by Ward Larsen
To be drawn into such an exchange, even intrigued by it, was a long-lost response for Slaton, yet a proficiency that had been restored during his months in Virginia. There he had begun to strike up conversations with waitresses, pizza delivery kids, and concrete truck drivers, regaining the everyday skill of talking to a stranger without sizing them up for fighting ability, without filtering every word for deceit or logging character flaws fit for blackmail. To simply sit and talk was a long-forgotten pleasure, and something Christine had given him back.
Magnussen said, “I took up flying ten years ago when I retired from my civil service job. After twenty-one years in the same building I had an irresistible urge to be outside. There’s nothing as liberating as flying.”
“I can understand that.”
“It’s not much of a business, mind you. Most years I break even, maybe clear enough for a few weeks in Spain during the holidays.”
“And that’s all you need?”
She thought about it. “Yes, I suppose it is. Last year I had a chance to buy out a competitor in Malmö at an excellent price. I would have gotten four airplanes, six pilots, and a backlog of contracts.”
“And all the headaches that go with it?”
“Exactly. It was the second easiest decision I ever made.”
Slaton took the bait. “And the first?”
“Leaving my bastard husband, of course.”
He smiled.
“And you?” she asked.
“What about me?”
“Do you really have a wife?”
Slaton looked ahead. The brooding contour of Germany was rising out of the sea, low hills strung along the coastline, unseen rivers knuckling through valleys. This was their destination, and the sight had a sobering effect on his disposition.
When he didn’t answer, she said, “You wear a ring. If you’re having troubles perhaps we could talk about it. It can be very helpful to—”
“Janna,” he interrupted. “You said you were civil service, right?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of work did you do?”
She looked out the front window. “I was a crisis counselor for the National Board of Health and Welfare.”
He couldn’t help himself. Slaton began to laugh.
Magnussen smiled as well, clearly seeing the humor.
TWENTY-FIVE
The aura of goodwill that had developed in the cockpit was gone as the seaplane made its final approach to landing. Slaton instructed Magnussen to skim the coastline at low altitude, and after ten minutes he saw an acceptable entry point, a remote cove with no apparent civilization for miles in any direction.
She brought the Cessna to another soft landing, and as soon as the craft settled she began steering toward the darkening German shore. Janna Magnussen, crisis counselor and pilot, looked predictably tense as the shoreline came near.
When she killed the engine Slaton reached into a pocket. His hand came out with the remainder of their agreed upon fee.
Once she’d taken it, he said, “Turn away.”
“What?”
“Your face—turn away.”
Magnussen gave him a cautious look, but complied, turning toward the opposite window.
Slaton pulled the .22 from his pocket, angled it carefully, and fired his last remaining round. The radio panel exploded.
Magnussen jumped involuntarily. She turned back and saw what he’d done.
“You bastard! You shot my airplane!”
“Only the radios—the rest still works. How much does a new communications panel cost?”
Still shaken, she took a moment to answer. “In dollars? Maybe two thousand.”
“Okay. I’ll add that in. Twenty-two thousand. Give me a few hour’s head start, and you’ll have the check by the end of next week.”
She gave him a sharp stare. “How will you know if I’ve earned it? If I waited?”
He only smiled, and said, “Thanks for your help.” Slaton opened the door and stepped onto the float. After a hesitation, however, he turned back. “Janna—you saw the sailboat, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And you saw that it was heading north.”
No answer.
“There was a woman on that boat. She’s being sought by the police. There are other people looking for her as well, people who might do her harm. I can tell you that she’s done nothing wrong—other than getting involved with me. But there is one thing I told you that wasn’t truthful.” Slaton met her blue aviatrix’s eyes. “The woman on that boat is not my mistress. She’s my wife. And I love her more than you could ever know.”
Magnussen stared at him, and then shifted to her shattered instrument panel. A curiously amused expression came to her face. “Where were you when I was twenty?”
Slaton grinned, then eased the door closed.
