Assassin's Game

by Ward Larsen

  Krueger shrugged and turned up his palms on his desk. “D’accord, monsieur.”

  “Then we should not play games. You have a talent for characterizing money so that it does not draw attention, and subsequently using it to make more. I have a need for that service. The bargain I will give you is this: It is now ten forty-five. By close of business today you will provide me the equivalent of ten thousand U.S. dollars, split evenly between dollars and Swiss francs. In addition, you will make a reservation in your own name for one week at the Montreux Casino, beginning tomorrow night, and advise the hotel that I am to arrive as your guest. You will then deposit in advance fifty thousand Swiss francs for my use at their tables.”

  “Fifty thousand? Monsieur, this is a good deal of money. There are laws to be considered.”

  “If I was worried about laws, Herr Krueger, I would not be here but down the street at UBS. I am sure you have cash reserves, other client accounts, money in escrow. You are a private banker and a clever man. You also know that in a matter of weeks the benefits of this legacy will cover everything and more. If you can make these things happen, I will employ you to manage my account on a continuing basis, with a fee structure unchanged from your arrangement with Grossman. Will you agree to these terms?”

  Krueger was beginning to glisten, no longer interested in his coffee. Slaton could almost see the commission numbers ringing in his head. “Yes, five o’clock today, ten thousand. And the other. Yes, I can manage.”

  “Good. But we have more ground to cover.”

  Krueger actually tugged on the collar of his shirt.

  “You will not hear from me for some time, likely many months. When I see you later today, I will execute the papers necessary to allow you to manage this inheritance. My instructions are as follows. When the funds become available, you will split them evenly among ten numbered accounts. From there you will initiate a series of transfers. The Caymans, Bahamas, Aruba—I leave the specifics up to you. In the end, I want nothing—I repeat nothing—to remain in the name of Natan Mendelsohn. Incorporate, set up trusts or foundations if necessary. Once these accounts are established, you may select whatever investments you deem to be in our mutual best interest. Are we clear on everything so far?”

  “Yes,” Krueger said, “absolutely.” He was about to stand when Slaton held out a palm to keep him in his seat.

  “There are two last matters. First, the ‘charity’ referred to in Grossman’s legacy. I can tell you that it is not your typical benevolent foundation. In truth, this organization is not a charity at all, and in my opinion not worthy of receiving any of this money under its current governance. As I have been entrusted to steer the inheritance, I will do so in the spirit I believe it was intended. This begins with the instructions you now have.”

  Slaton paused, and he imagined Krueger mulling the charitable merits of sending fifty thousand Swiss francs to a Montreux casino. To his credit the man remained silent, only nodding like the good banker he was.

  “Finally,” Slaton continued, his cadence slowing, “you are aware of the late Monsieur Grossman’s gray business dealings. I dare say you are not so familiar with mine. To put it simply, those things that Grossman sold, I buy. I operate alone, and in the parlance of our small corner of the world, I am what is known as an ‘end user.’”

  Slaton let that settle before leaning slightly forward. “I expect you to hold to the most stringent standards of Swiss banking. Our arrangements must be kept absolutely privileged—discuss them with no one. And be very clear on one last point, Herr Krueger. If any, or perhaps all of this money should disappear, you will in fact never see me again. But even if you should find yourself in a very small and very quiet corner of the world, rest assured that I will see you once more. Precisely once.”

  The banker managed a weak smile. “Sir, I … I can assure you that my performance will leave no need for either of us to ever deviate from our arrangement.”

  The gray eyes smiled back. “Then as you say—we are in accord.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Elin Almgren took slightly over an hour to call back. Sanderson, stirring cream into his second cup of coffee from a high stool, picked up immediately.

  “Have you found anything?” he asked.

  “A new Thai restaurant that makes a wonderful Panang curry.”

  “Please.”

  “Sex, Arne. Find some quickly.”

