Assassin's Run

by Ward Larsen

  “Yeah, it does. The front office wants somebody on the ground who knows the situation.”

  After a few beats, Christine said, “I just got a call from David. He said he’ll be gone a few more days—that he has one more thing to do.”

  “Did you ask what it was?”

  “No. I only asked him to please come home as soon as he could.”

  “He will,” Sorensen said. “I know it.”

  Christine locked eyes with her, deconstructing the answer. Wondering if it was based on insider knowledge or blind hope. Sorensen did her best to smile, and probably failed. She turned away abruptly and headed for the door.

  FORTY-NINE

  With the game shifting to Saudi Arabia, Slaton’s status sank like a stone. He’d had the support of two of the world’s leading intelligence agencies only hours earlier, but with everyone now busy tracking down arms shipments, he was no longer a priority operator. Which was why, for his journey to Morocco, he was relegated to flying commercial.

  Bloch volunteered to drive him to the new Ramon International Airport north of Eilat. The desert swept past the windows in a tan blur as Bloch pushed the speedometer on a road with little traffic. The two forced a bit of small talk about Israeli politics, and then their respective families. There was no mention of the previous night’s mission, nor any reminiscing about missions past. The former had been covered in debriefs and was ready for filing. The latter was left untouched because that was the custom of their relationship—certain memories were better left unsalvaged, like old shipwrecks whose ghosts ought not be disturbed.

  Slaton checked in thirty minutes early for his Air France flight to Casablanca, with a mandatory connection in Paris. He and Bloch were still together upon reaching the boarding area—the former Mossad director might be retired, but he retained enough clout to bypass airport security.

  “You have told me where you are going,” Bloch said. “But I’m not clear on why you’re going there.”

  “Neither am I,” replied Slaton.

  “Aaron and the others asked me to pass along that they would be happy to assist if needed. It couldn’t be anything sanctioned, you understand … but I suspect Director Nurin might give them a week’s leave to relax on the Atlantic.”

  “Tell them thanks, and that I’ll keep it in mind. But hopefully that won’t be necessary.”

  “Will the CIA provide you help?”

  “Probably—they gave me the intel I’m working from. But you know how fickle intelligence chiefs can be.”

  Bloch might have grinned.

  “Anyway,” Slaton went on, “the Americans are pretty busy right now hunting down these shipments.”

  “From what I hear, they are so far having little success. The Saudis are good at certain things. They have advanced airplanes and hardware, and funding is never an issue. Are you aware that they have the third biggest defense budget of any country in the world? They actually outspend Russia. Unfortunately, money does not always buy safety. There comes a point when one must get one’s hands dirty. Developing human networks on home ground, battering down doors in the middle of the night, inserting spies into neighboring capitals. These things have never been a Saudi strength—and that’s what it takes in our little corner of the world.”

  Slaton nodded cautiously. “Honestly, Anton, I don’t really consider this my corner anymore. In fact, the world would be better off without corners.”

  Bloch’s lips went to an upturned U. “Dear God, next you’ll be telling me you’re a social democrat.”

  “Hardly.”

  “Be that as it may … do you have my number in case you need assistance?”

  “I do, and thanks for offering.”

  “It’s not just me. The director asked me to express his personal appreciation for your work last night. He feels as though he owes you.”

  Slaton reached into his pocket and presented Bloch with a heavy object wrapped in cloth. “Now he owes me more.”

  Bloch turned the cloth to uncover the damaged fifty-caliber round. “Is this what I think it is?” Slaton had alluded to its existence earlier.

  “It is. I think the CIA would be interested as well. After you’ve had first look, please share it with them.”

  “I will forward your wishes. Nurin and his Technology Department will be happy to have it.”

  “That’s not who I’m giving it to.”

  Bloch nodded. Slaton knew he understood.

  “In that case,” Bloch said, “the State of Israel thanks you.”

