Assassin's Game

FORTY-TWO

Slaton arrived at the Montreux Casino at ten o’clock Friday evening and parked the laden Rover in a quiet corner of the ground-floor parking garage. The broken planks he’d ripped from the crates in Basel went on top in the Rover’s cargo area, and he added a few sheets of crumpled newspaper and two spent plastic bottles retrieved from a nearby trash can. After setting the alarm, he circled the vehicle once to make sure the only thing visible inside was a pile of trash.

In the hotel lobby, wearing his new Armani sportcoat and with the Prada travel bag in hand, he went straight to the reception area for preferred customers — a runway of red carpet that was clearly delineated by silver stanchions and thick-braided gold rope.

“Can I help you, monsieur?” queried the man at the desk.

“Yes, the name is Mendelsohn and I’d like to register. I’m here as a guest of Walter Krueger.”

“Ah, yes. We’ve been expecting you. Monsieur Krueger called to make all your arrangements.” He went to work on his keyboard, and soon Natan Mendelsohn’s identity card was accepted with a careless glance. Two minutes later Slaton had a room key in his pocket, and the desk man was handing over a second plastic card, this one cast with a mirror-like platinum finish.

“This card, Monsieur Mendelsohn, will access your gaming account. Bon chance!”

The man raised a finger, and Slaton was escorted to a fifth-floor room by an engaging young woman. After a brief tour of the suite, Slaton declared an urge to hit the tables, a request met enthusiastically by his personal concierge. She led him to the casino floor and introduced him to the cashier, who soon pushed a stack of chips across a well-worn counter that summed twenty thousand Swiss francs.

The gaming floor was like any other. Red, green, and gold were the dominant colors, and waitresses in short skirts and push-up bras did a brisk business serving unlimited alcohol to brooding figures hunched behind felt tables and brass machines. The sounds were equally predictable, the squeals of winners easily overriding the quiet groans of their less fortunate supporters.

Slaton began with blackjack. He played poorly, yet somehow emerged nearly two thousand francs to the good. He switched to roulette, bet heavily to accelerate things, and in twenty minutes had forfeited his gain along with another five thousand. Slaton frowned accordingly, and slapped his palm on the green felt each time the maddening little ball went astray. The croupier kept to his task, as did the unsmiling pit boss, and the cameras overhead recorded everything as the casino’s new guest from Zurich took a modest pounding on the first night of the seven for which he was booked. After a tedious hour’s work, Slaton returned to the cashier’s cage, and there exchanged his remaining chips for cash, after losses and tips taking to his room the sum of fourteen and a half thousand Swiss francs.

In his room he showered, shaved for the first time in two weeks, and finally, standing at the bathroom door in fresh clothes, made his last assessment of the day — the layout of his suite. Long convinced that simple precautions were the best, he pushed a Queen Anne bureau across the floor until it was positioned eighteen inches from the door. It was the only way in, other than a flush window with no balcony and a five-story drop. The door might give to a stiff kick, but the dresser would serve as a secondary impediment, perhaps giving a few extra seconds in a worst-case situation. The configuration also lessened the chances that he would shoot any ill-mannered members of the housekeeping staff who forgot to knock. Defensive aspects aside, the gap was also wide enough for him to leave in a hurry should the need arise. Moving to the bathroom, Slaton rotated the door fully open, flush against the interior wall, to create the thickest available cover position. His jacket went on a hook by the door, but otherwise he remained fully clothed, including his shoes. The keys to the Rover, all his cash, identity documents, and two spare 9mm magazines were stowed in the usual pockets.

At the end of a productive day, Slaton drew in a long, soothing breath as he approached the bed. There, and on the adjacent nightstand, he found printed cards advertising Internet service, bedsheets, bottled water, room-service breakfast, and the last suggesting how best to handle his bath towels in an environmentally friendly manner. It occurred to Slaton that there was a person somewhere whose principal duty in life was to compose, print, and distribute such material. He tried to imagine the serenity of leading such a routine and unfaceted existence.

Then again, he thought, maybe being an assassin isn’t so bad.

Slaton swept the advertisements into a stack on the nightstand before stretching out on one side of the king-sized bed, the Glock near his right hand, safety off. Tomorrow, Saturday, October 19, would be a busy day. He willed his muscles to relax, ignored the thrum of traffic from the street below, and with the casino’s spotlights carving through silk window shades, Slaton drifted into what he knew would be a fitful night’s sleep.

Sanderson remembered to set the alarm and it went off at seven o’clock sharp. He was happy to wake knowing where he was, but on rising felt dizzy, and the all-too-familiar throb at the base of his skull had returned. Breakfast and a shower did little to help, and he tried to ignore it all as he went to the hotel desk and requested a cab to take him to CERN.

For nearly fifty years the European Organization for Nuclear Research had been centered in Geneva. It was where the most accomplished physicists in the world attempted to deconstruct the universe, an undertaking Sanderson presumed did not recognize weekends or holidays. He directed the cab’s driver to take him to the primary complex, a place called Meyrin, and settled in for a long ride, reasoning that anything called “The Large Hadron Collider” had to be situated well clear of population centers. He was wrong. Two minutes after passing the international airport, the driver was holding out his empty hand.

The outer facade had an industrial appearance, and could easily have been taken for a computer chip or smartphone factory. Sanderson took the direct approach, walking straight to the main entrance through a light drizzle and again portraying himself to be with Interpol. To the guard at the security desk he presented his list of six names, and was informed that yes, one was on site today, a senior researcher by the name of Dr. Ernst Hamel.

