Assassin's Game

THIRTY-SIX

Christine stood in front of a bank on Kungsgatan Street trying to avoid the gaze of passersby, and hoping that no one would pay attention to a distracted American woman loitering near an ATM. It was shortly after closing time, and for the last thirty minutes she had watched tellers and mortgage officers vacate the branch office, one by one, until a security guard locked the door behind them. She’d studied each bank employee, but none fit the profile she was looking for. David, of course, had anticipated this and briefed her on a contingency plan. Given the time of day — the Thursday evening rush to get home — Christine was sure she would find her man soon enough.

As planned, she’d spent the previous night with her friend Dr. Ulrika Torsten. Christine had lied convincingly, a breathless account of her escape from the Strandvägen shootings, and ending with an offhand mention that the police had sought her out for an official statement. All variations of the truth. She’d built on this by telling Ulrika that the whole affair had left her shaken and in need of a quiet place in Stockholm to relax for a few days. When she added that her husband would arrive in a few days to escort her back to the States, Ulrika had insisted that Christine stay at her home.

So it was, for one night she had imposed on a friend’s gracious hospitality. But late this afternoon Christine gave her regrets for dinner, missing out on a home-cooked meal, and claimed the need for fresh air and an invigorating walk. She was now back at work. David’s work.

It took fifteen minutes, but the candidate she saw was perfect. Slightly on the tall side, perhaps a bit blonder. Otherwise, a perfect match. He was moving fast with a briefcase in one hand and an umbrella in the other.

She hurried away from the wall near the ATM.

“Excuse me!”

The man stopped.

“Do you speak English?” she asked.

“A little, yes.”

“Could you please help me? I’m trying to get money from this machine, but the instructions are in Swedish.” She gave him her most engaging smile and made sure her wedding band was behind her hip.

The man smiled back. Just as David had said he would.

The use of Deadmarsh’s credit card at a midtown ATM machine registered almost instantly with the Stockholm police. The nearest officers were dispatched, and reached the bank in five minutes. They were three minutes too late.

Headquarters built a head of steam, and Commissioner Forsten and Assistant Commissioner Sjoberg were soon meeting in a side room with technicians. They poured over video that had been fed directly from the bank’s security office, and everyone saw a tall blond man in an overcoat withdrawing money from the machine.

“He withdrew a thousand kronor,” Sjoberg said. “He’s running low on cash. Maybe he’s trying to get out of the country.”

“Are we sure it’s him?” Forsten asked.

Sjoberg looked at the screen uncertainly. “It’s not the clearest image … the lighting is poor. Let’s ask someone who’s seen him.”

Sergeant Blix was summoned to join them. When he arrived Forsten explained, “An hour ago there was a cash withdrawal on Deadmarsh’s credit card. We have video from the bank surveillance camera. Unfortunately, since his passport dumped we don’t have a decent photo to compare. Of all the people in the building, Blix, you had the best look at him.”

The video footage looped and Forsten froze it on the clearest image. “Well?” she asked. “Is that him?”

Blix stared at the grainy black-and-white image, but didn’t answer immediately. He finally said, “It does looks like him, but it’s hard to say. I can’t be certain.” Under two disbelieving looks, he tried again.

“It’s a good likeness,” he said, “but something about it…” Blix’s face contorted as he racked his brain. “He’s keying the numbers with his left hand.”

“Was Deadmarsh left-handed?” Forsten asked.

Blix shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t remember.”

“I know who could give us a definite answer,” Sjoberg said.

They all stared at one another in turn.

“All right,” Forsten ordered, “call him in.”

“Ah…” Blix hesitated, “I’m not sure Inspector Sanderson is available right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I believe he’s taken a holiday,” Blix replied.

“Holiday?” Sjoberg burst.

“Well, sir — you did just let him go.”

Slaton exercised his newfound wealth in customary Zurich fashion — with a shopping spree on Bahnhofstrasse.

In perhaps the world’s epicenter of casual self-indulgence, he caused barely a ripple with his shotgun approach: a pair of Peter Millar twill trousers were partnered with a button-down cotton shirt and Chanel tie, followed by a charcoal Armani sportcoat, and finally a set of black Nike warm-ups with trail shoes. Just off Bahnhofstrasse, he paid a reasonable price for a down sleeping bag and a Prada travel case — somehow relegated to the clearance rack — and an unreasonable one for a Movado wristwatch, a high-end sport version with luminescent dials. With full arms and half-empty pockets, Slaton decided he’d done enough damage for one evening.

He found the Rover in Krueger’s reserved parking spot, an upgraded model with four-wheel drive and a massive engine. Before leaving the garage he circled the Rover’s exterior once, checking that all the exterior lights were operational, and that the license plate and vignette, or autobahn sticker, were current and not obscured. He would be driving a perfectly valid vehicle, and wanted no excuse for a random traffic stop. Slaton brought the machine to life and was rewarded with a heavy purr under the thick leather and walnut trim. He wheeled out of the parking garage into a thin mist, turned north and gathered speed.

He swept past the up-lit spire of St. Peter’s Church, rounded the Swiss National Museum, and ten minutes later was merging comfortably onto the N1. The lights of Zurich began to fade, and using the cruise control to govern his speed, Slaton struck westward into darkened countryside toward the Limmat Valley. Estimating a three-hour drive ahead, he should have used the time to refine his next steps, or at the very least reflect on a long and productive day. Slaton was making progress, nearing his target, and he now had unlimited funds at his disposal. Yet try as he might, he couldn’t concentrate on the mission.

The reason was clear enough.

The simple life he and Christine had built in Virginia was gone, and certainly unrecoverable. Now he was racing across Switzerland, his vehicle acquired by way of coercion, and once again being hunted by the authorities. With terrible suddenness, the past year had fallen to little more than another assignment, a temporary operation, pleasant as it was, that had come to its natural conclusion.

Had life in America really been any different? he wondered.

Not a day had gone by when he hadn’t lied to keep up the legend of Edmund Deadmarsh. The sounds of fireworks and cars backfiring still stiffened his spine. He invariably kept a ready supply of cash in their home, and without fail filled the tank on the Ford when it was half full — the Ford because it had twice the horsepower of the Honda. In Virginia he’d taken the same precautions he always had, the lone difference being that he cared about his partner in a very different way.

Her parting words drummed in his head.

If you kill this man in Geneva … don’t ever come back to me.

Against this was Nurin’s countering promise — the assassination of Hamedi was his only chance to return to a normal life. Catch-22. If he killed the man, Christine would leave him. If he didn’t, Slaton would have no life to go back to. It was a collision of ultimatums, a mathematical equation that seemed unsolvable. All he could do was keep looking, keep moving to find a better angle. Like the sniper he was.

Find the perfect shot.

And so Slaton drove onward, the Rover pointed west at a measured pace as he traversed the left half of Switzerland.