Five minutes later he was standing on Continental Europe and watching the little seaplane skim into the sky one last time. He did not wait until it disappeared. Slaton placed his backpack on a large rock and took inventory. A GPS navigation device, a .22 Beretta with no rounds remaining, field glasses, and one energy bar—he had insisted Christine take the others. Thirty-nine U.S. dollars remained in his wallet.
He placed the gun in the right-hand pocket of his jacket, tucking the flap inside for better access—even without bullets it was good for intimidation. The GPS device went into the opposing pocket, along with the compact field glasses. He took out his wallet and removed everything except the cash. A Virginia driver’s license, voter’s registration, and Prince William County library card, all in the name of Edmund Deadmarsh, went into the otherwise empty backpack. An identity that had lasted nearly a year was now at its end.
He suspected Anton Bloch had performed the most difficult part—once Slaton arrived in Sweden, the legend of Edmund Deadmarsh had been scrubbed from cyberspace, probably erased on cue after one last use. The resulting anonymity was help enough, yet he also recognized a signal from his old boss. Disappear, David. Find another way. Slaton had never been told, but he suspected the identity originated with the CIA, Bloch calling in an old favor before he retired. Or possibly MI-6. Whatever the case, Bloch had finished what he’d started. The director who’d given the world Edmund Deadmarsh had taken him away, reciprocal keystrokes to remove every trace.
Slaton found a stone the size of a softball, put it in the backpack, and zipped everything shut. Taking the straps in hand, he gave a half spin like a hammer thrower and heaved the backpack fifty feet out to sea. With one thumping splash it was done. The man born as David Slaton was again a ghost. He had killed many a legend in his time, but never before had it been such a bittersweet parting. If the name Edmund Deadmarsh had been no more than fiction, for Slaton it represented a very tangible life. Grilled burgers on the deck in Virginia, a week on the beach in Curaçao. The closest thing to normalcy he’d experienced in a very long time.
Now the vestiges of that life were sinking to a deep and dark place. The vestiges of his earlier life had long ago been eliminated. Police and intelligence organizations, for all their efficiencies, were modeled on the idea of matching a known to a known. In Slaton’s case it would become no more than an exercise in frustration. Aside from the hazy recollections of a few policemen and acquaintances, perhaps a few distant captured images, there was nothing to compare. There were no pension accounts to watch. No driver’s license on which to put a bulletin. No family mobile signals to monitor. The man standing on a German beach this early fall evening, alone and unshaven and empty-handed, was as pure an apparition as could be.
With dark clouds eclipsing everything to the north, the remains of the day were no more than a spray of purple on the western horizon. In the waning light Slaton looked left and right along the coast. Seeing nothing but rugged shoreline in either direction, he turned south and picked up a brisk pace. The kidon hit the tree line and was soon lost to sight.
* * *
When Evita Levine stepped throug
h the portico of the Isrotel Tower Hotel in Tel Aviv she immediately got the looks she was accustomed to. She pretended not to notice the bellman’s stare, and quietly appreciated but did not return an obvious glance from a businessman in an expensive suit. She too was well dressed, reflecting her recently established Ronen Chen expense account, and prominent on her wrist was the newest bauble, a bracelet of white gold and diamonds. She did not bother stopping at the front desk, instead going straight to the elevator and rising to the tenth floor. There she knocked on the usual door.
It opened almost immediately.
He stood there unsteadily, a half-spent bottle of red wine in his hand and a loosened tie round his neck. He looked at his watch, the motion nearly tipping the contents of the uncorked bottle onto his stiffly pressed white shirt, and causing Evita to wonder if perhaps she should have come earlier after all.
He said, “There you are, darling, I was beginning to wonder.”
“I’m sorry,” she replied. “I couldn’t get my husband out of the house.”
She stepped inside, kicking the door shut with the heel of her spiked Manolo. Both waited for the lock to catch before embracing. He was a small man, and in her five-inch heels—the ones he so liked—Evita was forced to bend down to meet his lips.