  Sanderson, patient man that he was, thought, If she wasn’t so damned good …

  “Here’s what I have,” Almgren said. “Our files are thin. Pure intelligence on the sort of man you’re after is a nonstarter, at least anything recent. We have volumes on the shooters from Lillehammer and a few less spectacular incidents on European soil. All ancient history. This suspect of yours would have to be in his fifties for any of it to apply.”

  “No,” Sanderson said, “he’s nowhere near it. So there’s nothing?”

  “On the man you’re after, no.”

  “But?” Sanderson prompted.

  “It’s only a wild idea—one I’m surprised you haven’t fumbled upon yourself. Has it not occurred to you that Israeli assassins have been in the news a great deal lately? There were two attempts on the life of Dr. Ibrahim Hamedi this summer. Iran put the blame on Mossad.”

  “Don’t they always?”

  “Of course. But we did receive a report from Interpol that identified one of the men in the most recent assault. He was former Israeli Special Forces, almost certainly working for Mossad. Taken together, I’d say that puts him pretty close to your friend. He was a kidon.”

  Sanderson said nothing.

  “Well?” Almgren prodded.

  “It’s not much, but I see what you mean. I suppose it bears looking into.”

  “Iran’s development of nuclear-tipped missiles is Israel’s overwhelming concern. So maybe that has something to do with what’s been going on in Stockholm.”

  “Is SÄPO pursuing this angle?” he asked.

  “No. But I think somebody should.”

  “Somebody. Maybe a retiree with nothing better to do?”

  “Could be. Just to be a good sport I’ll see what I can dig up on Dr. Hamedi.”

  “Yes, that might help.”

  “And don’t forget, Arne—you owe me another Flying Horse Chipotle Burger.”

  * * *

  Iran’s Guardian Council was housed, for the day’s business, in a nondescript building outside Parliament’s contemporary pyramid—an eye-catching and useless place in both form and function.

  Behrouz felt strangely alone as he walked up the broad central staircase. He answered this call on a regular basis, and the timing of today’s summons was in line with the usual reporting schedule. All the same, a worm of anxiety squirmed in his gut.

  The council was already in session when Behrouz arrived, and he was ushered directly in, the members breaking away from less pressing business to give him an immediate audience. Taking the lone seat that faced the long table, he saw he was up against a full contingent of twelve—altogether, a disquieting lineup of dark robes and white turbans.

  After cursory words of greeting—along the lines of what one would give a rarely seen neighbor—the chairman said, “Tell us of your preparations for Geneva.”

  Behrouz was ready. “Our forward team has arrived at the embassy in Bern, and is now finalizing arrangements. They will secure the hotel well in advance of Dr. Hamedi’s arrival. We are coordinating with both the local police and Swiss national forces. The United Nations venue is well suited for lockdown during high-profile visits.”

  “And the other? This ‘reception’ as they call it?”

  “The local authorities are confident they can secure the area. The Swiss have a great deal of experience in hosting diplomatic events. And Dr. Hamedi, for all his importance, is hardly so much a target as the president of the United States or the queen of England.”

  “That,” said another of God’s self-appointed emissaries, “is a matter
of perspective.”

  “We should not rely on others,” said the chairman. “Do you not have any…” he searched for the right word, “suggestion that the Israelis will make another attempt on Hamedi?”

  “No, not at this time. But rest assured that I have taken every precaution. On Sunday I will have fifty of my best men on site. No one will get near him.”

  “That is good,” said the robe on the right, a man Behrouz knew to be the leading faqih, or Islamic law expert, and consequently the most pious of the lot. “Dr. Hamedi’s progress has been nothing short of miraculous. If Allah wills it, he will soon deliver what we have long sought. We all pray for his safety.”

  Behrouz said, “I think I have proved in recent months that I am capable of ensuring it.”

  “Your campaign in the synagogues has revealed nothing new?” the chairman asked.

  “No, not yet.”

  A nod from the center. “And have you conducted any other operations as of late?”

  “Operations?” Behrouz said, trying to keep a level voice. He watched an exchange of glances along the table, tilted turbans and a flutter of brown cotton sleeves.

