by Ward Larsen
“Is something wrong?” she asked once they were alone.
“Well … I hope not. But there’s something you should know. Remember a few days ago, when you asked to use our internet for a search on that man your husband was meeting in Paris?”
Christine nodded cautiously. Her self-imposed communications blackout on Windsom had been driving her to distraction, and at the time David had been gone for a week with no word. When she’d met the Smiths and seen Mistral’s first-rate satellite suite, she hadn’t been able to hold back. She explained that her own service was being dodgy, and that David had gone to Paris to meet someone named Zavier Baland. She wanted to learn more about the man.
With Linda at her side, Christine had searched the online news services. She discovered that the man David thought he’d killed so many years ago was not only still alive and working as a counterterrorism officer, but had also beaten back an assassination attempt the day before. He’d wounded his attacker in the process. Christine’s world had gone into free fall until the last paragraph of the article, where she learned the attacker had been female. Later, as she regained her bearings back on Windsom, she found herself wondering how many people could be gunning for the man. Might Mossad have assigned someone besides David to the job? There were no clear answers, and since that time she’d soldiered on in the face of two uncomfortable certainties: David was unaccounted for, and Baland remained unharmed.
“Yes, I remember what we found,” Christine said, her words seeming distant.
“Have you heard from your husband?”
“No … why do you ask?”
“I did another search this morning. There have been a number of terrorist attacks in France in recent days. The man you asked about, Baland. He was killed—shot dead by a sniper Saturday morning in Paris. Nearly two days ago now.”
All Christine could manage in reply was, “A sniper, you say?”
“Yes. But the good news is, the assailant was also killed.”
“Oh … I see.” Christine was trying to construct a sentence, something about whether the attacker’s identity had been released, when a distant sound intervened.
They both looked to the far end of the atoll and saw a seaplane approaching. The rumble of its engine rose slowly, but soon overpowered every other sound as it came directly overhead. The aircraft was red with a white stripe, set on top of long white pontoons. It looked tiny against the endless blue sky. Passing directly over Windsom, the aircraft banked to its left in a wide half circle and began easing down toward the protected waters of the lagoon.
“Could that be David?” Linda asked.
Christine didn’t have an answer. Her eyes were riveted to the little seaplane as its floats kissed the azure water, and then a trail of white spray erupted as it settled on the lagoon. As the craft steered toward the tiny beach, she realized one of two people was going to step off. Either Anton Bloch or her husband. If it was Bloch, it could mean only one thing.
The engine clattered to a rough idle as the aircraft nosed to the shoreline. Strangely, Christine found herself overtaken by a sense of ease. She saw two figures inside, one obviously the pilot. One of Davy’s infectious chuckles rose from below. Her heartbeat, her breathing—everything seemed to go on hold until a tall, athletic figure stepped out on a pontoon and jumped ashore.
Christine breathed again.
“Yeah,” she said, “that’s David. He always did know how to make an entrance.”
* * *
She took the runabout to the beach to collect her husband, leaving Davy on Mistral with the Smiths—he was playing contentedly with Nina, and Christine suspected a private moment with his father might be needed.
The seaplane was already churning its way back to deeper water. David stood on the shoreline, his shoes in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. Christine never slowed and nearly ran him down with the dinghy, the outboard kicking up behind as it hit the sand bottom. She leapt out of the boat, and he dropped what he was holding and took her in his arms.
Neither said anything for a time. They simply held each other, a salve for the hardships they’d both endured in recent days. David finally pushed away, and said, “Where’s Davy?”
“On Mistral with—”
“Who are they?” he said in a clipped tone.
Christine only stared at him.
He closed his eyes. She saw the tension drain out of him like a sponge released from a grip, taking its true shape and pulling in air. He drew her close again and buried his face in her hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in her ear.
“It’s all right. I know it’s hard to turn off that switch.”
