by Ward Larsen
In his room he showered, shaved for the first time in two weeks, and finally, standing at the bathroom door in fresh clothes, made his last assessment of the day—the layout of his suite. Long convinced that simple precautions were the best, he pushed a Queen Anne bureau across the floor until it was positioned eighteen inches from the door. It was the only way in, other than a flush window with no balcony and a five-story drop. The door might give to a stiff kick, but the dresser would serve as a secondary impediment, perhaps giving a few extra seconds in a worst-case situation. The configuration also lessened the chances that he would shoot any ill-mannered members of the housekeeping staff who forgot to knock. Defensive aspects aside, the gap was also wide enough for him to leave in a hurry should the need arise. Moving to the bathroom, Slaton rotated the door fully open, flush against the interior wall, to create the thickest available cover position. His jacket went on a hook by the door, but otherwise he remained fully clothed, including his shoes. The keys to the Rover, all his cash, identity documents, and two spare 9mm magazines were stowed in the usual pockets.
At the end of a productive day, Slaton drew in a long, soothing breath as he approached the bed. There, and on the adjacent nightstand, he found printed cards advertising Internet service, bedsheets, bottled water, room-service breakfast, and the last suggesting how best to handle his bath towels in an environmentally friendly manner. It occurred to Slaton that there was a person somewhere whose principal duty in life was to compose, print, and distribute such material. He tried to imagine the serenity of leading such a routine and unfaceted existence.
Then again, he thought, maybe being an assassin isn’t so bad.
Slaton swept the advertisements into a stack on the nightstand before stretching out on one side of the king-sized bed, the Glock near his right hand, safety off. Tomorrow, Saturday, October 19, would be a busy day. He willed his muscles to relax, ignored the thrum of traffic from the street below, and with the casino’s spotlights carving through silk window shades, Slaton drifted into what he knew would be a fitful night’s sleep.
* * *
Sanderson remembered to set the alarm and it went off at seven o’clock sharp. He was happy to wake knowing where he was, but on rising felt dizzy, and the all-too-familiar throb at the base of his skull had returned. Breakfast and a shower did little to help, and he tried to ignore it all as he went to the hotel desk and requested a cab to take him to CERN.
For nearly fifty years the European Organization for Nuclear Research had been centered in Geneva. It was where the most accomplished physicists in the world attempted to deconstruct the universe, an undertaking Sanderson presumed did not recognize weekends or holidays. He directed the cab’s driver to take him to the primary complex, a place called Meyrin, and settled in for a long ride, reasoning that anything called “The Large Hadron Collider” had to be situated well clear of population centers. He was wrong. Two minutes after passing the international airport, the driver was holding out his empty hand.
The outer facade had an industrial appearance, and could easily have been taken for a computer chip or smartphone factory. Sanderson took the direct approach, walking straight to the main entrance through a light drizzle and again portraying himself to be with Interpol. To the guard at the security desk he presented his list of six names, and was informed that yes, one was on site today, a senior researcher by the name of Dr. Ernst Hamel.
Two phone calls and fifteen minutes later, he entered building 40, a structure evidently conceptualized by its architect to represent something in the subatomic regime, although Sanderson could not say what. A large central atrium was ringed by multiple floors of office space, doubtless to suggest a rising column of knowledge. He was guided to a glass-walled conference room where the senior scientist could barely be seen behind a table stacked with lab equipment and books. Hamel strode across to greet Sanderson, clearly having been forewarned, and the two men exchanged pleasantries. He was tall and lean with a well-groomed beard, and there was a directness in his gaze Sanderson instantly liked. His wrinkled lab coat was worn at the sleeves, no doubt from countless hours behind a keyboard, and mounted on the wall behind Hamel was a dry-erase board ten feet long that seemed to be filled with a solitary, never-ending equation, the kind of thing Sanderson would not understand if he spent the balance of his life trying.
“Yes,” Hamel said, “I worked with Hamedi for a time in Hamburg. A brilliant man. Is Interpol still worried about him?”
