by Ward Larsen
“Will they find him?”
“Absolutely. Your intelligence services sometimes struggle abroad, but they’re very good at finding people on their own turf. In a week, maybe two, they’ll either have found him, or he’ll have aborted his mission and gone home.”
“So what … you want to follow me around, like a bodyguard or something?”
“Not follow—I can’t protect you if you’re moving. We go to your house. You, your son, and I. We stay there until this blows over.”
“What? For a week or two? I can’t do that, I’ve got a job. My colleagues here expect me to—”
“Get the flu,” he suggested, “have a breakdown if necessary. I’ll leave it up to you.” Stein stood, looking considerably more robust than the cane in his hand suggested. “We’ll pick up your son at your neighbor’s house as soon as we get back.”
Christine stiffened. By telling her that he knew where Davy was, he was telling her anybody could know. It re-stoked old anxieties, that precarious existence she’d known when David was in her life. Treat every stranger with suspicion, always know what’s behind your back. Could she indoctrinate her infant son to such a repulsive existence?
What choice do I have?
“Look,” he said, “you can say no. I’m here because I owe David. Mossad sent me behind enemy lines, and when things went bad they left me for dead. David pulled me out. Maybe you should ask yourself a question. What would he want you to do?”
It was a cruel hypothetical, but in the end effective. Christine relented and gave a nod.
“Grab your coat,” he said. “We’ll make a quick stop on the way to your house to pick up some food. In the meantime, I want you to start thinking about security. I need to know if you have an alarm, if there are any weapons in the house, which neighbors you can trust.”
Dazed, she opened the door and Stein followed her to her office. There she took her coat off the hook, said something to Lisa—See you tomorrow?—and headed to the elevator with Stein in trail. She found herself watching the world with a terrible old mistrust. She ignored a wave from the new dermatologist outside Suite 9, and gave a wide berth to a young man on crutches waiting for the elevator. Tom, the roving security guard in the parking garage, seemed more frail than she remembered. Her car was parked poorly in a dark and isolated corner.
Everything had changed in a moment, reverting to what it had been in the bleakest days of her life. With each step, the question she’d asked herself hammered again and again in her mind.
What choice do I have?
TWENTY
Thirty minutes after leaving Bahnhofstrasse, Slaton had Krueger’s able assistant sitting quietly in the corner booth of a pub on Theaterplatz in Baden. Astrid had wanted to go to her apartment, a perfectly natural reaction. Also perfectly predictable, which was why Slaton had steered her here.
It would be a delicate task to revive Astrid Lund to what she had been an hour earlier—or as close as she would ever be. In Slaton’s regrettably vast experience, people unaccustomed to violent death rarely faced it well on first exposure. To the positive, on the steps of Krueger’s office Astrid had been steel in the moment of truth, giving Slaton the vital seconds he’d needed to gain an advantage.
Her hands were wrapped around a cup of coffee she hadn’t touched, and only too late Slaton realized his beverage order had been characteristically insensitive—the very liquid she’d just used to scald a killer’s face.
“I was late for work today,” she said in a toneless voice. “I haven’t been late in fifteen years.”
Slaton said nothing. He wanted her to talk.
“Walter’s injuries were terrible,” she said, “but might he have survived?”
Slaton considered how to best phrase the answer, and perhaps taking the easy way out, he pointed to a wall-mounted television on the far side of the room. There was no sound, but the BREAKING NEWS caption might as well have been in flashing neon: PRIVATE BANKER DEAD IN BAHNHOFSTRASSE SHOOTING. POLICE SEARCH FOR SUSPECTS.
A reporter was interviewing an eyewitness, the lawyer from Suite 3, Herr Schimmler. He’d removed his shirttail from his zipper. Slaton considered asking for the volume to be raised, but the risk seemed to outweigh any benefit. The lawyer had likely bunkered up in his office during the attack, which meant he would never have seen the assailants. The only stranger Schimmler had encountered was Slaton, who was presently carrying a Glock 9mm that could easily prove to be the murder weapon, notwithstanding the fact that he’d discarded the awkward, custom-fit silencer in a back-alley Dumpster.
She said, “I’ve worked for Walt … Herr Krueger, for nearly twenty years. He had his faults, but he was a decent man.”
“He was,” Slaton said, not knowing or caring if it was true.
She looked around the place as if registering her surroundings for the first time—a positive sign—and said, “We should go back. The police will want to talk to us. They’ll wonder where I am.”
He nodded, having expected the subject. The police represented order, and the Swiss, in all their militant neutrality, craved order. Astrid finally addressed her coffee, and when she took the first sip her face fell to a grimace.
“Acchh!” She reached across the table for the cream and sugar—the kind of thing that falls appreciably in one’s hierarchy of needs in times of high stress. Another sliver of normalcy returning.
“Why?” she wondered aloud. “Why would three men come to Walter’s office and murder him?”
Something clicked deep in Slaton’s brain, like a mechanical unmeshing of gears. Unable to correlate the warning, he said, “I don’t know why. But I can tell you I’ve seen those men before.”
