by Ward Larsen
“He was alive when the paramedics arrived,” the inspector said. “Survived for nine hours in the critical care unit before giving up.”
Slaton said nothing.
“Well? Do you know him?” Sanderson asked.
“No, I’ve never seen him.”
Sanderson stared for a long moment but didn’t ask again.
Slaton turned away and swept his eyes over the dank room. “Where’s the second body?”
“Upstairs,” Sanderson replied. “Fortunately for everyone, that one is a bit warmer.”
* * *
On the way to the elevator Sanderson’s phone rang. He excused himself and asked Sergeant Blix to escort Slaton to the sixth floor. When they arrived, the hulking Norseman told Slaton it would be a few minutes, and then he struck up a conversation with a pretty young attendant at the nurse’s station.
Slaton found a row of chairs and took a seat. The body downstairs had told him little. He’d seen only the face, and truly had not recognized it. Dark hair and complexion, perhaps thirty years old, and judging by the lay of the covering sheet a man in reasonably good shape. He might have been Israeli. Then again, he might have been Turkish, Greek, or Egyptian. Slaton had been unable to think of a justifiable reason to view the rest of the body, which might have been more useful: Had the fatal wounds struck in the chest, the center of mass? How many rounds and how were they grouped? Such details, in the correct presentation, might signify a professional strike, giving Slaton some direction as to who he was dealing with. Yet as much as he wanted to ask questions of his own, Slaton knew that was a delicate game. If he seemed too curious, Sanderson would become suspicious. Consequently, he resigned himself to the role of passive intelligence gathering for the time being.
Sanderson reappeared and beckoned Slaton to follow.
They walked down a bright corridor, everything white and antiseptic. Turning into a room, Slaton saw a nurse tending an IV, and in the adjacent bed he saw the second victim. This one told him a great deal more. He was looking at his former boss, Anton Bloch.
* * *
Bloch lay motionless, trussed in tubes and wires. His swarthy face was pale, distorted by a ventilator pipe that had been taped into his mouth. But there was no doubt—it was him. Slaton did his best to not react, knowing Sanderson was watching. He certainly failed. There were shocks in life that could not be tempered by any amount of training or self-discipline, and seeing an old friend on the edge of an untimely death was one of them.
“What’s his condition?” Slaton asked.
“He’s been placed in a drug-induced coma. He was shot three times. The surgeons were able to remove two of the bullets, but the last is lodged close to his spine. They’ve stabilized him until they decide how to proceed. The doctors want very much to talk to his family.” Sanderson paused before prompting, “So? Any idea who he is?”
“No,” Slaton said. He felt the policeman’s eyes drill in from the periphery. “You said my wife was seen talking to one of these men. Was this the one?”
“Yes, a very good guess.”
Slaton took one last look at Bloch, a mental snapshot, then turned to the hallway.
Sanderson followed him out, and said, “Too bad you weren’t able to help us.”
“I wish I could, Inspector.”
“Yes, well—not to worry. We’ll just figure it out some other way, won’t we? Oh, there is one other thing that’s come up, Mr. Deadmarsh.”
“Something about Christine?”
“Unfortunately, no. More of an administrative matter involving your passport.”
“What about it?”
“Would you mind if I took another look?”
Slaton reached into his back pocket and handed the document over. Sanderson made a show of inspecting it, holding it up to the corridor’s bright fluorescent lights like a radiologist with an X-ray.
“Is there a problem?” Slaton asked.
Sanderson frowned and handed it back. “With the document, no. It looks perfectly in order.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “But I just took a rather curious phone call. One of our people back at headquarters performed a check on your immigration status—it’s only standard practice. You arrived at Arlanda earlier today, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“It seems that the electronic record of your arrival has somehow disappeared. The name on your passport brings up nothing now. The only Edmund Deadmarsh we could find in our backlog is an eighty-nine-year-old Englishman who hasn’t visited Sweden in thirty years.”
