Assassin's Game

by Ward Larsen

  * * *

  Slaton was swept away. Joy, dread, hope, fear. All of it washed through his head in a single, tumultuous wave. He didn’t know what to do, what to say, and so he reached out and took Christine in his arms. He wanted her to clutch him back, but that didn’t happen. She pushed him away with tears welling in her eyes.

  “So what the hell do we do now?” she said harshly. “You’re going to be a father, David. Is there a procedure for that?”

  His mouth dropped open but nothing came. It was just as she’d said. His thoughts were a blank. No contingency plan, no tactical recourse. Slaton sat there shaking his head, stunned to inaction for the first time in his life.

  “I just want this to end,” she said. “I know you’ve tried to escape your past, but it hasn’t worked. And now you’re doing just what they want, falling into this trap. The kidon is back—and I’m losing David Slaton.”

  “No, Christine. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Yes, you are. I know you are.”

  He said nothing.

  “When can we just live like everyone else, David? When?”

  After a long pause, he said, “Right now.”

  Finally her face softened, and for the first time since arriving she looked at him as she last had—on the porch in Virginia with her suitcase in her hand. Having to go but not wanting to leave.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “No, there’s nothing for you to be sorry about.”

  “If I didn’t love you like I do…”

  He leaned in and kissed her.

  She responded, tentatively at first, then becoming more insistent. Slaton pressed back and was met with more. Desperation gave way to relief. Relief brought comfort. And finally—the familiar anticipation. Soon they were holding and fumbling, kissing necks and raking careless hands through one another’s hair.

  They’d only been apart for days, but it felt like years. The strain that had been building, cresting like a wave, suddenly expelled in a frantic rush. They half shuffled, half fell onto the bunk. An empty coffee mug got kicked to the floor. Hands went under clothing and shoes thumped to the deck.

  And for the briefest of times, the hostile world outside was forgotten.

  TWENTY-ONE

  They made love in a frenzy, to the point of exhaustion. Afterward, they went to the galley and indulged their other cravings, putting a far bigger dent in the provisions than they should have.

  Then they did it all over again.

  Slaton devoured every second, every sensation with an air of desperation, in the way a condemned man takes his last earthly meal. By midnight both were sated, having wasted time and food and energy in the most wondrous of ways. It was what they both needed, and afterward Christine collapsed into a profoundly deep sleep.

  The kidon did not.

  The night was black and the seas calm, and the little boat swung lightly on her deep-water anchor. Slaton should have relaxed. He was right where he wanted to be—free of the outside world and with his wife in his arms. He should have slept, but didn’t want to sacrifice an instant of what he had right now. They were naked and intertwined, her breathing rhythmic, his hand flat on her belly. He knew better than to expect a heartbeat or a kick, but their child was there—of this Slaton was sure. He imagined he was holding it, protecting them both. He wondered if he would ever get this close again.

  He lay very still, not wanting to wake Christine. Not wanting to change anything. Yet if his body was motionless, his mind was reeling. He was losing count of the variables, and tomorrow would only bring more, threats and complications like no mission he’d ever seen. Tonight’s revelation raised the stakes immeasurably, and this brought a sobering realization. He was at a precipice, a point of no return. He was on the verge of losing control. Slaton had confidence in his abilities—he would never have survived this long otherwise—but he was not infallible. He had seen it happen before to good men. Hard men. The odds had a way of catching up.

  Laying in near silence, with the boat enveloped in a sheath of mist, it struck Slaton that he had been out of the life for nearly a year. In his absence, he wondered what had changed. Had Israel become a more or less secure place? Not likely. Probably no more change than he’d seen during his years on the job. So what had it all been for? Others had taken his place—the men on the Strandvägen?—and soon others would take their place. The futility seemed overwhelming. His mood darkened, and at that moment, with Christine pressed against him and their child in her womb, he felt a protective instinct he’d never before experienced. One overriding question came to the forefront: How could he keep them safe?