Astrid stared incredulously. Until now she had viewed Slaton as some blend of client, knight in shining armor, and grief counselor.
“You’ve seen them? Where?”
“They tried to kill me three days ago, in a place far from here. I think I might have led them to Zurich. Not intentionally, mind you—I don’t know how they followed me.”
Slaton could see her thoughts organizing, see her blue eyes sharpen.
“So … they came because they were looking for you?”
“Possibly.”
“I remember the last time you were here, Monsieur Mendelsohn. It was just over a year ago.” A pensive look, then, “Is that really your name? Mendelsohn?”
“Call me David.” Astrid did not look surprised, and it occurred to Slaton that he was probably not the first of Walter Krueger’s clients to use an alias. “I assume you are aware of the work he performed on my behalf?”
“In a general way.”
He waited.
“All right, yes. I know a good deal about Walter’s business dealings. There can be no other way when one works for a man for so many years. He was good to me, and in return I took my duty of discretion very seriously.”
“I’m sure you did. But you know my accounts are sizable, and that I gave Walter wide latitude in managing them.”
Astrid nodded. She was in her late fifties, he guessed, an attractive woman who was aging well, tall and slim, with shoulder-length blond hair fading to gray. Nothing had faded however in a pair of blue eyes as clear and vivid as any he’d ever seen.
“Do you think this is why these men came?” she asked. “A raid on your accounts?”
“I don’t know. All I can tell you is that they’re professionals.”
“What sort of professionals?”
“I think that’s obvious enough.”
Astrid seemed freshly unnerved, and Slaton sensed a mistake.
“We must call the police,” she said. “You could give them a description of those men, anonymously if necessary. They have to be held accountable.”
He paused, reckoning how best to steer the conversation to the course he wanted. He needed Astrid’s help—but the decision had to be hers. “That may not be so easy. They followed me across a continent. They killed Walter, raided his office, and two have escaped c
leanly. This is no random burglary.”
“Are you suggesting we shouldn’t talk to the police?”
“I’m telling you that I’ve dealt with people like this before. There’s a chance they didn’t find what they were looking for, which means they could come after us. If so, the first place they’ll look is the local gendarmerie. If we go to the police now they’ll spend days asking us questions, but they won’t keep us safe. The assailants might even have contacts inside the police force.”
Her expression remained guarded, but he could see her considering it. After a long hesitation, she said, “I know what you are.”
“Is that in my favor?”
“Walter told me things about you. He said you were dangerous. He said you dealt in arms … and perhaps worse.”
“I’ve never dealt in arms.”
“You just killed a man.”
Slaton could think of no good response. “Years ago Walter had a client named Benjamin Grossman who was an arms merchant. Did you know him?”
“He came to the office a few times, yes. I know that he died two summers ago from a sudden illness, and that his estate was put in your care.”
“All true. I authorized Walter to continue managing everything, and I’ve had no contact with him since. I have no idea what’s become of Grossman’s legacy. There were no quarterly statements, no annual meetings. As to your suggestion—yes, I’ve done things I’m not proud of.”
A long silence ran and Slaton discreetly checked all around.
“Why do you do that?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Your eyes never stop moving. Here, on the street, in the cab earlier.”
He didn’t answer, suspecting too much truth would not be in his favor.
“The way you killed that man today—have there been others?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes sank to the table.
“Astrid, I intend to leave Zurich tonight. I will do so as quickly and quietly as possible. You can come with me if you like, but you must find a safe place.”
She searched his eyes, obviously uncertain.
“It’s completely up to you,” he added. Slaton looked pointedly at her left hand. There was no ring on the second finger. “Do you live alone?”
“Yes, but what—”
“Is there a place you can go for a few days, somewhere out of town?”
“I have a sister in Vienna.”
“No, no relatives.”
She seemed to descend again, fear taking reign.
“Astrid, I know this is difficult. But you must find a safe place. You won’t be able to convince the authorities to protect you—not the kind of protection you’ll need. A week, maybe two, and things will settle. Then go to the police and tell them everything.”
“Even about you? What you did to that man?”
“If that’s what you want.”
Astrid looked at him anxiously, nearing the place he wanted. She said, “The men who killed Walter—they have to be held accountable.”
“Agreed. The question is how. The police aren’t going to find them. On the other hand … I might be able to.”
“You?”
The old ways were beginning to flow. Use the truth to your advantage. “They took Walter’s computer. People do that because they want records. If I could see Walter’s files, study them, I might be able to determine what their motive is. And by extension, who they are.”
“And if you can? What then?”
“Then we decide what to do about it—together.”
He watched closely, and was thankful for what she didn’t say. The records? The records are gone now. He said, “Walter’s files are backed up, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“There is a chalet in Klosters. He spends weekends there working. He encrypts the files and transfers them between his office and a computer there.”
“Do you have a key to this chalet?”
She let loose a long sigh. “No. But I think I know where to get one.”
* * *
Ben-Meir made his second bad-news call in as many days. “The kidon killed Stanev.”
There was a pause, though only in part due to the distances involved. The faraway voice replied, “The computer?”