Slaton shrugged. “What can I tell you? It must be a computer glitch. I walked right through immigration and gave them my passport. I can even describe the officer I gave it to,” he added, guessing that Sanderson’s people had already verified that video.
“Yes, as you say, I’m sure it’s only some kind of computer foul-up. I have to get back to headquarters now. Why don’t you give me your mobile number. I’ll call you if we learn anything as to your wife’s whereabouts.”
Slaton gave his number. Sanderson handed over a business card in return, and said, “If you should hear from her, please let me know right away.”
“I will.” Slaton glanced toward the room they’d just left, and said, “I do have one question, Inspector.”
Sanderson cocked his head, inviting him to go on.
“The two men you showed me—did one of them shoot the other?”
The answer came quickly, “We don’t have that ballistics information yet.”
“But you said this happened in a public place, a café. Surely there were witnesses.”
Sanderson eyed him. “When I have everything sorted, I promise to let you know. Sergeant Blix will give you a lift wherever you like.”
“I’d like to go back to the Strand Hotel.”
Sanderson gave Blix the order.
Slaton asked, “Is it all right if I use Christine’s room at the hotel? I am paying for it, after all.”
Sanderson seemed to think about this, then said, “I don’t see why not. I’ll make sure the front desk knows about it.”
* * *
Slaton was dropped at the Strand Hotel for the second time at six that evening. The massive building hovered at the water’s edge, seeming almost medieval as framed by the enduring Scandinavian twilight. He retrieved his bag from the bellman, went to the front desk, and just as Sanderson had promised was given a key to Christine’s room.
As soon as he stepped into room 324, Slaton knew it was hers. Obvious enough were her familiar things—a blue sweater in the closet, her father’s old suitcase on a chair. But her perfume was also there. He saw Christine’s effects laid out with intimate signatures—the way her comb and hairbrush were nested together, and the way her shoes were set in a perfect line. He was equally sure the police had been here, and he imagined Sanderson and his brutes plodding through the place with big boots and gloved hands. In a drawer he saw carefully folded shirts overturned, toiletries in the bathroom scattered and disorganized. He looked for her passport but didn’t find it. Slaton guessed she would not have taken it to a café—not unless she’d known what was coming. Was that a possibility? Might Bloch have arranged a meeting and forewarned her to bring it? Had he been trying to help her escape from something? From someone?
He found a conference welcome bag on a table stuffed with brochures, along with pens and lanyards emblazoned with the names of pharmaceutical conglomerates. A lecture schedule was on the adjacent desk, and he recognized her brisk check marks next to certain presentations, these ending yesterday afternoon. After that, nothing. Slaton scanned the margins of the schedule for scribbled notes, and checked the scratchpad near the phone for names or numbers. He picked up the hotel phone and dialed the code to retrieve messages. There were none, of course.
The bed was made, but Slaton noted a lengthwise impression where Christine must have laid down, an indentation in the pillow where her head had been. He sat on it and pulled in the air, searching for any rem
nants of her presence.
“Where are you?” he whispered.
Slaton eased back on the bed, into the day-old crease, and closed his eyes. He had little solid information, but more than when he’d arrived. Anton Bloch had come here to meet Christine. Then he’d been shot and Christine was forced to run. Had Bloch shot the other man? Had he been protecting Christine? If it came to that, Slaton was sure he would have. But more importantly, who had Bloch been facing? The usual suspects? Arabs? Iranians? Israel had her share of enemies. Slaton saw but one unbreakable strand: Bloch, and whoever else was involved, had come to Sweden because Christine was here. And Christine had been targeted because of him. Of this he was sure.
Slaton felt a numbness begin to fall. He needed sleep, needed it every bit as much as he would soon need more conventional weapons. He considered his options for the next morning. His first idea was simplistic—find Inspector Sanderson and press him for every scrap of information. That was what Edmund Deadmarsh would do. But Sanderson had shared little so far, indeed no more than necessary to prod his witness down the desired paths. Slaton doubted the inspector was going to be more forthcoming, no matter how outraged the American stonemason became. His prognosis for that course of action: poor.
