Assassin's Silence

by Ward Larsen

  The extracted object ended up in a small metal bowl, and the doctor took it to a sink and rinsed it off. He seemed to study it for a time, then brought it to Slaton held by the surgeon’s equivalent of tweezers.

  “This doesn’t look like the tip of a ski pole,” said a man who would certainly know. “At least not any I’ve ever seen. I’m not sure what you’ve run across.” He held it out to Slaton. “A souvenir, perhaps?”

  “Why not?”

  The doctor dropped the extracted object into Slaton’s open palm.

  Slaton had originally imagined a chip of stone, or perhaps a mangled bullet. What he saw was in fact similar in shape to the tip of a ski pole, a cylinder half an inch long, tapering to a point on one end. Almost a bullet, yet thinner, with what looked like a fabric thread trailing the back end. Slaton had never seen anything like it. Not exactly.

  But he knew what he was looking at.

  And it answered a great many questions.

  TWENTY-NINE

  “We have to leave Klosters,” Slaton said as they walked out of the clinic.

  He took Astrid by the arm and they strode quickly past a pharmacy, then a cemetery full of neatly plotted graves, proof that even death did not obviate the Swiss compulsion for order.

  “Leave?” she asked. “Why?”

  “Because I know how those men tracked me to Zurich.” He took the metal slug from his pocket. “This isn’t a bullet or an accidental piece of shrapnel. It’s a flechette transmitter.”

  “A what?”

  “A tracking device, a special ballistic round that can be fired from a standard nine-millimeter weapon. I used something similar once, probably an earlier generation—my shot was from eighty meters, one round into the backpack of a Hamas motorcycle messenger. This one is different, more miniaturized, but the idea is the same. Once embedded it can be tracked from a drone or a satellite. Possibly a dedicated receiver that’s useful out to a kilometer or two.”

  “They used this device to follow you?”

  “It makes sense. The men who attacked me in Malta were professionals, and I couldn’t understand how they’d missed taking me out. Now it’s obvious—they weren’t trying to. They were only flushing me, making me lead them to Walter.”

  Astrid said nothing. She looked utterly confused.

  Slaton continued working things out aloud. “I think someone knew these accounts existed in Zurich, but didn’t know exactly where.”

  “So … you unknowingly led them to Walter?”

  “I was careless. Once I arrived in Zurich, they followed me using that transmitter, watched me walk into his office, and then made their move.”

  Astrid came to a stop on the sidewalk. As she stared at him a stray gust swirled a cyclone of snow around them.

  “You met with Walter yesterday?”

  Slaton beckoned her to keep moving, and Astrid complied. “Yes, briefly.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “Didn’t I? We talked for a few minutes. Then I stepped out to the hallway while Walter was calling up my accounts. I spotted them coming.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I went into the lawyer’s office across the hall and told them to call the police. Then I escaped through a back window.”

  She went silent, and Slaton realized what she was thinking.

  “I would have helped him if I could, Astrid. They came fast, and there was no time to warn Walter. They had weapons, I didn’t. I also miscalculated—I assumed they were after me.”

  “But you came back.”

  “I saw you heading for the office … I felt like I had to do something.”

  She looked at him critically, trying to piece everything together—this from a woman who lived in a realm of spreadsheets and conference calls, not tactical assault and deception.

  Slaton surveyed the streets and passing cars with renewed alertness—the tracking device in his pocket might or might not still be emitting a signal. They crossed Landstrasse, in the center of town, the streets alive with trams and cars, groups of weary skiers hauling their gear down from the mountain. As they passed a travel agency whose window held an improbable display of a plastic palm tree basking under a heat lamp, Slaton reached into his pocket and touched the tiny transmitter that had less than an hour ago been inside him. He was sure it was his imagination, but the device seemed warm and inordinately heavy—like a beacon in his pocket.

  Slaton noted a delivery truck ahead on the curb, an advertisement on the sidewall tying it to a distributor of medical supplies in Liechtenstein. As they came near he watched the driver step down from the truck’s rear loading door carrying a clipboard. The man disappeared inside a building, clearly ready to seal his paperwork with a signature.

  Without breaking stride, Slaton tossed the transmitter into the half-empty cargo bay.

  Astrid looked back over her shoulder, but Slaton ushered her forward.

  “I think you’re right,” she said, “we should leave. But where can we go?”

  Slaton had already considered the question and come up with two options. His first instinct had been to put the device in the chalet and take up a position nearby with the Glock. If the two men who killed Krueger arrived, he could extract payback, and possibly get information about the greater plan. It would be a bit of well-earned justice, and satisfying to a degree. Yet he saw problems with that scenario. Given how the previous two engagements had gone, there was a good chance Ben-Meir would bring reinforcements. On top of that, Slaton gave better than even chances that no one would come at all. If his thinking was right, the assassins of Zurich and Mdina already had what they wanted.

  Which left only one choice.

  “We have to find a place to stay,” he said, “one that’s far from here. The chalet is compromised—it’s no longer safe.”

  “You think we are in danger?”

  “I don’t know, but we have to assume the worst. The car is still the safest way for us to move. I’ll approach the garage carefully, and if anything looks suspicious we’ll find another way.”