  He suspected there was a way, but it would be more difficult than anything he’d ever done. And the more he thought about it, the more he knew it was the only way.

  How could he keep them safe?

  He would have to let them go.

  * * *

  Four in the morning is a distinctive time of day. A singular time zone of tranquility, it circles the earth as continuous witness to the low point of human activity. Nightclubs are closed and parties have fizzled. The previous night’s contestants have largely found their ends, some snoring contentedly next to husbands or wives, others laying spent in hotel rooms, having finalized proceedings with mistresses or prostitutes. Friends can be found crashed on friend’s couches, and those without means simply sprawl in alleyways. Those unfortunate enough to work the night shift are at their circadian bottoms, bleary-eyed and searching the drawer under the coffee machine for one more creamer packet. Conversely, four in the morning is an hour to challenge even the most industrious early riser. Those already awake are still at home, busy breakfasting, dressing, and performing necessary tasks of personal hygiene.

  For all these reasons, four in the morning holds one inescapable certainty. It is the hour in which a city’s streets will be at their most quiet. And for all these reasons, across the world, it is the hour when secret police units are at their energetic best.

  Farzad Behrouz sat in a black car parked quietly along Palestine Street in south Tehran. The synagogue he was watching appeared quiet, but it was a markedly false impression—at the moment, his ten-man team was laying siege inside. The head of state security sat lamenting what is a little known paradox: Iran, the most virulently anti-Semitic country on earth, in fact hosts the largest Jewish population of any Muslim state. The Jews of Iran are granted solid constitutional protections, and are on paper equal to Muslims. Here, of course, Behrouz took his own interpretation—paper was of little use against steel and leather.

  He looked at his watch and saw that the squad had been inside for twenty minutes. It was time to make an appearance. He got out and buttoned his overcoat, nothing to do with the cool desert night, and walked purposefully toward the entrance. He was met at the ornate portico by a man who was shorter than he was, albeit built like a cinder block.

  “Well?” Behrouz asked.

  “Two. We have them out back,” the man replied.

  The stout sergeant led Behrouz through the central building, past the Torah ark and a tile mosaic depicting a menorah, and finally outside to a gated courtyard. Two Jews, one presumably a rabbi, and the other younger and wearing a yarmulke, were seated on the ground. If the men were wide-eyed to begin with, the arrival of the thick-coated head of state security did nothing to quell their anxiety. Behrouz hovered over the pair like a farmer with a shouldered ax.

  “You know who I am?” he asked.

  “Yes,” they said in near unison.

  “Do you know why I am here?”

  The Jews looked at one another haltingly. Behrouz knew they did not, at least not specifically. In truth, neither did his own men. He had been ordering searches of synagogues at a breakneck pace for the last month. His crews would burst in and gather papers, files, and computers. On appearances it was madness without methods, a roughshod turnover that seemed absent any cohesive objective. Favored were property deeds, construction blueprints, bar mitzvah recor
ds, and flash drives. Less in vogue were service calendars, garbage collection bills, and prayer book invoices. In the end, the keepers of the holy proceedings were simply left to sweep up, reorganize, and carry on in brooding silence. Complaints were regularly filed, of course, but ignored with an equal consistency that took no one by surprise.

  Just to keep things straight, Behrouz gave his stock explanation.

  “I am here because Jew assassins have been infiltrating our country. Even though their hopeless plots fail, I am left to wonder if they will try again. I am left to wonder if they are getting assistance from traitors inside our blessed country. Would either of you be aware of such treachery?”

  Neither man responded, which actually pleased Behrouz—it was better for everyone to keep things simple. A rabbi had gotten demanding last week, and the only person to benefit in the end was a reconstructive dentist. Behrouz decided there was no more to be said. Just as he was about to leave, a scrawny dog padded into the courtyard. The mutt made a beeline for the two interviewees, but before it could identify a master the squat sergeant lashed out and kicked it with a heavy boot.