  * * *

  The sergeant found the key to the small house under a weed-filled plant pot near the front door. Who had put it there he had no idea, but the logistics were as reliable as ever. Cars, air transport, safe houses, cash—all were his for the asking. He thought it would be a nice way to go through life.

  He went inside and saw a living area with a low box-beam ceiling, a combined kitchen and dinette, sided by one small bedroom. To say the place was dated would be putting it kindly—this from an army enlisted man who’d grown up in a farmhouse built before the rule of Lenin. The walls were some kind of stucco, and appeared unpainted. The furniture was simple and fusty, the flower-print curtains on the windows serviceable but worn. A lone shelf on one wall held a row of paperback mystery novels, English language versions all dog-eared and yellowed with age. Add a seventy-year-old widow, he thought, and the picture would be complete.

  He went through a door with squeaking hinges and climbed a short set of stairs to a pergola-topped patio. He walked to the edge and was rewarded with a stunning view of the sea. The shack overlooked a beachfront cliff, and was set back coyly in a narrow ravine. He looked straight down and saw the seaward foundation supported by a half dozen timbers that looked as old as the rest. If they’ve held up that long, he reasoned, they’ll last a few more days.

  He scanned the horizon and saw one house to the distant north, another to the south. The latter was the closer of the two, a mile away at the base of a minor peninsula. An unseen gull cawed, and he heard the hum of a distant car passing. The coast road was far behind him, the long setback ideal for privacy.

  The sergeant went back inside. In the kitchen he found groceries in the cupboard and a few basics in a small refrigerator. Tea, bread, canned meat, milk. Two tomatoes sat on the shelf by the window. He set a pot of water on the stove, lit the burner, and went back outside. From the highest point on the patio he strained to see south along the cliffs. Five miles further on, he knew, was another villa, yet there was no line of sight. The coastline ribboned away in that direction, and all along its length was a two-hundred-foot drop to the narrow beachhead below.

  A challenge, he thought, but nothing insurmountable.

  He went back inside, then out front to his car. He retrieved his luggage and brought it all to the bedroom. Setting the heaviest case on the bed, he flicked open the latches and lifted the lid. He left the Barrett where it was, but removed the targeting unit and its power cord. The battery was nearly dead, and he located the only electrical outlet in the room and plugged in the charger. He realized he should have mentioned that to the engineers: battery life in the field had been lacking, especially in the cold of Davos. He’d managed the issue so far, but it ought to be corrected.

  He checked his satellite phone and saw nothing new. No changes in the schedule, nothing about his target. Best of all, nothing about his pursuer. That was something the sergeant couldn’t ignore. The man he’d seen in Davos, who might or might not have been Slaton, had been close on his heels. Might he still be? He dwelled on the question for only a moment.

  He set the big case on the floor next to the rollerbag—there was no luggage rack in the doorless closet. He resisted an urge to make use of the three coat hangers provided. He wasn’t going to be here long, and leaving his clothing packed seemed the best choice. Like so many places he’d stayed over the years, the business of settling in was performed with departure in mind.

  He went to the kitchen, set h
is phone on the small table. He strolled to the bookcase and ran a finger across a row of bonded spines. Making his selection, he pulled an old techno-thriller from the shelf and settled onto a couch with wayward springs. He cracked the book open and began to read.

  FIFTY

  Captain Zakaryan prided himself on being a master who kept the pulse of his ship. He knew when the cook was slacking, when engineers smoked below deck in prohibited areas, and when a good drunken shore leave was in order. Early yesterday, the mood aboard Argos had been the foulest he’d ever seen, south of resignation but not quite to mutiny. Now, one day removed, with Argos running fast under a bright midday sun and the shores of Djibouti on the distant starboard rail, the atmosphere was nothing short of buoyant.

  He sat with two of his officers at a table in the mess hall. The cook had prepared a zesty Thai dish that was going over well, and Zakaryan had ordered that a case of beer be distributed among those not on duty—the second shift would be treated later. His executive officer was in the middle of an off-color joke when Ivan appeared at the mess hall entrance. He said nothing, but simply stood in the passageway and stared.

