Assassin's Dawn

by Ward Larsen

  He checked his phone and saw a recent message: Bloch asking him to call.

  Needing a more discreet location for that conversation, Slaton set out along the coursing Alzette River.

  * * *

  The regional police commissioner for the City of Luxembourg, Paul Fournier, hung up his desk phone and crossed his hands on his blotter. In all his years with the department, never had he seen a murder case spin through such wild machinations in the space of twenty minutes. He closed his eyes and replayed the orders he’d just been given, searching for some escape from what felt like a vice being torqued shut.

  There wasn’t one.

  He had been behind the commissioner’s desk for three years, a mostly satisfying tenure punctuated by moments of sheer dread. And that was where he was now; facing a dictate from on high to insert himself into a very fresh murder investigation. An investigation that had, in the space of an hour, gone off rail of its own accord. Disreputable as it seemed, he began to think more positively; in a sense, the two matters could be viewed as mutually absolving. He’d been given license to wash his hands of the entire affair.

  A buzz from his receptionist broke his dismal line of thought. “Yes?” he said, activating the intercom.

  “Chief Inspector Bausch to see you.”

  Of course he is, Fournier thought dismally. His fingers drummed his desk for a beat, before he said, “Yes, send him in.”

  Bausch walked in with a noticeably uneven gait. Beneath an amateurish bandage, his nose was swollen to the size of a lemon and a massive welt dominated one side of his head. Fournier had gotten a brief report on the altercation in the interrogation room, but he hadn’t grasped it was this bad.

  “Good Lord!” he remarked. “What the hell happened down there?”

  The detective sat gingerly in one of the opposing cushioned chairs. He said something in a muddled, nasal voice, but Fournier couldn’t understand a word. Before he could say as much, Bausch pulled a bloody wad of cotton from his mouth and said, “The bitch hit me when I wasn’t looking.”

  The commissioner studied him. Bausch had given him trouble before, but nothing on this scale. “It’s only fair to tell you what I’ve heard,” Fournier began. He explained the version of events he’d been given by the two-bar who was the first to enter the room when the woman started screaming. When he was done, the commissioner said, “She claims you tried to sexually molest her.”

  The face behind the bandage scrunched in anger. “She’s a liar!” Bausch launched into a very different version of what had happened behind the door. In effect, he maintained that a woman barely half his size had attacked him viciously and without warning. Fournier had already sent another detective—a female—downstairs to take the woman’s statement. He would eventually compare the stories, but expected major discrepancies. That prospect, combined with the orders he’d just been given, made the original murder investigation seem all but an afterthought.

  When Bausch finished, Fournier leaned forward over his desk. “Jean-Claude, more than once in the past I’ve backed you through violations of protocol.”

  “Do I not get results?”

  Fournier’s eyes narrowed.

  “The girl did it!” Bausch insisted. “She’s the one who shot Tayeb!”

  “I don’t think so. Nor does the interior minister.”

  “What?”

  “I just got off the phone with her. She has gotten involved in the case.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the prime minister ordered her to.” Fournier told him about Israel’s involvement; about an exonerating video in which the suspect could be seen leaving Tayeb’s room while he was still alive. “Not long after that, someone disabled the camera by obscuring the lens.” He let that hang discomfortingly.

  “Videos can be faked,” Bausch said weakly. “Or she might have come back.”

  “All true,” the commissioner replied. “And detectives can be put in jail. Your own involvement in this case is at an end. You can expect an investigation from the internal affairs division.”

  Bausch looked as if he might explode. “What about the girl?”

  “We’re taking her statement regarding the altercation. After that, I’ve been instructed in no uncertain terms to release her.”

  “Release her? Based on a video? If the Israelis can hijack a security system like that, certainly they’re capable of doctoring footage.”

  “I assure you all that will be looked into. In the meantime, our hands are tied. The Israelis claim to have persuasive evidence that other factors are at play, and they’ve committed to assisting our investigation into Tayeb’s death.”

  Bausch shook his head dismally. “And in exchange, we release our primary suspect?”

  “We’ve instructed her to remain in the city. We’ll hold her passport to be sure of it.”

  “It’s a forgery. If she can get one, she’ll get another.”

  The commissioner’s gaze canted upward, weighing how much to share. Even though he was removing Bausch from the case, his initial work would be critical to those taking over. “Israel has assured us she’ll stay put. More to the point, they have evidence suggesting that Moussa Tayeb was not your garden-variety accountant. It appears he was acting as the financial manager for an extremist terrorist group. Our government has been trying for years to keep a distance from such individuals. On top of that, another suspect has come to light.”

  “Who?”

  “We think his brother is in the city.”

  “His brother?” Bausch remarked.

  “Ramzi Tayeb—one of the most sought-after terrorists on earth.”

  “You’re saying this man, Ramzi, came here to kill his brother?”

  “That remains to be seen. But what’s clear is that wherever Ramzi Tayeb goes, people tend to die.” Fournier was ready to end things. “Go to the hospital and get looked at properly,” he said, gesturing to Bausch’s face. “After that, get back here and coordinate with Jardine, he’s taking over the case. And as for the fiasco in the interrogation room—I want your written statement on my desk first thing tomorrow morning.”