“We have it, as well as the codes.”
“And the rest?”
“The banker is dead,” said Ben-Meir, leaving the other unsaid.
“Well?” Irritation.
“We made plenty of noise. The kidon escaped.”
Relief seemed to flow through the phone. “Thank God you didn’t screw that up.”
Ben-Meir bristled, but could only say, “The problem arose when he returned to rescue the secretary.”
“What came of her?”
“I don’t know—she got away as well.”
“That could be a problem. I think you’ve forgotten how good he is.”
“I will prove you wrong very soon.”
“Let’s hope. Only be sure you wait the full twenty-four hours. Not a minute less.”
Ben-Meir opened his mouth to speak, but the line only clicked and went dead in his ear.
TWENTY-ONE
Tuncay was waiting when his copilot arrived at Santarém airport.
Walid Arslan looked weary as he stepped from the small Embraer jet onto the steaming tarmac. He was thirty-five years old, thin-boned, and had a long sallow face that reminded Tuncay of a dog in a kennel. The face was presently covered in a beard—not the long, righteous testimony of an engaged Muslim, but more a badge of indifference. A man who had abandoned, among other things, the standards of his profession.
“Welcome to Brazil,” Tuncay said.
Walid shook his hand—an embrace was not yet appropriate, as the two had only met twice before. Walid regarded the surrounding jungle. “So this is the Amazon,” he remarked.
“I am told there is much more, but if I never see it I will die a happy man. It rains every day, and when it is not raining one can swim through the air.”
Walid nodded.
“Come. I know you are tired after your flights, but we must get straight to work.”
Tuncay led through the tiny terminal, outside, and ten minutes later they arrived at the big jet. Walid’s first impression was predictable.
“It is very big.”
Tuncay knew the last time Walid had seen the bottom of an aircraft was several years earlier, and from the last perspective any pilot would ever wish—floating beneath a parachute while his Su-25 Frogfoot attack aircraft fell to the earth in a tumbling fireball.
Walid had told him the story on their first meeting. To say he’d been recruited into the Syrian military was less than accurate. Supplied was a better word, offered up by a well-to-do Druze family who’d fared undeniably well under the Assad regime. Walid had been granted an officer’s commission and aviation training, and after two years he earned his wings in the Syrian Air Force. Things had gone nicely for a time, as they generally did for well-connected sons, until the outbreak of the war. The hostilities were into their twentieth month when a Stinger missile shot down not only his jet, but life as Walid knew it.
He’d been able to eject from the aircraft, and only the grace of a divine wind had pushed him out to sea on that final day of his service, away from a group of agitated and nearly deaf rebels who after months of bombings would have reacted with predictable passion had one of their tormentors dropped from the sky as a gift from Allah. Instead, Walid had been plucked from the Mediterranean by an old man, a onetime fisherman whose nets had burned to ash on the docks, set off by someone’s mortar round, yet whose ancient trawler refused to sink. Ever a practical sort, the old man had gravitated to a new and surprisingly lucrative line of work—retrieving overboard sailors, drowning refugees, cowards in sinking dhows, and repatriating them to families who were happy to pay for his services. Walid settled with the old man using a wad of wet dollars from his pocket—there for just suc
h a contingency—and walked up the dock into Tripoli, Lebanon.
It was here that Walid’s life took a turn. Stranded in Lebanon, and seeing little future in returning to his squadron, he spent the balance of the war cooking soup and bread in a kitchen, likely feeding the very soldiers who had shot him down. As the war began to ebb, he learned that his family had scattered, the wealth and ties from the old days long spent and gone. For a time he tried to find work as a commercial pilot. Unfortunately, to be a former bomb-dropper, unemployed because his aircraft had been shot down, followed by desertion, hardly made a competitive resume for an aspiring airline pilot.
Tuncay learned of Walid Arslan through a cousin, and sensed a perfect fit for his needs—a man who was both trained and desperate. When Ben-Meir tracked him down he was working in an epicurean hovel in Byblos, sweating and cursing and roasting kebabs over an open pit. On that day last August, Walid had been a widower, insolvent, and frustrated by his faint prospects. Ben-Meir countered with a dream—one last flight that, if successful, would forever repair two of Walid’s three shortcomings. A new wife, he was told, was strictly his affair. Walid had been an easy recruit. But then, there were millions of such men in the Middle East today—educated, military-trained, drifting aimlessly through economies racked by sectarian violence, corruption, and religious intolerance.
Tuncay had doubts about the peculiar cast assembled by Ben-Meir, but he had to admit they were so far proving effective. The very idea that this disparate group of exiles was working for an Israeli master was perhaps a reflection of the new Middle East. Then again, the number of zeros in the payday gave reflections of its own. As with mercenaries through the ages, men rarely quibbled over religion or politics when the money was right.
Tuncay saw his copilot studying the modification on the belly of the airplane. The Turk wiped a bead of sweat from his temple. If humidity kept an address, he thought, it had to be here.
“Will it fly?” Walid asked, his white shirt already seeming glued to his back.