  A frowning Zakaryan excused himself before his second reached his punch line.

  “What is it?” he asked, stepping through the watertight door to face Ivan.

  “A meeting must be called.”

  “What kind of meeting?”

  “The kind that everyone will attend,” Ivan said.

  “Everyone? I can’t muster the entire crew—someone has to mind the ship!”

  “How many?”

  “Four is the minimum on watch—three on the bridge and one on deck.”

  “Very well. But spread the word that every other man must be present—twenty minutes.” The Russian turned and strode away.

  Zakaryan wasn’t surprised. Not really. They’d assembled a similar meeting in Sebastopol before setting sail, and the entire crew had been in attendance. Everyone listened for ten minutes as Ivan had explained how he and his men were on board as representatives of MIR Enterprises. Zakaryan tried to imagine what the subject would be this time. His best guess was that Ivan would put on his most threatening tone and warn everyone against discussing their voyage in the wharfside bars.

  Yes, he thought, that’s got to be it.

  Minutes later his crew began filing into the mess hall.

  * * *

  The CIA operations center was tracking Argos closely. For thirty hours the ship traversed the Red Sea southward, and by midday local time, the day after her offload, she was clearing the narrow Bab al-Mandeb Strait. This put her in the Gulf of Aden, with the limitless Indian Ocean stretching out ahead.

  It was here, slightly north of the port of Djibouti, that Argos began to slow and maneuver. The senior watch officer in Langley was the first to notice. “What’s going on?” she wondered aloud.

  Any of the ten people in the room might have ventured an answer. Not surprisingly, it was the maritime specialist in a corner-pocket workstation, a retired Navy commander, who said, “I don’t think she’s headed into port after all. She’s steering north, away from Djibouti.”

  The significance was lost on no one. Everyone’s eyes went to the other two square symbols with data tags that were no more than twenty miles distant. Cirrus and Tasman Sea were both steaming south.

  “Whatever’s happening, I don’t like it,” said the watch officer. “I’m calling the boss.”

  Director Coltrane’s instructions had been clear: he was to be notified of “any appreciable change in the situation.” The alteration of Argos’ course apparently qualified, because five minutes later the director was standing at the head of the room looking at the sea of monitors. As they all watched, the brazen arms smuggling operation they’d been tracking for days took a new and unexpected turn.

  “Are they doing what I think they’re doing?” Coltrane wondered aloud.

  In fact, the picture before them was increasingly clear. Argos had slowed on a northerly course, while Cirrus and Tasman Sea were on intersecting southerly courses. In effect, MIR Enterprises’ entire fleet of three vessels was executing a rendezvous at sea.

  “What could they be up to?” asked the watch officer, posing the question in everyone’s mind.

  “What’s our source here?” Coltrane asked, pointing to the main monitor.

  “Right now satellite—we may hit a gap soon.”

  “Can we get a drone on station?”

  Everyone’s eyes went to the coordinator who managed such requests. He typed furiously for two minutes before announcing, “Air Force is the best option. They can divert another mission, but it will take forty minutes to get overhead.”

  “Do it!” Coltrane ordered, sensing that forty minutes was about to seem like a very long time. “What about the Navy? Any ships in the area?”

  Another pause, then, “Decatur. She’s an Arleigh Burke–class destroyer … sixty miles north.”

  “Send a message that we need eyes on this. Ask nicely—the Navy has been a pain in the ass lately.”

  Everyone watched what seemed like a slow-motion dance on the primary screen. The squares representing the ships had nearly merged. When they were four miles apart, the point of convergence seemed assured.

  “Is there something special about that spot?” Coltrane asked. “Whose territorial waters are we talking about here?”

  The technician who ran the banks of monitors added territorial lines to the display—an invaluable overlay when it came to operational decisions.