  16

  Bausch was fuming as he left the commissioner’s office. He walked down the hall to looks that ranged from curiosity to pity. He at least had a good excuse for leaving the building.

  He set out east from headquarters, in the general direction of the nearest clinic. He crossed the river into Gare, and headed toward midtown and the municipal park. Bausch turned into the park and took a seat by a churning circular fountain. The constant rush of splashing water was ideal for defeating directional listening devices. Signals security was achieved through the burner phone in his overcoat pocket.

  His call was picked up almost immediately. “Yes?”

  “They know you are in the city.”

  “How?”

  “The Israelis told them.” Bausch heard a muted curse, followed by a long pause. He said, “The girl I arrested for your brother’s murder—they’re letting her go.”

  “What? How could that be?”

  “The Jews again. They claim she’s innocent.”

  “Is there nothing you can do?”

  “It’s gone far above my pay grade,” Bausch admitted.

  After a long pause, “Where are you now?”

  “I’m on my way to the clinic in Gare. A minor injury,” he said, not mentioning that his balls were aching and he’d been pissing blood. “I should be back at the station in an hour or so.”

  “What about the girl? When will she be released?”

  “They’re taking multiple statements, so it won’t be quick. Two hours at least, maybe more. I plan on having a word with her before she goes.”

  Bausch heard a muttered response. “What?” he said.

  The line went dead, and Bausch was left staring at the cheap plastic handset. He cursed under his breath. It had been a mistake to get involved with these people. The good news: that association was clearly at an end.


  He got up gingerly, yanked down on the crotch of his pants, and limped off toward the clinic.

  * * *

  In a tiny hovel across town, a lean and neatly dressed man pocketed a similar phone. The room was a dump, four hundred square feet of yellowed linoleum beneath a few beaten pieces of furniture. The air reeked of mold and insecticide—the latter proved by the countless skeletons of dead roaches along the baseboards.

  The Grand Duchy of Luxembourg took pride in being among the wealthiest and safest nations on earth. Even the most verdant capitalist utopias, however, harbor pockets of destitution. For Luxembourg, the epicenter of suffering was a quarter mile along Rue de Bonnevoie. And even amid that decrepit lineup, the building in question was a slum.

  Ramzi Tayeb, of course, had seen far worse.

  For years he had pinballed endlessly through Gaza and Beirut, rarely spending more than two nights in the same place. And after ten months in Syria at the height of the war? The flat on Rue de Bonnevoie was nothing short of a palace. Most of the building’s other occupants came from Eastern Europe and the Balkans. Some were here legally, others awaiting asylum requests. A few were completely off-the-books, and the overwhelmed bureaucracy of the microstate was happy to turn its head. Luxembourg needed waiters, pipe fitters, and delivery drivers to sustain its burgeoning economy. Where those workers had entered the world hardly mattered.

  Having spent most of his life in such warrens, Ramzi was perfectly comfortable. He knew how to fit in, how to avoid eye contact and feign linguistic incompetence. He also knew this was a place where virtually anything could be had. All around him were people who knew how to wire money, knew where to get a throwaway phone with the latest encrypted messaging apps. Best of all, they knew how to mind their own business.

  Ramzi had not booked the room himself—his close support network always made the arrangements. His people kept contacts throughout the Middle East and Europe. Rooms, food, cash, phones, weapons. Whatever a particular stay required. Now, after two days, it was time to move.

  He went to the bathroom and studied himself in the scratched mirror. His features would easily blend in locally, vaguely more Northern European than North African, this thanks to a grandfather with German blood and strong genes. His clothes were clean and fit well: khaki pants, long-sleeve polo shirt, a casual dark blue jacket. At a glance, more button-down salesman than hair-on-fire jihadi. His lean face had cleaned up nicely. A fresh shave put on display his strong jawline and high cheeks. Shaving was not his preference, for religious reasons, but defensible when doing the work of Allah. His black hair had been shorn by a barber down the hall—a displaced Senegalese who worked out of the kitchen of his flat. He’d done a decent job, and even provided a bit of foundational makeup to blend the lighter skin that hadn’t been exposed to the sun. By the image in the mirror, Ramzi might be a teacher at a small college, or perhaps a civil servant at some minor government ministry. Or even an accountant like his brother.

  His brother …

  He made one last check in the mirror. Neither the Glock 19 beneath his jacket, nor the blade sheathed to his back beltline, positioned for a strong-handed grip, were visible. His advance team had done well, acquiring everything he needed.

  He’d come to Luxembourg for one reason: to become more involved in the financial dealings of the organization. The lawyer who for years had shrewdly managed The Front’s business affairs was retiring. A new, younger man was taking over, and Ramzi saw it as a chance to insert himself, to take control of those parts of the organization he’d long left to his brother. Now he had no choice.

  Moussa’s death was sobering, although not unexpected. How many friends and extended family members had Ramzi seen martyred? He’d long sensed his brother’s ambivalence toward the cause; even reluctance, at times, when the work jeopardized his soft life. He always suspected Moussa would have been perfectly happy as a legitimate accountant, an office in central Paris and regular August holidays. Still, however grudgingly performed, his brother’s work had enabled Ramzi to guide the tip of the spear. His loss would be mourned.

