by Ward Larsen
He quickly downed the rest of his sandwich, then purchased a refill on his coffee. He struck out south, swerving through the crowds, his eyes watchful and wary behind wraparound shades. It felt like a new operation, different from yesterday, and he knew why. No comm, no coordination, no pre-mission briefing. Slaton was no longer running a team of operatives.
For however long it lasted, he was running solo.
18
Bausch was feeling better. Having represented himself as a policeman who’d been injured in the line of duty—a stretch, but that’s what he’d told the receptionist at the busy midtown clinic—he had been put straight to the front of the line.
A nurse worked on his nose for an agonizing few minutes, then cleaned things up, applied a better bandage, and gave him something for the pain. A doctor inspected the bump on his head, his traumatized testicles, and made him piss into a cup. His opinion, in the end, was that no lasting damage had been done. With all that out of the way, they told him to go home and get some rest.
As if, Bausch had thought miserably.
It all took an hour. As soon as he stepped outside, the clinic’s antiseptic scents were replaced by crisp evening air. The falling sun cast long shadows across the urban landscape. In the distance he saw Place des Martyrs, the memorial park renowned for its intricate topiaries, and beyond that the entrance to Am Tunnel, once an underground portal to the city’s ancient fortress, now a gallery of contemporary art.
His mood began to brighten. As he set out along Avenue de la Liberté, in the direction of police headquarters, his pain meds were kicking in. He decided it was time for damage control. He needed to find Jardine and get the latest on the murder investigation, and also come up with a plausible story for what had happened in the interview room. Bausch had not quite reached the first intersection, his thoughts locked on a fantasy of delivering a right cross to the blonde’s pretty face, when a bullet flew through his heart.
At base, Bausch was an instinctive detective, and he’d once been quite good. As he began falling, he knew right away what had happened, his brain outpacing the shock and pain. Strangely, what flashed into his mind were Valerie German’s words from that morning as she stood over Moussa Tayeb’s body.
Never knew what hit him.
In that instant, Bausch knew perfectly well what had hit him.
Excruciating pain short-circuited his brain, yet as the sidewalk came at him in what seemed like slow motion, Bausch managed one last conscious thought, a wistful thread of hope: he had been shot within steps of a very capable emergency clinic.
As it turned out, where he fell was irrelevant. The placement of the bullet, combined with its caliber, put survival out of the question. Jean-Claude Bausch was dead ten seconds after he hit the pavement.
* * *
There were few complications in a spy’s life that couldn’t be resolved with hard cash. Slaton was sure that by now his photograph, likely a poor image lifted from a security camera, was being circulated by the police. There wouldn’t be much push behind it—he was wanted only tangentially, having been in the company of a murder suspect who was about to be released.
That in mind, he took simple countermeasures. At a tourist shop near the stadium he purchased a souvenir baseball hat with the Duchy’s coat of arms, and also a windbreaker with a hood that could be reversed—dark blue on the outside, gray within. His wraparound riding sunglasses remained in place. He also bought a blue-and-red scarf with the logo of Paris Saint-Germain, the famous French soccer club. The local team’s gear had been on sale, following a dismal season, but Slaton didn’t want to engage fans regarding a team he knew nothing about. The scarf went into his makeshift backpack, an option for change if needed.
Once the police headquarters building came into sight, he began fine-tuning his reconnaissance—maps on phones were good for orientation, but they lacked the detail necessary for tradecraft. The building was isolated, bordered on two sides by residential buildings and hemmed in by minor roads on the other two. In the distance, he saw the towering light fixtures of the soccer stadium, and he wondered if there was a game this evening. With night fast approaching, Anna might be released after dark. If so, the floodlights would be a dominant factor.
The idea of loitering in the residential areas seemed fraught with complications, so he gravitated to the sidewalks around the stadium. The playing field remained out of sight, bordered by a fence and high hedges. Outside that perimeter, a sidewalk ringed the facility. He cast a casual look over his shoulder. He’d seen no one following him since leaving the river, but even so, having reached his destination, Slaton ran a basic surveillance detection route, making a few abrupt turns and doubling back once. At the end, he was confident he was alone.
All he needed now was a quiet place to wait.
* * *
Anna had no idea what was going on behind the scenes, but she’d been told she would be released soon. Unfortunately, the bureaucracy had its way. She was fingerprinted a second time and a photograph was taken. A representative from the department’s internal affairs division went over her statement regarding the altercation with Inspector Bausch. She signed three waivers, and met with a woman who introduced herself as a “victim advocate.” Anna assured the woman she bore no psychological trauma from the event, nor did she have any inclination to file a complaint or a lawsuit. She just wanted to get the hell out.
At one point she noted a burst of activity around the station, and she caught word that an officer had been shot somewhere downtown. The reaction was predictable: outrage and calls for an overwhelming response. Things calmed after that, and she was finally placed into the custody of a man from the interior ministry who led her to the exit. Nearsighted and officious, his name was Ducrette, and when they reached the front door, with freedom a mere thirty feet away, he stopped her for one last word.
