Assassin's Revenge

by Ward Larsen

  The Tunisian, who’d spotted their man when he left the gasthaus the second time, explained that he’d turned into a car rental agency around the corner.

  “How long he has been inside?” asked the Uzbek. They had taken to conversing in rough Arabic—the two Africans were steeped in different dialects, and it was not a native language at all for the Uzbek. Yet, just as they’d done in Syria and Iraq with other comrades-in-arms, they managed to get their ideas across. When all else failed, they occasionally fell back on German phrases acquired during their months in Vienna, or bits of English taken from the decadent Hollywood films they all watched—conveniently ignoring whatever irony that presented.

  “He’s been there for ten minutes. I walked past the window only moments ago, just before you arrived. I didn’t see him at the counter.”

  “The cars are kept in a parking garage in back,” said the Somali, leveling his lifeless eyes on the Tunisian. The three men had met only a few days earlier, and as unfamiliarity subsided, tension came more readily. This too they’d all seen during the war. “He is gone now, and we have no way to follow him. You should have messaged right away when you saw him hiring a car.”

  The two exchanged a seething look.

  The Uzbek intervened. “It doesn’t matter. We have learned enough. He has a weapon now, and a car for an escape. This is what we were told to expect.” He addressed the Tunisian. “You are certain he left the weapon at the gasthaus?”

  “Yes. He wasn’t carrying anything when he left the hotel.”

  “Then he will return,” said the Tunisian. “We can pick him up there.”

  “Why?” the Somali hissed. “We already know where he will be!”

  Indecision swirled, and the two Africans looked at the Uzbek. Awkwardness aside, he was in charge. He’d recruited the others at the Islamic Center in Floridsdorf, taking recommendations from a local imam. I need two men I can trust, preferably with experience in the war. There was no need to specify a particular campaign or country—jihad recognized no such boundaries. The imam had been helpful. Without keeping résumés, he considered it his duty to know who in his flock was capable of what. Most came to the mosque merely to worship, others because they were hungry or needed help finding legitimate work. Yet there was always that faction who came sporadically and prayed fervently, and who had never quite acclimated to life in Austria. Young men who bore scars and suffered limps, and whose deadened gazes reflected atrocities both seen and committed. Most had arrived amid the great waves of refugees, although a few were homegrown, non-indigenous seeds in the tidy garden that was Vienna. The imam made it his business to know every one.

  “We can do nothing more here,” the Uzbek decided. “It makes no difference where our man has gone or what he is doing. He’ll be back—and tonight we will be ready, God willing!” He waited, got mumbled echoes in return. He issued a time and place for their rendezvous, and admonished, “Do not be late.”

  The two North Africans turned away, disappearing in different directions. The Uzbek waited until they were gone, then pulled out his phone. He thumbed out a quick message on a secure application before setting out himself into the heart of Vienna.

  Before he’d gone two steps, his tiny burst transmission had been converted for end-to-end encryption. It uploaded through an antenna two hundred meters away, flowed to a nearby base station, and from there wove a digital path of more than two thousand miles. The process then ran in reverse until reaching its terminus: a blinking notification on a phone in a safe house just outside Vienna.

  THIRTEEN

  The rental car was a dark Renault, the kind of compact sedan that seemed to clog highways all across Europe. Slaton was certain he’d lost the team who’d been surveilling him. It was time to lay his groundwork for the evening, and he needed to do it alone.

  He left town by way of the A5, riding the Nord Autobahn through the rolling hills of Austria’s Weinviertel, or wine quarter, where highly regarded Pinot Blancs and Welschrieslings found their legs, and more menacingly where Hitler’s Wehrmacht was greeted with cheers and flowers in the 1938 annexation known as Anschluss. Slaton watched the traffic carefully, making doubly sure he hadn’t been reacquired. Only when he was finally convinced did he set to his true mission.

