by Ward Larsen
The gift wrap he’d bought was dark blue, more refined than festive, and when he wrapped the box from the gun store it afforded the package an entirely new look—something cheerful and big-hearted. He pushed the furniture back where it was supposed to be, tucked the box under an arm, and locked the door as he left the room. From the gasthaus he hailed a taxi, preferring not to walk a mile through central Vienna with the package.
The driver dropped him along Wehlistrasse, one street removed from the river and behind the blessed frontage of St. Francis of Assisi Church. He skirted the soaring rust-tiled spires, the octagonal chapel, and ended on the southern bank of the Danube. Before him was the Reichsbrücke Bridge, and Slaton took the pedestrian walkway, arcing first above the churning river, then Danube Island and the calm estuary. On the far side he descended weather-hewn graystone stairs to the broad paths of the landside park.
His eyes were alert as he crossed the gardens toward the tower. A dark night had taken hold, but the park was sprayed in patches of light from the city. Night always instilled its changes. Channels of light and pools of pitch darkness. In the distance yellow floodlights shone down on what appeared to be an athletic field. Given the rectangular configuration, he guessed it to be a soccer pitch, probably local clubs engaging in an amateur night-league match.
To the east, drifting in from the distant Vienna International Centre, he heard the sounds of a live concert. Bass reverbs, percussion, the high notes of a female singer. Concerts would be a natural fit for such a complex. He’d considered the park’s own amphitheater, verifying that there were no shows tonight, but admonished himself for not having researched farther afield. Such an event could bring complications. Or conversely, opportunities.
Slaton refocused as his objective came near.
The Donauturm loomed before him, rising like a scepter into the impassive night. The uplit spire seemed to reach for the clouds, a solid ceiling that absorbed the city’s lights with the warmth of a blanket. Slaton had in fact seen days when the tower did touch the clouds. Ever mindful of such complications, he had already checked the weather. The forecast tonight was for modestly low cloud cover, a ceiling of two thousand feet above ground level. The tower was, and would remain, safely in the clear.
The treelines and hedges all around fell obscured, their lack of foliage less evident than in daylight. There were few pedestrians in sight, the locals weary of winter and the tourists preoccupied by dinner hour. He heard traffic on the nearby streets, but only a few headlights were visible from the park’s central walkways. Slaton arrived at the base of the Donauturm at precisely 7:51.
In twenty-four minutes, or perhaps a bit sooner, things would accelerate. One thousand yards south, across the slow-moving estuary, his target was to appear on a semicircle of concrete accented by Wetterstein limestone.
And when that moment came, Slaton would be ready.
* * *
He has gone inside.
The Uzbek sent the text from deep inside a stand of trees. He’d spotted their target as he materialized out of the park’s darkness into the lights at the base of the Donauturm. He had arrived right on time and was carrying a long box—almost certainly the one they’d seen him haul out of the gun shop.
Everything was as expected.
The Uzbek’s weapon was an arm’s length away, a compact MAC-10 on the ground, resting against the base of a tree. His men were nearby, one to the right behind a garden hedge, the other in the shadow of a small service shed to the left. They had positioned themselves in a rough triangle, and soon their quarry would be centered amid three lines of fire. He watched their man disappear into the tower’s ticket center.
This too was expected.
The Somali, who was better positioned to see inside, picked up, texting: He is at the desk. Laughing with girl at ticket counter.
The Uzbek waited patiently.
A minute passed.
Two.
He looked at his watch. 7:55. He tapped out: Is he taking the elevator or the stairs?
A delay, then: Neither yet. They are only talking.
The Uzbek looked at the tower. From so close it seemed astoundingly tall. Twenty minutes remained—still enough time for the man to position himself and shoot. All the same, the Uzbek had seen snipers operate in Syria. He knew them to be patient and methodical. And that required time.
Something is wrong, he thought for the first time.
Seconds later, a text came from the Tunisian: I think something is wrong.
* * *
“It’s much colder in Sweden this week,” Slaton said.
“It is always colder in Sweden,” replied the smiling woman behind the ticket counter. She was a few years older than Slaton, not unattractive, and wore no wedding band. Her English was good, which was no doubt a prerequisite for her job—selling tickets to tourists at the Donauturm.
“We have an unfortunate reputation,” he went on. “It’s really not so cold, especially along the coast.”
They talked about the seasons for another minute, a pleasant back-and-forth that ran straight through autumn. Flirting was too strong a word, but like any good operator, Slaton could be engaging when it served him. She was relating her experiences of last year’s November blizzard when his eyes swept casually to the clock on the wall.
It was time.
“I’m sorry, but I should be on my way. As I said, I’m heading to a party for my nephew. I somehow got turned around in the park, and thought you could steer me straight. I’m trying to get to Stuwerstrasse in Leopoldstadt.”
She pointed out the correct path. “Take the Reichsbrücke Bridge. Once you are in the city, turn left at Venediger Park.”
He smiled in thanks.
“Will you be in Vienna long?” she asked.
