Assassin's Revenge

by Ward Larsen

  Rafiq interrupted Boutros’ inordinately dark thoughts. “Is this our route?” he asked, addressing the electronic chart near the helm.

  “Yes.”

  “We will be very near Japan,” Rafiq said, tapping his finger on the narrow passage between two large islands.

  “The Tsugaru Straits, between the main island of Honshu and Hokkaido to the north.”

  “How wide is it?”

  “Roughly twelve miles at the narrowest point.”

  “Does that not put us in Japanese territorial waters?”

  “Typically, it would. Luckily for us, Japan has designated unique sovereignty limits to that area—only three miles from the coastline.”

  “Why?”

  “To provide passage for the American navy. By declaring the channel as international water, America’s nuclear-armed warships can pass through without violating Japan’s constitutional ban on nuclear arms. They bow to the Americans. And it fits our needs perfectly.”

  Rafiq smiled thinly. “How appropriate.”

  “The route will save us a day over any other passage. Now … go check on the others.”

  As Rafiq disappeared into the cabin below, the boat lurched. Boutros made another correction on the wheel. He eyed the vessel monitoring system. The VMS unit, given away by its dome-shaped antennas, was the first thing he’d noticed from the pier. The hardware was becoming standard on fishing fleets across the globe. It had nothing to do with navigation or security, but was designed to give fishery authorities and environmental groups the ability to track individual vessels. The intent was to ensure that catches were lawful and protected waters honored. VMS units transmitted position, course, speed, and in some cases went so far as to issue catch reports.

  At least when they were operational.

  Choe had already taken care of Albatross’ unit, having cut the wire to the antennas somewhere in the South China Sea. It was a crude but effective shutdown. Boutros had been told to expect a boat with Southeast Asian provenance, and he’d done his homework. According to Thailand’s regulations, any boat greater than sixty gross tons was required to have a VMS transmitter. He also knew the requirement was relatively new, and that enforcement was a work in progress. One technical malfunction among thousands of boats would hardly be noticed. Doubly so given that the vessel’s ownership had recently changed hands, getting duly obfuscated in the process—the North Koreans were better than most at cloaking transfers of money and title. In a month, perhaps two, a letter of noncompliance would arrive at an attorney’s office in Panama. Or perhaps the regulators would get an emailed complaint from Greenpeace. Either would be far too late.

  More problematic than an inoperative VMS, Boutros decided, was the chance of a random inspection inside someone’s two-hundred-mile economic zone. That the ship’s holds contained not a single fish, and that her nets would never once touch the water, was of limited consolation. She might be a boat with nothing to hide when it came to fishing, but if Albatross was ever boarded, Boutros would be faced with two great problems. Most obvious, of course, involved what was in the net storage compartment. The second was that any competent inspector would fast recognize a crew who knew nothing about the sea. There was little Boutros could do to mitigate either issue. If a boarding appeared imminent, he could do little but cover up the device and tell everyone to keep their mouths shut. If that didn’t work—they had at least one weapon with which to make a stand.

  It was all of course speculative. Chances were excellent that they would soon become lost in a vast ocean. Still, if Boutros had learned anything in his years at sea, it was that forethought could prove decisive in times of crisis.

  And when that wasn’t enough? Then he and his crew would gladly put themselves in the hands of Allah.

  * * *

  Events in Danube Park went much as Slaton predicted. The bodies were found before dawn—the consequence of an errantly thrown tennis ball, delivered by a pastry chef preparing for an early shift, and one easily distracted German spaniel.

  One phone call later, and on the backside of a slow night, the police descended in legions. Before sunrise the crime scene had been cordoned off and guards posted all around. The light of a new morning was prodding the eastern sky when the lead detective arrived. He found himself presiding over a scene that included three bodies, a great deal of blood, a notable absence of murder weapons, one roll of duct tape, three MAC-10s, and a partial set of children’s golf clubs.

  Each of the three victims was carrying a phone, although it was fast determined that all were prepaid items, had been activated within the last two days, and contained no relevant information save for the fact that they were tied to one another—hardly a shock for devices taken from three bodies piled like cordwood.

  The identities of the men were easily determined—each was carrying an Austrian-issued identity card. Unfortunately, it was subsequently discovered that the addresses were fictitious in every case. This commonality was not lost on the detective, nor the fact that all three men appeared to be of an age and—profiling or not—an ethnic origin that might suggest either terrorism or a hate crime. With this in mind, the inspector, a thoughtful man with a broad mustache and beer-drinker’s build, ran the victims’ names through departmental task forces that had been set up to combat both.

  Over the course of the morning, photos would be taken and imprints cast of various marks on the wet earth. The bodies would eventually be moved, with all possible decorum, to the departmental morgue. Later that day, the detective would garner a few vague details about the victims when one of his subordinates flashed photos, sourced from their identity documents, around a certain local mosque.

  As it turned out, the coming days would be full of investigative setbacks, many of them foreshadowed from the very outset. Indeed, if the inquiry could be encapsulated to a single image, it might have been the thickset detective himself. As he stood taking in the scene at first light, he was visibly perplexed.

