Assassin's Game (21 page)

“That’s what I was trying to tell you when you—” Sanderson hesitated. He looked at each of them in turn. “Am I to understand that I’m back on this investigation?”

An agitated Sjoberg said, “No, Arne, you most certainly are not. I just need to know how—”

“Then figure it out for yourselves!” Sanderson turned on a heel and started for the door.

“Wait! I want your phone.”

Sanderson stopped.

Forsten said, “We’ll give it back once we’ve routed your number through the operations center switchboard.”

“Brilliant. And when he calls again expecting to speak to me, how will you answer?”

“He doesn’t give a damn about you. This man is obviously trying to throw us off. I wouldn’t be surprised if this whole Mossad angle is no more than misdirection.”

“I agree,” Sjoberg said. “All he’s done is prove what we already suspected—that he’s right here in Stockholm.”

“Is he?” Sanderson countered.

“Arne,” Sjoberg said, “let’s not make this more difficult than it has to be. Give me the phone.”

Sanderson pulled out his mobile and dropped it on Sjoberg’s desk. “Do what you like. But I’ll tell you this. If you … if you…” Sanderson stood still, trying to remember what he was about to say. He felt suddenly dizzy.

And then everything went blank.

TWENTY-FOUR

When Sanderson regained consciousness he was lying on the couch in Sjoberg’s office. Looking down at him were Sjoberg and a uniformed EMT.

He blinked, and said, “What happened?”

Sjoberg said, “You passed out, Arne.”

“Passed out?” He wrestled up to a sitting position, only then realizing that a blood pressure cuff was wrapped around his arm.

“Are you on any medication?” the EMT asked.

“No.”

“Has anything like this happened before?”

“No, of course not.”

The EMT removed the blood pressure cuff.

“How long was I out?” Sanderson asked.

“Only a few minutes,” Sjoberg said. “You went pale as a ghost and over you went. Forsten caught you before you hit.”

With that picture in his mind, Sanderson’s humiliation was complete. He rubbed his forehead and tried to stand.

“Easy,” said Sjoberg. “There’s no hurry.”

“I’m fine,” Sanderson said. He felt the EMT at his elbow, and on reaching his feet made every attempt not to waver.

“Did you eat anything this morning?” the EMT asked.

“No—I’m sure that’s all it was. And I have been working hard.”

“Yes,” Sjoberg agreed, “he’s been under considerable stress.”

“Have you ever had a seizure of any sort?”

“Seizure? No, never.”

The EMT addressed Sjoberg. “Well, he seems all right. I’ll leave you now, but I’m just downstairs if you need me.” He turned to Sanderson. “Get something in your belly, and then rest. If anything like this happens again you should see your doctor.”

The man left, and Sjoberg said, “Well, Arne, if this doesn’t convince you I don’t know what will. Go home and get some sleep. I’ll have Blix drive you.”

Sanderson did not argue.

*   *   *

Evita was given a ride to her assignation by a friend from work, an undependable woman who for once showed up on time. Traffic was light, and when they arrived Evita asked to be dropped two blocks away from the hotel. She thanked her friend and checked the time. As feared, she was early. Seeing no upside in punctuality, Evita spotted a pub nearby and decided to shore up her nerve.

She took a seat at the nearly vacant bar, and in no more time than it took for a double vodka to be pushed in front of her, Evita found herself sandwiched between a pair of afternoon regulars, a thrice-divorced lawyer and an old man named Yehud whose breath smelled like a camel’s crotch. The lawyer tried to chat about his ex-wives, while old Yehud, unshaven and unwashed and with beer foam on his lips, simply propositioned her in the most vulgar of terms. She was equally unreceptive, though found the old beggar’s honesty refreshing in a way. Yet as she sat in silence, Evita felt a tremor of unease—even if she was miles from home, there was a chance one of them might know her husband, a man on terms with a good share of the city’s connoisseurs. As it turned out, the far-off look in her eyes was enough to deflect their advances.