He searched for Plan B. Past experience had taught him that for all Israel’s enemies, there was often none more treacherous than Israel herself. Slaton had one confirmed character in the disaster that was playing out—Anton Bloch, former director of Mossad. Centering on this, and disregarding who else might be involved, his answer fell into place. He knew precisely what his next step had to be.
That settled, Slaton allowed his body to relax. He heard the sounds of the city outside his window—passing cars, shouted greetings, a far-off siren. Then, amid the asynchronous din, he extracted another sound, this more constant. It was deep and resonating, a distinctive signature to anyone who was familiar—the diesel rumble of a boat on the waterway. He knew nothing of the boat’s function, nothing about its destination, but that steady sound gave Slaton a fleeting peace of mind.
Minutes later, he was fast asleep.
NINE
Slaton woke at six-thirty. He’d slept well but was hardly refreshed, his body still in arrears to the tune of six time zones. At the bathroom mirror he weighed the question of whether to shave his thickening beard. He’d not bothered since Christine had left for the conference, almost a week now. Slaton decided to leave it as it was, reasoning that a disheveled look was ideal for a man in his circumstances.
He showered and donned fresh clothes, a pair of tan cotton pants and a long-sleeve button-down shirt. The shirt was a shade of red so bright it might have doubled as a bullfighter’s cape. He pocketed his passport and a wallet full of identification attesting him to be Edmund Deadmarsh, along with the grand sum of thirty-seven hundred dollars—he had cleaned out his and Christine’s joint checking account before leaving Virginia. Everything else went into his suitcase, and that went into the closet.
He passed under the Strand’s front awning at 6:55, turned left, and took up a leisurely pace. Rounding the waterway, Slaton passed the café where Christine had last been seen two days ago. The establishment, which he imagined had been cordoned off by police tape yesterday, was again open for business, the maître d’ ignoring a pressure cleaning crew that was busy removing a dark stain from the nearby sidewalk. Slaton might have stopped to take a seat, and from there sketch what had happened. He could ask questions of employees and regular customers, and study the hasty repairs.
He didn’t because his strategy precluded it.
Farther up the street, he stopped at a news kiosk and purchased the only English language newspaper on the stand, a day-old copy of the New York Times. He put the paper under his arm and walked toward the waterfront, stopping now and again as if taking in the sights. The air was still and crisp, and the sidewalks quiet on a languid Sunday morning. Along the waterfront he saw tour boats, water taxis, and a lone police runabout. Sanderson had not mentioned the type of vessel Christine used to escape her pursuers, and Slaton made a mental note to ask that question when the chance came. If the chance came.
He began moving again, a red-shirted sightseer keeping a predictable pace. He never once looked behind him or reversed direction, and made not a single abrupt turn. He nodded cordially to two policemen riding past on bicycles, and ignored a white panel van that was parked crookedly at the mouth of an alley. Two blocks from the first café he paused at the entrance of a second, the Renaissance Tea Room, and pretended to study a breakfast menu that was posted on a stand. As if finding the fare agreeable, he turned inside and asked for a specific table, a request the host was happy to accommodate on what was clearly a slow morning.
Slaton sat overlooking the waterway and Strandvägen, much as Christine had done two days earlier only a few hundred yards away. Morning smells filled the air, coffee brewing and bacon on the grill. He lingered over the menu, and on the waiter’s third pass ordered a comprehensive breakfast—fresh fruit, eggs, sausage, and toast. As his meal was being prepared, Slaton addressed a pot of English Breakfast tea. He found it a nicely robust and flavorful blend, as one would expect from a tearoom.
He unfolded the Times and began to read.
