Assassin's Game (29 page)

He’d sat there for a time staring dumbly at Krueger, his fork stuck in a trout. But then, what could one say to such a thing? Benjamin Grossman, heartless merchant of death and closet homosexual, had amassed an absolute fortune. And now he had given it to Slaton, or more succinctly, given it to Slaton to be funneled for the benefit of Israel. In the identity of Natan Mendelsohn, Slaton had never been anything more than an intermediary, his objective to win Grossman’s trust and act as his link to the homeland. He remembered discussing Israel and her issues with the man on a number of occasions, because this too was part of his mission—Mossad had to be sure Grossman would make a trustworthy
sayan
. But this?

This Slaton had never expected.

He had faced a great many dilemmas in his years, often matters of life and death. Tonight’s revelation was trivial on its face, yet carried an underlying trauma. He would meet with Krueger in his office tomorrow to finalize the trust. Given the size of the bequest, Krueger estimated that full execution would take a matter of weeks as the Swiss authorities stamped documents, verified signatures, and, most importantly, double-checked that all revenue due the canton was collected. The only requirement on Slaton’s part was to certify himself to be Natan Mendelsohn, and proof of this was now in his pocket, returned in a sealed envelope after a year in the banker’s safe.

At the time it had seemed a good insurance policy, and now Slaton patted himself on the back for his foresight. He was once again Natan Mendelsohn, and had the Swiss identity card and passport to prove it. Both were Mossad products, although likely noncurrent and erased from official databases. They would be useless for entering another country, and no good to show a policeman. But Slaton didn’t need that. Natan Mendelsohn was in Switzerland and would remain there for the rest of his fabricated life. He could use the identity to sign Herr Krueger’s papers in front of a lawyer. He could register at respectable Swiss hotels and draw money from respectable cash accounts. On face value the documents were perfect, every stamp and hologram in place, and the photographs of Slaton displaying a textbook fusion of pain and indifference. A man irritated at having to replace expired items. A man who didn’t have to be told not to smile. For the immediate future, the identity of Natan Mendelsohn suited him perfectly.

His dinner with Krueger had been a blur after the bombshell, but Slaton had not completely lost his focus. On leaving Il Dolce, in an awkward moment, the newly minted billionaire explained to his banker that he had lost his wallet. Krueger had given him a hundred Swiss francs and arranged for a room at a nearby hotel. Slaton suspected that Krueger would have bought him a hotel if he’d asked—whatever it took to maintain a long-term lock on a ten-digit investment account. At the usurious percentages Krueger charged, he would never need another client.

“Another for you?”

Slaton looked up at a smiling waitress. He snapped back his head, downed the last of his beer, and found himself saying, “Yes, please.”

Slaton rarely drank, typically only to remain in character, but tonight he wanted another. He’d been consumed by a singular thought as he walked here from the restaurant, stumbling through the chilled autumn air without a trace of countersurveillance—he likely wouldn’t have noticed if Iran’s black-robed clerics themselves had been parading up Bahnhofstrasse. The distraction was still with him as he sat drinking alone, watching the moneyed crowds brush past on newly paved streets and spotless sidewalks.

What if I just kept it? With that kind of money, Christine and I could disappear forever.

The logistics would be simple. Slaton could arrange the details with Krueger tomorrow—have the money distributed to numbered accounts, and then spread far and wide. The Caymans, Aruba, Switzerland. The moral question was even easier. Grossman had been a criminal, but also a Jew, and in the end his conscience had pushed him to leave his wealth to Israel—the country Slaton had nearly died for, but that now betrayed him in the purest sense.

And not for the first time.

Long ago, during his recruitment, Slaton had lost the first woman he’d loved and their child in the most banal of tragedies—killed in a random traffic accident. Yet Mossad had misrepresented that catastrophe, twisting the facts to meet its own ends. They had turned grief into hate, hoping to bias Slaton’s psyche in order to channel his physical gifts. In order to create the perfect
kidon
. That had been another regime in Mossad, but the essential manipulation was unchanged. So Slaton would feel no angst in keeping the windfall from Grossman, not today and probably not tomorrow. The only thing left would be to retrieve Christine. Within a month they could be established in a new life in some warm and faraway place. And soon, the three of them, no attachments whatsoever to their old lives. A perpetual deception.

