Assassin's Game

TWELVE

Sanderson was concentrating on a computer screen in the criminal forensics division, a video that had been captured two days earlier by the security camera of a Strandvägen bank. A silver Audi was parked along the street, blurry and distant, and the technician seated beside him tinkered with the image until the license plate became clear.

“And you ran it?” Sanderson asked.

“The number doesn’t exist — it’s probably been altered.”

Sanderson frowned, but was not surprised. “What about the car? Any luck identifying it?”

“No reports of that make and model being stolen, and we haven’t found anything similar abandoned.”

“What about our suspects? We could really use a good photograph or two.”

The tech sorted computer files like a magician running a card trick. He pulled up a half dozen photos. “These are the best we’ve been able to find.”

The images, again extracted from video footage, were grainy and of marginal use. Nothing Sanderson would bother to distribute, and probably nothing a prosecutor could ever use in a court of law. The only consolation was that two of the men were already accounted for, one in hospital and one in the morgue. The best image captured was one they did not need — they already had an excellent passport photo of Dr. Christine Palmer, along with a high-resolution image from the website run by her physician’s group. She was an attractive woman with soft features under medium-length auburn hair, and on the website she was presented as doctors invariably were — compassionate smile over the requisite white lab coat. The fact that she was apparently married to a manual laborer registered as a curiosity to Sanderson, but nothing more. He was pondering it all when a young woman from the command center rushed into the room.

“Inspector Sanderson! We’ve just had more trouble on the waterfront, sir!”

“What now?”

“The Renaissance Tea Room. Shots fired, two dead. And one of ours is injured, on his way to the hospital now.”

Sanderson’s stomach knotted. “Do we know who?”

“I believe it’s Elmander.”

Slaton was seated behind a partition on a nearly empty Metro train, the Blue Line bound for Tensta. White shafts from passing floodlights flicked through the windows as the car swayed smooth and quick over the tracks. There were two other passengers in his car, a teenage couple who’d gotten on at the last stop in a rush of laughter and fumbling limbs. A pair so absorbed in each other, Slaton doubted they had even noticed him.

His first order of business was a self-appraisal, and the only damage he saw was a three-inch gash to his upper arm, his shirtsleeve torn to correlate. A bullet? he wondered. A ricochet? Most likely not. As was usually the case, something less dramatic, even mundane — a broken beer bottle or a sharp edge from the scooter he’d tackled. Behind the partition he bandaged the wound with what he’d been able to scavenge from the departure platform, a pile of discarded napkins and a strip of packing tape ripped from a cardboard box. That stopped the bleeding, but it was no use against infection. He rolled up the long sleeve of his shirt to cover the bloodstained section, then did the same with the other side for the sake of symmetry. This turned out to be the most painful part, flexing his injured bicep, but he got the job done.

Slaton took the iPhone from his pocket and turned it in his hand. On appearances it seemed a generic device, but he was sure it had been loaded with any number of applications that Apple had never imagined. Mossad was certainly tracking it, his position likely pinging on a display somewhere in Tel Aviv at this very moment, like a beacon out of a dark night. He also allowed that the phone had been modified in such a way that turning it off, or even removing the battery, was not a solution. For the moment, however, Slaton knew he was safe — a train was a moving target, and this offered a certain latitude. To get rid of the thing was the only answer, but first he had to see what was in Nurin’s files. He woke the phone and saw the usual icons for web browsers, music, and games. Only one was unfamiliar, a bright red square with a capital N. A spymaster’s sense of humor? he wondered.

Slaton tapped the icon and a list of files came into view. He opened the first and saw a map of Geneva marked with reference numbers for associated notes. He navigated through and saw that the assassination was to take place the following Sunday, seven days from today. Another file contained an op plan, complete with diagrams and schedules. Slaton read quickly and took mental pictures. He considered forwarding the files to another computer, but quickly discarded the idea — trying to outmaneuver Mossad’s clever computer technicians was a fool’s game. The files were certainly tagged, tied like so many fishing lures to mainframes in Tel Aviv. Waiting to be reeled in. So Slaton reverted to basics, cataloging in his mind the vital details: times, dates, and locations, all stamped into gray matter behind closed eyes.

The train slowed nearing Rissne Station. Slaton decided he’d kept the phone long enough, but he was not quite finished. He called up the picture he’d taken at the café. It was a wobbly composition, suffering from poor lighting and the urgency of the moment, but the subject was clear enough: Nurin’s agent strewn on the floor, his eyes rolled back and a jagged wound on his throat, all against a backdrop of blood-covered concrete. Going in, it had not been Slaton’s intent to kill anyone. Now both members of Nurin’s contact team were dead. As was so often the case, a well-orchestrated sketch had gone down in flames. The reasons were equally classic — complications resulting from the human element. Mistrust, fear, anger. All had played a part, and now the tragic outcome was summed in one high-resolution image.

Slaton had no way to know if anyone else — another Mossad operative or perhaps an embassy employee — had already reported in to Tel Aviv with a damage assessment. If not, this picture would provide all the debriefing necessary. Slaton considered a text message to accompany the image, but on this he hesitated. He’d already made one mistake. Angered that Nurin had pulled Christine into his scheme, Slaton had lost his temper with the director. He had rejected the assassination plot out of hand. Now, however, he saw a better course, one that might relieve some of the pressure. Using carefully measured words, he typed a brief and succinct message.

The train pulled to a stop and Slaton disembarked. He climbed the stairs to street level and immediately turned right. Confirming he had good reception, he hit the phone’s Send button. Two minutes later Slaton stood on a curb next to a bicyclist, an older man who was waiting for a green crossing light. Up and down the street there wasn’t a car in sight. An orderly people, the Swedes. The old man was hauling groceries in twin baskets that outriggered his rear tire.

“Lovely weather,” Slaton said, speaking Swedish for the first time since his arrival.

The old man looked at him, then up to a sullen, darkening sky. He shrugged before noticing that the light had changed. As the old man cast off, Slaton slipped the phone deftly into his starboard basket. He turned the other way and began to walk.

Thirty minutes later and seven miles west, Slaton stepped off a bus in the working-class suburb of Jakobsberg. He estimated he was twelve miles from downtown, well clear of the morning’s chaos. He walked until he found a convenience shop, and there paid cash for three prepaid, disposable cell phones, a long-sleeve sweatshirt emblazoned with the logo of the Swedish National Rugby team, and a large bottle of water. His next stop was a pharmacy where he purchased disinfectant, proper bandages, and alcohol wipes.

From there he scouted for a public restroom, the quietest he could find being in the basement of a dark and nearly vacant pub. The place stunk of piss and stale beer, but it met his most important constraint — he was alone. At the sink he wet a handful of paper towels before locking himself into one of the two toilet stalls. He sat down, pulled off his shirt and carefully removed the improvised bandage. The wound was more painful now, and he cleaned it using the disinfectant. Slaton did his best with a field dressing, keeping a portion of the supplies in reserve for a better job when he had more time and better conditions. Gingerly, he pulled the new sweatshirt over his head, happy he’d gone with an extra-large. Finished, he took a long drink from the water bottle.

With two plastic bags in hand, Slaton divided his worldly possessions. In one he put the cell phones and clinical supplies, and in the other went a torn and bloody shirt. He flushed the old bandage down the toilet, and buried the plastic bag with the shirt deep into a repulsive trash bin. Seconds later he was climbing the stairs back to the street, taking two at a time, the beaten restroom door swinging loosely behind him.