“Still?” Sanderson queried.
“I was interviewed shortly after he left for Iran, the usual nonsense. Did he have any political leanings? Did he frequent particular mosques? I said it then and I’ll say it now—he was a good man, brilliant, and very hardworking. I don’t think we ever once discussed politics or religion. He was Muslim, of course, but it wasn’t something he pushed on others. Hamedi had an expansive bookshelf in his apartment, one that we combed through together many times—I never saw anything more extremist than a copy of the Koran.”
“Actually,” Sanderson said, “my reason for being here is more forward-looking. We have reason to believe that an attempt could be made on Dr. Hamedi’s life during his visit to Geneva this coming weekend.”
“I see. Yes, that is a concern.” Hamel clasped his hands tightly behind his back. “I did hear about the attempts in Iran—you know, all that business with the Israelis. It’s not the kind of thing my peers and I usually have to deal with. But you think he could be at risk here, in Switzerland?”
“Our information is not exactly concrete, but we must err on the side of caution.”
“Of course.”
“Tell me,” Sanderson said, “will you be attending Hamedi’s presentation tomorrow?”
“Yes. Dr. Michel and I worked closely with Hamedi in Hamburg and we were planning to go. But given what you’re telling me now—perhaps we should skip the speech and be satisfied with the reception.”
“Reception?”
“Surely you know about it—afterward, on the yacht?”
“Of course,” Sanderson played. “But I’d like to hear what details have gotten out.”
Hamel fished through a pile on his table and came up with an invitation that looked as if it had been printed from an email. He handed it over and Sanderson saw a picture of a yacht named Entrepreneur, along with a schedule for a reception involving an evening cruise that would take place immediately following Hamedi’s speech. 8 p.m. to 10 p.m. Hors d’oeuvres and wine, live entertainment.
“Yes, we’ve had a close eye on this,” Sanderson said. “By your understanding, who will attend this event?”
“It looks a big enough boat, but all I can tell you is that ten, perhaps twelve of us from CERN have been invited. Two or three of Hamedi’s old colleagues from Hamburg are coming as well, I think. And the U.N. people, of course—the chief weapons inspector and his staff. I’m sure the Iranians will have a delegation.”
“Oh yes, you can be sure of that,” Sanderson said. For ten more minutes he cast questions at Hamel, but caught nothing more of interest. Sanderson bid the professor a courteous good-bye and rode the elevator down buoyed by his results. His next step was obvious, and at the entrance he called for another cab and was soon on his way to the waterfront.
For the first mile Sanderson found himself scanning the sidewalks for another glimpse of Edmund Deadmarsh. He forced himself to stop. It was like expecting lightning to strike the same spot twice. He settled back into the seat and turned on his phone, hoping for salvation from Elin Almgren. He found six messages, three each from Blix and Sjoberg. “Good Lord!”
With two quick touches Sanderson deleted them all. He turned his phone back off.
* * *
Blix knocked on Sjoberg’s office door and was waved in.
“Have you been able to contact Sanderson?” Sjoberg asked.
“I’m afraid not, sir. I keep getting his voice mail.”
“Yes, I’ve been getting the same. But let’s keep tryi
ng. What else?”
“I’ve had a busy morning. Our technicians were finally able to isolate the engine noise in the background of those mobile calls Deadmarsh made. They’ve confirmed the acoustic signature as being from a Lycoming.”
Sjoberg stared dumbly across his desk. “What the devil is a Lycoming?”
“It’s an engine that has only one use—small aircraft.”
Sjoberg thought about it. “So he dropped those mobiles from an aircraft?” The assistant commissioner rose from his chair and stood looking out the window. “The ferry ticket in Styrsvik, the ATM here. He’s been leading us a merry chase, hasn’t he?”
“It would appear so. As soon as I saw this I sent a man out to the air traffic control facility at Arlanda. I thought we should go back and try to identify the airplane.”
“Yes, that’s good. Any luck?”