And there, he knew, was the catch. The reason it would never work. It was a lie Christine would never allow. Not for her, and certainly not for their child. Slaton took it no further, feeling like a beggar on a cold street staring at a vacation poster in a travel agent’s window—imagining a trip to paradise you would never take. When his beer came he drank it quickly and settled the bill. Ten minutes later he found the hotel where Krueger had booked him a single night’s stay. Slaton had never heard of the place, and when he walked inside he realized why. Lustrous marble floors, gilt accents, crystalline chandeliers.

The concierge greeted him and guessed his name.
Bags, Monsieur Mendelsohn? None tonight? Very well …
An elegant woman at the desk glanced at his passport and, deferring any bothersome signatures or swiped credit cards, he was soon being escorted to a palatial suite. Once alone, Slaton stood in a room with eighteen-foot ceilings and hand-painted murals. Louis XIV furnishings set delicately on ornate Persian rugs. Now that he was a billionaire, Slaton supposed it was only fitting that he should stay in a five-star hotel.

He could not contain a grin, thinking,
God, Christine, how I wish you were here for one night. In spite of all the rest, this would make you laugh.

THIRTY-FOUR

Sanderson’s eyes cracked open to darkness.

It was not pitch black that he saw but a dim geometry of shadows, black on gray, angled lines overhead.
Where am I?
he wondered. His head hurt and he rose slowly, gradually sitting up in what felt like a soft bed. Yes, he was in a bed. A clock on a nightstand shone bright red numbers: 9:34. Morning or evening?

He had no idea.

His eyes adapted to the gloom and shadows resolved. He saw a bathroom, a closet, and the outline of a small television. He was in a hotel room. With that revelation the dots began to connect. He remembered tracking an Israeli assassin across Sweden to the village of Oxelösund, followed by a harrowing passage in Janna Magnussen’s crate of an airplane. Stepping onto the dock in Sassnitz, Germany, and then … and then nothing. Sanderson couldn’t recall anything more, not even how he’d ended up in this room.

He pushed himself up and trod with sleep-heavy steps to the bathroom. There he was struck by the smell of harsh cleanser and cheap soap. He saw a shower with a rust-stained plug and sagging curtain, gray-plaster walls holding it all in. At the sink he turned on the hot water, got a frigid trickle, but splashed it on his face anyway because he wanted to feel something. His hand cupped his chin to find a coarse stubble, but Sanderson avoided the mirror, not wanting to see what stared back. Thirty-five years of police work took a toll on a man, and whatever ill had found him would do nothing to rejuvenate things.

He walked at a deliberate pace to the front window and fingered back the curtain. A mist-shrouded scene gave him one answer—it was morning. He saw a nearly empty parking lot, and in the distance a busy loading yard full of trucks and trailers. Fog aside, Sanderson thought it all looked vaguely familiar. His more personal haze began to break and he remembered walking—wandering really—in the course of his search for Deadmarsh. Yes, that was it. He’d covered considerable ground and gotten nowhere.

Sanderson glanced up at a flat leaden sky, and asked himself, “What now?”

His detective’s brain craved a logical course, but he needed
something
to work with. He had no idea where Deadmarsh was heading, no picture of his suspect to show around. Sanderson had no authority. Not here, not anywhere. He was chasing a man who didn’t exist, one whose identity had been obliterated. His suspect knew how to disappear, and had a full day’s head start and an entire continent to work with. Against that, Sanderson had no more than his memory of the man’s face, a hunch that he was likely Israeli, likely an assassin, and an unverified claim that he was married to a woman who had also disappeared. There, in a sorry nutshell, was the state of his investigation.

He looked around the dank room and saw nothing to indicate how he’d gotten here.
And now I’m forgetting things
. He was fully dressed, his clothes perhaps more rumpled than usual, and his wallet was still in his pocket. The only thing in the room he recognized was his worn jacket hanging over the back of a chair. He knew he hadn’t been drinking, yet that was how it felt—like a thick hangover. A night unremembered.

What is wrong with me?