Two phone calls and fifteen minutes later, he entered building 40, a structure evidently conceptualized by its architect to represent something in the subatomic regime, although Sanderson could not say what. A large central atrium was ringed by multiple floors of office space, doubtless to suggest a rising column of knowledge. He was guided to a glass-walled conference room where the senior scientist could barely be seen behind a table stacked with lab equipment and books. Hamel strode across to greet Sanderson, clearly having been forewarned, and the two men exchanged pleasantries. He was tall and lean with a well-groomed beard, and there was a directness in his gaze Sanderson instantly liked. His wrinkled lab coat was worn at the sleeves, no doubt from countless hours behind a keyboard, and mounted on the wall behind Hamel was a dry-erase board ten feet long that seemed to be filled with a solitary, never-ending equation, the kind of thing Sanderson would not understand if he spent the balance of his life trying.

“Yes,” Hamel said, “I worked with Hamedi for a time in Hamburg. A brilliant man. Is Interpol still worried about him?”

“Still?” Sanderson queried.

“I was interviewed shortly after he left for Iran, the usual nonsense. Did he have any political leanings? Did he frequent particular mosques? I said it then and I’ll say it now — he was a good man, brilliant, and very hardworking. I don’t think we ever once discussed politics or religion. He was Muslim, of course, but it wasn’t something he pushed on others. Hamedi had an expansive bookshelf in his apartment, one that we combed through together many times — I never saw anything more extremist than a copy of the Koran.”

“Actually,” Sanderson said, “my reason for being here is more forward-looking. We have reason to believe that an attempt could be made on Dr. Hamedi’s life during his visit to Geneva this coming weekend.”

“I see. Yes, that is a concern.” Hamel clasped his hands tightly behind his back. “I did hear about the attempts in Iran — you know, all that business with the Israelis. It’s not the kind of thing my peers and I usually have to deal with. But you think he could be at risk here, in Switzerland?”

“Our information is not exactly concrete, but we must err on the side of caution.”

“Of course.”

“Tell me,” Sanderson said, “will you be attending Hamedi’s presentation tomorrow?”

“Yes. Dr. Michel and I worked closely with Hamedi in Hamburg and we were planning to go. But given what you’re telling me now — perhaps we should skip the speech and be satisfied with the reception.”

“Reception?”

“Surely you know about it — afterward, on the yacht?”

“Of course,” Sanderson played. “But I’d like to hear what details have gotten out.”

Hamel fished through a pile on his table and came up with an invitation that looked as if it had been printed from an email. He handed it over and Sanderson saw a picture of a yacht named Entrepreneur, along with a schedule for a reception involving an evening cruise that would take place immediately following Hamedi’s speech. 8 p.m. to 10 p.m. Hors d’oeuvres and wine, live entertainment.

“Yes, we’ve had a close eye on this,” Sanderson said. “By your understanding, who will attend this event?”

“It looks a big enough boat, but all I can tell you is that ten, perhaps twelve of us from CERN have been invited. Two or three of Hamedi’s old colleagues from Hamburg are coming as well, I think. And the U.N. people, of course — the chief weapons inspector and his staff. I’m sure the Iranians will have a delegation.”

“Oh yes, you can be sure of that,” Sanderson said. For ten more minutes he cast questions at Hamel, but caught nothing more of interest. Sanderson bid the professor a courteous good-bye and rode the elevator down buoyed by his results. His next step was obvious, and at the entrance he called for another cab and was soon on his way to the waterfront.

For the first mile Sanderson found himself scanning the sidewalks for another glimpse of Edmund Deadmarsh. He forced himself to stop. It was like expecting lightning to strike the same spot twice. He settled back into the seat and turned on his phone, hoping for salvation from Elin Almgren. He found six messages, three each from Blix and Sjoberg. “Good Lord!”

With two quick touches Sanderson deleted them all. He turned his phone back off.

Blix knocked on Sjoberg’s office door and was waved in.

“Have you been able to contact Sanderson?” Sjoberg asked.

“I’m afraid not, sir. I keep getting his voice mail.”

“Yes, I’ve been getting the same. But let’s keep trying. What else?”

“I’ve had a busy morning. Our technicians were finally able to isolate the engine noise in the background of those mobile calls Deadmarsh made. They’ve confirmed the acoustic signature as being from a Lycoming.”

Sjoberg stared dumbly across his desk. “What the devil is a Lycoming?”

“It’s an engine that has only one use — small aircraft.”

Sjoberg thought about it. “So he dropped those mobiles from an aircraft?” The assistant commissioner rose from his chair and stood looking out the window. “The ferry ticket in Styrsvik, the ATM here. He’s been leading us a merry chase, hasn’t he?”

“It would appear so. As soon as I saw this I sent a man out to the air traffic control facility at Arlanda. I thought we should go back and try to identify the airplane.”

“Yes, that’s good. Any luck?”

“I’m afraid so,” replied a hesitant Blix. “The supervisor there knew exactly what we were looking for. She said it was a seaplane, based down in Oxelösund — even had the name of the charter company before our man asked.”

“How did—” Sjoberg stopped mid-thought. He slammed an open palm on his desk. “Sanderson, the bastard!”

“I’m afraid so. The woman at Arlanda confirmed it. He’s got a three-day head start on us.”

Under his breath, Paul Sjoberg cursed like the sailor he’d once been. Seeing a case that was deeply in arrears and falling more so, there was only one option — damage control. He dispatched Blix to Oxelösund to pursue the lead on his wayward detective. The sergeant had just left his office when the phone rang.

“Sjoberg.”

“Paul, it’s Anna Forsten. Christine Palmer has turned up. Apparently she was admitted to Saint Göran late last night. Get over there as soon as you can.”

There was a click before Sjoberg could even reply with his own embarrassing revelations. He rushed to the door and ripped his coat off the hook.