  He exited the autobahn and took up a minor tributary eastward. The road cut through forest and low hills, and he diverted to explore a network of gravel sidings. The one he ended up choosing was, if his tortured translation of the signage was correct, a forest management road. He drove through thickening woods for another ten minutes, and picked out a half-dozen landmarks. Satisfied, he reversed to the main road and continued east, eventually picking up a secondary highway back toward Vienna.

  Near Prottes he made his first stop, a hardware store where he purchased a pair of wire cutters, duct tape, and heavy-duty zip ties. He placed all of it in the trunk of the car. He’d intentionally chosen a remote corner of the parking lot, and with the trunk lid still open, he used the wire cutters to sever the glow-in-the-dark emergency trunk-release handle. He lifted the carpeted floorboard to reveal the spare tire and emergency tools. He dropped the severed T-handle into the well and removed the lug wrench from the tool bundle. Slaton closed the trunk, put the lug wrench under the front seat, then set back out toward the highway.

  On the southbound motorway he passed through the hamlet of Hagerfeld, and beyond that encountered countless dormant fields, the earth beaten into brown rows under a clear winter sky. He picked up the A23 as he neared Vienna, jogged west at the river, and circled the city center in a tightening noose. The park that was fast becoming familiar came into view, its tightly landscaped commons lorded over by the massive Reichsbrücke Bridge. Beneath the wide span an ever-patient Danube carried eastward, black and silent in its ceaseless mission.

  Midway across the bridge, Slaton steered onto an exit ramp and descended to the island. He found a small but mostly empty parking lot adjoining the winding main path. His selection of a parking spot was governed by two criteria—he wanted to be on the western side of the apron near a dense line of trees, and also as far away as possible from any overhead lights. Once he’d made his choice, Slaton mulled the idea of backing the car into the space. It would offer better geometry, given the cover and lighting. Yet it would also leave the Renault as the only car so situated. Conformity, he decided, was the better choice.

  With the car in place, he locked it and walked back to the bridge. His pace was casual, because that was how people walked in a public park. It was also completely at odds with his sensory awareness. For the first time Slaton crossed to the northern reaches of the main park. There he detoured along its lower shore, taking note of the stands of trees along the bank. One in particular he examined more closely—the one he’d seen two young boys disappear into last night. Finally, he began a swing toward the Donauturm itself. He paused at its base, as if studying the great tower admiringly.

  Satisfied, Slaton headed back across the bridge and into the city. He made two final stops. The first was a small sundry shop where he purchased a prepaid smartphone, a package of gift wrap, and clear tape. Finally, at a sporting goods store, not far from the gasthaus, he purchased a cheap set of youth golf clubs and, in his assassin’s equivalent of an impulse buy, a set of bocce balls in a drawstring canvas bag.

  Ten minutes later he was back in his room. Slaton set his new purchases beside the box from the gun store. The phone he activated and set aside. The set of golf clubs included six short-shafted irons, and he wedged these into the long box. He removed the bocce balls from the drawstring bag and stuffed the bag into the pocket of his jacket. The remaining golf clubs and bocce balls went to the back of the closet.

  He ran a mental checklist and was satisfied: everything was in place. Since leaving the rental car agency three hours ago he had seen no sign of the men who’d been following him. Now back at his starting point, he guessed they might be near. If his assumptions proved correct, it didn’t matter—they wo
uld not approach his room.

  And if my theory is wrong? he wondered.

  Slaton decided to cover every contingency. He unlatched the locks on the second-floor window, and outside noted a wintering flowerbed to the left—a soft landing if it came to that. He drew the curtains tightly closed. Then, as quietly as possible, he pushed the dresser across the floor, blocking the room’s only door. The door was rigged to swing inward, and the dresser could be pushed aside. But not without a tremendous amount of noise, and more to the point, a measurable amount of time. More than enough to react.

  Precautions complete, he went to the bed and lay down.

  Slaton closed his eyes, and let his thoughts drift to the places he knew they would. The South Pacific. The Mediterranean. Open sea. His shipmates.

  Soon, he told himself, his deficit of sleep returning with a vengeance. Very soon I’ll have you safe.