  Had he been there to see for himself, Slaton would have admitted but one point of defeat: instead of scratching his head, the poor man cupped his jaw in an ode to his bafflement.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Rain was tapping the window when Slaton woke. It wasn’t a downpour, but more of a wandering shower, the meteorological equivalent of a stray dog. He looked at the bedside clock. Its big red digits glared back like a warning.

  7:12 a.m.

  He rolled toward the window. At the top he saw a black void, and below that was the valley between buildings where feeble streetlights battled the mist. Slaton pivoted his legs to the floor, picked up his phone from the nightstand. He hesitated, then turned it on. There was nothing new, only the cryptic message that had turned his life upside down.

  He turned it off, switched to the prepaid phone he’d purchased, and launched a search of the local news. Slaton held his breath while the browser wheel spun. When the results flashed to the screen they were conclusive, and not unexpected. Two articles, very similar, could be collectively distilled to the headline of the first: “Triple Murder in Danube Park.”

  His work had been discovered, and somewhat sooner than anticipated. The reports added nothing to what he already knew. No identities of the victims were given, and there was nothing about suspects or evidence. Details would trickle out in time, he knew, the pace slowing as police realized the depth of their investigative ditch.

  But time was not a luxury Slaton had.

  A series of visions clouded his thoughts, arriving sequentially like a slide show. A verdant park. A playground. Davy leaping off a platform into a mulch bed, looking for all the world like a commando jumping out of an airplane. It seemed an arbitrary set of images, nothing to do with the facts before him.

  And absolutely everything to do with them.

  Slaton stood and went to the wash basin in the bathroom. He ignored the mirror, turned on the tap, and splashed water on his face, not bothering to wait for the warm side to kick in. Finally, he looked up
and found himself whispering to the image before him.

  “How long can I go on like this?”

  It had been nearly four years since he’d left Mossad. Yet somehow, the more distant his past became, the more relentlessly it infringed on his new life. With concerted effort, he turned away from what he knew was a gloomy mental cul-de-sac. There was only room for the here-and-now.

  With the hopefulness of a new morning, he rejoined the facts of last night. Surprisingly, a new clarity emerged. He used a towel to dry his face, then walked quickly to the second bedroom.

  Mordechai was sound asleep in the double bed.

  “Wake up!” Slaton said sharply.

  Mordechai remained motionless. His feet were clear of the blanket, and Slaton smacked his soles with an open hand.

  Mordechai startled awake.

  There were two lamps in the room—one on the bedside stand, the other high on a Louis Quinze dresser. Slaton turned them both on. Regrettably, the energy-efficient LED bulbs didn’t give the effect he was after. How does anyone conduct a proper interrogation anymore?

  “What is it?” Mordechai mumbled. His eyes were slits and his head bobbed when he sat up. Rip van Winkle on Valium. Slaton wasn’t surprised. The man was unaccustomed to stress, to playing in the life-and-death league. His hands fumbled over the nightstand for his glasses.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Slaton said.

  “About what?”

  “You need to show up at the office today.”

  Mordechai put his glasses on, blinked twice. “But last night you said—”

  “Circumstances have changed. The three bodies were discovered early this morning in the park. The police are investigating. Whoever abducted my family has seen the same news reports.”

  “Have the victims’ identities been made public?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then … isn’t it possible they’ll think one of the bodies is mine? Or even yours?”

  “There will be a period of uncertainty. On the other hand, we can’t dismiss that whoever we’re talking about might have connections inside the police department. If so, they’ll know their hit team failed. Either way, it’s only a matter of time.”

  “Have you gotten any new messages from them?”

  “No, and I’m not waiting. We need to go on the offensive. El-Masri is the key—we have to find out more about these suspect site visits. To do that, I need you in the headquarters building.”

  “But if I show up at work, it will be clear you didn’t fulfill your part of the bargain. Won’t that put your family at risk?”

  “I’m guessing no more than they already are. But there is one thing we can do to minimize the threat. When you go in to work today, carry on like nothing has changed—just another day at the office.”

  “You don’t think these people will suspect we’ve joined forces?”

  “No. When I put myself in their shoes, I see a more likely scenario. They’ll suspect I spotted their thugs, took them out, then let you run because I thought I’d been double-crossed. Right now, they’re probably wishing they’d hired more competent killers.”

  Mordechai considered it. “That’s not far from what actually happened.”

  “Not far at all. And it gives us back our biggest advantage—having you on the inside. I need to know when El-Masri is due back. After that, dig into his background. Personal, professional, everything.”

  Mordechai sat on the side of the bed. He leaned forward and ran his hands through his riotous hair. “And after work tonight? Do I return here?”

  “No—go to your apartment. You and I can’t be seen together. But we do need to stay in touch.” Slaton instructed Mordechai to buy a fresh phone on the way to work, then provided the number of his own burner.

  “All right,” Mordechai said. “I will call you tonight.”

  “Good. But before you go … I need to know a few things about El-Masri.”

  “What could I tell you?”