  “All three ships are outside twelve miles,” said the watch officer. “Djibouti, Yemen, Somalia—they’re free and clear in open water.”

  “So why there?” Coltrane muttered.

  What seemed a rhetorical question was actually answered, again by the technician who ran the displays. He said, “Maybe you should take a look at this, sir.”

  The central monitor altered, and the overlay that was added took a few beats for everyone to comprehend—it was a bathymetric chart, the contours of the sea floor and associated depths presented. Right away everyone saw the significance.

  “God Almighty…” Coltrane said.

  As the ships closed to within three nautical miles of one another, they were positioned perfectly over the deep marine trough that ran parallel to the Saudi peninsula. With over eight thousand feet of water beneath their keels, the tiny fleet was joining up over the deepest trench in the Gulf of Aden.

  * * *

  “Is everyone present?” Ivan asked.

  “Yes,” Zakaryan replied, having just completed a head count. “Now tell me what this is about.”

  The crew, minus the four on duty, had filed into the mess room. Every table was full, and a few were left standing near the door leading to the galley. The prevailing look on their faces was one of strained patience—to a man, everyone wanted to get this cruise over with and dump their Russian passengers.

  “We will begin in a moment,” Ivan announced. He went to the mess hall entrance and stood at the threshold. Less than a minute later, the four crewmen who were supposed to be on duty came through the passageway, the last in line stumbling from a shove. Behind them were two of Ivan’s thugs, each with a machine pistol leveled.

  “What are you doing?” Zakaryan demanded. “The boat is running untended! We can’t leave—”

  Zakaryan was silenced when Ivan lifted a handgun and pointed it at his head. The captain stood frozen.

  Without another word the Russian stepped backward through the watertight door that doubled as the mess hall entrance. He disappeared, and the door immediately clanged shut. Somewhere behind them, deep in the galley, it happened a second time—the sound of a flood door thumping into place.

  “What’s going on?” a crewman asked nervously.

  Everyone heard heavy noises outside, and the door’s twin bolting handles dropped into position. Zakaryan rushed to the door and tried to open it. The handles were jammed. He turned and ran for the galley—it was the only
other way out of the joined compartments. Another man beat him there, only to find that the galley exit, which led to the aft quarterdeck, had also been immobilized.

  Zakaryan rushed back to the mess hall. His crew looked at him expectantly. He was contemplating what to say, something calm and authoritative, when Argos was shaken to her core by a violent explosion.

  * * *

  “What just happened?” Coltrane bellowed.

  The closest thing to an answer came from the sensor technician. “Switching to infrared.”

  The image of Argos on the screen altered to a different spectrum, and the problem could not have been more clear—blossoming from her aft port side was a massive heat signature, enough to warm the surrounding sea.

  “That would be an explosion,” said the watch officer.

  “A big one,” the Navy commander remarked. “She’s already starting to list.”

  “Sir!” said the watch officer, pointing to a different screen.

  Coltrane shifted his gaze and saw Tasman Sea presenting a nearly identical picture. Then, as the entire room watched, Cirrus disappeared momentarily in a flash of light and smoke.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Coltrane remarked. “They’re all being scuttled.”

  “What about the crews?” the watch officer asked. “Each of these ships must have twenty or thirty—”

  “Look!” a technician nearly shouted.

  On the periphery of one screen a small boat came into view. It was dagger-shaped and moving fast—heading straight toward Tasman Sea. Everyone watched in silence as the fast-mover closed in on the bigger ship. The image was magnified as the boat slowed suddenly, and four men could be seen leaping from Tasman Sea’s slanted deck into the water. The sleek boat picked up all four survivors. It then set out at high speed in the direction of Cirrus.

  “There have to be more crew than that on board,” said the watch officer.

  “Oh, there are,” Coltrane responded. He whipped around to the coordinator. “Where’s Decatur?”

  “Sixteen miles north. She should arrive on scene in … roughly thirty minutes.”