“You are not to leave the city for ten days,” he admonished. “That is our agreement with your government. If you attempt to leave in that time, immigration charges will be brought against you. Israel has agreed to honor these conditions.”
She frowned at the little twit. “Sure. Can I have my passport back now?”
He reached theatrically into his inner lapel pocket, but his hand came out empty. It looked like a bad magic trick. “That will be returned in ten days.”
Anna spun on a heel and walked away.
19
Slaton had set up watch from a tree-lined path outside the stadium that had a good view of the police station’s main entrance. He’d circled the headquarters building once and determined the only other non-emergency exit was a side door connecting to the parking garage. From where he sat he had a good view of the garage access gate, meaning the only way he could miss Anna was if she left inside a vehicle. He decided that wasn’t likely, and anyway, something he couldn’t control.
The drizzle had stopped but was forecast to return. That could add restrictions to visibility, bring out more umbrellas and jackets, people scurrying on the sidewalks. Slaton never stopped weighing contingencies.
He shifted his vantage point at regular intervals, and was presently set up on a stone bench near a stand of trees, pretending to text on his phone. Smartphones had become a virtual subcategory of tradecraft. They offered cameras for still images and videos, communication with team members, moving maps. Best of all, it was perfectly natural to loiter anywhere as if lost to the surrounding world. With one eye on the distant police station, Slaton kept his head in the familiar downward tilt, the hood of his jacket pulled over the baseball cap. People passed on the sidewalk with barely a glance. Hopeful squirrels skittered to his feet, only to leave disappointed.
The sun was setting behind broken clouds. He had looked up events for the stadium and discovered that a game was indeed scheduled tonight: the club’s youth team was in action at eight o’clock. He assumed it would bring a sparse crowd, and at seven thirty sharp the big lights behind him snapped on to take over for the sun. A trickle of spe
ctators began arriving on the sidewalks.
His vigil on the double doors across the street never wavered.
* * *
At 7:51 Slaton saw Anna emerge. He was an expert when it came to identifying people—he’d gone through exhaustive training and his eyesight was exceptionally sharp. He didn’t need any of that. Anna Altman stood out naturally.
She looked at ease, her long-limbed stride relaxed, a few strands of blond hair catching the breeze. He watched her pause momentarily at the curb to get her bearings, then strike out south. She was headed toward him, just as he’d predicted. Virtually all forms of transportation—bus stops, a train station, and open curbs for ride sharing—were in that direction.
Slaton began moving. He took up a reciprocal course on the opposing sidewalk, cutting the gap with every step. His intention was to get within a hundred feet, then pause to stand out. Let her see him. He wanted nothing more than eye contact, to give her the assurance that he was nearby. Watching over her.
* * *
Walking away from police headquarters, Anna thought the air felt like freedom itself. The wind was gentle and she saw a light mist gathering in the distance. The people around her looked busy, purposeful, and for the most part, happy. The idea of ten days in Luxembourg, on the verge of spring, didn’t seem particularly onerous. There would be little to do—the odd phone call, perhaps an interview or two while diplomacy ran its course. She would ask Mossad to put her up at a decent hotel. Not Le Cristal—certainly not—but something along those lines. She’d earned that much.
She set out with no immediate destination in mind. The police had returned her purse, minus the Beretta and her forged documents. But she had a bit of cash and her phone was inside—it had gone dead, probably thanks to the police going over it. They wouldn’t have found much. It was a Mossad-issued device, and the agency, once they realized she was in custody, would have remotely wiped clean all but some basic information. Anna decided the best thing now would be to find a coffee shop or a restaurant, somewhere where she could charge her phone and make a call to headquarters. Maybe a nice cup of half-caf.
She was nearly to the first intersection when a silhouette on the far curb caught her eye. On the tall side, baseball cap, sunglasses at dusk. Instantly familiar. He was looking at her directly, but otherwise expressionless.
Anna smiled.
David didn’t. To do so would mean breaking cover.
Immediately she understood. She might be off the hook with the authorities, but he was still at large, an unknown entity. He would have to keep his distance. All the same, he was telling her he was here. The comfort was undeniable. As soon as she had her phone up and running, she would find a way to contact him.
Anna had paused on recognizing Slaton. Now, understanding what he was telling her, she half-turned and set back out. She was nearly to the first crosswalk when the bullet struck her in the chest. It was the same caliber round that had killed Inspector Bausch hours earlier. Delivered from the same rifle. Sent by the same killer. Right then, Anna didn’t know any of that.
There was, however, one monumental difference in the outcome: when she hit the pavement, Anna was still alive.
20
Slaton flew across the street on a dead run. He threw up a hand to stop an oncoming car and it screeched to a halt, his hip bouncing off the fender with the aid of a straight-arm. His head was on a swivel, searching for the shooter. The sound of the shot had almost been lost to the roar of a passing garbage truck. Almost. Being a sniper himself, however, Slaton was an expert at identifying such sounds.
He kept running. Four nearby people had already stopped, more stunned than helpful, forming a thin circle around a woman who’d collapsed on the sidewalk. None sensed the imminent danger. They knew she was injured but didn’t understand why. Didn’t realize a man with a gun was nearby, possibly lining up his next shot. For Anna it was a thin defense, random bodies creating a human shield.
