Assassin's Game

by Ward Larsen

  He was waiting for the door to slide open when the maid he’d encountered earlier turned a corner. In an awkward moment they locked eyes only a few steps apart. Slaton smiled to put her at ease, and then blew out a long and heavy breath, adding a mock look of exhaustion.

  “Madame Dupre,” he said conspiratorially. “Un formidable appétit.”

  The maid’s face broke into a look he couldn’t quite place—something, he reckoned, between astonishment and delight. Then the elevator arrived and the kidon was gone.

  * * *

  Sanderson arrived back at his hotel wet and exhausted, having spent a wretchedly inclement afternoon scouring the United Nations complex and the shores of Lake Geneva. From a park on the southern bank, his chin tucked against a heavy drizzle, he had watched the yacht Entrepreneur arrive in all her glory. From the busy sidewalks and pedestrian bridges beyond, sloshing through puddles and getting splashed by passing cars, he had studied a thousand faces. Not one was Edmund Deadmarsh.

  He was passing the hotel’s front desk when a clerk called out, “Monsieur Sanderson.”

  “Yes?”

  “We have received a package for you, an overnight delivery.”

  Sanderson walked over and took a small but solid package. “Thank you.”

  He went to his room and locked the door before opening the book-sized parcel. Unzipping a packing strip, he opened the flap and pulled out what he’d been waiting for—his service SIG Sauer 9mm. He hadn’t carried it regularly in years, but once each quarter he cleaned and oiled the weapon, and exercised both the action and his marksmanship at the firing range. Sanderson had not taken the time to explore Swiss regulations regarding the importation of weapons, but he was surely violating some kind of law in having it sent here. He was equally confident that the shipment of a single handgun, particularly by overnight express, had a miniscule chance of being detected. Not surprisingly, the SIG had slipped through.

  He found the loaded magazine separate, and Sanderson confirmed that the chamber was empty. He seated a magazine with the butt of his palm, racked a round into place, and set the gun on the nightstand feeling much better about things.

  Ingrid had done well.

  * * *

  The call came at ten o’clock that night, Evita’s mobile rattling loudly as it vibrated on the nightstand. She silenced it quickly and waited, but her husband’s snoring didn’t even change cadence—he’d passed out nearly an hour ago after what was clearly a hard evening session with “the boys.” When she saw who was calling, Evita eased out of bed and took her phone into the kitchen.

  “There you are,” she said in a hushed voice. “It seems like such a long time. I’ve missed you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Zacharias said. “I’ve been busy. Very busy. Things are progressing rapidly at work. But I think I can get away for a time. Are you free tonight?”

  “Yes,” she said quickly, trying for breathless anticipation. Then for good measure, “I’ve been longing for you, darling.”

  They were together less than an hour later in their usual suite.

  Evita let the little man lead, as she always did. Indeed, this was how she’d hooked him that first night at the opera house—knowing he had season tickets, and knowing his wife was out of town caring for her ill mother, and standing coquettishly by the refreshment stand at intermission, doe-eyed and cleavaged and flashing glances until he moved to her. They had skipped Wagner’s second act that night to talk in a quiet corner of the mezzanine balcony. Zacharias had taken command of the exchange, dropping occasional hints of his loneliness, but speaking more directly about his high position with Mossad. On that first encounter his oblique stories of intrigue and daring had left Evita’s mouth set in a perfect letter O, a shape that, during the tedious third act of Verdi’s Rigoletto three weeks later, she mirrored under the crisp cotton sheets of the Isrotel Tower Hotel with a very different end in mind.

  Now, twenty minutes after falling into each other’s arms, Zacharias lay spent next to her on the bed, their usual wine-laden courtship having been discarded in a frenzy of ripped buttons and tangled elastic.

  Afraid he might drift to sleep—he usually did—Evita said, “You seem stressed tonight, my dear. More than usual.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said with a heavy sigh. “But tomorrow it will all be over.”

  “The assassin you spoke of? He is going to strike?”

  He nodded drowsily.

  “How so?” she prompted.

  Zacharias told her.