They fell quiet again, simply happy to be close. Eventually she took his hand and led him to the only furniture on the island—a downed trunk from an old palm tree that had either fallen or been washed ashore. They sat in the building heat, the sun on their backs.
He said, “I tried to get a message through a few days ago.”
“I didn’t get it. I kept everything turned off like we agreed. How did you even know where we were?”
“Our security needs a little tweaking. We can talk about that later.”
“Our new neighbors have a good comm system. I got the news just a few minutes ago,” she said. “Baland was killed.”
“Was he?”
Christine eyed him with a narrow gaze. She remembered Linda mentioning the time of the attack, and she did the time-zone math. “It happened forty-two hours ago.” The words came out almost like an accusation.
“I didn’t pull the trigger. At least, not on him. The way it all went down … it was complicated.”
An awkward silence ensued. “Okay,” she said. “We can leave it at that—if that’s what you want.”
He pulled in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “No, we should talk about it. I want you to know everything.”
He went day by day, giving particular attention to the endgame. He explained how he’d confronted Malika in his room, and how with the help of another kidon he staged his own death. He told her how the other kidon, whose name he had never even learned, provided a second long-range weapon. Then the setup at Invalides, and the two final shots.
When he stopped talking, Christine thought about it for a time. “So you arranged both their deaths.”
“Yes.”
“I understand your reasons … but why did you do it in such a roundabout way? I mean, I hate how I’m thinking, but wouldn’t it have been easier to simply shoot her when she was in your room, then assassinate Baland the next day?”
“Separately, yes. But it’s important to think forward. Consider the consequences. If I’d killed Malika in my room, I would have had a body to deal with. If her death was discovered, I’d have ended up as the prime suspect in her killing. The hotel staff would have had no trouble describing me, and that would have made it hard to get near Baland the next day. On top of all that, if I’d been the one to assassinate Baland—every policeman in France would be after me right now. And they’d keep looking for a very long time.”
With a troubling adeptness, Christine saw his logic. “The way it worked out, Baland’s killer has been identified. And she’s dead.”
He nodded. “It’s the woman they’ve been looking for—the one who already tried to kill him once. I heard they even have her DNA to match. Not much there to investigate.”
“And as to who might have killed her?”
“Someone killed an assassin two seconds too late. If a policeman had done it, they’d give him a medal. Honestly, I doubt the French will be paying overtime to figure that one out. They’ll go through the motions, but as we speak … it’s probably halfway to being a cold case.”
She looked at him uncomfortably. “That’s all very … efficient.”
He looked away. “That’s never how it feels. The world is an ever-changing place. At any given time, in the circumstances of a particular moment … I do what’s necessary. Nothing more, nothing less.”
The seaplane began its takeoff run over the glass-smooth lagoon, its engine violating the silence and scattering terns across the island. The big pontoons lifted, and the aircraft levitated, slow and ungainly as it clawed into the sky. Soon it was no more than a speck on the southern horizon.
“Do you think it will help?” she asked.
“What?”
“That Baland, or whoever he is, is dead?”
“Maybe … a little. But others will take his place. Just like ISIS will find a new set of so-called leaders.”
“The ones who let God take responsibility for their crimes?”
“That’s nothing new. People have been killing in the name of religion for thousands of years. And not just Islam.”
“It seems so irrational.”
“It’s like throwing knives at a sunset.”
Christine didn’t like the darkness she felt building. “I think you’ll like our new neighbors,” she said.
“Kiwis?”
“How’d you know?”
He pointed toward Mistral and she saw the New Zealand flag astern. “Right. Your legendary powers of observation.”
“How’s my boy?”
“One week smarter.”
“Wish I could say that.” He got up and strolled toward the water’s edge. “I was thinking about heading west, maybe the Med this fall. What do you think?”
“I think the Med’s a long way from here. But I like Italian food.” She noticed the package next to his shoes in the sand. “Bring me some lingerie?”
“Wouldn’t do you justice.”
“Clever answer, Slaton.”