The vodka worked wonders. As always, Evita was repulsed by what she was about to do, yet there was never a question of following through. This morning, like every morning, she had spent her ritual moment with the picture of Saud and the tender poem he’d written for her. These were her only remembrances, and she kept both hidden deep in a dresser drawer. For a few minutes each day he was hers again—a man whose beauty would never fade, an artist whose talent would never diminish, and a lover whose soul would always be faithful. That daily tribute gave her the steel to go forward, gave her the will to take vengeance for a crime that would never be pursued in any court.

Evita would undertake her justice. But to do it with the requisite smile? That required a little something extra. She lifted her glass, snapped her head back one last time, and bid her courters good-bye.

*   *   *

The Baltic, five thousand feet below, was in a pitched battle, wind versus water. Slaton watched the whitecaps come and go, creases of white bursting to life, then fading quickly into the matte-black sea. The skies above were equally ominous, hard gray clouds that blotted the sun into submission and fragmented the horizon. He could see rain to the west and north, sweeping gray curtains reaching down to the sea. Dramatic as the scene was, it held little relevance. The visibility ahead and below—that was the critical thing, and right now it was suitable for what Slaton had in mind.

They’d struck a course of south by southwest, and the little Cessna plowed obediently at a steady one hundred knots. Janna Magnussen was equally steady. Two hours removed from Stockholm, the tension had dissipated. Their conversation had turned almost casual, as if the dynamics of their relationship had never been skewed by a hijacking. The gun was back in Slaton’s right pocket, but both knew it was readily presentable. They began by discussing Magnussen: her upbringing near Oxelösund, her sister, even her failed marriage. Then, in a clear breach of professional standards, Slaton found himself contributing to the conversation. He gave a candid account of his own childhood in Sweden. Keeping light on detail, he reflected on schoolyard memories—pranks conspired with long-forgotten friends, sporting matches gloriously won or comically lost.

To be drawn into such an exchange, even intrigued by it, was a long-lost response for Slaton, yet a proficiency that had been restored during his months in Virginia. There he had begun to strike up conversations with waitresses, pizza delivery kids, and concrete truck drivers, regaining the everyday skill of talking to a stranger without sizing them up for fighting ability, without filtering every word for deceit or logging character flaws fit for blackmail. To simply sit and talk was a long-forgotten pleasure, and something Christine had given him back.

Magnussen said, “I took up flying ten years ago when I retired from my civil service job. After twenty-one years in the same building I had an irresistible urge to be outside. There’s nothing as liberating as flying.”

“I can understand that.”

“It’s not much of a business, mind you. Most years I break even, maybe clear enough for a few weeks in Spain during the holidays.”

“And that’s all you need?”

She thought about it. “Yes, I suppose it is. Last year I had a chance to buy out a competitor in Malmö at an excellent price. I would have gotten four airplanes, six pilots, and a backlog of contracts.”

“And all the headaches that go with it?”

“Exactly. It was the second easiest decision I ever made.”

Slaton took the bait. “And the first?”

“Leaving my bastard husband, of course.”

He smiled.

“And you?” she asked.

“What about me?”

“Do you really have a wife?”

Slaton looked ahead. The brooding contour of Germany was rising out of the sea, low hills strung along the coastline, unseen rivers knuckling through valleys. This was their destination, and the sight had a sobering effect on his disposition.

When he didn’t answer, she said, “You wear a ring. If you’re having troubles perhaps we could talk about it. It can be very helpful to—”

“Janna,” he interrupted. “You said you were civil service, right?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of work did you do?”

She looked out the front window. “I was a crisis counselor for the National Board of Health and Welfare.”

He couldn’t help himself. Slaton began to laugh.

Magnussen smiled as well, clearly seeing the humor.

TWENTY-FIVE

The aura of goodwill that had developed in the cockpit was gone as the seaplane made its final approach to landing. Slaton instructed Magnussen to skim the coastline at low altitude, and after ten minutes he saw an acceptable entry point, a remote cove with no apparent civilization for miles in any direction.

She brought the Cessna to another soft landing, and as soon as the craft settled she began steering toward the darkening German shore. Janna Magnussen, crisis counselor and pilot, looked predictably tense as the shoreline came near.

When she killed the engine Slaton reached into a pocket. His hand came out with the remainder of their agreed upon fee.

Once she’d taken it, he said, “Turn away.”

“What?”

“Your face—turn away.”

