Assassin's Game

THIRTY-ONE

In the office they stood split by a navigation table where a map of Sweden was pressed under a scarred sheet of Plexiglas. Sanderson saw that various points around the country, mostly remote lakes and coves, had been circled with markers and then connected by lines to Magnussen Air Charter’s Oxelösund hub.

“He hired me out for a charter,” she said. “I took him out Monday morning and dropped him on an island. Picked him up at the same place yesterday morning.”

“What did he look like?”

Her description left no doubt in Sanderson’s mind — they were talking about Deadmarsh.

“Where exactly did you drop him?”

Magnussen referenced the map and pointed to the cove on Bulleron Island. She described her delivery and the next day’s pickup, then circling over Stockholm while Deadmarsh threw mobile phones out the window. She told him about the gun and a forced flight to the German coastline. Her story rang true to Sanderson, and at the end he was left with two questions.

“Do you know who he met on that island?”

“He told me it was his wife. She had a sailboat.”

Again, this made perfect sense. Sanderson asked, “And where did you drop him off yesterday?”

Magnussen pulled a different chart from a cabinet and unfurled it on the table. Sanderson saw that it covered the Baltic and northern Europe.

She tapped her finger on a spot high on the German coastline. “Right here. It was nearly dusk last night.”

“When did you arrive back here?” he asked.

“About ten o’clock last night.”

“And you waited until this morning before making a report to the authorities?”

“I was rather shaken last night.”

Sanderson said nothing.

“Even when I called this morning I don’t think the constable believed what I was telling him. You have to admit, it sounds rather fantastic. He asked if I’d been drinking — which I have been known to do.”

“You shouldn’t have waited,” Sanderson said. “To not immediately report something like this is a crime in itself.”

“It’s also a crime to impersonate a police officer.”

For the second time in a matter of minutes, she had him off-balance.

Magnussen gave a wry smile. “Your credentials expired years ago, Inspector. I have very good eyesight.”

“And I have very little patience for games. This man is dangerous. Did he offer you money? Is that why you’ve given him a head start?”

“Possibly. But I could also say I felt threatened. He shot my airplane — I can show you the damage.”

“Anything else?”

She cocked her head to one side. “In all honesty — I rather liked him.”

Sanderson leaned forward on the table, feeling suddenly weak.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yes, I … I’m fine.”

She looked at him doubtfully, then said, “So now you know my story. But what are you doing here?”

“I’m a policeman.”

“Not according to your paperwork.”

“All right, I’ll grant you that. I’m here unofficially. Until recently I was heading up the search for this man. I was put off the case for a medical issue, but I don’t like leaving things unfinished.”

“I know who he is,” Magnussen said. “I’ve been watching the news reports — all that uproar in Stockholm.”

Sanderson nodded.

“So where do we go from here?” she asked. “Will you call back to headquarters and tell them everything I’ve said? Or would that put you in an awkward position?”

He said nothing.

Magnussen took a rag and began erasing a line on her map. “We’re both in a fix, aren’t we, Inspector?”

“Perhaps we could adopt a broader view,” said a circumspect Sanderson. “You were abducted by this man. He threatened you at gunpoint, so you felt intimidated for a time. But eventually you called the police. I don’t see that you’ve done much wrong.”

“Even if he were going to send me money? That’s what you suggested.”

“Did I? I’d already forgotten about that. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”

“Would you vouch for all this?” she asked.

“I might. Under the right circumstances.”

“Which are?”

Sanderson told her.

Janna Magnussen gave him a wide grin “You know, Inspector — I think I’m beginning to like you as well.”

For two hundred years Zurich’s Bahnhofstrasse has been the recognized financial center of Switzerland. It is where banking icons Credit Suisse and UBS have long made their homes, housed in buildings that are as solid and enduring as the Alps, yet muted with just enough architectural vagueness to give clients — they are never called customers — the impression that while their money is unerringly present, it is not necessarily accounted for. The balance of the street’s tenants are a more candid bunch. Gucci, Coach, and Cartier are all here, and their sales staffs clearly well fed. Bahnhofstrasse is clean, safe, and polished. There is not a crack in the sidewalk to catch a Christian Louboutin heel, and the shells dropped by squirrels onto the heads of tolerant passersby are soon swept clear. It is a place with a great many attributes. What it does not have is public phones.

For a two euro tip, Slaton made his call from the bar of a waking basement nightclub. He dialed a number he had memorized years ago, and it was answered efficiently, almost certainly by the same woman he’d spoken with the last time he’d called.

“Krueger Wealth Management.”

“Yes,” Slaton said, “I’d like to make an appointment with Herr Krueger.”

“Are you an existing client, sir?”

“I am. The name is Natan Mendelsohn. Please inform Herr Krueger that I will join him for dinner this evening at Il Dolce. Seven o’clock.”

A hesitation. “Sir, Herr Krueger is already committed this evening to meet a long-standing client who—”

“Just give him the name, the time, and the place. He will see me. And tell him to please bring the package he’s been holding.”

Slaton did not wait for a reply.

Arne Sanderson did not like airplanes. He particularly did not like small airplanes. Small airplanes that took off and landed on the sea, in his mind, were a clear defilement of physical laws.

All the same, here he was.

They had taken off three hours earlier, Sanderson watching the Swedish coastline slip in and out of view amid the clouds until it disappeared completely. Since then Magnussen had been flying on instruments in heavy weather. In a way Sanderson was happy, because the gray shroud around them gave no perception of height or speed or movement — they were simply floating in a bubble of moisture with no sense of up or down.

“How is the weather where we’re going?” he asked.

Magnussen pulled her headset away from the nearest ear. “It’s still good,” she said. “We should have no trouble landing. I’ll have you at the seaplane dock at Sassnitz in roughly twenty minutes. Do you have your passport? There are immigration controls.”

Sanderson was happy that it had been in his car. “Yes, I’ve got it. But I have to ask you again — are you sure this man didn’t give you any idea where he was heading?”

She shook her head. “Sorry. But from his point of view, why would he?”

Magnussen pushed the plane into a descent and soon they were skimming under the clouds, the northern coastline of Germany rising in front of them. Sanderson gripped his armrests as the sea came closer, and his eyes were shut tight when the airplane settled to the water with surprising smoothness. Minutes later he was standing on a floating dock, much like the one from which he’d boarded back in Oxelösund. Magnussen had a brief conversation with a man about fuel before walking over and offering her hand.

“Our bargain is complete, is it not?”

Sanderson shook her tiny hand. “Such as it is. Have a safe flight back.”

“What will you do from here?” she asked.

Sweeping his eyes across the place, Sanderson said, “I’ll be damned if I know.”