  Astrid, having grown increasingly steady since yesterday, seemed to waver. She opened her mouth, and he expected her to suggest once more that they call the police. What she said was, “If we can’t go back to the chalet, I should go buy a few things. Some food and toiletries.”

  Slaton’s attention broke from the street, and he pulled her gently to a stop and met her gaze. After a moment, he said, “All right.”

  “Where should I meet you?”

  “The ski shuttle parking lot. Be in the departure line one hour from now.”

  “One hour.” She turned to go.

  “Astrid—wait.”

  She turned back.

  Slaton moved closer and reached a hand under the waist of her unzipped jacket. To anyone watching, they would appear as lovers engaged in a parting embrace. Astrid tensed visibly as his hand curled around her beltline and found the gun. He’d made her take it when they left the chalet—that X-ray image he could never have explained. He discreetly pulled the Glock clear and slid it under his own jacket. “I might need this.”

  She pulled back and smiled nervously.

  “One hour,” he repeated.

  She nodded and turned away, crunching over a sidewalk paved in clouded ice. Astrid turned a corner and disappeared.

  Slaton began a mental clock, setting thirty seconds as his minimum interval. In that time he analyzed the variables around him. He spun a casual half-turn, paused for a moment, then did it again—to turn 360 degrees on a sidewalk invariably looked peculiar. He saw the usual crowds of a fading afternoon. Otherwise, having already walked these streets twice today, the field of play was familiar. Nearing the thirty-second mark, Slaton amended his first estimate and allowed ten more seconds.

  He then set out purposefully and followed Astrid.

  THIRTY

  The doorbell rang, and Christine found a Dominos delivery driver on her front porch. He was probably twenty years old, with f
ading acne and a barbell in his nose, wearing a shirt with the pizza chain’s logo. The kid slid a flat box out of an insulated container.

  “Large veggie?” he asked.

  “Yeah, thanks. I wasn’t in a mood to cook. What’s the damage?”

  The kid told her, and as she reached into her pocket for a wadded twenty Christine noticed Stein near the curb. He was leaning on his cane near an old Honda that had a plastic DOMINOS sign strapped to the roof. He was watching intently. Feeling uncomfortable, Christine settled with the driver, who thanked her for a good tip before ambling away. When he passed Stein on the sidewalk the two exchanged an amiable nod.

  The Israeli waited until the car was out of sight before moving with surprising quickness to the front steps. “What the hell was that?” he demanded.

  “What do you mean?” she replied, trying to sound surprised. Stein had gone outside to get the lay of the local area, but not before giving strict instructions to allow no one in the house.

  He brushed past her, and with a lukewarm pizza in her hand Christine closed the door against the chill wind.

  “Did we not talk about this?” he said sternly. “You cannot allow anyone near.”

  “It was a pizza delivery kid—I called in the order.”

  “Did you know him?”

  She set the pizza on the kitchen table. “Of course not. But—”

  “But he had a shirt? A car with a sign? He was carrying a pizza box?”

  She gave no reply.

  “Listen,” Stein said, “I don’t have to be here! I’m doing this as a favor to Anton, and because I owe David my life. When you make mistakes like that, you put all of us at risk, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to get shot by somebody with an MP7 in a pizza container!”

  Christine turned away and sighed deeply. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had to think like that.”

  “I understand. But we need to be clear right now—if you want me to stay, you do things my way.”

  She bit her lower lip. Did she want him to stay? Not really, not given what he represented. Then a distant voice interceded, David’s onetime reflection on his relationship with Mossad. They didn’t need me often. But when they did, they needed me badly. As much as she hated it, if Stein’s information was true she needed his help. Needed it badly. “All right,” she relented. “It won’t happen again.”

  Seeming satisfied, Stein went to the pizza box and opened it. “Veggies? My life is on the line for peppers and onions?”

  “I should have known better. Next time, the carnivore’s special.” She watched him drop a slice on a paper plate, and asked, “So did you learn anything out there?”

  “Like you said, there’s only one road in. But at the cul-de-sac there’s a footpath through the woods that leads to a park.”

  “I could have told you that.”

  “You should have.”

  Her face knitted into a frown.

  “The path is in bad shape,” he said, “deep snow, and there’s a downed tree across the middle.”

  “You went back into the trees?”

  “Far enough. And there are a few things you should know. I disabled your garage door opener and did some rewiring. We’re not planning on driving anywhere, but if you want to raise the garage door you’ll need to do it manually. Do you know how to do that?”

  Christine nodded. “And what does that do for us?”

  He pulled her garage remote control from his pocket. “I can light up the backyard with one click. Good for taking a look at night, and a distraction to anyone we see nosing around. Oh, and I put your trash can in the garage.”

  “Why? You expect someone to hide inside and wait for me to empty the diaper pail?”

  He gave her a severe look. “Garbage outside attracts animals, and the last thing we need is a pack of raccoons nosing around in the middle of the night. The idea is to be proactive. By eliminating complications, we give ourselves every advantage.”

  “Proactive. Does that mean you at least shoveled my sidewalk?”