  And also avenged.

  He went to the bed, and from the void beneath the mattress extracted an elongated box. The picture on the box was suggestive: a tension pole lamp, brushed bronze frame with three white globes. The lamp lay accordioned in the corner, three pieces connected by a wire—he’d never bothered to assemble it, but he imagined the room’s the next occupant would put it to good use.

  He lifted the box, which was heavier now than it had been, and tucked it securely under his left arm. Walking to the door, he felt no impulse to stop and reminisce about his time here—when one never spent more than a few days in a place, it was all but impossible to develop attachments. He left such sentimentalities to others, to the sheep of the world.

  Ramzi locked the door, walked downstairs, and stepped out into a bustling city.

  17

  Among Luxembourg’s more eccentric attributes was that a large portion of its professional workforce commuted into the country each day. They came by car and by train, from France, Belgium, and Germany. So great was the influx that each evening the city’s population was cut by nearly a third. It made for a hectic city center on workdays.

  For that reason, Slaton sought refuge for his call to Bloch.

  He found it quickly in the relative quiet of a corner coffee shop. To keep up appearances, and also because he was famished, he ordered a large coffee and a ham sandwich at the counter before slipping behind a high-top table in a neatly carved alcove. He slammed down half the sandwich before impatience got the better of him.

  It was rare for a Mossad director to personally manage an ongoing mission, but given the scale of misadventure unfolding in Luxembourg, Slaton had no trouble getting through.

  “Have you got anything new on Ramzi?” he asked without preamble.

  “David, our priority has to be …” Bloch’s voice trailed off, his thought process interrupted. Slaton suspected he knew why—the Mossad-issued phone he was using was transmitting location data.

  “Where are you?” Bloch asked.

  “I think you know.”

  “I gave you a direct order to leave the country! I expect you to—”

  “No,” Slaton said, cutting off his boss in a low but sharp tone. “We’ve been looking for Ramzi for years! We can’t get this close and not follow up.”

  “We? Are you telling me you’ve gone back for God and country?”

  “My objectives and Mossad’s are in perfect alignment. Motivation is irrelevant.”

  “The information on the laptop is not definitive—it only implied Ramzi might be in Luxembourg. That’s not enough reason to throw yourself back in the fray. The foreign minister is contorting himself trying to clean up this mess.”

  “Whatever the mess, it’s not one of our making. We broke into Moussa’s room and hacked a computer. That was our mission. We’re not responsible for his death.”

  “The police in Luxembourg aren’t convinced—and it’s hard to blame them.”

  Slaton wanted to move on. “Do you have anything more on Ramzi’s whereabouts?”

  Bloch hesitated, then said, “We’re working on it. Until we hacked into Moussa’s laptop, our analysts were confident he was in Gaza.”

  “With all respect, he’s been two steps ahead of your analysts for years.”

  “I am still wondering who disabled the camera.”

  “My money is on Ramzi,” Slaton said.

  “He is a murderer of the worst sort, but to kill his own brother? We’ve never seen evidence of friction between them, and in their own ways each was indispensable to al-Qassam Front.”

  “Not indispensable. Terrorist organizations are hydras—cut off one head and another appears.”

  “Perhaps, but I wouldn’t get hopeful about finding Ramzi in Luxembourg. If he did kill his brother, he wouldn’t remain in the city. If someone else did, Ramzi would sense a threat. Either way, he is likely halfway back to L
ebanon or Algiers by now.”

  Slaton felt as though he was caught in a dreadful eddy, a vortex pulling him down. The idea that the man who’d killed his family might be near had been intoxicating. Yet Bloch was right. If Ramzi had come to Luxembourg, he now had every reason to flee. “It’s a valid point,” he admitted.

  “Since you’ve ignored my orders and gone back, I might as well put you to good use.”

  “How?”

  “Our foreign ministry is deeply involved in Anna’s case. They’re trying to keep this operation from blowing up in our faces. The interior minister of Luxembourg has agreed to release her.”

  “When?”

  “Sometime later today. She’s being held at police headquarters.”

  “I’ll meet her as soon as she gets out. I can escort her to the French border and—”

  “No! I don’t want you anywhere near Anna. The police are looking for you as well, and I’m tired of begging for favors to get my operatives out of jail. Go to ground, find somewhere very quiet and stay out of sight. I want an asset on the ground until Anna is out of the country. But you are not to intervene in any way. We’re still going over the files on the laptop and they may provide leads. Money managers, bankers, hawala merchants. Ramzi, or someone in his orbit, will have to reestablish those contacts to keep the money flowing.”

  “All right, I’ll stay out of trouble.”

  “Why does that not fill me with confidence?”

  Slaton allowed a thin smile. “Trust me, Anton.”

  He ended the call, and immediately switched to the map on his phone and began studying the layout of streets around the main Luxembourg police station. It was near the river, separated by a stand of urban forest. Across the street were apartments, and farther on a minor stadium, home to a local soccer club. From where he sat, it was a twenty-minute walk.