Assassin's Game

TWENTY-EIGHT

In 1626 Sweden was at the height of the Stormaktstiden, or more commonly, “The Great Power Period,” and it was the year in which King Gustavus Adolphus, engaged in a fourth consecutive war with the tireless Poles, commissioned his navy to construct the most fearsome and heavily armed warship the world had ever seen. A thousand oak trees were cut to provide timber for her hull, and fifty twenty-four-pound guns were ordered cast to be incorporated onto the mighty ship’s high deck. Every quarter of the vessel was to be sculpted with ornamentation, striking designs to intimidate enemies and glorify the prowess of the king. The result, two years later, was the Vasa.

On August 10, 1628, Sweden’s symbol of strength set sail on her maiden voyage. Her reign of terror, meant to last decades, was in fact measured in minutes. Under the first puff of wind ever to strike her sails, the top-heavy ship capsized and sank less than a mile from port. It was a trauma felt not only by the Swedish navy, but in the collective psyche of a nation. Vasa, for all her might and potential, was indelibly registered as a symbol of what might have been.

Nearly four hundred years later, on a crisp October morning, Arne Sanderson stood outside the Vasa Museum with his hands plunged deep into the pockets of his worn overcoat. He eyed the parking lot stretched out before him, much as Gustavus Adolphus had likely once regarded the harbor, and thought, I do believe we’ve got this all wrong.

The cavernous building behind him held the salvaged remains of the great ship, and the morning shift of visitors was already queuing up for guided tours. In front of Sanderson, framed by a slate gray autumn sky, was a nearly empty parking lot, and at the far end he saw a police evidence van and two squad cars. A half dozen officers in sterile gear were busy combing the tarmac. In a burst of enthusiasm someone had cordoned off the entire parking lot as a crime scene, causing Sanderson to wonder — given recent events — how much yellow tape the department kept in stock.

“Morning, Inspector.”

Sanderson turned and saw Blix. “Good morning, Gunnar.”

“Glad you could make it.”

“So am I. And please don’t ask me how I’m feeling — I’m getting tired of that question.”

“Done.”

Blix began walking toward the police contingent and Sanderson fell in beside him.

“Anything new on the investigation?” Sanderson asked.

“Our finest minds are working on it.”

Sanderson looked up and saw the wry smile.

“Actually, I just came from the morning meeting,” said Blix. “The best news is Sergeant Elmander’s positive outlook. He’ll be walking with a limp for a few weeks, but should be back on desk duty soon.”

“Yes, that’s very good news.”

“We’re still trying to verify that the comatose man in Saint Göran is a former Mossad director, but the Ministry of Foreign Affairs has the taken lead on that. All we can do is wait. As for the rest — not much, honestly. Some more grainy surveillance footage, but nothing that will do us any good. The usual lot of dubious eyewitnesses. Forsten is operating on the principle that our man is still in Sweden, Stockholm if you ask her. At least a hundred officers are busy watching trains and bus stations and airports. You know the bit — look for a tall light-haired man who’s sweating and fidgeting.”

“All that behavioral analysis rubbish they’ve been drilling into us?”

“I suppose it has its uses,” Blix said. “But the bottom line hasn’t changed — we have a killer at large, and Dr. Palmer still hasn’t been found. Oh, and headquarters is ready if Deadmarsh calls your old number again. They’ve got a new software package that supposedly will give them a near real-time fix on his position.”

Sanderson thought Anna Forsten was throwing her investigative spears into a very dark jungle. “We rely too much on technology these days,” he said. “There’s a place for it, mind you, but it’s no substitute for thoughtful detective work.”

A constable was manning the entry point, a young lad who looked familiar, although Sanderson couldn’t recall his name.

Blix said, “Good morning, Karl,” as they both walked past.

Yes, Karl, Sanderson thought.

They exchanged pleasantries with a technician who was picking up shards of plastic with tweezers and slipping them into evidence bags. A woman nearby was taking photographs of bits and pieces that were scattered over a ten-meter circle.