“I’m leaving tomorrow, I’m afraid.”
“Pity.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” He edged toward the door, the gift-wrapped box secure under one arm. “The next time I’m in town, I will be sure to come back and visit your tower.”
She said something as he neared the exit. Slaton never heard it. Every sense had been retuned to the night outside.
* * *
The Uzbek was getting anxious.
Moments earlier he’d texted again: Has he gone up?
The wait for a reply seemed interminable.
They’d been warned the man was an assassin, an expert improviser who would find a way to the top of the tower with his weapon. From there he would take one, or at most two shots at a target on the distant island. After that, the assassin had to make his escape.
Their assignment was simple. Once the killer had done his work, they were to ambush him on his way out of the tower. The Uzbek never doubted they could do it. Assassin or not, the man would not expect an encounter in the first seconds of his getaway. They had the element of surprise on their side, not to mention a three-to-one advantage. They also had superior firepower, three MAC-10s on full automatic. If that wasn’t enough, the geometry was inescapable—their man would be trapped in the open amid three widely spaced lines of fire, while they would remain in cover. There could be but one result.
They only had to wait for their chance.
7:59.
He was contemplating another text when the Somali finally replied: He is moving again, near the elevator.
The text from the Somali had no sooner arrived than another came: At the front door now! Coming back outside!
The Uzbek shifted to his left, straining to see the entrance. Their target suddenly appeared. The box with the gun was still under his arm. The Uzbek checked his phone. 8:00. Something was wrong. Their man had never gone up into the tower. He hadn’t made his kill.
They’d been given strict orders not to engage before that happened.
The Tunisian: What do we do?
The Somali: Shoot now?
Their target was walking past the base of the tower, backtracking the path by which he’d arrived. This had never been covered. They�
��d discussed the possibility that they might not hear the assassin’s shot. And they had no way to confirm his kill. But the man hadn’t even gone up in the tower!
The Uzbek knew he had to say something. He texted: Wait! Hold your fire!
He tried to think logically, and came up with one possibility. What if the man hadn’t been able to access the tower? Perhaps security was tighter than expected, or the elevator had gone out of service. In that case, what would he do?
Exactly what he’s doing now. He’s an expert improviser, and there is still time. He’s looking for another location from which to shoot.
The Uzbek picked up his weapon, stuffed it beneath his loose jacket. He fired off another text: Follow him!
* * *
Slaton walked briskly.
A man on a mission.
He cut straight across the broad southern lawn using the city for a reference. He took up a course to the river and crested the small service bridge that passed over the A22, the autobahn that carved a swath through the lower park. The road was relatively quiet, the evening rush having subsided, and on the far side he descended into a nearly deserted greenbelt—the narrow strip that ran east-west between the motorway and the estuary.
And that overlooked Danube Island.
There was no one in sight on the walking paths ahead. Slaton forced himself not to check six. He veered toward the clusters of trees bordering the shore and found the one he wanted—the same outcropping where the two young boys had concealed themselves last night. It turned out to be ideal. There was a narrow gap in the foliage, an entrance hidden from nearly every angle by stout wintering hardwoods and evergreen underbrush. Once inside, he looked out across the water, toward the island. He easily picked out the semicircle of concrete and decorative limestone, and there, at 8:11—four minutes early—Slaton saw what he’d always known he would see.
The man from the photograph. The target he had been instructed to eliminate.
He put the box on the ground and began tearing away gift wrap like a kid on Christmas morning.
SIXTEEN
The thin man in the dark jacket stood waiting in the cold. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets—he had never adapted to Viennese winters. His flyaway hair was black and curly, approaching shoulder-length—as usual, a bit longer than it should have been. He pushed his wire-frame glasses up on his nose and searched the surrounding park. He saw no sign of the man he was to meet. Rocking left and right on his feet, he pulled out his phone and checked the time.
Two minutes to go.
Will he even come? he wondered.
He’d always known it was an open question. That he might be left standing on this semicircle, cold and alone, in the company of nothing more than hope. He wondered how long he should wait. Five minutes? Ten? An hour? He had no idea what the protocol was, but he decided he should allow something.
He startled when a stray dog trotted from behind a bench and ambled past. The mutt glanced up hopefully, but only once. Perhaps recognizing a fellow beggar. The man took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Clandestine meetings were not his forte. Certainly nothing he’d been trained to do. The fact that his first was taking place in a dark park on a cold night did nothing to make it easier. Yet he knew this was how it was done. He knew because he had watched it play out countless times, even if always from a safe distance. Video feeds from drones. Listening to secure comm links. He knew how such encounters were supposed to work.
He suddenly wondered if there might be CCTV cameras nearby. He hadn’t thought about that. Would it matter to the man he’d come to meet?
He sighed and checked his phone again. The clock ticked ahead as he was watching.
8:15.
It was time.