With his hand clutching her bottom, she nipped once at his ear and whispered, “I’m still not used to these little deceptions. I am not a professional like you.”
He backed away. “Not to worry, my angel. As always, I have taken every precaution. If it puts you at ease I can call and find out where he is right now.”
This gave Evita a fleeting chill. He was only trying to impress her, of course, yet she could never forget that he was a powerful man.
“No, that’s not necessary.”
He sauntered to the bar, brimming with confidence. “So—tell me about your week.”
Evita did, as always keeping to the most insipid truths. She talked about her job at the nail salon, a miserable dinner at her in-laws, and the university rejection letter her best friend’s brilliant son had just received. He listened at first, but the longer she talked the more he drank, and his interest inevitably faded. The first bottle of wine went quickly, and by the time the second clanked to the floor they were both on the bed, his shirt gone and she down to her new and very expensive undergarments.
Evita rubbed his hairy chest, slow circles that had the desired effect.
“Enough about me,” she said. “Have you had a busy week?”
“Oh, you can’t imagine.” He let loose a long breath. “There have been meetings every night. The director is a driven man, and he expects no less from those around him.”
“It sounds awful. So much pressure. I wish I could ease your load.”
He chuckled lecherously.
“No, I mean it. I wish I could put all of Hamas on a leaky boat and send them to sea.”
He looked at her drunkenly, a hazy leer that seemed not so different from old Yehud at the bar. “Yes, I believe you would. If I only had more warriors like you.”
Her hand went lower, onto his round, furry belly. “And Iran’s mad scientist—I would put a bullet in his head myself if the chance came.”
“I told you,” he said, “we’re trying. That cockup in the desert—it never had a chance of succeeding. And the motorcycle fiasco? Lunacy, I tell you.” His speech had acquired a familiar viscosity. “But we have one more chance. Hamedi is going abroad, and the director thinks he has found a way. He’s brought in a new man to do it, one who will not fail.”
“One man?”
“Yes.”
“An assassin? How frightful, the people you deal with. How will it be done?”
“I shouldn’t say anything, darling. Not this time.”
“Of course, I understand.” She nuzzled to his ear. “You lead such an exciting life, mon ami. So exciting…” Her hand found his mark. “Let’s talk about it later.”
Ezra Zacharias, director of operations for Mossad, inhaled sharply. “Oh … yes … much later.”
* * *
Blix escorted Sanderson into his house.
“I’m fine, Gunnar, really.”
“I still think you should have someone with you tonight. What about your sister?”
“She’s away on holiday.”
“Annika?” Blix said, referring to his daughter.
“I’m not an invalid, dammit! Not yet anyway. Annika is busy enough. And so should you be. Now get out of my house and find this bastard who’s making all of us look like fools.”
Blix grinned. “Yeah, you seem your old self.”
He turned to go, and Sanderson said, “Thank you, Gunnar.”
“No problem. Oh, I almost forgot.” Blix reached into his pocket and pulled out Sanderson’s phone. “Here.”
Sanderson took it. “They’re letting me keep it?”
“Not exactly—they’ve pulled the sim card. You’ll need to pick up a new one.”
“I’ll take care of it right away.”
“Call me as soon as you’re reconnected.”
“Thank you again.”
Blix left, closing the door behind.
Sanderson sat down at his dining room table. He pushed aside a bowl of stale potato crisps and set down his disabled phone. The room was still and silent. He closed his eyes and slipped off his shoes, and with cold seeping through his socks from the bare stone floor, Arne Sanderson wondered what on earth was wrong with him.
* * *
The Stockholm police were paying a great deal of overtime. Officers who’d spent their afternoons swarming over three triangulated locations looking for an elusive American, only to come up empty, had been kept on duty. By sunset teams were stationed at each of the three sites, walking arm-in-arm with bright flashlights in search of evidence. Others were committed to patrol subway and ferry terminals. A dozen officers spent their Tuesday evening watching travelers at Arlanda Airport, and two men had been posted, rather hopefully, in the lobby of the Strand Hotel. Neighboring counties had been alerted, and immigration counters across Sweden received notice to watch for an American, possibly traveling under the name of Edmund Deadmarsh, who was suspected of shooting a police officer.