“We were able to track down the three phones he was using,” Blix said. “All disposables, purchased Sunday at a little shop in Jakobsberg. We’re pretty sure this is the remnants of one of them. Nothing yet at the other two locations, but we’re looking.”

“It looks as if the damned thing exploded,” Sanderson remarked.

“Run over by a car is my guess,” Blix suggested.

“I can’t say what caused the damage,” the tech replied. “But once we get it under a scope we’ll be able tell you.”

“What about information from the memory?” Blix asked. “Any chance it’s usable?”

“Possible, but that will take some time.”

“And you haven’t found anything other than the phone?” Sanderson asked.

The technician looked up, and for the first time seemed to recognize Sanderson. “Nothing obvious, Inspector. Of course, a parking lot like this — you’ve always got trash to deal with as well. There was a crushed compact disc just behind me. It’s going to take a while to sort through. I think we have enough from the outer case and buttons that we might be able to lift a fingerprint or two. At least a partial.”

Blix said, “That is, if he didn’t wipe it down.”

Sanderson frowned. “If this Deadmarsh fellow can make his passport evaporate, I doubt we’re going to find a record of his fingerprints languishing in our files.”

Blix said, “He was using three phones within a matter of minutes. Locations all around town. Is there some way to do that remotely? Relay a telephone call?”

The forensic man said, “Never heard of such a thing, but it wouldn’t seem difficult. Voice over Internet — that’s readily available. A sharp programmer could come up with something.”

“There might be an application already out there,” Blix suggested weakly.

“No,” Sanderson said. “We’re slipping the more basic question. Deadmarsh has gone to a considerable amount of trouble here. Why? What has he gained from all this?”

The forensic man stopped his tweezing. Both he and Blix looked at Sanderson.

“Don’t you see? He’s got us chasing our asses. The question is, why?”

Ten minutes later a frustrated Sanderson was back in his car. He decided he wasn’t going to find anything useful here, or for that matter, at either of the other two sites. His own words kept beating in his head: He’s got us chasing our asses.

That was his overriding thought as he turned toward headquarters, bound for what was certain to be another wretched encounter in Sjoberg’s office. Try as he might, he could think of no better option than to make a last stab at groveling his way back onto the investigation. Even if Sjoberg turned him down, as he probably would, Sanderson might glean something useful from beating around headquarters. Yet as he made his way into town, his foot was uncharacteristically light on the accelerator. Sanderson had spent most of his career dealing with petty criminals, dullards whose methods were as hopeless as their prospects. Deadmarsh was clearly something else. Sanderson racked his brain, sure he was missing something.

How? How did you do it?

He recalled the engine noise he’d heard over the phone. Then he considered the distances involved, along with his first impression this morning. It looks as if the damned thing exploded. That was when it struck him. Sanderson braked to a hard stop, swerving to the side of the road, and craned his neck skyward. Just as had been the case yesterday, he saw nothing but a solid layer of cloudcover above, gray and ominous.

Even so—

Sanderson wheeled his car through a quick three-point turn, and his foot went down hard as he accelerated in a completely different direction.

In the predawn hours that Wednesday, Slaton swept through Bayreuth, Wagner’s final resting place, and farther on skirted Nuremburg, witness to both the swaggering beginnings and ignominious end of Hitler’s depraved Nazi Party. He arrived at the Munich outpost of EuroCamper Rentals at 8:21 in the morning.

Slaton steered through a double-sided gate that no one bothered to guard, and saw a parking lot with perhaps twenty recreational vehicles similar to the one he was driving. Finding an empty slot at the front, near what looked like a small office, Slaton backed the camper in deftly — as any professional driver would.