  “You probably know more than you realize.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “Is he married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is his wife here or in Egypt?”

  “Here in Vienna. And also a son.”

  “What’s his address?”

  Mordechai looked at him severely.

  Slaton kept an unwavering gaze.

  “Twenty-three Eicherstrasse, Kapellerfeld.”

  “Does he have a dog?”

  “I … I don’t think so.”

  “A mistress?”

  Discomfort. “No,” Mordechai said. “At least, not that I know of.”

  “Does he exercise regularly?”

  “Never that I’ve seen.”

  “What kind of car does he drive?”

  “An Audi sedan.”

  “Color?”

  “Silver.”

  And so it went for twenty minutes. At that point, Slaton and Mordechai parted.

  The scientist was first to leave, taking the sidewalk east along Novaragasse on a course toward the river.

  Slaton allowed a five-minute interval. From the building’s entry alcove he searched the streets for anything out of character. He saw well-dressed bankers, briefcases penduluming at their sides. Students holding cell phones like modern-day divining rods. Elderly women in dresses walked to choir practice, while younger ones in yoga pants headed for the studio. All people for whom Vienna offered nothing more than an easy Thursday morning. And also nothing less.

  His survey complete, Slaton turned west, a direct course to the nearest Metro station. He fell in with the masses, everyone around him absorbed in appointments and conversations and workaday routines. And for the first time in his life, Slaton wondered what it would be like to be among them.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Kapellerfeld turned out to be a pocket village ten miles north of the greater city. In America it would have been called a suburb, yet unlike the States, the township was not the product of a “visionary” developer who brought a flurry of clear-cutting, paving, and cookie-cutter construction. As with most European hamlets, it was a community in the truest sense, maturing over generations much like the vineyards of the surrounding hills. There was a school and a church and a highly regarded confectionery. A train to address wanderlust and a nursery to provide roots. If the great city to the south loomed, it did so at arm’s length. An urban shadow not yet gone to eclipse. Kapellerfeld was small and tidy and clean. And a place where senior officers of the IAEA, apparently, could feel secure.

  The rain had ended, and under the gloom of an overcast morning Slaton drove to within a mile of El-Masri’s address before setting out on foot. Having studied the neighborhood using online satellite imagery, he went in with a mental portrait of the surrounding streets. He made his initial approach in a calibrated manner, a series of right-hand turns in an ever-tightening pattern.

  His pace was resolute, his posture huddled. A man heading to the dentist to have a tooth pulled. Wearing khaki pants, a dark jacket, and a categorically bland expression, he was tedium personified. Only once, out of necessity, did he utilize the same street twice, and on that occasion he used the opposite sidewalk—in quiet residential neighborhoods, people noticed recurring strangers. The dismal weather was in his favor—he passed only a handful of people, shopping bags in hand or tending to gardens. He nodded cordially to a few, and none responded with anything more. For this Slaton was thankful—his German was no better now than when he’d arrived.

  He spent twenty minutes on his approach work, logging one-way streets and bus stops, and taking particular notice of two narrow alleys—wide enough for foot traffic, but effective chokepoints for a pursuing car. He twice used his phone to inquire about a ride on Uber—not because he wanted a car at that moment, but rather to gauge response times. In doing so, he input a destination address that was centered in Vienna—drivers preferred to accept trips that ended in districts where follow-on work was likely. He was happy to see that, in spite
of the early hour, a car could be summoned within minutes if necessary.

  When he was finally comfortable with the field of play, Slaton made the turn onto Eicherstrasse. The homes along the street were a mix of themes, art deco here, contemporary there. He spotted number 23 from a distance. It was a half-hearted ode to Tyrol, a two-story affair with faux shutters and a brown shingle roof. Not the largest on the street, nor the smallest. Slaton had no idea what it was worth, but he speculated—because that was what one did when weighing suspected spies—that the home was not beyond the means of a department head for a major international agency. The main house was sided by a driveway, and in back he saw a BMW SUV parked near a detached garage. Mordechai had told him El-Masri drove an Audi, so this was likely Mrs. El-Masri’s car. Here again, the ownership of two expensive German vehicles was notable, but hardly out of reach for a senior government official. And positively ordinary in the gilded burgh of Lower Austria.

  As he neared number 23, Slaton studied the periphery. He saw a stone wall on the north side, and another along the rear property line. Either could easily be vaulted. A few cars were parked along curbs up and down the street, although he was sure the count would be higher tonight as city commuters returned home. A row of leafless trees stood sentry along the road, gray bark peeling from their trunks and naked branches shivering in the chill breeze.

  Minutes earlier, canvassing the street behind, Slaton had gotten a look at the home’s rear façade. There was a door, a sidewalk leading to the garage, and one frill-curtained window overlooking it all. He figured the window for the kitchen, but that could be verified later. To the positive, there were no signs of any soffit-mounted cameras or motion-activated exterior lights. It had initially struck Slaton as odd that there were no children’s toys or play sets. Then he realized he hadn’t asked the age of El-Masri’s son. A mere oversight? Or was his perspective skewed in ways it never had been?