Anna Forsten gave two news conferences that evening. The first provided a terse overview of the recent Strandvägen attacks, a dry and procedural account that was trumped on most news stations by sensational eyewitness video, taken with a mobile phone, that had a certain Blair Witch production quality. People could be seen running and screaming, and shots were clearly audible as a young man crashed his scooter and went skidding across the pavement in front of the Renaissance Tea Room. The police acquired a copy of the video, but quickly declared it to hold little evidentiary value.
Sensing her grasp on things slipping, Commissioner Forsten held an impromptu second act on the sidewalk outside her office. In a brief but well-articulated statement she emphasized that things were firmly in control, her legions of crack investigators making significant progress toward capturing the fugitive. Dozens of questions were lobbed, like so many verbal grenades, as Forsten backed into the fortress that was National Police Headquarters. She answered not a single one.
TWENTY-SIX
At the very moment Commissioner Forsten was backpedaling across a Stockholm sidewalk, the man she was looking for was standing on a more quiet slab of concrete some three hundred miles south in the port of Sassnitz, Germany. From his arrival point, Slaton had hiked the width of Jasmund National Park, a four-mile excursion through the brooding heaths and moors of northern Rügen Island. Where the park gave way to a narrow road, Slaton turned left toward a glow of lights in the distance. Twenty minutes later he arrived in Sassnitz.
Now, standing in front of the rail terminal, he looked out and marveled at his good fortune. Slaton could not imagine that a better selection of transportation alternatives existed in any square mile of Europe. He saw a ferry port that dealt the full spectrum—passengers, cars, and long-haul trucks.
A rail terminal lay directly behind him, and on the horizon was a shipping yard. In the harbor a small cruise ship had docked next to the fishing fleet, and an assortment of leisure craft lay moored in private slips. There were small bulk carriers and cargo ships, and around these, loading cranes and forklifts sat ready to connect everything to trucks that would spread their payloads across Germany and beyond. Yet if the possibilities seemed overwhelming, they narrowed considerably when he measured his means against his objective. He had thirty-nine U.S. dollars in his pocket. On that he had to reach Switzerland.
Patiently, Slaton reckoned how best to attack the problem. He walked toward the ferry terminal with a cool wind at his back, the air scented with evergreen and the acrid residual of wood-burning fireplaces getting an early-season workout. As the long northern dusk lost its grip, the walkways fell increasingly sectioned, deep shadows broken by shards of electric light. Slaton lingered in the darker recesses to study his options. His attention settled on a large ferry where vehicles were unloading, and after twenty minutes the answer to his problem lumbered down the big metal off-ramp.
He kept to the shadows and watched, and soon two more vehicles of the same type rolled off in direct succession. He followed the little convoy’s progress and saw them park, one by one, in a well-lit holding yard. He watched the drivers dismount and deliver the keys to a kind of dispatch shack. Slaton could not see inside the shack, but he imagined rows of keys hanging on hooks, or perhaps tagged and put in drawers. Either would serve the German penchant for organization. He kept watching, and in thirty minutes saw nine more of the type, nearly identical to the first, driven off the ferry, parked, and the keys delivered to the shack.
Satisfied he understood the process before him, Slaton began a well-practiced reverse flow. He searched for faults in the system, and saw a number of possibilities. He then studied the parking lot itself. The apron was massive, nearly a half mile in both length and width, and surrounded by a wire fence. The lot was roughly half full, a hodgepodge of trucks and cars and trailers and containers. Some would be gone in minutes, while others might expect spring flowers to blossom beneath their undercarriages. Of particular interest, Slaton noted that there was only one entrance, governed by the shack, where a heavy-set woman gave cursory inspections to everything that came and went.