* * *
The Uzbek almost lost the assassin on the service road overpass. Not wanting to get too close, he had waited until the man disappeared over the arched rise. After what seemed a reasonable delay, he made his own way across. On the far side he suffered a brief moment of panic when he didn’t see his quarry. Then, thankfully, he caught a glimpse of a shadowed figure vanishing into a stand of trees.
There was no one else in sight, so it had to be their man.
He left the path and took cover behind an outcropping of brush. The others were close behind, and he considered how to manage things. He was most comfortable with hand signals, but night was always difficult. On top of that, he’d never worked with these two. Texting would be less prone to misunderstanding, he decided.
In a flurry of messages he directed the Somali and the Tunisian to separate. Soon his team was once again in the desired configuration—something near a triangle, centered on the outcropping of trees where their man was hiding.
He checked his watch. 8:16.
* * *
By 8:23 the Uzbek knew something was wrong.
It had been driven home that timing was critical. The assassin, apparently, hadn’t gotten the word—he was supposed to have struck eight minutes ago. When their man repositioned from the tower to the stand of trees, there had still been time. Enough for a practiced killer to send one bullet. The Uzbek hadn’t been told where the target would be, but he supposed it was across the water, somewhere on the narrow island.
No matter.
Something should have happened by now. Or did I miss it? Could the killer have used a silenced gun? Then a more problematic thought came to mind. Could it have been someone else disappearing into the treeline? A homeless person or a kid doing drugs?
The doubts began to fester. Multiply insistently.
He had to seize control of the situation—to get the night’s work over with. He messaged the others, telling them to tighten the noose, then set out on a crouch toward the thick pocket of trees.
He worked the MAC-10 from beneath his jacket and tried to keep in the shadows. He came in low and quick, his eyes probing the stand of trees for anything out of the ordinary. As he got closer, he was rewarded. On the southern edge of the tree line, jutting into a spray of light, he saw an unmistakable protrusion—the barrel of a rifle.
His first thought, Has the man already taken his shot? was quickly replaced by, I’m too exposed right now.
He was twenty yards from a concealed killer. He couldn’t see his cohorts, but he knew they were closing in on the opposite side. All too late, he realized he was committed—the element of surprise could be lost at any moment.
Adrenaline took hold.
He circled silently to his right. There was still no sign of the others, but he knew they had more ground to cover. They would arrive in thirty seconds, a minute at most. He heard the snap of a twig nearby, but couldn’t say from which direction. I’m exposed, he thought again.
He couldn’t wait any longer.
With his weapon poised, he shouldered into a gap in the brush and saw a natural corridor through the foliage. He felt a vibration, and realized his thumb was tapping the stock of his weapon. He forced it still. Carefully pushing aside a wet branch, he glimpsed a closet-sized space ahead. In the dim light he saw dormant grass tamped flat, broken branches on the ground. His index finger was poised on the trigger. The space was an ideal concealment, covered on every side but with a good view of the distant island. A perfect setup except for one glaring problem: the assassin wasn’t here.
The Uzbek did, however, see his weapon.
He moved closer, his feet slogging through underbrush, his boots sucking into the mud. The rifle’s shape was unmistakable, and on the ground next to it was the box the killer had been carrying. The gun was mounted on a series of poles—if he wasn’t mistaken, two makeshift tripods constructed from a set of golf clubs. The arrangement put the weapon at shoulder height with the barrel extending beyond the brush—exactly what he’d seen from outside.
The Uzbek moved closer. He was generally familiar with weapons, but thought something about this one seemed different. He touched the stock, and felt a different texture from any gun he’d used before—an odd
material, less conductive and more pliable. In the dim light he ran his hand forward along the firing assembly and handguard. It all felt the same until he reached the barrel, which was undeniably cold metal. He didn’t know what to make of it. The Uzbek stood straight.
He was wondering where his cohorts were when he sensed something to his right. The slightest flicker of motion.
Before he could turn, his head was seized in what felt like a giant vise. His mouth opened, but no sound escaped. Had he been given another second, his muscles might have tensed, or a rush of adrenaline might have taken hold to give him a chance. He didn’t have half that. With his chin pulled upward, a combat blade came to his throat. His last sensations on earth were twofold: the sound of a terrible gurgle, and a lightning-like bolt of pain surging into his brain stem.
* * *
The man with flyaway hair knew nothing about the killing taking place in a small stand of trees across the estuary. His earlier thought about waiting an hour was fading fast. He’d gone to great lengths to arrange this meeting, yet he knew a lot could have gone wrong. Not for the first time, his lack of field experience gnawed at him.
He looked in both directions, up and down the path. There was no one in sight. With a glance at his watch, he made his decision.
He would give it five more minutes. If his man didn’t show by then, he would leave.
SEVENTEEN
It was the third adversary who was the most problematic.
He arrived only seconds after Slaton had broken the second man’s neck. With the element of surprise gone, the third man had his MAC-10 nearly level before Slaton intervened with an upsweeping hand. He first controlled the stunted barrel, then wrenched the shooter’s hand away from the trigger guard. With the gun pointed skyward and not under his control, the man gave up and began grappling.