  The dog yelped, and it was the rabbi who reached out to the cowering creature.

  “Sit still!” the sergeant barked at the rabbi.

  The dog skittered away with a limp that may or may not have already been there. Behrouz stepped closer, his face etched in a new severity. He put out an empty hand, and the sergeant filled it with the thick baton from his belt. Behrouz slapped the nightstick once in his palm, then whipped around and struck the sergeant a savage backhand blow to the head.

  The man fell like the brick he resembled. He was still for a time, then groggily began to roll back and forth. Two of Behrouz’s other minions watched from a distance. Neither moved, clearly unsure how to react.

  “We are not animals,” Behrouz muttered under his breath.

  Ten minutes later they were all back in the sedan, the woozy sergeant in the backseat next to Behrouz. He rubbed the side of his head, his expression asking, What was that for?

  Behrouz only said, “Did you get everything?”

  The answer came from the front seat, a man with a stack of papers and files in his lap. “Yes, enough to keep us busy for days.”

  Behrouz nodded, silently wondering if they had that much time. The baton was still in his hand, and he dropped it into the squat sergeant’s lap before addressing the driver. “All right then, headquarters—quickly!”

  * * *

  They woke with the sun, at this latitude not a few minutes of glory but a process of hours, light feeding the eastern sky in a slow burn. Slaton didn’t want to move, but a look at the clock brought reality down like a hammer. It was nine-fifteen, and Janna Magnussen’s seaplane would be splashing down in the nearby cove in less than two hours.

  He got up and looked out the port window. The weather was cooperating, high clouds and good visibility. Slaton didn’t know whether to be happy or disheartened. He began cooking breakfast, wondering what was appropriate for a prenatal menu. He knew Christine needed to eat: for her health, for that of their child, and perhaps most importantly, to instill a sense of normalcy.

  Once breakfast was on the stove, and with Christine stirring slowly, Slaton ran his eyes over the tiny cabin. He began checking cupboards and compartments, and found what he was looking for in a portside utensil drawer. At the back, wrapped in a piece of oilskin, a .38 revolver. He had seen a single bullet yesterday in another drawer, and so he knew it was here. He wanted something better than the .22, yet when Slaton inspected the piece it was a disappointment. With difficulty, he pried the cylinder open and saw that the gun wasn’t loaded. He tried to work the firing mechanism but it had long ago seized. The gun was crusted in rust, and probably hadn’t been used in ten years, maybe twenty. Even with a good cleaning it would be unreliable, and a weapon in such condition was worse than none at all. It was a distraction, a thing you might be tempted to trust in a critical moment.

  He climbed to the top of the companionway steps and was about to toss it into the sea when he heard, “What are you doing?”

  Slaton turned.

  Christine was staring at him, as beautiful as ever with bent morning hair and bleary eyes. He stepped back down into the cabin and showed her the weapon. “I’m polluting—heavy metal into the marine environment. They can add that to my rap sheet.”

  She frowned at the gun. “Please get rid of it.”

  He did so, a neat fling out the hatch that ended in a decisive splash. She came closer, but just as Slaton moved in for an embrace, Christine turned and rushed to the marine head, flinging the door closed behind her. He heard her retching.

  He waited at the door, and when she came out he succeeded in getting his arms around her the second time. She was tense and rigid.

  “What can I do to help?”

  “It will pass,” she said. “I should try to eat something.”

  Ten minutes later he slid a plate on the table, scrambled eggs and toast, and next to it a pot of coffee. He gave her the lion’s share, only to watch her spin her fork aimlessly in the center of the plate.

  He said, “Yesterday we were talking about options. Aside from staying here, you asked what else we could do.”

  “And?”

  “I’ve had some time to think. There may be a way out. To begin with, we can’t sit here. Sooner or later we’ll be found.”

  Her eyes cast down. “I know.”

