Assassin's Game

TWENTY-FOUR

When Sanderson regained consciousness he was lying on the couch in Sjoberg’s office. Looking down at him were Sjoberg and a uniformed EMT.

He blinked, and said, “What happened?”

Sjoberg said, “You passed out, Arne.”

“Passed out?” He wrestled up to a sitting position, only then realizing that a blood pressure cuff was wrapped around his arm.

“Are you on any medication?” the EMT asked.

“No.”

“Has anything like this happened before?”

“No, of course not.”

The EMT removed the blood pressure cuff.

“How long was I out?” Sanderson asked.

“Only a few minutes,” Sjoberg said. “You went pale as a ghost and over you went. Forsten caught you before you hit.”

With that picture in his mind, Sanderson’s humiliation was complete. He rubbed his forehead and tried to stand.

“Easy,” said Sjoberg. “There’s no hurry.”

“I’m fine,” Sanderson said. He felt the EMT at his elbow, and on reaching his feet made every attempt not to waver.

“Did you eat anything this morning?” the EMT asked.

“No — I’m sure that’s all it was. And I have been working hard.”

“Yes,” Sjoberg agreed, “he’s been under considerable stress.”

“Have you ever had a seizure of any sort?”

“Seizure? No, never.”

The EMT addressed Sjoberg. “Well, he seems all right. I’ll leave you now, but I’m just downstairs if you need me.” He turned to Sanderson. “Get something in your belly, and then rest. If anything like this happens again you should see your doctor.”

The man left, and Sjoberg said, “Well, Arne, if this doesn’t convince you I don’t know what will. Go home and get some sleep. I’ll have Blix drive you.”

Sanderson did not argue.

Evita was given a ride to her assignation by a friend from work, an undependable woman who for once showed up on time. Traffic was light, and when they arrived Evita asked to be dropped two blocks away from the hotel. She thanked her friend and checked the time. As feared, she was early. Seeing no upside in punctuality, Evita spotted a pub nearby and decided to shore up her nerve.

She took a seat at the nearly vacant bar, and in no more time than it took for a double vodka to be pushed in front of her, Evita found herself sandwiched between a pair of afternoon regulars, a thrice-divorced lawyer and an old man named Yehud whose breath smelled like a camel’s crotch. The lawyer tried to chat about his ex-wives, while old Yehud, unshaven and unwashed and with beer foam on his lips, simply propositioned her in the most vulgar of terms. She was equally unreceptive, though found the old beggar’s honesty refreshing in a way. Yet as she sat in silence, Evita felt a tremor of unease — even if she was miles from home, there was a chance one of them might know her husband, a man on terms with a good share of the city’s connoisseurs. As it turned out, the far-off look in her eyes was enough to deflect their advances.

The vodka worked wonders. As always, Evita was repulsed by what she was about to do, yet there was never a question of following through. This morning, like every morning, she had spent her ritual moment with the picture of Saud and the tender poem he’d written for her. These were her only remembrances, and she kept both hidden deep in a dresser drawer. For a few minutes each day he was hers again — a man whose beauty would never fade, an artist whose talent would never diminish, and a lover whose soul would always be faithful. That daily tribute gave her the steel to go forward, gave her the will to take vengeance for a crime that would never be pursued in any court.

Evita would undertake her justice. But to do it with the requisite smile? That required a little something extra. She lifted her glass, snapped her head back one last time, and bid her courters good-bye.

The Baltic, five thousand feet below, was in a pitched battle, wind versus water. Slaton watched the whitecaps come and go, creases of white bursting to life, then fading quickly into the matte-black sea. The skies above were equally ominous, hard gray clouds that blotted the sun into submission and fragmented the horizon. He could see rain to the west and north, sweeping gray curtains reaching down to the sea. Dramatic as the scene was, it held little relevance. The visibility ahead and below — that was the critical thing, and right now it was suitable for what Slaton had in mind.

They’d struck a course of south by southwest, and the little Cessna plowed obediently at a steady one hundred knots. Janna Magnussen was equally steady. Two hours removed from Stockholm, the tension had dissipated. Their conversation had turned almost casual, as if the dynamics of their relationship had never been skewed by a hijacking. The gun was back in Slaton’s right pocket, but both knew it was readily presentable. They began by discussing Magnussen: her upbringing near Oxelösund, her sister, even her failed marriage. Then, in a clear breach of professional standards, Slaton found himself contributing to the conversation. He gave a candid account of his own childhood in Sweden. Keeping light on detail, he reflected on schoolyard memories — pranks conspired with long-forgotten friends, sporting matches gloriously won or comically lost.

To be drawn into such an exchange, even intrigued by it, was a long-lost response for Slaton, yet a proficiency that had been restored during his months in Virginia. There he had begun to strike up conversations with waitresses, pizza delivery kids, and concrete truck drivers, regaining the everyday skill of talking to a stranger without sizing them up for fighting ability, without filtering every word for deceit or logging character flaws fit for blackmail. To simply sit and talk was a long-forgotten pleasure, and something Christine had given him back.

Magnussen said, “I took up flying ten years ago when I retired from my civil service job. After twenty-one years in the same building I had an irresistible urge to be outside. There’s nothing as liberating as flying.”

“I can understand that.”

“It’s not much of a business, mind you. Most years I break even, maybe clear enough for a few weeks in Spain during the holidays.”

“And that’s all you need?”

She thought about it. “Yes, I suppose it is. Last year I had a chance to buy out a competitor in Malmö at an excellent price. I would have gotten four airplanes, six pilots, and a backlog of contracts.”

“And all the headaches that go with it?”

“Exactly. It was the second easiest decision I ever made.”

Slaton took the bait. “And the first?”

“Leaving my bastard husband, of course.”

He smiled.

“And you?” she asked.

“What about me?”

“Do you really have a wife?”

Slaton looked ahead. The brooding contour of Germany was rising out of the sea, low hills strung along the coastline, unseen rivers knuckling through valleys. This was their destination, and the sight had a sobering effect on his disposition.

When he didn’t answer, she said, “You wear a ring. If you’re having troubles perhaps we could talk about it. It can be very helpful to—”

“Janna,” he interrupted. “You said you were civil service, right?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of work did you do?”

She looked out the front window. “I was a crisis counselor for the National Board of Health and Welfare.”

He couldn’t help himself. Slaton began to laugh.

Magnussen smiled as well, clearly seeing the humor.