  FOURTEEN

  Park had deposited Boutros and his team in an old weatherboard cottage outside a village called Sinpo. The house was high on a hill and overlooked the sea, albeit set back sensibly into the first line of trees. There were similar dwellings on either side along the coast, a hundred yards north and south. Neighbors to be sure, but not elbow-to-elbow, and proof that waterfront property on the inhospitable shores of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea had not yet heeled to the influences of Western real estate developers.

  The house had been built, according to Park, as a retreat for a founding member of the Central Committee, soon after the Armistice of 1954. Neither the years nor a series of obviously disinterested caretakers had been kind to the place—the wood-plank siding was loose in spots, and an ornate roofline had been put askew by too many seasons of ice and snow. But the fireplace worked, and the windows closed well enough to keep the warmth inside and the wind at bay.

  “Weather maybe better in morning,” said their host in rough English.

  His name was Choe, a man of sixty-something years, few words, and a wary countenance. Boutros thought he looked rather like a Korean Russell Crowe, add fifty pounds and some gray whiskers, subtract a few teeth and any trace of charisma. Like everyone Boutros had so far encountered in this land of shattered souls, Choe’s eyes were dark and mistrustful, with a constancy that implied they had never been otherwise.

  “For both of our sakes,” said Boutros, “we will hope for it.”

  Choe only shrugged.

  Boutros regarded the tan leather satchel on the table near the door—it was the one Park had been carrying all day. After arriving at the cottage and introducing everyone, Park had simply handed it to Boutros. He promised to be back the next morning, and gave firm orders to keep the team inside the house. As if four Arabs would wander away into a North Korean snowstorm, Boutros remembered thinking, but keeping to himself.

  That had been three hours ago, and his men were now racked out on bunks in the back room. Everyone was exhausted after two days of nonstop travel. Boutros too felt the fatigue, yet he knew there was work to be done. He retrieved the satchel and went to the only table in sight, a beaten oak lowboy surrounded by four mismatched chairs. He picked the chair that looked sturdiest and sat down. Without invitation, Choe took the opposite seat.

  Boutros had not yet looked inside the case, but Park had assured him it contained everything necessary to complete their mission—the kind of optimism all too often displayed by those on the handle of the spear.

  He found multiple file folders inside, some thick with paper, others holding only a few sheets. He removed the file on top, and as soon as he set it down, Boutros saw the first problem.

  “I need more light,” he said to Choe.

  The Korean looked at him questioningly. The sun had set hours ago, and the only light now came from the fireplace and a lone candle on the opposite wall. For the first time Boutros realized there wasn’t a light bulb in sight. Indeed, it dawned on him that he’d seen no evidence of electricity anywhere in the place: no refrigerator, no clock, no receptacles on the walls. Even at the height of the war in Syria they’d had generators for recharging phones, the occasional on-grid hour in the middle of the night. The rumors he’d heard were proving accurate: North Korea truly was in the Stone Age.

  Choe grunted something in Korean, probably an expletive, and walked dutifully to a cabinet. He pulled out two more candles with holders, and used the one already burning to light them. He set both on the table and took his chair with an Anything else? stare.

  “Thank you,” Boutros said.

  The Korean didn’t respond, his glowering expression etched in stone—an effect magnified by the deep shadows and flickering light. Boutros remained impassive, although a new worry began to rise.

  If this is the state of their homes, what will I find on the boat?

  This was the essence of Boutros’ inclusion in the operation—the reason why he, over any number of equally accomplished commanders, had been chosen to lead this mission. Kasim Boutros, as far as anyone knew, was the Islamic State’s only officer with naval experience. He had long ago been commissioned in the Iraqi Navy, and spent a year commanding a British-built corvette, patrolling some of the most hostile waters on earth.