He took the keys in hand, pulled the routing card from the rearview mirror, and walked toward the office with a weary stride that was not contrived. He pushed through a squeaking metal door into a paintless and beaten room. One wall displayed a poster of a camper like the one he’d just parked, the unit in the picture considerably cleaner, and presented with a smiling family in an otherwise vacant Alpine meadow. The only other thing here that could be called a decoration was a monthly calendar, the October offering a voluptuous woman whose naked body was covered strategically by red and brown leaves, her tanned haunch nestled against the logo of a brake rotor manufacturer. A space heater in one corner was working hard but losing the battle, an ominous sign in early October, and behind a counter Slaton saw a big man sitting on a high stool. His hair was wild and his face grooved, the sort of deep wrinkles that implied not only cigarettes and alcohol, but every vice known to God and earth. The proprietor was leaning on the rough countertop and watching something on a tiny TV.

The man looked up, said nothing, and held out his hand. Slaton gave him the key and the delivery routing card.

“Where is the rest of the paperwork?” the man demanded in German.

German was a language Slaton struggled with, especially after years of neglect, but it hardly mattered. He could decipher the puzzle-like compounds well enough to understand commands, and he could respond with ill-phrased answers as well as any recent immigrant. In his current guise — delivery driver for a rental company — he reckoned that a formal command of the language would only inspire unwanted attention.

Slaton shrugged helplessly. “They give me nothing else.”

The man snorted, and asked, “Did you hit anything?”

“No.”

“Did you put gas in it?”

“Yes, sure.”

“You have the receipt?”

Slaton did. He handed it over and the man took a cursory glance. The German opened a locked drawer using a key from a ring on his belt, and pulled out twenty-four euros, counting twice. When his hand went back into the drawer, deeper this time, Slaton tensed and watched closely — he knew what else was often kept in locked cash drawers.

What came out was a piece of hard stock paper. The man handed it all over in one stack. “Here’s your voucher for the train back to Sassnitz.”

Slaton relaxed. He was tired, the kind of fatigue that could bring mistakes. He took the money and the voucher, and asked, “Where is train station?”

The man pointed down the street.

“How do I get there?”

“You walk.”

“It is far?”

The weathered German smiled. “Yes.”

Slaton arrived at Munich Central Station at 8:58. The walk had in fact been two miles, easily manageable by the recent standards he’d been setting. Along the way he discreetly dropped the Beretta into a storm drain, seeing few positives in traveling with a concealed weapon that was empty.

At the station he presented the voucher at a ticket window, explaining that he wished to amend his destination. The agent told him that yes, he could change the ticket, but a fee would apply. Fortunately, the original value of the voucher was far in excess of the new fare, and even with the change fee subtracted Slaton was due a refund of nineteen euros.

He spent six on breakfast, a sweet pastry and dark coffee, and as he waited for his train to Switzerland he found two discarded newspapers, Bild and Die Welt. World leaders were addressing climate change, the Deutschmark had fallen, and another screen starlet had died in a hotel bathtub. He found only one small paragraph referencing a fading manhunt in Stockholm, the most interesting revelation being that there was a new detective in charge, Inspector Sanderson having been taken off the case for unspecified medical issues. Slaton was glad, because Sanderson had seemed competent, and doubly so because the ensuing handover would lend itself to confusion and lost leads.

At 9:52 Slaton boarded a crowded second-class car. It was a commuter special with few empty seats, and he shouldered to a window beside a young girl, nineteen or perhaps twenty years of age. She had the look of a schoolgirl, long hair and pretty, and sat straight-backed with her knees together and hands in her lap. Slaton could not imagine a more ideal seatmate. Attractive young girls traveling alone knew better than to strike up conversations with strange older men. His seat selection was further validated when a well-dressed businessman sat in the opposing row and was immediately accosted by the man to his left, a middle-aged fellow in a creased coat and crooked tie who was trying to sell investments. Those were eyes Slaton would avoid, as he had no desire to listen to a sales pitch all the way to the Swiss border. And anyway, from a strictly actuarial standpoint, fixed annuities were not a practical investment vehicle for assassins.

At 09:59 the train pulled away.

When he drifted to sleep minutes later, the kidon was four hundred miles removed from his entry point in Germany. He had virtually no chance of being traced. His belly was full. And he had thirteen more euros in his pocket than when he’d started.