by Ward Larsen
He pushed the thought away. Beating himself up was a waste of time.
He focused on the electronics suite. Nothing new had been entered into the navigation system—in particular, no course plots to suggest where Sirius had been headed. He powered up the sat-phone, which was strictly an emergency backup due to its susceptibility to tracking. Nothing in the call log. He spun a circle in the main salon, and his eyes settled on their laptop. It was right where he’d left it, shut down after acquiring directions for his morning errands.
He was weighing whether to boot it up when the phone in his pocket vibrated. He wrenched the handset clear and saw not an incoming call, but a text. He tapped on the screen, hoping for a message from his wife that would explain everything. What appeared, he would later reflect, was precisely the opposite.
It originated from Christine’s phone. Yet the leading line, one word in bold letters, caused his stomach to lurch: kidon.
He felt as if the floor beneath him had been pulled away.
It was the term used by Mossad to refer to its assassins.
What Slaton had once been.
* * *
His finger hovered over the bubble, ready to call up the full message.
Slaton felt like the frontman on a bomb squad, cutters poised over the final wire. Part of him wanted answers. Another part didn’t, fearing what they might be.
He tapped down and the full message flashed to the screen. Slaton was surprised by the compactness of what he saw. There was no salutation, no narrative. Only a short series of bullet instructions.
Kidon
Vienna, Wednesday evening, 8:15
Target photo attached
Danube Island, north shore semicircle
Three benches, three trees
Do what you do best
After confirmation, expect contact here regarding safe return of family
He tried to hold steady, yet found his free hand clutching the chart table. It was the worst possible scenario, the one from which they’d been running for so long. A living nightmare condensed to a few lines of bland prose.
Christine and Davy had been taken. And for the worst possible reason.
Do what you do best.
That could have only one meaning. Someone knew about his background, and they were compelling him to return to his old life … for their own dubious ends. Whoever it was, they were capable enough to find him. Capable enough to seize his family and appropriate their one secure means of communication.
Clearly not secure enough.
Slaton realized he’d let his guard down. His family had been taken, and while the details were unclear, he recognized the hallmarks of a competent operation. The Scotsman, only a few steps away, hadn’t noticed anything amiss. Slaton himself saw virtually no trace of how his wife and son had been taken. Nothing at all regarding where they might be now.
Any hope of finding them quickly was lost. They could be a hundred miles away on an airplane. Aboard any of the two dozen freighters he’d seen on the back side of the cape, or even a British Royal Navy frigate. Perhaps they were secreted away in a false compartment in a delivery truck hurtling through Spain. Slaton had seen many such conveyances play out—in truth, he had devised more than his share. Terrorist financiers extracted from Europe. Militant leaders targeted for rendition. By virtue of that experience, he knew there was little chance of intervention. Not when things were planned and executed properly.
And this, by all appearances, was a proper abduction.
The more Slaton thought about it, the more traces he saw of a state-sponsored operation. The execution of a double snatch on foreign soil was no easy thing—allowing that the tiny principality of Gibraltar was itself off the table as a suspect. The naked use of a pirated messaging account suggested a measure of cyber skill. Israel was the most likely suspect, the United States a close second. In recent years he’d had dealings with the intelligence services of both nations. They knew his vulnerabilities, and both had the assets to find him and manage a complex extraction. Yet on another level that didn’t make sense. If either of those countries wanted to hasten a prospective target’s journey to the afterlife, wouldn’t they deal with it directly?
Perhaps.
State-sponsored assassinations were delicate business, and certain targets were untouchable by the usual means—a drone or a Spec Ops strike. For a target that had to be kept at arm’s length … What better cutout than me? he thought. An assassin long thought dead. A man without a country. And best of all, a shooter who didn’t miss, and who had a knack for disappearing without a trace.
Then Slaton was struck by a more elemental truth: by virtue of his lack of ties to any nation or cause, he was also uniquely expendable.
He readdressed the phone’s tiny screen, memorized the instructions word for word. He looked at the unopened photo attachment. Who would it be? he wondered. Someone he knew? A face recognized around the world? A head of state or underworld kingpin? A rogue agent or intelligence chief? Whoever it was, their identity would hopefully provide a hint as to who was coercing him to undertake an assassination.
The idea rose that he might be dealing with an organized crime syndicate, or even some terrorist element. He hoped that wasn’t the case, because it implied even greater risk for his wife and son. He stared at the final line of the message, the suggestion of their safe return. Having long lived on the dark side of such bargains, he knew the playbook. Operate by their rules, and there was a chance he would see his family again.
The only alternative: to set his own rules.
Slaton considered the location specified in Vienna. He had been there many times, yet saw no particular relevance in either the site or the timing. All the same, he would research both in great detail, hoping for any fingerprint as to who was responsible. The most telling clue, however, remained in hand: the attached photograph. Identify the target, he reasoned, and the patron of his or her demise might become clear.
An old counter-sniper adage came to mind. Track the prey to find the hunter.
Slaton tapped down on the screen to find out who he was supposed to kill.