  When he was done she massaged his hairy shoulders, soft, gentle circles that kept up until he was fast asleep. Evita dressed quickly, but took the time to leave a salacious note on hotel stationery, ending with her lipstick-pressed signature of a full kiss. She was then quickly out the door.

  Shortly after, a phone rang in a decrepit hotel on the south side of Saida, Lebanon. After a brief conversation, a relieved Rafi hung up and immediately dialed a second number.

  * * *

  Just after midnight in Geneva, Farzad Behrouz stood on the balcony of his suite pulling a French cigarette to its bitter end. The view was impressive—best if one stood at the outer left edge—but nothing like that of the connecting suite. The balcony to his left gave a sweeping panorama of the city, a million-dollar vista that on this weekend was going completely to waste. He saw the French doors shut tight, drawn curtains backlit by a bulb burning over the desk. Does the man ever do anything but work? Behrouz wondered. He tried to recall if he had ever seen Hamedi when he wasn’t hunched over a computer or shuffling through papers. Behrouz, of course, was often consumed by his own undertakings. Yet Ibrahim Hamedi seemed different. And Behrouz, in a long-honed instinct, did not trust men who were different.

  He knew a great deal about the scientist. He knew Hamedi was heterosexual, although he had not dated since returning to Iran. He wore a size ten shoe, spoke fluent German and English, and had a scar on his left hip from a scooter accident when he was a teenager. This was all in the records. Yet there was something else that escaped Behrouz, a hidden force that drove the man. He thought he might know what it was, but had been unable to find proof. Indeed, proof of such a thing might not even exist. How to substantiate the blackness of a man’s soul?

  Behrouz shifted his gaze toward the city, the ominous shadows that were the Alps looming over pitched rooftops in the moonlight. He stabbed the butt of his cigarette into a tumbler just emptied of a sharp twelve-year-old Scotch, and was skimming his eyes over the lake when his phone vibrated.

  “Yes?”

  “She has done it!” came the eager voice of Rafi.

  “Where will it happen?”

  “Please understand, this is valuable information. We have put ourselves in considerable danger to acquire it, and perhaps it is worth more than our agreed upon—”

  “Tell me this instant!” Behrouz hissed. “Otherwise it will be worth your life!”

  A pause, then, “The Jews will attack tomorrow night. On a dock at the lake, in front of a large boat. A lone assassin will attempt to shoot from underneath a bridge—I don’t know the name of the bridge, but it is two hundred meters away.”

  Behrouz stood stunned for a moment, then spun a half circle and saw it right in front of him—the bridge to his right, the first of the spans that overlaid the mouth of the Rhone. From there to the dock, two hundred meters? Yes, he thought, that must be it.

  “What else?” Behrouz said impatiently. “Did she give a time?”

  “No. Only that it will happen tomorrow night. If this is not precise enough I could ask her to make another contact. But that, of course, would involve further risk. I am sure she will demand more money.”

  “No!” Behrouz insisted. “Your whore will make no further contact. Not unless I direct it. If she seems too eager it will raise suspicion. Her target may be decadent, but he is not a fool.”

  Rafi began to say something else, again involving money, but Behrouz only ended the call. He suspected that none of the money he
’d paid so far had gone to the spy. No woman gave herself as this one had for money. She was acting on passion—love, hate, revenge. He pocketed his phone and studied the dock and nearby bridge. Leaning on the balcony rail with a perfect perspective, Behrouz lit another cigarette, and after a long draw began to design his countermove.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Somewhere in the distance, in the rising hills that watched solemnly over Montreux, a church bell rang nine times to bring the third Sunday of October to its tranquil beginning.

  Slaton allowed himself a late rise, and though he’d slept eight hours, it was with the deficit of refreshment that came from sleeping inches removed from a loaded gun. He went to the window and was happy to see improving weather—yesterday’s rain had cleansed the skies, and a sharp autumn breeze snapped at the twin rows of canton flags beneath his window and put a light chop on the lake’s cobalt surface. He ordered breakfast in his room, bid the server a courteous good morning, and assured the young man that there was nothing he could do to enrich monsieur’s stay.