  The chairman. “We have learned of a disturbance last night in Molavi. Your ministry had no involvement, I’m sure, as your recent efforts have been focused so completely on Geneva.”

  There was a long and heavy pause. Behrouz knew better than to speak.

  “I will leave you with one further thought,” the chairman picked up. “As head of our state security apparatus you have performed admirably, and this grants you a certain latitude in running your ministry. But remember one thing, Farzad—you are today not the most critical man in our Islamic Republic. Proceed with care.”

  “Yes, Chairman, I understand. Thank you for sharing your wisdom.”

  Minutes later Behrouz was descending the massive staircase, his feet stepping quickly. He checked his phone but saw nothing from Rafi. He was not surprised that the council had learned of his raid—the speed of the reprimand, however, spoke volumes. He had seen it happen to his predecessor, a series of small missteps that ended badly for the man. Very badly. He decided it was time to regain the initiative, lest he face a similar fate. As with most men of his ilk, Behrouz had spent a lifetime climbing to the top without consideration for what came afterward. Today, as he hit the bottom of the staircase, his feet skidding momentarily on the polished marble floor, he was beset by a new and disturbing perspective.

  On reaching the top, Behrouz realized, there was only one place to go.

  And it was not up.

  * * *

  Sanderson spent a slow cup considering Almgren’s hypothesis. Could the troubles in Stockholm be related to Israel’s pursuit of Iran’s chief nuclear scientist? It was a long shot to say the least. If Deadmarsh was truly a Mossad assassin, the chances were better that he was hunting down some deserving Hezbollah terrorist. More likely yet was that the erstwhile stonemason had not been tasked to kill anyone. Sanderson would lay odds that there was no cataclysmic plot at any level, but rather an alcoholic agent who’d gone rogue, or perhaps a man chasing his wife because she’d had an affair with her dermatologist. As any policeman could tell you, the real world was far less a manifestation of James Bond than Jerry Springer. All the same, Sanderson had to be sure, which meant disproving Almgren’s theory.

  Only days ago he’d had Sweden’s largest police force at his disposal. Now, aside from the spare time of two distant friends, he was operating alone from a tiny German village. He left a nice tip for the waitress, and asked her if a computer was available for general use. She was happy to point him to a small side room where, for a fee, computer stations with Internet access were available.

  The room was a disaster with dirty floors and overflowing wastebaskets, and from the sales flyers on the wall—instant energy shots and roadside assistance insurance—one didn’t have to be a detective to realize that the place was here for transiting truck drivers. Sanderson sat on a chair with ripped fabric and foam oozing out the seams, and addressed a brown-stained keyboard on which the lettering of the more frequently used characters had been worn clear. But the machine worked, and he was soon online. Sanderson began by researching articles relating to the assassination attempts on Hamedi. He noted the dates and locations of the botched missions—both occurring inside Iran—and he read the official releases from IRNA, the Islamic Republic News Agency. Not surprisingly, these pieces were scarce on detail and high on rhetoric, taking particular relish in pointing an accusatory finger at Israel.

  He moved on to Israeli and neutral news outlets, and then a few blogs where conspiracy theorists congregated. Nothing inspired him. He entered Anton Bloch’s name and got hits relating to his retirement, along with a few critiques on the effectiveness of his administration—Mossad chiefs were meant to be anonymous during their active tenure, but apparently fair game once they reverted to the lowly status of private citizen. After an hour the waitress stepped in and brought him another cup of coffee. Sanderson could have kissed her.

  He typed the name Edmund Deadmarsh into a search engine and drew blanks. Next he tried Dr. Christine Palmer—there were apparently four in the world—which produced nothing more enlightening than her physician’s website. He backtracked and typed in: Iran, nuclear program, Dr. Ibrahim Hamedi. A number of articles relating to the assassination attempts appeared, along with others of a more critical voice that vilified the mad genius and the weapons project he oversaw. None gave any insight to steer Sanderson in his search.