  “There might be a way to make everything work—but I can only do it from Geneva.”

  Her gaze snapped up. “Geneva?”

  He hesitated. “If I go there, if I start that process … maybe I can find an opening, some other way. But it has to begin there. And I’ll need your help to pull it off.”

  “My help?” She cocked her head uneasily. “What do you want me to do?”

  He gave her what was essentially a mission briefing, details he’d nailed down in the silent hours as he’d laid awake and held her. “It probably won’t work exactly as I’ve said, but do what you can, improvise. None of it should be dangerous, but if you see something you don’t like, anything at all, just go to the authorities.”

  “Is a wife protected from testifying against her husband in Sweden?”

  “Probably. But it doesn’t matter. Go ahead and tell them the truth. There’s only one thing I need you to hold back—tell them you don’t know where I’ve gone. The rest is in your favor. They’ll threaten to prosecute if you don’t cooperate, but that’s only a bluff. The worst thing you’ve done is take this boat, and your reasons were justifiable.”

  “How encouraging.” She locked her eyes to his. “But you haven’t told me what you’re going to do.”

  “It’s probably better you don’t know.”

  “I don’t think you even know.”

  “Not exactly.”

  There was a pause as she weighed it all. “All right. Once again I will trust you, David. But you have to promise me one thing in return. Tell me you will not go through with this assassination. Tell me you’re only going through the motions in order to find a better way.”

  “It’s not that simple to—”

  “Yes, it is! It’s just that simple—don’t kill anyone!”

  He let out a deep breath. “I can only promise one thing. I will do whatever it takes for you to be safe. I will get you and our child out of the mess I’ve created.”

  After a long stare, Christine turned away in silence.

  * * *

  Their last minutes together were awkward as Slaton gave a crash course on tradecraft. That he was schooling his newly pregnant wife, in the little time they had together, on methods to evade authorities was a sorry reflection on the capsized state of their marriage. Christine listened tensely, rarely asking questions.

  “You’ll need a place to stay,” he said. “Is there someone in Stockholm you can trust?”

  “Ulrika Torsten. She’s a doctor, a friend from residency. She lives in town and we ha
d dinner together the first night I was in Stockholm.”

  “Was it just the two of you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who knew about that meeting?”

  “Her husband, I suppose.”

  “Anyone else?”

  She glared impatiently. “The waiter.”

  “Please—where does she live?”

  “The east side I think, near…” she hesitated, “I don’t know. But David, she must know the police are looking for me. Aren’t I a ‘person of interest’ or something?”

  “You were a witness to what took place that first day on the Strandvägen. But that investigation has probably become secondary. Bloch is in the hospital, and the other suspects are…” he paused.

  “Dead?” she offered.

  “The police will want to interview you, Christine, but there’s no manhunt under way. Not for you—I’m the one they’re after.”

  “I don’t like bringing Ulrika into this, David. She’s married. She has a child.”

  “So do you.”

  He took a hard glare.

  “Christine, you won’t be putting anyone at risk. All you need is a place to stay for a night or two. Would she do it?”

  She crossed her arms sullenly, but relented. “If I can think of a good lie about why the police want to question me … yes, probably.”

  Slaton checked the time. “All right, I have to go. Do you have any questions?”

  She laughed nervously.

  He gave her a serious look.

  “No, no questions.”

  He brought her close and held her, and she responded. He felt her contours, and felt her hands grip his shoulders. Slaton drew in Christine’s familiar scent with her head buried in his chest. He sensed a mutual desperation, a veil of uncertainty—neither knew when such a moment would come again. Or even if such a moment would come. She pushed away abruptly.

  With edged words, Christine said, “I will do what you ask. I will lie and steal because I love you and there is no other choice. But know one thing, David Slaton. Everything you did for your country—I can leave that in the past and not pass judgment. But I will not allow you to do harm in my name, or worse in our child’s.”