* * *
When Sanderson arrived at work the air was stamped with the usual aromas of a waking police department—sweat, shoe polish, burnt coffee, all accented by more objectionable risings from the drunk tank on the backside of a Saturday night. He had dodged television reporters at the entrance, two attractive young women with enamel hair and blond smiles who were tethered to news vans sprouting tall, telescoping antennas. It was all to be expected. Two men had been shot nearly forty-eight hours ago, and so far neither the victims nor the assailants had been identified. Sweden’s nerves were increasingly thin when it came to terrorism, and this crime was looking more and more the part.
At his desk Sanderson searched for his cell phone, which he hadn’t been able to find at home this morning. He didn’t see it, but a check of his computer revealed a dozen messages. He scanned through, saw nothing of interest, and decided to press ahead with his most disagreeable task of the morning.
Assistant Commissioner Paul Sjoberg headed up the Criminal Investigation Unit of the Stockholm County Police. Younger than Sanderson by three years, and five years junior on the force, he was a man who lacked the edges of a street cop. Fair-skinned and carrying twenty more pounds than he should have, his well-tended wave of silvering blond hair framed an indoor face. This was all at odds with the image he tried to project. Sjoberg had started a career in Sweden’s navy before trading uniforms, dark blue for light, and signing on with the Stockholm police. It was a circumstance he played to great effect in his office—the room was brimming with bottled ships and rope-framed oil paintings depicting great sea battles. He was a decent man and a competent policeman—Sanderson would never say otherwise—but a better politician.
Sanderson paused at the door and saw Sjoberg pecking at his computer—an emphatic dagger to his swashbuckling image. Noting the helmsman’s wheel stuck to the far wall, Sanderson had a mischievous urge to ask permission to come aboard. What little careerism remained in him quashed the idea. “A word, sir?”
Sjoberg noticed him and clicked off his computer. “Arne—just the man I wanted to see. Have the bastards over at SÄPO given us anything yet?” He was referring to the Swedish Security Service, who handled matters of counterterrorism—the sea to which their investigation seemed to be drifting.
“Actually, they have. I told you yesterday that I’d had a few words with Edmund Deadmarsh, the husband of our damsel in distress.”
“Yes, I remember you said something about it.”
“When I ran a check on Deadmarsh’s passport there were some odd results. To put it simply, his information has disappeared from our immigration system. I asked SÄPO to take a look, since it seemed more up their street, and they contacted the American FBI.”
“And?”<
br />
With Sjoberg already sitting down, Sanderson said, “The FBI responded almost immediately. They claim that the U.S. has never issued a passport to anyone named Edmund Deadmarsh.”
“How could that be?” Sjoberg said in a rising inflection.
“I don’t know. They did find a driving record and two speeding tickets in the name, but a crosscheck of the corresponding driver’s license number came up blank.”
“So he’s using forged documents.”
Sanderson hesitated. “I’m not so sure. I saw the passport myself, and while I’m no expert, it looked quite authentic. There’s something here I don’t like.”
“Such as?”
“Deadmarsh entered Sweden yesterday at Arlanda. His passport cleared perfectly—we have him on video passing through immigration. Yet a few hours later, a search for his name in the records showed nothing. It’s as if the damned file vaporized. I talked to a man at Immigration who said it could only be a glitch at the source, on the American end. It’s almost as if…” Sanderson paused and rubbed his chin, “as if once he’d entered Sweden, his documents were somehow wiped clean. They were legitimate at one point, but now have gone lost in cyberspace.”
“Is that possible?” Sjoberg asked witheringly.
“I don’t know—we’re looking into it. In the meantime, I’ve asked Sergeant Elmander to keep an eye on Deadmarsh.”
“On a Sunday? You realize our extra pay accounts are already overextended this quarter.”
Sanderson bit down hard on the reply that was welling up.
Sjoberg raised his chin theatrically, in a way that made Sanderson think he might order canvas put to the mizzenmast. “Arne, I’m counting on you—we can’t drop the ball on this one.”
“Is that something I’ve made a habit of?”
“No, of course not. I put you in charge with every confidence. It’s just that…” Sjoberg hesitated, “well, this is a high-profile inquiry. I want you to know what’s at stake.”