He retrieved the bag and showed her a set of oversized LEGO bricks. “I got it at the airport in Manila.”
“He’ll love it.”
“I like that memory game, but I think we’re all ready for something new.”
“I think you’re tired of losing, so you’re changing the game.”
“Maybe so.”
She got up and stepped toward the runabout. “Okay, I think it’s time for some introductions. Oh, and we’re having lobster tonight—assuming you and John are reasonably proficient hunter-gatherers.”
Together they pushed the little boat into deep water. Christine vaulted aboard, but watched David hesitate. “What’s wrong?”
Standing shin-deep in the Pacific, he said, “I worry sometimes … about Davy.”
“Davy’s fine. We’re doing the best we can, and today that’s pretty good.”
“I know, but … what if he ends up being like me?”
The question was like a loaded gun. Christine saw right away that he wanted to take it back. She looked at him curiously, and almost hedged with, In what way? What she said was, “I hope he turns out just like you.”
After a moment, Slaton grinned. “Clever answer, Doctor.”
Catch a sneak peek at Ward Larsen’s newest thriller …
Cutting Edge
ONE
The second time he died was more difficult than the first. More difficult because he saw it coming.
He stirred to consciousness between the two events, twin sources of light above him seeming like a pair of struggling midday suns behind thick layers of cloud. He was flat on his back, that much he knew, and beneath him were sheets that had been washed too many times and stretched tight over a thin mattress.
The voices were every bit as opaque as the light, a man and a woman, neither familiar. He could make out most of their words, a disjointed back-and-forth that seemed to arrive through a soup can.
How long had he been awake? A minute? Two? Long enough.
A shadow blocked out the suns, and again he willed his eyes to open. There was no response. All voluntary movement had ceased. Then a brush of warm breath came across his face, moist and without scent.
And somewhere, he was sure, a needle. His first hint, moments ago, had been the smell of alcohol. Not the beery scent of a pub or anything from a crystalline decanter, but the biting, antiseptic variety. His arm was pulled straight, and two fingers probed the flesh of his useless right arm in that time-honored way. Tap tap. Tap tap. Searching for a fat, well-formed vein. Then, apparently, success. A cool wet swab rubbed the flesh of his inner arm.
“What’s the point of that?” said the man.
“Oh, right,” the woman replied. “Force of habit, I guess.”
The patient was not prone to panic—no man of his background could be—yet a sense of desperation began to settle. Move an arm, a hand! A finger, for God’s sake! He tried mightily, yet every muscle in his body seemed detached, like a machine whose gears had disconnected. The pain in his head was excruciating, unyielding, as if his skull might explode. But at least it told him he was alive. What had happened?
“Want me to do it?” the man asked.
“No, I’m okay.”
“It bothered you last time.”
“I said I’m okay,” she countered tersely.
Open your eyes! Move! No response.
The jab came quick and sharp, but was over in an instant. Nothing compared to the constant throb in his head. What followed, however, was worse than anything he’d ever experienced. A terrible sensation of cold. No, not cold. Frost coursing through his veins. It crawled into his arm, toward his shoulder, numbing everything in its path. Leaving no more than twitching, frozen nerves in its wake. He battled for alertness, fought to think logically as the glacier inside him flowed toward his neck and chest. When it reached his heart, piercing like an icepick, the first flutter of oblivion arrived.
He felt a cool circle of metal clamp to his chest. A stethoscope.
“Almost,” she said. “This one’s going fast.”
“I’ll get the bag.”
The lights above began to fade, a gathering overcast. The voices fell to no more than unintelligible mutterings. His only remaining sense was that of touch. He could still feel the sheets, the needle. The cold within.
But why can’t I move?
His ending thoughts were oddly lucid and vivid. The needle being pulled. Adhesive sensor pads getting plucked from his chest. His body was rocked from side to side as they worked cool plastic under him. A zipper closing, beginning at his toes, then a long, practiced pull up over his knees and waist. Over his chest and face.
