by Ward Larsen
He turned on his phone and saw that Ingrid had called. His finger hesitated for a moment, but then he tapped to return her call.
She picked up immediately.
“Hello, Ingrid.”
“Arne, thank God! Where have you been?”
Sanderson thought she sounded rattled—something he had rarely witnessed in their years together. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Is it Annika?”
“No, no, she’s fine. It’s you.”
“Me? What do you mean?”
“Arne … Paul Sjoberg came to see me this morning. He was contacted by Dr. Samuels. You’re not well.”
“Tell me something I don’t bloody know. As soon as I’m done with what I’m working on I’ll—”
“Arne, you fool, will you just listen for once! You’ve got a tumor in your brain!”
FORTY-EIGHT
Christine spent the night at police headquarters undergoing a battery of coffee-fueled interrogations that tested her stamina, not to mention her resolve. In the end she gave up nothing about David’s whereabouts. At the stroke of six in the morning, on the verge of exhaustion, she told them she was pregnant, a fact that Sjoberg had apparently not forwarded to the interrogators. It was a blatantly self-serving use of her intimate condition, but seemed to do the trick. Two hours later Commissioner Anna Forsten of the Swedish National Police came to see her. She explained that criminal charges would be considered, but were not imminent. Christine was free to go, but asked to remain available for further questioning in the coming days. To emphasize this final point, her passport would be held by the police.
From there Christine went straight to Saint Göran Hospital. After a phone introduction from Dr. Ulrika Torsten, she was taken by the supervising critical care nurse to Anton Bloch’s room. There she hit another roadblock in the form of a plainclothes security man who might have been Stockholm police or, more likely, she thought, the Swedish equivalent of the FBI. Two phone calls later, Commissioner Forsten authorized Christine’s admittance, reasoning that she was the patient’s only known acquaintance in Stockholm. Christine suspected more self-serving motives, and she noticed the guard at the door watching closely as she took a seat next to Bloch’s bed.
He was breathing on his own now and, according to a nurse who came and went, the operation had been a success. The patient, however, had yet to regain consciousness. Even asleep Bloch looked his gruff, serious self, and it seemed comforting in an oblique way. She settled into a bedside chair, ready to keep vigil over the man who had put his life on the line to save hers. She had an urge to take his hand, and when she did Christine sensed a shift in the guard’s gaze.
That will be in the report, she thought.
The chair’s soft faux leather took its hold and she began to relax. She wondered what David was doing right now. He was in Geneva, of course. Lying, cheating, stealing—all the things he was trained to do. But would he take the last step? Would he kill? He had done so before many times, always in the name of his country. But now?
It struck her then, as she pushed back and molded into the soft cushions, that she had put David in an entirely untenable position. On one hand he’d been threatened, told that his wife and child would never be safe unless he carried out one last assassination. But if he went through with it, she had promised to leave him. For the first time Christine put herself in David’s place. She asked herself that same question. Would she kill a man to protect her child? Chillingly—and without hesitation—the answer came.
Oh, David. What have I done to you?
She closed her eyes tightly. The room was cool and quiet, the only noise being the rhythmic beep of a vital signs monitor. Sleep-deprived and queasy, confused and exhausted, Christine put her free hand to her belly. Soon she was fast asleep.
* * *
Sanderson sat under the chestnut tree for a very long time. On the lake sailboats heeled against a stiff breeze as they scythed through sun-flecked water, and Mont Blanc was clear in the distance, two colorful hot-air balloons hovering near its black-granite base. As he watched the crowds stroll the sidewalks, it struck Sanderson that nearly everyone seemed oblivious to the glorious morning around them. A couple arm-in-arm were too distracted by one another. A woman carrying groceries was consumed by her chore. And the elderly man shuffling with his duck-handled cane? Yes, Sanderson thought. He’s the one who’s seeing it.
Ingrid had talked for half an hour, telling him what he needed to do and who he needed to see. He was glad about that, not because of what she’d said, but simply to have someone there to say it. He would need her in the days ahead, and not for the first time labeled himself a fool for ever having let her go. He promised her he’d come home right away, knowing he wouldn’t. Sanderson did, however, take the time afterward to check tomorrow’s flight schedule. This in itself—the consideration of a flight—he saw as a clear admission of the gravity of his situation.
Thirty-five years a policeman, Arne Sanderson had witnessed more than his share of misery, and so he was well versed in the five conceptual stages of grief. He also knew he would not bother with them. Denial of facts was not in his nature, and anger he thought self-defeating. He might eventually bargain with God for salvation, but right now had more pressing matters to deal with. And depression? Sanderson thought.
Please.
So it was, he moved directly to acceptance. Sanderson even imagined, in a triumph of positive thought, that his affliction was an advantage of sorts—would it not be easier to chase a dangerous assassin as a man with nothing to lose? So with the throb at the base of his skull acting as a constant reminder, he forced himself to get on with the business at hand. Just as he’d been doing for thirty-five years.