SEVEN
The image that arose was a candid shot, taken in what looked like an office setting. Slaton saw a man in his thirties framed by an empty white board. He had a serious face and dark, almost delicate features. A face, Slaton had the impression, that might once have been prone to smiling, implied by certain lines around the mouth and eyes. Here it seemed captured in reflection, and perhaps a trace of melancholy. The man was small in stature, thinly built, with black hair that fell over his collar in unkempt waves. Unshaven stubble darkened his chin and cheeks. Not a conformist by nature.
He pored over the rest of the photograph for clues. He noticed a pair of glasses on a table, and a pen in the man’s hand. Quite deliberately, Slaton closed his eyes, then opened them again and looked at the picture anew—an old shooter’s trick to acquire a second “first impression.” The more he studied the man, the more he was nagged by a vague notion: this was a face he’d seen before. Distant and indirect, yet someone from his past. He racked his brain, but the identity escaped him.
He wished he had access to cutting-edge facial recognition technology—great strides had been made in recent years, and databases were expanding daily. Unfortunately, that would require going to either the CIA or Mossad for help, either of whom might be responsible for the whole affair. It was an inescapable dilemma. Until he knew more, he had to operate alone, the only files available those banked in his head.
He drew a deep breath and turned away from the phone. His eyes fell to a Lego-block boat on the floor. He and Davy had built it last night, a marathon session to keep his son occupied while Christine mapped out the next leg of their never-ending voyage. When she finished, they’d put Davy to bed and gone over the itinerary. From Gibraltar the plan was to sail southeast, ten days, more or less, and spend a week in the Canary Islands. From there, Cape Verde, followed by a right turn to Brazil. On
ly a few short hours ago, that had been their near-term life plan.
And now?
He picked up the Lego boat and set it on Davy’s bunk. As he did so, a single block detached, falling onto a comforter decorated with whimsical animals. Slaton retrieved the yellow rectangular brick, which they’d declared to be a lifeboat, and carefully reattached it.
Precisely as it had been.
He cleaned the mug in the sink and emptied the coffeemaker. It had nothing to do with housekeeping. Everything to do with imposing order on his thoughts.
Slaton had succumbed to the darkness once before, predating his years with Mossad. That devastation had come when he was twenty years old, still in university and not yet tarnished by intelligence agencies or Special Forces training. Still unknowing of the dark arts he would come to master.
Slaton had married early, a girl who’d swept into his heart like a summer breeze. Two years into that marriage, with graduation pending and a beautiful young daughter named Elise, his world had been upended in one terrible moment. The tragedy that stole them from his life could not have been more indiscriminate. Nor could Mossad have been more manipulative in how it leveraged his misfortune.
To this day Slaton remembered the pain, the feeling that his soul had been torn away. Only later would he realize how his grief had made him the perfect recruit. Mossad planted the seeds of revenge, played his psyche brilliantly. With one recurring lie, they had molded him into the most lethal of assassins. Slaton had long done his best to keep that part of his past locked away. On most days he managed it, probably because, after so many turbulent years, he’d recovered some semblance of a normal life. Yet now he felt the blackness coming again. Descending like a crushing weight. The mere thought of losing Christine and Davy awakened demons he’d long thought slayed.
He spun a slow circle in the main salon. He needed to make travel plans, begin his research. Instead he found himself staring at the new curtains on the port window. The carpet was also a recent upgrade, as were the dishes in the cupboard. Christine’s campaign to feather their nautical nest. He recalled suffering similar disruptions years ago, in those long-forgotten days. A year of getting junk mail that was jointly addressed. Finding his wife’s exercise mat under the bed. He’d left his daughter’s clothes in her laundry basket for months, treasuring the last traces of her sweet scent.
He forced his eyes shut, desperate for order. Demanding it. If I can’t act rationally, I can’t save them. When he opened his eyes again, equilibrium had returned.
He retrieved a screwdriver from a drawer and went aft to the engine compartment. Slaton opened the portside access door and pried loose a panel to reveal a watertight box concealed in the recesses of the bay. It wasn’t a particularly stealthy hiding place—nowhere on a forty-four-foot sailboat could be—but it had so far held against a series of lazy customs inspections.
A check of the thread-thin security seal told him the box had been opened—someone, he was sure, had accessed it this morning. He pulled the lid of their get-well kit and took a quick inventory. One stack of five thousand euros in various denominations—there had originally been two—along with a spare smartphone, and two false passports with his picture. Two other passports, high-quality forgeries designed for Christine and Davy, were missing.
He considered the implications. Because half the money and his own documents remained, it followed that Christine had accessed the box. It also suggested, very loosely, that she’d not been under duress at the time. Or were these the very thoughts someone hoped him to have? Someone who could flag and follow the passports, who could track the spare phone?
He pinched the bridge of his nose. How easily the old ways, with their circular logic and storming insecurities, came rushing back.
He pocketed the cash, the phone, and after a brief hesitation, added the false identities. He decided the odds were fair that none of it had been compromised. Either way, there was no time to procure new documents. He needed to travel, needed to move. One of the passports, a Canadian item, was paired with a driver’s license and valid credit card. He had diligently kept it all current—last-ditch insurance against an unforeseen crisis.