  He closed his eyes tightly and pinched the bridge of his nose. What? What would prove or disprove? He opened his eyes and typed: Dr. Ibrahim Hamedi, travel. He opened the first result:

  IAEA Requests Emergency Meeting in Geneva

  www.reuters.com/IAEAemergencymeeting

  October 9—Iran has agreed to an emergency request from the International Atomic Energy Agency for information pertaining to its nuclear program. Recent inspections have been denied by Iran, the Tehran government claiming that certain inspectors are unacceptable. Visa problems have also arisen, although IAEA spokespersons insist that these difficulties are a result of intentional delays by Iran. Independent observers estimate Iran to be only months away from a successful transition of its peaceful nuclear program to weaponization, in particular the mating of a nuclear warhead to its Shahab-4 ballistic missile. Dr. Ibrahim Hamedi, head of the Atomic Energy Organization of Iran, will travel to Geneva and present Iran’s case to a group of inspectors and diplomats on October 20.

  Sanderson read it again. Could this be why Deadmarsh had run south? The odds were long—but perhaps a ray of hope. An Israeli assassin heading in the general direction of Israel’s clearest target? The coincidence could not be more slim. Yet it was a coincidence, and if the last thirty-five years had taught Sanderson anything, it was to seek just such connections.

  But how to continue? Sanderson had already hidden from Sjoberg a pursuit that had taken him across the Baltic and into Germany. To forward this new theory would get him no more than a one-way ticket home and a follow-up session with Dr. Samuels. He could mention his suspicions to Blix or Almgren, but he doubted they would have any more luck in convincing their superiors—it was simply too thin a link for anyone to chase. At least anyone in their right mind.

  Sanderson’s time on the computer came to an end. He did not purchase more. He left the restaurant, thanking the young waitress as he passed the main counter, and after a cool five-minute walk found himself in the main Sassnitz transfer terminal. He stopped in front of a machine that sold tickets for the ferry north to Malmö. From there, he could reach Stockholm easily by train, and be home late tonight. An adjacent machine sold tickets for German rail. With a connection, perhaps two, he could be in Geneva by early evening. Sanderson stood still for a very long time with his hand poised over his pocket. North or south? Either was an improvement, he reasoned. At least I don’t have to get on another godforsaken seaplane.

  Comforted by th
is thought, he made his selection, and ten minutes later was waiting patiently in the busy boarding area.

  * * *

  Slaton settled his business with Krueger that evening. He signed the name Natan Mendelsohn to documents authorizing his banker to manage a series of accounts. After this, Krueger handed over the agreed upon funds.

  A visibly nervous Krueger asked, “When will I hear from you again?”

  “More likely later than sooner. I’ll be leaving Zurich tonight.”

  “Then I wish you happy travels, my friend. Is there anything else I can do before you leave?”

  “Two things. First, I owe a debt to a charter pilot in Sweden. I’d like you to send her a check in the amount of twenty-two thousand U.S. dollars. Here is the name and address.” Slaton handed over a folded slip of hotel stationery.

  Krueger took it without looking. “And the other?” he asked tentatively.

  “How many cars do you have?”

  “Cars?” the banker stuttered. Slaton had once again made a diagonal move in Krueger’s parallel world. “Well … two. A Range Rover and an Audi.”

  “Which did you bring here tonight?”

  “The Rover.”

  Slaton smiled thinly.

  Without even being asked, the banker handed over a key.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Christine stood in front of a bank on Kungsgatan Street trying to avoid the gaze of passersby, and hoping that no one would pay attention to a distracted American woman loitering near an ATM. It was shortly after closing time, and for the last thirty minutes she had watched tellers and mortgage officers vacate the branch office, one by one, until a security guard locked the door behind them. She’d studied each bank employee, but none fit the profile she was looking for. David, of course, had anticipated this and briefed her on a contingency plan. Given the time of day—the Thursday evening rush to get home—Christine was sure she would find her man soon enough.