  In a rare allowance, Slaton pulled back the curtains and sat with a reaching view of the lake, his long legs straight and heels crossed on the tiled windowsill. With level eyes he charted the lake as he dug into the heavy tray, mental sketches and checklists gone over one last time. No attempt was made to savor the meal, the only important thing being to fill the void in his stomach with enough dense protein to carry the day.

  When he was done Slaton dressed warmly, and in the Prada bag he packed one extra set of clothing, the cash remaining after his sorry night at the tables, and the Glock and spare magazines. The Swiss identity card and passport of Natan Mendelsohn he pocketed. Everything else Slaton left where it was—clothes hanging in the closet and toiletries strewn about the sink. In three days’ time, when Krueger’s reservation ended, it would all be rounded up by the housekeeping staff to languish in the hotel’s lost-and-found for a matter of months before eventually being donated to a worthy charity.

  At the front desk the luckless Monsieur Mendelsohn made inquiries at the concierge station, where an attractive Italian woman, improbably named Victoria Ferrari, was happy to help. He requested recommendations for a route by which to tour the Savoy wine region of eastern France, and a well-versed Victoria said she would gladly help him set an itinerary. He smiled as she highlighted her favorite vineyard tours, and she blushed when he suggested lightly that she might join him, and soon Monsieur Mendelsohn was turned toward the door with a map in hand, clear directions, and a not disinterested Victoria wishing him a pleasant day’s journey.

  On clearing the parking garage, Slaton pointed the Rover toward the A9, but there turned away from the French border, instead pressing south toward Lake Geneva’s far shore. He kept an eye out as he drove, knowing that one last purchase remained, a chore he had intentionally deferred to this afternoon. It would be his largest expenditure yet, but with over fourteen thousand Swiss francs in hand he expected no difficulty in concluding a sale.

  Nearing Valmont, Slaton turned left, away from the lake and into steeply rising terrain. He stopped once at the side of the road to drop the passport and identity card, which bore the only high-resolution pictures of him he knew to exist, down a secluded storm drain. He continued to Les Avants, swept briskly through the village, and on the far side steered the Rover away from the main road to ride a gravel offshoot that roamed into thickening forest. Soon he was navigating switchbacks, curving left and right though rolling hills, the compass on the dashboard spinning wildly but keeping in sum an eastward vector.

  The timber seemed to rise taller with every turn, and gravel became dirt, but the Rover showed its heritage and kept a firm footing on the shoulderless and rutted road. He did not see another car for two miles, and after a particularly steep rise Slaton began scouting the sidings for a dry clearing. He made his choice and drove slowly clear of the trail, taking care to not hang the differential over a ditch or bend the chassis on a hidden boulder.

  Satisfied the vehicle was well hidden, he put the Rover in park and went to the tailgate. Were he of the mind to appreciate the view he would have seen that the lake was presented differently here, framed by stands of pine and fir, and footed by a valley of grass still clinging to the green of summer. Slaton noticed none of it, nor did he register the altered breeze coming strong off the lake, a northwest flow sweeping in from France and rising on the uneven Alpine upslope. His focus was absolute as he opened the tailgate, locked it in place with a pin, and with the wind lashing his hair began to assemble his assault.

  * * *

  Paul Sjoberg was not typically a man to work on Sunday morning. But this wasn’t really work.

  Stepping from a cold rain, he shook the water from his umbrella under the portico of a grand home on Skånäsvägen. It reminded him of a house where he had once attended a fund-raiser of some sort, although the details seemed a blur. Then again, he might have thought the same about any of the well-tended mansions along this placid waterfront street. Not seeing a doorbell, he lifted a ridiculous iron ring that was hooped through a lion’s nose and knocked it against the striker plate. It made a good racket, and Sjoberg struck three times in quick succession, mist spraying from his cuff with each beat.

  Ingrid Sanderson—if that was the name she still used—answered moments later.

  “Oh…” she stammered, “hello, Paul.”

  “Hello, Ingrid. It’s been a long time.”

