Assassin's Game

EIGHT

Slaton followed the inspector through a steel door that looked like something from a prison. Here, on the lowest level, the contemporary architecture of the building’s outer facade gave way to more original underpinnings. As was common practice in Europe, the ancient foundation had been shored up, and the old skeleton dressed with new fixtures and fittings. The room in which he was standing was dated by a hard stone floor that seemed to go straight to the earth’s core. He saw naked ventilation ducts strapped to a plaster ceiling, Internet wiring tacked across wall slabs that had been laid down centuries before. Noting the thickness of the jointed stone, Slaton was happy to have taken up masonry in the twenty-first century.

Weak lighting sprayed the unpainted walls in an eerie yellow hue. The room was cold and damp, fitting to its function, and the smell of an acrid cleaning agent didn’t quite overpower the stench of death. Slaton had been in morgues before, bigger versions overflowing with the aftermath of bombings and war. Here there were no more than a dozen tables reserved for the newly departed, a waiting room for earthly remains until they could be disposed of with that proper balance of decency and sanitation. Slaton did not see an attendant, but he heard music from a nearby office, something with a Euro-pop techno beat that added to the room’s bizarre texture.

A drawer had already been pulled, presenting a body covered by an off-white sheet. The inspector led Slaton to one side of the long gray tray, and his sergeant pulled back the cover. Slaton studied the body. As he did, he felt Sanderson studying him.

“He was alive when the paramedics arrived,” the inspector said. “Survived for nine hours in the critical care unit before giving up.”

Slaton said nothing.

“Well? Do you know him?” Sanderson asked.

“No, I’ve never seen him.”

Sanderson stared for a long moment but didn’t ask again.

Slaton turned away and swept his eyes over the dank room. “Where’s the second body?”

“Upstairs,” Sanderson replied. “Fortunately for everyone, that one is a bit warmer.”

On the way to the elevator Sanderson’s phone rang. He excused himself and asked Sergeant Blix to escort Slaton to the sixth floor. When they arrived, the hulking Norseman told Slaton it would be a few minutes, and then he struck up a conversation with a pretty young attendant at the nurse’s station.

Slaton found a row of chairs and took a seat. The body downstairs had told him little. He’d seen only the face, and truly had not recognized it. Dark hair and complexion, perhaps thirty years old, and judging by the lay of the covering sheet a man in reasonably good shape. He might have been Israeli. Then again, he might have been Turkish, Greek, or Egyptian. Slaton had been unable to think of a justifiable reason to view the rest of the body, which might have been more useful: Had the fatal wounds struck in the chest, the center of mass? How many rounds and how were they grouped? Such details, in the correct presentation, might signify a professional strike, giving Slaton some direction as to who he was dealing with. Yet as much as he wanted to ask questions of his own, Slaton knew that was a delicate game. If he seemed too curious, Sanderson would become suspicious. Consequently, he resigned himself to the role of passive intelligence gathering for the time being.

Sanderson reappeared and beckoned Slaton to follow.

They walked down a bright corridor, everything white and antiseptic. Turning into a room, Slaton saw a nurse tending an IV, and in the adjacent bed he saw the second victim. This one told him a great deal more. He was looking at his former boss, Anton Bloch.

Bloch lay motionless, trussed in tubes and wires. His swarthy face was pale, distorted by a ventilator pipe that had been taped into his mouth. But there was no doubt — it was him. Slaton did his best to not react, knowing Sanderson was watching. He certainly failed. There were shocks in life that could not be tempered by any amount of training or self-discipline, and seeing an old friend on the edge of an untimely death was one of them.

“What’s his condition?” Slaton asked.

“He’s been placed in a drug-induced coma. He was shot three times. The surgeons were able to remove two of the bullets, but the last is lodged close to his spine. They’ve stabilized him until they decide how to proceed. The doctors want very much to talk to his family.” Sanderson paused before prompting, “So? Any idea who he is?”

“No,” Slaton said. He felt the policeman’s eyes drill in from the periphery. “You said my wife was seen talking to one of these men. Was this the one?”

“Yes, a very good guess.”

Slaton took one last look at Bloch, a mental snapshot, then turned to the hallway.

Sanderson followed him out, and said, “Too bad you weren’t able to help us.”

“I wish I could, Inspector.”

“Yes, well — not to worry. We’ll just figure it out some other way, won’t we? Oh, there is one other thing that’s come up, Mr. Deadmarsh.”

“Something about Christine?”

“Unfortunately, no. More of an administrative matter involving your passport.”

“What about it?”

“Would you mind if I took another look?”

Slaton reached into his back pocket and handed the document over. Sanderson made a show of inspecting it, holding it up to the corridor’s bright fluorescent lights like a radiologist with an X-ray.

“Is there a problem?” Slaton asked.

Sanderson frowned and handed it back. “With the document, no. It looks perfectly in order.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “But I just took a rather curious phone call. One of our people back at headquarters performed a check on your immigration status — it’s only standard practice. You arrived at Arlanda earlier today, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“It seems that the electronic record of your arrival has somehow disappeared. The name on your passport brings up nothing now. The only Edmund Deadmarsh we could find in our backlog is an eighty-nine-year-old Englishman who hasn’t visited Sweden in thirty years.”