Noticing a room key on the dresser, Sanderson took it in hand, shrugged on his jacket, and ventured outside. The cool morning air clipped his face as he walked to the office. A woman there said he’d already paid for the room, one night charged to his credit card.
Well enough
, he thought.
But why don’t I remember?
She had not been on duty last night, and so her only useful addition was that a diner around the corner served strong coffee. Sanderson surrendered his room key and thanked her.

He found the diner, seated himself, and ordered coffee, eggs, and toast from a waitress whose smile seemed permanently embossed—as if tomorrow could only be better. The first overbrewed cup of coffee energized Sanderson, and he began to get his bearings. He pulled out his phone and dialed Sergeant Blix.

“Good morning, Gunnar.”

“Morning, Inspector. Where are you? Your daughter called an hour ago and said you weren’t at home. She sounded worried.”

“I’m fine. It’s been a tough week, and I wanted to get away for a few days to convalesce. I’ll give Annika a call so she doesn’t worry. Is there anything new?”

“On the investigation you mean? That doesn’t sound like convalescence.”

Sanderson let his silence do the talking.

“The main news is that Deadmarsh used one of his credit cards yesterday.”

“Where?”

“He bought a ferry ticket in Styrsvik. Apparently he was heading back to Stockholm from Runmarö Island. We tried to close him down, but there were only a few minutes to reach the docks. We missed him.”

You missed him because he wasn’t there
, Sanderson thought. Based on what he knew, he reckoned that the woman, Dr. Palmer, had ditched her boat and was now aiding and abetting her husband. He considered telling Blix about his own findings—that Magnussen Air Charters had delivered their man to Germany. Sanderson saw two outcomes of this approach. Assistant Commissioner Sjoberg might surmise that his sacked detective was chasing ghosts, in which case Sanderson would be ordered home. And if Sjoberg believed him? Then Sanderson would have to explain why he hadn’t called sooner. He felt himself sliding down a slippery slope—and accelerating.

He let Blix talk for five minutes, promised to keep in touch, and then called his daughter and told her not to worry. Sanderson dialed a third number as two eggs were being pushed across the green Formica counter in front of him. Elin Almgren from SÄPO answered.

“Elin, it’s Arne.”

“Good to hear from you, Arne. How are you feeling?”

“If one more person asks me that I’m going to go on a shooting spree.”

She chortled.

“What’s happening there?” he asked.

“It’s been confirmed—the man in a coma is definitely Anton Bloch, director of Mossad until about a year ago.”

“So Deadmarsh was telling the truth.”

“He was. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs is paralyzed over how to handle it. SÄPO is operating on the principle that Deadmarsh, his wife, and Bloch are on one side of this fight. Everyone else seems to be against them.”

“Including us, bunglers that we are.”

Almgren continued without remark, “I can also tell you that one of the men Deadmarsh dispatched at the Tea Room has been positively identified. He was an employee at the Israeli embassy in Stockholm.”

“Mossad?”

“Almost certainly.”

“Well that’s no surprise. So perhaps this is some kind of old guard versus new guard problem? Mossad turning on itself?”

“That’s the common wisdom here—although I hate to use that word.”

“So what’s being done?”

“Everyone is still looking for them, of course. But the head office is quietly backing off, hoping this has run its course.”

“And Deadmarsh will just fade away, never to be seen again?”

“Something like that. They’re convinced this was an internal Mossad dust-up. Any threat has ended.”

“Do you believe it?” he asked.

A pause. “Not really. You?”

“No.”

“I can tell you that the National Police are downplaying the investigation. Give this a week, maybe two, and people will forget. Maybe you should do the same, Arne. The man you’re after is probably back in Israel right now. Or maybe the United States.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Almgren waited for his reasoning.

Sanderson only said, “What about his wife?”

“She’s the wild card. Caught in the middle of it, I’d say. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if she turned up at the bottom of a very cold body of water. Maybe an old score of some kind has been settled. We’ve pressed the Israelis for an explanation, but as you’d expect they’re keeping a very diplomatic silence.”

There was a long pause as she let Sanderson dwell on the information. “Let’s assume,” he said, “that Deadmarsh actually is an Israeli assassin. Does SÄPO keep files on people like that?”