Assassin's Game

THIRTY-FIVE

Elin Almgren took slightly over an hour to call back. Sanderson, stirring cream into his second cup of coffee from a high stool, picked up immediately.

“Have you found anything?” he asked.

“A new Thai restaurant that makes a wonderful Panang curry.”

“Please.”

“Sex, Arne. Find some quickly.”

Sanderson, patient man that he was, thought, If she wasn’t so damned good …

“Here’s what I have,” Almgren said. “Our files are thin. Pure intelligence on the sort of man you’re after is a nonstarter, at least anything recent. We have volumes on the shooters from Lillehammer and a few less spectacular incidents on European soil. All ancient history. This suspect of yours would have to be in his fifties for any of it to apply.”

“No,” Sanderson said, “he’s nowhere near it. So there’s nothing?”

“On the man you’re after, no.”

“But?” Sanderson prompted.

“It’s only a wild idea — one I’m surprised you haven’t fumbled upon yourself. Has it not occurred to you that Israeli assassins have been in the news a great deal lately? There were two attempts on the life of Dr. Ibrahim Hamedi this summer. Iran put the blame on Mossad.”

“Don’t they always?”

“Of course. But we did receive a report from Interpol that identified one of the men in the most recent assault. He was former Israeli Special Forces, almost certainly working for Mossad. Taken together, I’d say that puts him pretty close to your friend. He was a kidon.”

Sanderson said nothing.

“Well?” Almgren prodded.

“It’s not much, but I see what you mean. I suppose it bears looking into.”

“Iran’s development of nuclear-tipped missiles is Israel’s overwhelming concern. So maybe that has something to do with what’s been going on in Stockholm.”

“Is SÄPO pursuing this angle?” he asked.

“No. But I think somebody should.”

“Somebody. Maybe a retiree with nothing better to do?”

“Could be. Just to be a good sport I’ll see what I can dig up on Dr. Hamedi.”

“Yes, that might help.”

“And don’t forget, Arne — you owe me another Flying Horse Chipotle Burger.”

Iran’s Guardian Council was housed, for the day’s business, in a nondescript building outside Parliament’s contemporary pyramid — an eye-catching and useless place in both form and function.

Behrouz felt strangely alone as he walked up the broad central staircase. He answered this call on a regular basis, and the timing of today’s summons was in line with the usual reporting schedule. All the same, a worm of anxiety squirmed in his gut.

The council was already in session when Behrouz arrived, and he was ushered directly in, the members breaking away from less pressing business to give him an immediate audience. Taking the lone seat that faced the long table, he saw he was up against a full contingent of twelve — altogether, a disquieting lineup of dark robes and white turbans.

After cursory words of greeting — along the lines of what one would give a rarely seen neighbor — the chairman said, “Tell us of your preparations for Geneva.”

Behrouz was ready. “Our forward team has arrived at the embassy in Bern, and is now finalizing arrangements. They will secure the hotel well in advance of Dr. Hamedi’s arrival. We are coordinating with both the local police and Swiss national forces. The United Nations venue is well suited for lockdown during high-profile visits.”

“And the other? This ‘reception’ as they call it?”

“The local authorities are confident they can secure the area. The Swiss have a great deal of experience in hosting diplomatic events. And Dr. Hamedi, for all his importance, is hardly so much a target as the president of the United States or the queen of England.”

“That,” said another of God’s self-appointed emissaries, “is a matter of perspective.”

“We should not rely on others,” said the chairman. “Do you not have any…” he searched for the right word, “suggestion that the Israelis will make another attempt on Hamedi?”

“No, not at this time. But rest assured that I have taken every precaution. On Sunday I will have fifty of my best men on site. No one will get near him.”

“That is good,” said the robe on the right, a man Behrouz knew to be the leading faqih, or Islamic law expert, and consequently the most pious of the lot. “Dr. Hamedi’s progress has been nothing short of miraculous. If Allah wills it, he will soon deliver what we have long sought. We all pray for his safety.”

Behrouz said, “I think I have proved in recent months that I am capable of ensuring it.”

“Your campaign in the synagogues has revealed nothing new?” the chairman asked.

“No, not yet.”

A nod from the center. “And have you conducted any other operations as of late?”

“Operations?” Behrouz said, trying to keep a level voice. He watched an exchange of glances along the table, tilted turbans and a flutter of brown cotton sleeves.

The chairman. “We have learned of a disturbance last night in Molavi. Your ministry had no involvement, I’m sure, as your recent efforts have been focused so completely on Geneva.”

There was a long and heavy pause. Behrouz knew better than to speak.

“I will leave you with one further thought,” the chairman picked up. “As head of our state security apparatus you have performed admirably, and this grants you a certain latitude in running your ministry. But remember one thing, Farzad — you are today not the most critical man in our Islamic Republic. Proceed with care.”

“Yes, Chairman, I understand. Thank you for sharing your wisdom.”

Minutes later Behrouz was descending the massive staircase, his feet stepping quickly. He checked his phone but saw nothing from Rafi. He was not surprised that the council had learned of his raid — the speed of the reprimand, however, spoke volumes. He had seen it happen to his predecessor, a series of small missteps that ended badly for the man. Very badly. He decided it was time to regain the initiative, lest he face a similar fate. As with most men of his ilk, Behrouz had spent a lifetime climbing to the top without consideration for what came afterward. Today, as he hit the bottom of the staircase, his feet skidding momentarily on the polished marble floor, he was beset by a new and disturbing perspective.