“I’m afraid so,” replied a hesitant Blix. “The supervisor there knew exactly what we were looking for. She said it was a seaplane, based down in Oxelösund—even had the name of the charter company before our man asked.”
“How did—” Sjoberg stopped mid-thought. He slammed an open palm on his desk. “Sanderson, the bastard!”
“I’m afraid so. The woman at Arlanda confirmed it. He’s got a three-day head start on us.”
Under his breath, Paul Sjoberg cursed like the sailor he’d once been. Seeing a case that was deeply in arrears and falling more so, there was only one option—damage control. He dispatched Blix to Oxelösund to pursue the lead on his wayward detective. The sergeant had just left his office when the phone rang.
“Sjoberg.”
“Paul, it’s Anna Forsten. Christine Palmer has turned up. Apparently she was admitted to Saint Göran late last night. Get over there as soon as you can.”
There was a click before Sjoberg could even reply with his own embarrassing revelations. He rushed to the door and ripped his coat off the hook.
FORTY-THREE
Entrepreneur was a stately presence as she slid to the dock, her sleek white lines a pretty picture on a lake that was made for them. Even darkened skies and steady rain could not dampen her showing, and as her port side nudged the pier along Quai du Mont Blanc, Farzad Behrouz looked on intently while five deckhands in crisp white uniforms secured mooring lines. He already knew a great deal about the ship. He knew that she measured one hundred and thirty feet along the waterline, a custom hull cast by Benetti, the well-known Italian shipbuilder. He knew she’d been carted here, all eight hundred tons, in an undertaking that had involved four trucks, two road closures, and six months’ worth of permitting. On an alpine lake in landlocked Switzerland, the vessel was a monument to excess, but then, Behrouz supposed that was the point. To her owner—and he was the only one who mattered—the ship had to be an ideal accouterment for the business of light music and martinis on Lake Geneva.
Standing on the dock under a wide umbrella, Behrouz was surrounded by a contingent of eight men, and as soon as the gangway was lowered they set to their mission. The captain was at the rail to greet them, but the Iranians ignored him as they shoved their way aboard, although one man—Behrouz knew him to be the group’s comedian—snapped a ridiculous open-handed salute as he passed the skipper. Behrouz was watching his team begin their inspection when his phone trilled.
He saw who it was and thought, It’s about damned time!
“You had better have good news,” he said.
“I am trying,” came the delayed voice of Rafi. “But no, nothing yet.”
Behrouz bristled. His body went rigid and his face warped in anger, but he could think of nothing to say. He had already threatened the Lebanese in every conceivable way. He had promised to cut off the man’s Hezbollah ties, his money, and finally parts of his intimate anatomy, all without result. So Behrouz said nothing. He simply ended the call and stood fuming, glaring up at a dreary sky as a swirling drizzle spackled his coarse black hair.
So lost in fury was the security chief that he did not notice, a hundred yards behind him, a tall and clean-shaven man who slipped quickly between the stone flowerpots of the Hotel Beau Rivage and disappeared inside.
* * *
Dr. Christine Palmer knew hospitals well, and those in Stockholm were like any other. She waited until her nurse had cycled through on her regular rotation, then got out of bed. She’d been admitted overnight for observation, but her diagnosis was a relief for an expectant mother—the pain in her upper abdominal region was no more than an aggravation of the injury she’d sustained from her leap across the harbor a week ago. A broken rib, possibly, but this could not be verified by X-ray since her pregnancy test had come back positive. She was still in pain today, but reckoned that the hospital was done with her. The reason she hadn’t been discharged likely had more to do with the police. She had not seen them yet, but since she’d given her true name when she was admitted, Christine knew it was only a matter of time.
She peered into the hallway but didn’t see her nurse. Still dressed in a hospital gown, she spotted a wheelchair across the hall, which she thought might draw less attention than simply ambling down the hallway. She was one step out of her room when she heard, “Going somewhere?”