The pastry had been quite good, and he went back to the confectionary and bought another, along with a large white coffee. Calorie counting, he decided, was going to get a holiday. Sanderson set back out on the sidewalk at a measured pace with his hands full of sugar and a gun in his pocket. He scanned faces in the shadows of trees shedding yellow, noted untended vehicles in windswept alleys, and eyed the cold lake as chestnuts crunched under his feet. It was noon on Sunday.
If his thinking was right, he had eight hours in which to find Edmund Deadmarsh.
* * *
Christine sensed movement, and she opened her eyes to find Anton Bloch staring at her. It was a weary, medicated gaze, but his recognition was obvious.
She smiled. “Welcome back.”
He blinked, as if a grin was too much effort.
Christine kept to protocol and immediately summoned a nurse, who in turn put through a call to the attending physician.
“The doctor will be here in a few minutes,” the nurse said. In English she asked Bloch how he was feeling, and got a grunt in return. She then began tending his IV.
Bloch kept his gaze locked on Christine.
“I want to say thank you,” she said. “I know what you did for me. For David.”
“Da … David?” he rasped. “Where?”
She cocked her head, then gave him a knowing nod. “You’ve been out for quite some time. Today is Sunday, October 20.”
She watched him think about it, and could almost see the slumbering synapses connect—a calendar date in his head highlighted in red. This time it was Bloch who reached out and took her hand in his. Christine felt him squeeze.
FORTY-NINE
At seven that evening Arne Sanderson was sitting on a large rock—not by choice, but simply because that was where he’d been standing when his legs buckled ten minutes earlier. That his body was failing was not unexpected, but he did rue the timing. Another few hours was all he needed.
He was stranded, rather symbolically, near the Feu des Pâquis, a hundred-year-old lighthouse situated at the tip of a jetty that clawed into the lake just east of the main docks. The lighthouse was fashioned in a quaint octagonal design, and had once been used for commercial shipping, a point Sanderson had gleaned from a discarded tourist brochure. Today
, however, in the world of GPS and computer-coupled navigation, the old relic served as little more than a photographer’s backdrop, backlit and plastered with enough coats of white paint to make the original structural members redundant. Sanderson, of course, had not gravitated here to take pictures. After some deliberation, he had deemed the jetty the best vantage point available—a place with negligible foot traffic, and a commanding view of the docks and surrounding harbor.
He’d spent the entire afternoon roaming the area, walking more miles than he had in years. In an age of instant messaging and data sharing, the art of patient observation was a fading discipline, but Sanderson knew it well. Much of what he’d seen so far was predictable. Uniformed Swiss police were making an obvious showing, and pairs of swarthy men, Iranians no doubt, tried unsuccessfully to be discreet. He’d made a good survey of the nearby rooftops and balconies, although he reckoned that if Deadmarsh was truly competent—and Sanderson suspected he was—the man would not make things so simple.
He remained convinced that the U.N. building would be too difficult to breach, and his afternoon-long study of the waterfront only added to this conviction. From a defensive standpoint the lakefront was too busy to manage properly, too open and public. At any given moment there were hundreds of people, hundreds of vehicles, all moving in a flow that would be impossible to monitor, let alone neutralize. A simple drive-by shooting at the foot of the dock was a distinct possibility, he reckoned, but the most intriguing weakness involved the boats in the harbor. As Sanderson looked out now, in the half-light of the calm evening, he saw a dozen craft of varied sizes and utilities, their red and green navigation lights a snarl of unpredictable movement.
Yes, he thought, that’s how I would do it.
For the sixth time he tried to stand. His legs protested, but began to comply. Then, just as he leaned forward to gain momentum, a bolt of lightning shot through his skull. Arne Sanderson sat back on his rock and cursed.
He would have to wait a little longer.
* * *
From behind a grand podium Ibrahim Hamedi raised a blunt finger to make his final point:
“And in conclusion, let us remember this. In the Middle East today only one nation has a nuclear arsenal poised for delivery. Though it has never been admitted, the state of Israel is alone in this destabilizing course. Such recklessness casts a shadow across the region that cannot be ignored. Were it not for this, her peace-loving Arab neighbors would have no need to even consider such a capability.
“I tell you today that the intent of Iran’s nuclear ambition is honorable. Yet the same cannot be said of the Zionist state and her Western supporters, all of whom keep massive nuclear stockpiles as they complain that others should never be allowed to follow in their steps. This is the path of folly. As a scientist, I can say with authority that technology knows no geographic or political boundaries, and it moves in only one direction—forward. Knowledge is the great equalizer, and it cannot be governed by political cabals any more than the rising of the sun or the movement of the stars. As I speak to you today, Iran does not possess the capability to undertake a long-range nuclear strike. But should she ever choose to do so, it is a matter that will be determined by science and effort, not the self-serving crusades of others.”
Hamedi backed away from the podium and struck a defiant pose that was instantly caught in the flash of expectant strobes. His facial expression, soon to be echoed in all the world’s media, was something close to a scowl. The subsequent applause was mixed at best, the Iranian delegation clapping fervently against what otherwise might be characterized as crickets.