On reaching the top, Behrouz realized, there was only one place to go.

And it was not up.

Sanderson spent a slow cup considering Almgren’s hypothesis. Could the troubles in Stockholm be related to Israel’s pursuit of Iran’s chief nuclear scientist? It was a long shot to say the least. If Deadmarsh was truly a Mossad assassin, the chances were better that he was hunting down some deserving Hezbollah terrorist. More likely yet was that the erstwhile stonemason had not been tasked to kill anyone. Sanderson would lay odds that there was no cataclysmic plot at any level, but rather an alcoholic agent who’d gone rogue, or perhaps a man chasing his wife because she’d had an affair with her dermatologist. As any policeman could tell you, the real world was far less a manifestation of James Bond than Jerry Springer. All the same, Sanderson had to be sure, which meant disproving Almgren’s theory.

Only days ago he’d had Sweden’s largest police force at his disposal. Now, aside from the spare time of two distant friends, he was operating alone from a tiny German village. He left a nice tip for the waitress, and asked her if a computer was available for general use. She was happy to point him to a small side room where, for a fee, computer stations with Internet access were available.

The room was a disaster with dirty floors and overflowing wastebaskets, and from the sales flyers on the wall — instant energy shots and roadside assistance insurance — one didn’t have to be a detective to realize that the place was here for transiting truck drivers. Sanderson sat on a chair with ripped fabric and foam oozing out the seams, and addressed a brown-stained keyboard on which the lettering of the more frequently used characters had been worn clear. But the machine worked, and he was soon online. Sanderson began by researching articles relating to the assassination attempts on Hamedi. He noted the dates and locations of the botched missions — both occurring inside Iran — and he read the official releases from IRNA, the Islamic Republic News Agency. Not surprisingly, these pieces were scarce on detail and high on rhetoric, taking particular relish in pointing an accusatory finger at Israel.

He moved on to Israeli and neutral news outlets, and then a few blogs where conspiracy theorists congregated. Nothing inspired him. He entered Anton Bloch’s name and got hits relating to his retirement, along with a few critiques on the effectiveness of his administration — Mossad chiefs were meant to be anonymous during their active tenure, but apparently fair game once they reverted to the lowly status of private citizen. After an hour the waitress stepped in and brought him another cup of coffee. Sanderson could have kissed her.

He typed the name Edmund Deadmarsh into a search engine and drew blanks. Next he tried Dr. Christine Palmer — there were apparently four in the world — which produced nothing more enlightening than her physician’s website. He backtracked and typed in: Iran, nuclear program, Dr. Ibrahim Hamedi. A number of articles relating to the assassination attempts appeared, along with others of a more critical voice that vilified the mad genius and the weapons project he oversaw. None gave any insight to steer Sanderson in his search.

He closed his eyes tightly and pinched the bridge of his nose. What? What would prove or disprove? He opened his eyes and typed: Dr. Ibrahim Hamedi, travel. He opened the first result:

Sanderson read it again. Could this be why Deadmarsh had run south? The odds were long — but perhaps a ray of hope. An Israeli assassin heading in the general direction of Israel’s clearest target? The coincidence could not be more slim. Yet it was a coincidence, and if the last thirty-five years had taught Sanderson anything, it was to seek just such connections.

But how to continue? Sanderson had already hidden from Sjoberg a pursuit that had taken him across the Baltic and into Germany. To forward this new theory would get him no more than a one-way ticket home and a follow-up session with Dr. Samuels. He could mention his suspicions to Blix or Almgren, but he doubted they would have any more luck in convincing their superiors — it was simply too thin a link for anyone to chase. At least anyone in their right mind.

Sanderson’s time on the computer came to an end. He did not purchase more. He left the restaurant, thanking the young waitress as he passed the main counter, and after a cool five-minute walk found himself in the main Sassnitz transfer terminal. He stopped in front of a machine that sold tickets for the ferry north to Malmö. From there, he could reach Stockholm easily by train, and be home late tonight. An adjacent machine sold tickets for German rail. With a connection, perhaps two, he could be in Geneva by early evening. Sanderson stood still for a very long time with his hand poised over his pocket. North or south? Either was an improvement, he reasoned. At least I don’t have to get on another godforsaken seaplane.

Comforted by this thought, he made his selection, and ten minutes later was waiting patiently in the busy boarding area.

Slaton settled his business with Krueger that evening. He signed the name Natan Mendelsohn to documents authorizing his banker to manage a series of accounts. After this, Krueger handed over the agreed upon funds.

A visibly nervous Krueger asked, “When will I hear from you again?”

“More likely later than sooner. I’ll be leaving Zurich tonight.”

“Then I wish you happy travels, my friend. Is there anything else I can do before you leave?”

“Two things. First, I owe a debt to a charter pilot in Sweden. I’d like you to send her a check in the amount of twenty-two thousand U.S. dollars. Here is the name and address.” Slaton handed over a folded slip of hotel stationery.

Krueger took it without looking. “And the other?” he asked tentatively.

“How many cars do you have?”

“Cars?” the banker stuttered. Slaton had once again made a diagonal move in Krueger’s parallel world. “Well … two. A Range Rover and an Audi.”

“Which did you bring here tonight?”

“The Rover.”

Slaton smiled thinly.

Without even being asked, the banker handed over a key.