To her left was a fair-skinned man with graying blond hair. He said, “I’m Assistant Commissioner Paul Sjoberg, Criminal Investigation Unit of the Stockholm police.”
“It’s about time,” she said. “Where have you been?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“That’s a long story.”
“I have all morning,” the policeman said.
Christine pointed toward the chair. “I wasn’t going to leave, if that’s what you’re thinking. I believe I have a friend on another floor.”
He seemed to consider this. “Perhaps we could go see him soon. But first, I think we should talk.”
Sjoberg put her in the wheelchair, and then pushed her back into her room. He took a seat on a yellow visitor’s chair so ugly it would have looked at home in any hospital in the world. He said, “I’m not sure where to begin. This interview ought to take place in a proper room at headquarters—you can expect that soon. But right now time is critical. I want to find your husband. He is your husband, isn’t he?”
She nodded.
“Are you aware that he killed two men here in Stockholm?”
“He told me that was—” Christine hesitated, then, “let me start at the beginning.”
And she did, a recap much like the one she’d given David on Bricklayer. She followed with a brief account of her exploits since their split at the island of Bulleron. She said as little as possible about David’s activities since arriving in Sweden, and nothing at all about his past. After fifteen minutes Sjoberg asked the question she knew was coming.
“Where is he now?”
Christine closed her eyes and took a deep breath to brace herself. This was the question David had predicted. And the one he had asked her not to answer. It wasn’t the first time he’d put her in an awkward position. Would it be the last? Would the lies ever end? Once again David’s past was drawing her in like the relentless pull from a black hole.
She shook her head.
The policeman’s teeth clenched behind tight lips. “But you do know where he’s gone,” Sjoberg said accusingly.
A nod this time.
“You should be aware of your position, Dr. Palmer. You are admitting to me that you know the whereabouts of a suspected killer. To not give this information leaves you subject to prosecution. A woman in you condition, expecting a—”
“Don’t you bring our child into this!” Christine snapped with a vitriol that surprised even her. “I may have done wrong, and possibly my husband, but the child I am carrying is no part of this!”
Sjoberg turned and took a few steps away, chin on his chest, hands clasped behind his back. He finally turned and issued what had to be his most severe gaze. “You are making things worse for everyone, your husband included. I’ve talked to
your doctor and he tells me there’s no medical reason for you to remain here at Saint Göran. That being the case, I’ll insist you come with me to headquarters for a proper interview.” After a long pause, his tone lost some of its authority. “But before we leave, perhaps we should go see your friend—if you still want to.”
Christine nodded to say she did.
Sjoberg guided the wheelchair through two halls and an elevator, ending at the window of a critical care room. A uniformed policeman was standing guard at the door, and behind wire-fenced glass Christine saw Anton Bloch. He had a breathing tube and multiple IVs, and his chest rose and fell rhythmically to the post-operative tune she knew all too well. It was a sad sight, but a victory of miracles compared to her last vision of him—bleeding and lifeless on a concrete floor. He also seemed pale and drawn, to the effect that he seemed to have aged years in the last week. In a curious thought, it occurred to Christine that she had met a number of Mossad field operatives, and none were near Bloch’s age. Was it because few survived that long? Those left standing, by default, became management? A good question for David when I see him again, she thought. If I see him again.
Having allowed her a few moments with her thoughts, Sjoberg finally said, “You know who this man is, don’t you? Or perhaps I should say, what he once was?”
She nodded, once again preferring motions to words.
The policeman leaned down and put his smooth face in her peripheral view. “Dr. Palmer, I don’t know who your husband is. I don’t know what he’s trying to accomplish. But I fear if it continues, he will end up like the man we’re looking at—or worse.”
Christine didn’t reply right away. As she stared at Bloch she felt her chin quiver, felt her eyes began to water. But then she was revived by something else. Trust. David had never let her down, and she had to trust him now more than ever. Buoyed by that, she looked Sjoberg firmly in the eye.
“No,” she said, “I will not tell you where he’s gone.”
FORTY-FOUR