One man had the wherewithal to pull out his phone and call for help.
Slaton leapt over the curb to reach the sidewalk where she lay. “Get out of the way!”
He knelt by her side, saw a bloody wound beneath her left clavicle.
Her blue eyes were wide. Stunned and afraid.
“It’s going to be all right, Anna,” he said in a level tone.
He gently pulled the top of her blouse open to expose the damage. The wound was big and ragged—an exit wound. The shooter had been behind her. And now was behind him. Slaton glanced over his shoulder into a shadowed island of trees, realizing he was ignoring the first rule of combat medicine: Ensure you are in a safe position.
Another man in the crowd pulled out his phone. “Call 112!” Slaton shouted. Wherever you operate, always know the emergency number. More bystanders appeared. Slaton barked the same order to everyone. He wanted ten phones calling for help, twenty if he could get it. He wanted the police to come swarming out of their fortress with heavy weapons, a dozen ambulance sirens approaching. Was the shooter still in place? Settling his sight? Slaton tried to concentrate on Anna, but felt like he had a target on his back.
“Help is on the way,” he assured her.
She met his gaze and nodded. She was still lucid.
His training kicked in—the next minutes were critical. Her airway was intact, her breathing choppy. The wound was oozing blood, but he saw no pulsing to imply arterial involvement. He pulled the PSG scarf from his backpack and pressed it firmly onto the wound—not the use he’d intended, but he was grateful to have it.
“Dammit,” she croaked. “And here I had ten days off in the city.”
“Did you see any sign of the shooter?”
“No. I …” A wet cough. “I …”
“Don’t talk,” he said, still half expecting a round through his own chest at any moment. Slaton shook the thought away, kept pressure on the wound. Her breathing was becoming labored, and he suspected a collapsed lung.
The first policeman came running out of the building, his chin down as he shouted into a microphone clipped to his vest. The moment he arrived, Slaton said, “I need some QuickClot!”
The policeman said he didn’t have any, but the one who showed up right behind him had been thinking ahead—she had a field first-aid kit in hand. Slaton didn’t want to incite panic, so he waited for the second cop to lean down and hand him the kit. When she did, he confirmed in a quiet voice what she probably suspected, “It’s a gunshot. There’s a sniper in the woods behind us.”
The officer went to her radio, her eyes scanning the wooded area.
Slaton pulled away the scarf and immediately applied the combat gauze to the wound. No one asked if he knew what he was doing—he’d simply taken charge and that was enough. Still, he knew what his next step had to be.
“Are there any doctors or nurses?” he called out in English.
A woman just arriving from across the street, said breathlessly, “I am a nurse.” She knelt down across from him.
“It’s a gunshot,” he said quietly.
She nodded and began adjusting the bandage.
Anna’s gaze seemed to focus and she looked at him plaintively, searching for reassurance. Slaton did his best to give it. “It’s okay,” he said, holding her hand.
She coughed again, this time weakly, a tinge of blood trickling from her mouth. Not good, he thought.
The police were ushering everyone back. “An ambulance will be here in three minutes!” one said. Slaton saw officers with heavy weapons flooding out the building now, most headed toward the woods. The threat, at least, was ending.
A siren began rising in the distance.
“I’m cold, David,” Anna said, her apprehension clear.
The best thing he could do was keep her calm. “You’re going to be fine.”
“Don’t leave me … please.”
“I won’t,” he said. “I promise.”
Her gaze seemed to falter and her eyes drifted shut.
“Her pulse i
s weak,” the nurse said.
Slaton could see the ambulance now. If he was going to break away, this was the time to do it.
The police were swarming, their response organizing. He heard one of them say, “First Bausch, and now this.” Slaton didn’t know what it meant, but he logged it all the same.
The ambulance screeched to a hard stop at the curb.
Still holding Anna’s hand, he stared toward the treeline. Part of him wanted to bolt, to chase down the evil that had been there minutes ago. It would be hours before Slaton worked everything through logically, yet his instincts were true. In that moment, he had a chance to slay the demons he’d been stalking for so long.
He pushed the urge away, held tight to Anna’s hand.
He would keep his promise to her. He would not let go of the living.
His demons would have to wait.
21
The EMT crew did their best to stabilize Anna. Once she was in the ambulance, Slaton claimed to be her fiancé and asked to ride along. They put him in the front seat. Not only did this keep his promise to her, but it gave him a ticket to get clear. When the ambulance pulled away, uniformed officers and detectives were locking down the scene as drizzle once again began to fall.
During the chaotic ten-minute ride to the hospital, Slaton fired off a text to Mossad, explaining what had happened. He didn’t want to risk a voice call in the confines of the front seat—against the noise of the siren, he would have had to shout things that were better left private.
Slaton had no doubt that the policemen behind him were making calls as well. When he got to the hospital, he knew someone would be there to meet him.
He was proved right. No sooner had Anna’s gurney been unloaded from the back of the ambulance and whisked into the emergency room than a grave, thickset man cut Slaton off as he tried to follow.