And finally, all at once, the darkness was absolute.
The nurse watched her coworker shuffle the sealed gray bag back and forth, adjusting it to the center of the gurney.
“Why no autopsy on this one?” he asked.
“Those were the doctor’s instructions. He said he already knew what went wrong with the procedure.” The nurse clicked off the brake and began wheeling the gurney toward the door. “I can take it from here. Why don’t you get a head start on the cleanup.”
“Yeah … I guess you’re right. We won’t be using this room again for at least a few months. Can you believe they’re going to pay us to just sit at home until the next phase?”
Neither commented on that thought, which only added to the nurse’s discomfort.
“Wait!” he said. “I don’t see the last syringe we used. We have to account for that.”
“Crap!” she muttered. “I must have dropped it into the sharps container.”
He frowned at her. “Force of habit again?”
She said nothing, but paused at the door, watched him peer into a red plastic box full of spent needles.
“Okay,” he said. “I think maybe I see it. I’ll just get rid of the whole box.”
“Good,” she said. “And do me a favor, don’t tell the doctor about that—you know how he can be.”
“No problem,” he said, then adding, “Maybe we could get together for dinner tonight.”
Having worked with the man for six months, she was accustomed to his clumsy come-ons. Even so, being delivered from behind a surgical mask, by a man wearing a gown and fabric booties—the proposition seemed inane by even his standards. He was nearly sixty, with a big belly and a bad comb-over, and as far
as she knew had never married. She was matronly, on the high side of forty, and over the whole damned dating thing. If that wasn’t enough, his timing couldn’t have been worse. She said without flinching, “I have plans.”
Before he could respond, she pushed though the swinging doors and turned left down the hall. She wondered how he’d ended up here. Other than the doctor, there were only four of them—carefully selected to be sure, and competent, but each with some strike that had left them outcasts in their professions. Men and women who were happy to have a job at the price of discretion. At the elevator she hit the call button and set the brake on the gurney. The incinerator in the basement was already fired up.
The cab arrived, and she pushed the gurney inside and took a last look down the hall. When the doors sucked closed, she ignored the button labeled B and instead pushed 1.
TWO
One week later
It is a shoreline that begs for words like desolate and austere. On a map it forms a ragged line between Maine and the North Atlantic, a whipsaw collection of coves and promontories that defy any compass, and whose nameless breaks and repetitive treelines seem designed by God himself to confuse mariners. The ribbon of shore muddles its way north out of the affluent landings of Cape Elizabeth and Kennebunk, only to be swallowed hundreds of miles later by the indifferent wilds of Canada. Standing helpless in the middle is the place called Cape Split, a waypoint to nothingness more ignored than forgotten.
If there is a beach it is in name only, a place where rock coexists with sand, and where great tidal shelves lounge belligerently on the threshold of a cold and tireless sea. Stout stands of pine and spruce shoulder straight to the shore, towering over the shattered skeletons of ancestors washed up at their feet, and leaning ever so slightly seaward as if anticipating the next big blow. Just offshore, islands of submerged rocks rise and fall with the tide, and deep in the valleys between them rest the remains of innumerable boats whose hardy survivors find their names echoed generations later in the nearby villages.
Shore birds by the thousands build nests in the low cliffs, and thick-pelted animals teem through the forest. Indeed, if there is an underrepresented species on Cape Split it is the humans, well outnumbered in summer by moose, and on the leading edge of winter, after the annual outward migration, a population that cannot even keep numbers with the resident black bears. Those unreliable souls who depart Cape Split after the fair and brief summer for the most part leave behind sprawling seaside mansions, whereas the year-round residents, a more hearty and practical bunch, tend toward cottages, these also by the sea, but far enough back in the pines to cut the lashings from the inevitable nor’easters. It was in one of these small lodgings, coyly south-facing and near the Eastern Pitch, that the nurse had taken up residence.