Argos’ deck crane was run by his best man, a wiry Indonesian who could move crates with a deftness to rival any symphony conductor. Three men on the trawler’s deck guided the crate the final few feet, muscling it into place and lashing it down. Over the next thirty minutes, seven more loads were lowered over Argos’ port rail. The dhows proved a quicker operation, each having deck space for only two crates. Within an hour, all three receiving boats were under way, fast blending into the black horizon. None displayed navigation lights, and as they faded from sight the captain referenced the radar. He watched three unmarked blips diverge on separate courses toward the Saudi coast.

  Zakaryan descended a ladder to the main deck, and walked amidships. At the lip of the cargo hold he looked down. An even dozen crates remained. He didn’t know precisely what was in them, but he harbored few illusions. Argos was hauling some manner of military hardware, and now, under his watch, she had injected it into a highly unstable part of the world. He tried to imagine the number of laws and regulations they were violating, but was quickly overwhelmed. Then again, having come this far did instill a certain sense of commitment going forward. What was it the British said? In for a penny, in for a pound.

  Zakaryan noted a presence behind him. He didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “Now,” Ivan said, “we pull anchor and sail south.”

  Zakaryan felt like a getaway driver leaving the scene of a crime. Which, in essence, he very much was. “Speed?”

  “We are still in no hurry, Captain. But I can tell you one bit of good news … rest assured, you and I will soon part ways.”

  * * *

  The satellite trained on Argos did its job admirably. It was called USA-245, a curiously opaque name for a device whose every facet of design was intended for clarity. The primary mirror was nearly two and a half meters wide, not coincidentally the same diameter as the mirror in the Hubble telescope, the essential difference being the direction in which it was trained—not toward the heavens, but instead at one of the most embattled regions on earth. It was established in an elliptical polar orbit as part of a tightly managed constellation, and once each day USA-245 passed over the Red Sea where it recorded, and instantaneously relayed, highly accurate visual and infrared images.

  These files were downloaded initially to the National Reconnaissance Office. NRO analysts screened the results first for quality assurance, and then ran the raw images through an initial digital enhancement. At that point, they routed the data through well-established channels to various agency departments and desks. Before any detailed analysis took place, interesting first-look footage was shared with sister intelligence agencies—in this case, a section at Langley who’d made a specific request for coverage of the coastal waters around Saudi Arabia. Specialists there quickly sorted through hundreds of images, and extracted a handful that fit certain narrow criteria. These were forwarded by a secure link to the Rome station.

  Which was how, over her morning coffee, Anna Sorensen was flicking back and forth through images that had been captured only hours earlier from roughly two hundred miles above the Saudi Peninsula.

  She had never been an imagery analyst, but one hardly needed to be to see Argos surrou
nded by three small boats. Successive photos showed the ship’s deck crane extracting crates from her main hold and depositing them onto the smaller boats. Orbital mechanics being what they were, USA-245 did not capture the entire dubious show. Sorensen knew that other birds might eventually fill in the blanks—most pertinently, where the smaller boats had gone after taking on their loads. They would also likely confirm what was a near certainty—that Tasman Sea and Cirrus were engaged in similar mischief along other shores in the region.

  With hard evidence finally in hand, Sorensen decided it was time to push things up the chain. She refilled her coffee cup from a distressed break-room machine, and set out toward the embassy communications room rehearsing her impending call to headquarters.

  What Sorensen could not know at that moment was that USA-245 was not the only satellite to have recorded the festivities. Twenty minutes behind, and in a marginally different orbital path, was the Israeli satellite known as Ofeq-11. Its sensor suites and communications platform had a number of technical differences from the NRO bird, and Ofeq-11 did not have the luxury of being backed up by overlapping coverage. What was very much the same, however, was the grim aura of concern its data stirred in headquarters buildings around Tel Aviv.

  The unrest began at the Ministry of Defense, which operated Ofeq-11. With little delay, news of a menacing incident in the Red Sea reached Mossad headquarters at Glilot Junction. There, lights in executive suites began flicking on in the very small hours of the morning.

  THIRTY