Slaton shrugged. “What can I tell you? It must be a computer glitch. I walked right through immigration and gave them my passport. I can even describe the officer I gave it to,” he added, guessing that Sanderson’s people had already verified that video.

“Yes, as you say, I’m sure it’s only some kind of computer foul-up. I have to get back to headquarters now. Why don’t you give me your mobile number. I’ll call you if we learn anything as to your wife’s whereabouts.”

Slaton gave his number. Sanderson handed over a business card in return, and said, “If you should hear from her, please let me know right away.”

“I will.” Slaton glanced toward the room they’d just left, and said, “I do have one question, Inspector.”

Sanderson cocked his head, inviting him to go on.

“The two men you showed me — did one of them shoot the other?”

The answer came quickly, “We don’t have that ballistics information yet.”

“But you said this happened in a public place, a café. Surely there were witnesses.”

Sanderson eyed him. “When I have everything sorted, I promise to let you know. Sergeant Blix will give you a lift wherever you like.”

“I’d like to go back to the Strand Hotel.”

Sanderson gave Blix the order.

Slaton asked, “Is it all right if I use Christine’s room at the hotel? I am paying for it, after all.”

Sanderson seemed to think about this, then said, “I don’t see why not. I’ll make sure the front desk knows about it.”

Slaton was dropped at the Strand Hotel for the second time at six that evening. The massive building hovered at the water’s edge, seeming almost medieval as framed by the enduring Scandinavian twilight. He retrieved his bag from the bellman, went to the front desk, and just as Sanderson had promised was given a key to Christine’s room.

As soon as he stepped into room 324, Slaton knew it was hers. Obvious enough were her familiar things — a blue sweater in the closet, her father’s old suitcase on a chair. But her perfume was also there. He saw Christine’s effects laid out with intimate signatures — the way her comb and hairbrush were nested together, and the way her shoes were set in a perfect line. He was equally sure the police had been here, and he imagined Sanderson and his brutes plodding through the place with big boots and gloved hands. In a drawer he saw carefully folded shirts overturned, toiletries in the bathroom scattered and disorganized. He looked for her passport but didn’t find it. Slaton guessed she would not have taken it to a café—not unless she’d known what was coming. Was that a possibility? Might Bloch have arranged a meeting and forewarned her to bring it? Had he been trying to help her escape from something? From someone?

He found a conference welcome bag on a table stuffed with brochures, along with pens and lanyards emblazoned with the names of pharmaceutical conglomerates. A lecture schedule was on the adjacent desk, and he recognized her brisk check marks next to certain presentations, these ending yesterday afternoon. After that, nothing. Slaton scanned the margins of the schedule for scribbled notes, and checked the scratchpad near the phone for names or numbers. He picked up the hotel phone and dialed the code to retrieve messages. There were none, of course.

The bed was made, but Slaton noted a lengthwise impression where Christine must have laid down, an indentation in the pillow where her head had been. He sat on it and pulled in the air, searching for any remnants of her presence.

“Where are you?” he whispered.

Slaton eased back on the bed, into the day-old crease, and closed his eyes. He had little solid information, but more than when he’d arrived. Anton Bloch had come here to meet Christine. Then he’d been shot and Christine was forced to run. Had Bloch shot the other man? Had he been protecting Christine? If it came to that, Slaton was sure he would have. But more importantly, who had Bloch been facing? The usual suspects? Arabs? Iranians? Israel had her share of enemies. Slaton saw but one unbreakable strand: Bloch, and whoever else was involved, had come to Sweden because Christine was here. And Christine had been targeted because of him. Of this he was sure.

Slaton felt a numbness begin to fall. He needed sleep, needed it every bit as much as he would soon need more conventional weapons. He considered his options for the next morning. His first idea was simplistic — find Inspector Sanderson and press him for every scrap of information. That was what Edmund Deadmarsh would do. But Sanderson had shared little so far, indeed no more than necessary to prod his witness down the desired paths. Slaton doubted the inspector was going to be more forthcoming, no matter how outraged the American stonemason became. His prognosis for that course of action: poor.

He searched for Plan B. Past experience had taught him that for all Israel’s enemies, there was often none more treacherous than Israel herself. Slaton had one confirmed character in the disaster that was playing out — Anton Bloch, former director of Mossad. Centering on this, and disregarding who else might be involved, his answer fell into place. He knew precisely what his next step had to be.

That settled, Slaton allowed his body to relax. He heard the sounds of the city outside his window — passing cars, shouted greetings, a far-off siren. Then, amid the asynchronous din, he extracted another sound, this more constant. It was deep and resonating, a distinctive signature to anyone who was familiar — the diesel rumble of a boat on the waterway. He knew nothing of the boat’s function, nothing about its destination, but that steady sound gave Slaton a fleeting peace of mind.

Minutes later, he was fast asleep.