Today certainly qualified.
He next addressed the boat. Electronics off, bilge pumps checked, shore power connected. New curtains drawn. He locked the companionway hatch, and as he was stepping to the dock for a final check of the mooring lines, the Scotsman appeared at the gangway next door.
“Looks like you’ve found your boat!” he said.
Slaton forced a grin that he hoped appeared casual. “It was all a big misunderstanding. We’re heading to Spain for a few days—going to do some sightseeing. Would you mind keeping an eye on her?”
“Happy to! I’ll be in port another two weeks, then it’s off to Greece. You should give me a phone number where I can contact you.”
“Actually,” Slaton said, “I’m in the process of switching phones. Could you write yours down for me?”
The Scot went below, and moments later came back up with a slip of paper. He handed it over a weathered lifeline.
“Thanks,” Slaton said, pocketing the number. “Hopefully I can return the favor someday.”
“What goes around comes around,” said the Scot.
Slaton nodded pensively, his gray eyes a blank. “Yes … I was thinking that very same thing.”
EIGHT
Gibraltar’s airport was a nominal affair, and resultingly offered few flight options. The most efficient course to reach Austria proved to be a connection in Madrid. Slaton arrived at Vienna International Airport at precisely nine o’clock that evening.
With a small carry-on in hand, he was outside quickly, and his first greeting came from the Austrian winter. Against a temperature near the freezing point and a biting wind, Slaton turned up the collar on his heaviest jacket.
He procured a taxi from the slush-laden curb, and gave the cordial driver the name of a well-known restaurant not far from the Donaustadt district. Slaton had conjured the address after landing using his reserve smartphone, which might or might not be clean. He had no intention of dining at Restaurant Thalassa, but it placed him roughly where he wanted to be. It was his standard practice to give cab drivers a prominent destination. It led to fewer questions, less chance of getting lost, and if the driver were questioned about it later, he would remember the endpoint—providing nothing but a false lead. It was an elementary precaution, and tonight would leave Slaton with little more than a short walk.
The traffic was heavy but moved without pause. As they neared downtown, Slaton had the impression of a city alive, brisk and full of energy. The sidewalks were thick with people bundled against the cold, the adjacent buildings a counterpoint, great slabs of warm light shimmering in the darkness. Slaton had been to Vienna many times in his years with Mossad. He had even spent two years here as a schoolboy. That being the case, his ultimate destination was not unfamiliar. Danube Island. The specific point referenced in the message—a semicircle with benches and trees—sounded strikingly ordinary, and he hoped he wouldn’t have trouble distinguishing it.
The driver turned west on Handelskai Road, the Danube becoming a constant on the right. The neighborhoods here were among the oldest in the city, and inseparable from the river, every path leading to its banks, every foundation following its contours. On the left was the vaulted cityscape, and to the north, across the river, affluent neighborhoods and business parks reached to the horizon. His eyes were drawn to the waterway, which here fell divided into parallel channels. The northern branch appeared stagnant, while the nearer fork kept the river’s flow. Fixed in between them—Danube Island.
The driver veered south into town, and before leaving the riverside, Slaton noted the distinctive curving towers of Vienna International Centre. This was where the U.N. maintained its considerable Austrian presence. Not by coincidence, the nearby office towers housed countless NGOs. Slaton knew this because he’d long ago been part of a Mossad operation th
at had leased space in one of them, a hard-to-find office on a middling floor. The agency had gone so far as to create a short-lived charitable trust, an initiative ostensibly designed to fight malnourishment in remote Sinai villages, but whose real aim was to effect a meeting between an elusive Libyan militia leader and one standard NATO 7.62mm match-grade round. In the end, three months of work had gone for naught when the Libyan was killed by one of his closest lieutenants.
How distant it all seems now, Slaton thought.
He tracked the driver’s progress using the map application on his phone, well aware that mobile position data was a double-edged sword. He was searching ahead, taking in street names and landmarks, when his eye was caught by a photograph attached to the dash: what had to be the driver’s wife and two daughters. They were all arm in arm on a couch, laughing at something unseen.
The driver caught him looking. “Iricha and my two girls,” he said amiably in the English Slaton had begun.
“They’re lovely.”
“Indeed. I am a lucky man.”
Slaton smiled at the mirror. The driver’s eyes smiled back.
The photograph seemed such an ordinary thing. What bankers and accountants tacked on walls next to their diplomas. What waiters and bartenders uploaded to their Facebook pages. Virtually every father in the world had a picture of their child tucked under clear plastic in their wallet.
What kind of man doesn’t have a picture of his family somewhere?
Of course he knew the answer.
* * *
After two final turns their progress slowed in fast-coagulating traffic. The driver pulled to a stop along a busy curb. “The restaurant is there,” he said, pointing to a rust-red awning half a block ahead.
The tiny payment screen told Slaton he owed twenty-six euros. He ignored a credit card swipe and handed thirty euros over the seat. “Is there a hotel nearby?” he asked as the driver took the cash.