Assassin's Game

TEN

Sitting in an unmarked police car a hundred yards away, Sergeant Lars Elmander was becoming increasingly agitated. To begin with, he was unhappy he’d been forced to work on a Sunday morning — his twelve-year-old son had an important soccer match. Then there was the assignment itself. It had started out easily enough when he’d spotted Deadmarsh leaving the Strand Hotel. For two hours Elmander had watched him stroll the waterfront like any tourist, taking in the sights at a casual pace, chatting with a vendor at a news kiosk. This was followed by an extended breakfast on the patio of the Renaissance Tea Room.

Yet the very ease of the job had begun to bother Elmander. He was watching Deadmarsh flick casually through a newspaper, teacup in hand, when the disconnect mushroomed to sufficient mass in his policeman’s brain. Elmander had been given a briefing on his target, and he decided that for a man who’d just flown across an ocean to find his missing wife, Edmund Deadmarsh was acting in an improbably casual manner. His concerns were magnified when a second man arrived and, with no apparent invitation, took a seat at Deadmarsh’s table.

He watched closely, yet saw little interaction between the two. Soon Deadmarsh began talking on a mobile phone, and it was then that the final revelation thumped into Elmander’s head. It occurred to him that the stranger who’d just arrived matched the description of a man they were looking for — the shooter of two days prior.

Elmander straightened in his seat and pulled out his phone. He dialed Sanderson’s number, but the inspector didn’t pick up. “Come on, come on…”

In a move that would save his life in a matter of minutes, he ended the call, rang the dispatcher, and requested backup.

“Your target is Dr. Ibrahim Hamedi,” Nurin said, “the head of the Atomic Energy Organization of Iran.”

“I should have known,” Slaton said.

“Hamedi will soon be traveling outside Iran. He will be vulnerable. The phone you are holding contains a file of information. It will tell you where and when to strike, including details on a tactical opening that is ideal for a man with your gift. Use it.”

These words rang in Slaton’s head like a klaxon, and he stamped them to memory without trying to understand. Nothing made sense. An assassination planned, but then subcontracted? Christine abducted to make it happen?

“Why?” Slaton asked. “If you have such a great opening, do it yourself. You have others like me.”

“No, David. Not like you. Think about what has happened recently and everything will make sense.”

Slaton considered what he knew, and he did find a way to make it work. “You’ve failed twice. A leak?”

“Yes,” Nurin said.

“All the more reason for me to not get involved.”

“I will be your only contact, David. No one in Mossad knows your intent, not even the man sitting across the table from you. Do this one job and it will be your last.”

“No. I’ve already done my last job.”

“Christine will—”

“Christine will be safe very soon,” Slaton cut in, “because you don’t have her. If you did, you’d already have given me proof.”

After a pause, Nurin said, “You’re right, of course. But we’re looking for her.”

“So am I.”

“Don’t overestimate your abilities, kidon. You are alone with no support. We have dozens of operatives in country, and every airport terminal and rail station in Stockholm is covered. We will find her first.”

“And then what — hold her in an undisclosed location? Interrogation?”

“Please, David, believe me when I say that I am a practical man. This is no more than a demonstration. You and Christine are in a tenuous position. Anonymity is what keeps your past at bay, and Mossad controls that anonymity. We have gone to great trouble and expense to ensure it. But there is a price for our continued support. You need us, and we need you.”

“And if I don’t agree, then what? Mossad will give me up? Expose me for what I once was? That sounds like a threat.”

“A threat against you would be — how should I say it? Counterproductive? I dare say I might be putting my own personal safety at risk.”

Slaton said nothing. He put his free forearm on the lip of the table, curled his fingers underneath, and leaned forward.

“This isn’t about your safety or mine,” Nurin continued, “and certainly not your wife’s. This is about Israel.” He explained that Iran was close to achieving its ultimate nuclear ambition, the development of a fission device that could be coupled to a long-range ballistic missile. Israel’s air force and cyberwarriors, for all their offensive capability, could not end that threat. Hamedi was the key. “The architect of Qom is vulnerable. We must act because this is our last chance. Israel is desperate, David, so I am desperate.”

“You don’t represent the Israel I knew. Not with a scheme like this.”

“And if I had come to Virginia and asked for your help? Would you have acted?”

No reply.

“You know we’ll find Christine. Do as I ask, and in a week Israel will be rescued. You and your wife can then be safe for the long term. You have my word.”

“Your word?” Slaton spat, his anger rising. “You and your organization can go to hell!”

His thumb ended the call. He took a deep breath and tried to right his thoughts. There was something he wasn’t seeing. Something in Nurin’s reasoning that didn’t make sense. Slaton had no chance to decipher what it was because the man across the table moved.

It wasn’t his hand, but his gaze, flicking toward the street for an instant. Slaton was sure he was a Mossad field operative, a katsa, presumably armed with a company-issued .22 Beretta in a company-issued shoulder holster. The man had been here roughly five minutes, and until a moment ago his eyes had been locked squarely across the table. There was caution in every facet of the man, his stiff posture and overcasual stare, and so the katsa knew who Slaton was. Knew what Slaton was. According to Nurin, the man hadn’t been told why he was here, and this was likely true. Give him the phone. He is dangerous, but not a threat to you. Those would have been his instructions. But the phone call to the director had obviously not gone well, and so the katsa was double-checking that his backup was nearby. A partner, or even a team.

Where? Slaton wondered. Close in, on the sidewalk? Across the street in a car? How many? He imagined it was the same setup they’d used two days ago with Christine. Unfortunately, that thought took Slaton to an unexpected place, to a vision of Christine running for her life across the waterfront. The control he’d been fighting for was suddenly lost.

Pocketing the phone, Slaton looked across the table and said in a clear voice, “Tell me one thing. Were you the one who went after my wife?”

He got a dark stare in return, an attempt at bravado. But no answer.

“Did you shoot Anton Bloch?”

Ten full seconds of silence.

Slaton kept perfectly still. Perfectly.

Fifteen seconds.

Nothing.

At twenty seconds the katsa lost his nerve. He moved for his gun in a rush.