  “Yes, hasn’t it?” She suddenly went ashen, the way policemen’s wives—even policemen’s ex-wives—did when grim-faced supervisors came unexpectedly to their door. “Oh, God! Don’t tell me it’s Arne.”

  “No, no,” he said quickly. “Or actually, yes, but not like that. Nothing dire.”

  She looked at him guardedly.

  Beyond her Sjoberg saw the innards of an opulent mansion, the kind of place in which policemen—even assistant commissioners—did not find themselves without either an invitation or a search warrant.

  “You have a lovely home,” he said.

  “Oh, how rude of me. Come in if you like. But I have to warn you—I’m not sure if my husband is presentable yet.”

  “Actually, Ingrid, I just need a minute of your time.” Sjoberg retreated a step. “A private word, perhaps?”

  Ingrid looked back into the house, then pulled an overcoat from a hook near the door. She wrapped it round her shoulders, stepped outside, and shut the door quietly.

  “What’s this all about?” she asked.

  “You didn’t return my call.”

  Her eyes cast down to the well-polished Italian marble. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Arne isn’t returning them either. He’s turned off his phone and I can’t find him.”

  “Has he done something wrong?” she asked.

  “No. He’s on leave—it’s a medical issue. Has he told you any of this?”

  “Yes, I saw him a few days ago. He said he’d quit, and that you and he had had a row.”

  “We did. But that’s over and done. Arne and I have always had our differences, but I have a great deal of respect for him, both as a policeman and a person. Ingrid … I spoke with his doctor yesterday. Arne is ill, very ill. He needs to see a specialist right away.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Sjoberg told her.

  “Dear God, no. How bad is it?”

  “They won’t know until they get in and do a biopsy.”

  She seemed to stiffen. “Paul, do you think … do you think he might know about this?”

  “I don’t see how. His doctor and I have been trying to reach him for days, but he seems to have taken a run after this killer we’ve all been hunting—which is another reason I’d like to talk to him.”

  Sjoberg saw a woman who was visibly shaken. She almost seemed to age right there in front of him, her back more bowed, her face coming drawn.

  He said, “Please, Ingrid. If you can reach him in any way, tell him to come home. He needs to see a doctor. That’s th
e only important thing—the rest we can manage.”

  He turned to leave.

  “Paul—” she said.

  He turned.

  “Thank you.”

  Sjoberg nodded, then raised his collar and opened his umbrella, and stepped once again into the wet morning.

  Back on the porch Ingrid stood gripping the door handle. She made no effort to turn it—it was more a matter of connecting herself to something steady when she realized what she’d done. Her ex-husband was ill, perhaps terminally. Certainly despondent.

  And she had just sent him a gun.

  * * *

  Sanderson began Sunday morning studying the layout of the United Nations Office at Geneva. Unlike yesterday, he saw tight security at every corner of the fortress-like building, and he was sure things were equally tight within. A routinely inviting target, the U.N. building would undoubtedly have fixed screening stations in place to inspect everyone who entered, a well-monitored surveillance system, and a security force that was well versed in the perils of hosting presidents and prime ministers. After an hour, Sanderson reprimanded himself for wasting as much time as he had. For a lone assassin to make an attempt here would be absurd. If Deadmarsh was going to strike, he decided, it would be at the waterfront.

  Sanderson contemplated walking but he was feeling awful, and so he hailed a cab and collapsed into the backseat with yet another terrible headache. Reaching into his pocket he found a bottle of over-the-counter painkillers, but a quick shake told him it was empty. He dropped it onto the seat wondering, When did I use the last of it? The driver negotiated light weekend traffic, and Sanderson found himself scanning the sidewalks. He saw no familiar faces. All the same, the heavy SIG was a comfort in his pocket.

  He was light-headed when he got out of the cab on Rue de la Cloche, his feet feeling as if they were made of lead, and a short flight of steps nearly got the better of him outside Chapel Eglise Emmanuel. Deciding he ought to eat something, Sanderson bought a pastry and container of juice at a confectionary on the esplanade, and gratefully took a seat on a retaining wall in the shade of a chestnut tree on Quai Wilson.