Hamedi descended to the floor of the assembly hall, and was immediately flanked by his security detail. He began shaking hands along a somber receiving line of men in well-fit suits and women in sedate over-the-knee dresses. Names were mechanically pitched and caught, and then forgotten with equal ease. His friends from academia lingered near the end, a group who clearly employed a different couturier, and here Hamedi found his warmest greeting—the simple enthusiasm of old friends. Nevertheless, he was not allowed to linger.
Reporters spouted a few questions, as was expected of reporters, and Hamedi summarily ignored them, as was expected of dignitaries. For twenty-three minutes Iran’s chief designer made the rounds before ducking his head into the second of four sturdy cars at the side entrance. With two motorcycle policemen blocking traffic, and a helicopter overhead, the motorcade shot onto Avenue de France, turned right, and accelerated south.
* * *
The man clad in black scaled the underside of the bridge slowly, transferring his weight carefully and keeping the rifle high and out of view. He used a simple wooden plank to bridge the girders, clearing one span at a time and then sliding the plank forward to the next gap. The end result was a completely invisible approach, save for anyone who was actually underneath the bridge, and when he reached his desired perch the assassin made sure the board was secure and left it in place.
He looked down and saw his firing position—a flat steel beam three feet wide, with a flange on one end that would perfectly support his forward hand. He supposed there had never been a more stable shooting platform on earth. The assassin checked his gun one last time, ensuring that nothing had been damaged or altered during his traverse. He then glanced at his watch. Six minutes, more or less. He would begin his vigil in three. That was when he started taking chances. Logically, once he lowered himself to put his eyes on the target area, it meant that others could put their eyes on him. But in this he felt secure, confident that the bridge’s dark shadows would grant him the few minutes he needed. The only way they will see me, he thought, is if they know exactly where to look.
He breathed deeply and tried to relax, his muscles tense after the awkward positioning maneuver. As he waited for his target to appear, the man pulled out a stick of chewing gum and popped it into his mouth. By feel, he then reached back with his hand to put the wrapper in a side pocket.
* * *
“There!”
Behrouz stiffened when the warning came through his earpiece. He pressed the bud to his ear.
“Under the third span!” the same voice said over the tactical frequency.
Behrouz was standing on Entrepreneur’s gangway as guests arrived en masse for the ship’s departure. He whipped his head around and looked intently at the bridge.
The irritated voice of the tactician in charge bristled over the frequency, “Who is reporting? Use your call sign!”
“Six! This is position six! I saw something fall from the third span. It was tiny, but there was definitely something. I think I saw movement there too, in a small gap.”
Another voice, “Position four—I saw it as well. It could have been a feather.”
“Should we intervene?” asked the commander over the radio, his taciturn voice making any use of his own call sign redundant.
He was posing this question to Behrouz, and there was a heavy pause on the frequency as everyone waited for an answer. Behrouz had seen nothing himself. He looked anxiously at his watch—the motorcade bringing Hamedi would arrive in a matter of minutes. Yes, he thought, it was just as Rafi had said: A lone assassin will shoot from underneath a bridge … two hundred meters away.
“Yes!” Behrouz barked into his lapel-clipped microphone. “Do it!”
The commander gave the order.
Six men materialized in less than a minute. Two came from a car parked at the northern foot of the bridge. Another two had been circling as tourists, disposable cameras now dropped to the street. One was tending a skiff moored to the quai, and the last had been changing a tire on a rented bicycle. In an assault that had been mapped out hours ago, they all reached the support span in the allotted sixty seconds, and soon were dropping over the sides of the bridge from six different angles. Behrouz heard torrid chatter on the radio, and his eyes padlocked on the base of the bridge.
The first shots were muted—the Iranians had committed to sound suppressors in
order to keep the Swiss authorities out of things as long as possible. The response was not so quiet. An explosion of rifle shots shattered the night.
“Two is down!” came a call on the radio.
More shots.
“Target moving west!”
Another voice, “Four is hit!”
The next round of unsuppressed fire was answered with a nearly continuous volley of muted shots. Behrouz saw a black shadow fall from the underside of the bridge and land in a heap on the concrete buttress ten feet below. The body began moving, crawling to get away, until a final barrage finished the job. The black-clad figure went still.
“Target is hit! He’s down!” came the commander’s breathless voice.
Soon Behrouz saw his team—the three that were left—surround their target. The final verdict crackled to his earpiece. “We got him!”
The commander of the tactical team was soon at Behrouz’s side. “It is done,” he said. “The area is secure and the Swiss police have been notified. Three of our men were hit, but two are still alive. We’ve called for ambulances.”
Behrouz saw a police car on the bridge, and then another. A pair of the local gendarmerie had already made their way to the understructure and were shining flashlights on the dead assassin. Sirens blared in the distance, and Behrouz heard a new voice in his earpiece.
“Two minutes from the curb.”
The transport detail. Hamedi’s arrival was imminent.
He could divert the motorcade, of course, send the problematic scientist to the safety of the nearby hotel. But that would be like admitting defeat. He watched a pair of men who could only be Hamedi’s colleagues—thick glasses and unkempt beards—present their invitations to the armed guards at Entrepreneur’s gangway. They seemed completely oblivious to the carnage at the nearby bridge.