Magnussen gave him a cautious look, but complied, turning toward the opposite window.

Slaton pulled the .22 from his pocket, angled it carefully, and fired his last remaining round. The radio panel exploded.

Magnussen jumped involuntarily. She turned back and saw what he’d done.

“You bastard! You shot my airplane!”

“Only the radios—the rest still works. How much does a new communications panel cost?”

Still shaken, she took a moment to answer. “In dollars? Maybe two thousand.”

“Okay. I’ll add that in. Twenty-two thousand. Give me a few hour’s head start, and you’ll have the check by the end of next week.”

She gave him a sharp stare. “How will you know if I’ve earned it? If I waited?”

He only smiled, and said, “Thanks for your help.” Slaton opened the door and stepped onto the float. After a hesitation, however, he turned back. “Janna—you saw the sailboat, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you saw that it was heading north.”

No answer.

“There was a woman on that boat. She’s being sought by the police. There are other people looking for her as well, people who might do her harm. I can tell you that she’s done nothing wrong—other than getting involved with me. But there is one thing I told you that wasn’t truthful.” Slaton met her blue aviatrix’s eyes. “The woman on that boat is not my mistress. She’s my wife. And I love her more than you could ever know.”

Magnussen stared at him, and then shifted to her shattered instrument panel. A curiously amused expression came to her face. “Where were you when I was twenty?”

Slaton grinned, then eased the door closed.

Five minutes later he was standing on Continental Europe and watching the little seaplane skim into the sky one last time. He did not wait until it disappeared. Slaton placed his backpack on a large rock and took inventory. A GPS navigation device, a .22 Beretta with no rounds remaining, field glasses, and one energy bar—he had insisted Christine take the others. Thirty-nine U.S. dollars remained in his wallet.

He placed the gun in the right-hand pocket of his jacket, tucking the flap inside for better access—even without bullets it was good for intimidation. The GPS device went into the opposing pocket, along with the compact field glasses. He took out his wallet and removed everything except the cash. A Virginia driver’s license, voter’s registration, and Prince William County library card, all in the name of Edmund Deadmarsh, went into the otherwise empty backpack. An identity that had lasted nearly a year was now at its end.

He suspected Anton Bloch had performed the most difficult part—once Slaton arrived in Sweden, the legend of Edmund Deadmarsh had been scrubbed from cyberspace, probably erased on cue after one last use. The resulting anonymity was help enough, yet he also recognized a signal from his old boss.
Disappear, David. Find another way
. Slaton had never been told, but he suspected the identity originated with the CIA, Bloch calling in an old favor before he retired. Or possibly MI-6. Whatever the case, Bloch had finished what he’d started. The director who’d given the world Edmund Deadmarsh had taken him away, reciprocal keystrokes to remove every trace.

Slaton found a stone the size of a softball, put it in the backpack, and zipped everything shut. Taking the straps in hand, he gave a half spin like a hammer thrower and heaved the backpack fifty feet out to sea. With one thumping splash it was done. The man born as David Slaton was again a ghost. He had killed many a legend in his time, but never before had it been such a bittersweet parting. If the name Edmund Deadmarsh had been no more than fiction, for Slaton it represented a very tangible life. Grilled burgers on the deck in Virginia, a week on the beach in Curaçao. The closest thing to normalcy he’d experienced in a very long time.

Now the vestiges of that life were sinking to a deep and dark place. The vestiges of his earlier life had long ago been eliminated. Police and intelligence organizations, for all their efficiencies, were modeled on the idea of matching a known to a known. In Slaton’s case it would become no more than an exercise in frustration. Aside from the hazy recollections of a few policemen and acquaintances, perhaps a few distant captured images, there was nothing to compare. There were no pension accounts to watch. No driver’s license on which to put a bulletin. No family mobile signals to monitor. The man standing on a German beach this early fall evening, alone and unshaven and empty-handed, was as pure an apparition as could be.

With dark clouds eclipsing everything to the north, the remains of the day were no more than a spray of purple on the western horizon. In the waning light Slaton looked left and right along the coast. Seeing nothing but rugged shoreline in either direction, he turned south and picked up a brisk pace. The
kidon
hit the tree line and was soon lost to sight.