  Ultimately, however, the war with America, in conjunction with long-running sectarian hostilities, had left Iraq’s navy high and dry. Like a boat without a rudder, his career had gone adrift. He’d taken leave, gone home, and suffered through an interminable decade of infighting between militias. He watched family members fall to violence, saw the rise of an Iranian-backed government. When he finally committed himself to the Islamic State, it was less in devotion to Allah than as a prayer for stability. He’d fought well and hard for two years, rising through the ranks as a respected commander—Boutros might have been trained for the sea, but inspired leadership translated to any battlefield. Now his journey of service had come full circle: when the caliphate needed someone to assume command of a boat, tackle an unfamiliar ocean in the height of winter, it was only natural that Boutros got the call.

  Choe got up and disappeared into the kitchen. In spite of his detached nature, he too was vital to the mission. According to Park, Choe was a fisherman from a nearby village who was familiar with the local waters and completely trustworthy. Trust Boutros never took for granted, but he would listen gladly to what the man could offer with regard to the boat and the sea. Even then, he knew this mission was going to take them far beyond the Sea of Japan—into waters where Choe himself had likely never ventured.

  A conversation in rapid-fire Korean sprang from the kitchen. Choe was squabbling with the old woman. She’d been introduced as his wife, and Boutros had no reason to doubt it. A sinewy, hard-jawed peasant, she never seemed to stop moving, and had not left the kitchen since they’d arrived. The woman had so far delivered three meals, each worse than the previous. The first had been cabbage stew, followed by dried fish. After that had come a cold soup of some kind, the main ingredient being seaweed. Sami and Rafiq claimed to feel ill afterward, but they’d gone to bed without vomiting. Saleem had not been so lucky.

  Boutros attacked the first file and found a collection of maps. He spread the largest over the table, anchoring the corners with candles and empty teacups. He saw marks on both their target and the intermediate rendezvous point. Both were surrounded by a seemingly endless expanse of blue water. It reminded him of ancient maritime charts, the kind whose edges were always adorned with serpents and giant squid. For a coastal pilot who’d spent his short career in protected waters, it was undeniably intimidating.

  A shuffling noise caught his attention. He turned to see Rafiq.

  “I couldn’t sleep. My stomach is still not settled.”

  “Nor mine. We will not take any more of her meals. Politeness is not as important as mission readiness.”

  Rafiq leaned in and looked at the map. Boutros watched him closely, saw the realization strike home.

  “This is where we are going?” Rafiq asked, uncertainty in his voice.

  Boutros
nodded. As a matter of security, only he had been briefed on their specific target. It was time to include the others. “Are you surprised?” he asked.

  Rafiq grinned, still bleary-eyed. “Somewhat. It is certainly symbolic.”

  “Uniquely so.”

  “It seems very far away. Can we reach it from here?”

  “As long as we all do our part … I don’t see why not.”

  Rafiq looked at the stack of files. He began digging through, perusing a few pages from each. He separated one folder and opened it, revealing a pile of engineering diagrams.

  His face took on a look of astonishment. “Look what they’ve done—it has been annotated in Arabic.”

  Boutros looked at the papers and saw flourishes of handwritten Arabic in the margins.

  Rafiq kept going, flipping through pages of schematics and procedural lists. As he did so his enthusiasm waned. “Even so … this is going to require some study.”

  “You don’t have to build it,” Boutros said. “You only have to make it work … once.”

  Rafiq closed the file and dug into a second.

  “What about Saleem?” Boutros asked. “Will he need guidance?”

  Rafiq shrugged. “I doubt it. Of all the variables, Saleem worries me the least. He is an artist when it comes to explosives. As long as the basics are on board, he will find a way.”

  Choe’s wife came into the room with a steaming bowl and set it on the table between them. Boutros saw a green liquid with tiny fish heads bobbing on the surface.

  He exchanged a look with Rafiq. Without a word, the two Arabs retreated to the bunk room.

  FIFTEEN

  Slaton woke at six that evening as ill-rested as anyone headed for a stint on the graveyard shift. He made a cursory check out the window, saw a city deep into its long January dusk. When nothing worrisome caught his eye, he set straight to work.