  “Not a chance. Snow is good—nobody can approach the house without leaving prints. I also found a small padlock in the garage and used it to secure your electrical box.”

  “The lock on the workbench? That one’s no good. I’ve been meaning to throw it out because I lost the key.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ll cut it off before I leave.”

  He busied himself installing fresh batteries in her flashlights. They had scoured the house earlier and found six flashlights, but only two that actually worked. Stein wanted to get them all up to speed and put one at the entrance to each room. Since arriving yesterday he’d been in constant motion, studying and watching and preparing. There was a relentlessness about the man, perhaps tinged with a dash of paranoia. Traits she recognized only too well.

  Davy squealed from his playpen. She lifted him out, put him in his high chair, and began spooning mashed peas. “What about the house across the street?” she asked. She had told him there was a new neighbor.

  “I took a good look, even got around the backside once. The blinds are all drawn, but I did see one light upstairs, the window facing the street. There was no mail in the box and the fireplace is cold. The tracks in the driveway suggest the car went out once, then came back, probably yesterday.”

  “You checked the mailbox? Isn’t that illegal?”

  Stein give her a curious look, and said, “I’ll keep an eye on the place, Christine, but I didn’t see anything worrisome.”

  She sighed. Davy’s bib was covered in green, and she took the next spoonful not from the jar but from his chin. “Yaniv—”

  He looked up from unscrewing the lens of a flashlight.

  “If I seem doubtful or cynical, please don’t take it for a lack of appreciation.”

  He smiled. “I know—it’s okay.” He watched Davy take the scrapings of the jar, and said, “You know, he really does look like—” The thought stopped there, and he shot her an awkward look before gathering an armload of flashlights and getting back to his mission.

  Christine watched him go with an odd feeling. It wasn’t what Stein had left unsaid, but something else. And it wasn’t the first time she’d felt it.

  * * *

  One hour later, Slaton arrived at the shuttle parking lot dead on schedule.

  Astrid was waiting, and he steered the little Peugeot through deep puddles to reach the loading curb. She spotted him right away.

  “I’m glad to see you, it was getting cold out there,” she said, sliding into the tattered passenger seat.

  “I try to be punctual.”

  “I’ve been thinking about where we could go now.”

  “And?”

  “I have another friend who lives in Wangen, where I grew up. She said she would be happy to have us for a few days.”

  “You’ve already talked to this friend?”

  “Yes. I borrowed a phone and told her I was on holiday with my new fiancé.” Astrid supplemented this with a coy smile.

  “You’re beginning to think like a spy. All right, Wangen is on the road back to Zurich, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, on the south side of the lake. It should take roughly an hour. My friend said she was on her way home from work and would have dinner waiting when we arrived.”

  “A home-cooked dinner,” Slaton said, putting the car into gear. “How could I possibly say no to that?”

  THIRTY-ONE

  “You’re not gonna believe this,” said Jack Kelly.

  He said something else, but the words were drowned out. Sorensen pressed her phone against her ear, struggling to hear against a symphony of barking. “What?”

  “Where are you?” Kelly asked.

  “I’m at the Humane Society.”

  “Friday nights you work out, and Saturdays with stray dogs? Boss, we need to talk.”

  “No, we don’t. Since I started this Langley posting I’m not traveling much, and I thought I might rescue a mutt. It’s not easy for a woman to
find a trustworthy companion these days.”

  Getting no reply, Sorensen stepped out from the kennel and into an empty exercise courtyard. “What have you got, Jack?”

  “Two more hits on the Group of Seven.”

  “Wait, let me guess—an assassination in the Hague this time?”

  “Even better. An airplane crash off the coast of Brazil.”

  “Seriously?”

  “It was an MD-10, a big airliner. It disappeared from radar over the Atlantic. The names of the crew haven’t been publicly released, but we have an agreement with Brazil to immediately share the crew and passenger manifests of any air crash—a fallout from 9–11. When we ran the names, both the pilot and copilot were matches from the list I showed you last night. Both men arrived in Brazil on papers from our Iranian forgery operation, that same bundle of seven.”

  “Jesus,” Sorensen said. “How many passengers were on board?”

  “That’s the good news—only one. This was a cargo jet that was on some kind of maintenance acceptance flight. The only other person on board was a Brazilian national, some local guy who worked at the airport. His name is definitely not on our list.”

  “All right, but … are you sure about this?”

  “I double-checked everything. Four of the seven people on that MISIRI list have died this week, all under suspicious circumstances.”

  “Suspicious? People getting shot on the streets is one thing, but what’s suspicious about an airplane crash?”

  “Well,” Kelly hedged, “nothing yet. But I definitely think we should look into it.”

  As he waited for her to make the call, a chorus of baying erupted from the kennels. Sorensen frowned. “Okay, I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Let’s try to find out what these pilots were doing down in Brazil.”

  “Any idea how we do that?”

  Sorensen was about to say no when she had an epiphany. “Actually, yeah. I think I know just the man for the job.”

  * * *

  Slaton kept a good pace in the Peugeot, and they arrived on the outskirts of Wangen at ten minutes before six.