Assassin's Game

FORTY-THREE

Entrepreneur was a stately presence as she slid to the dock, her sleek white lines a pretty picture on a lake that was made for them. Even darkened skies and steady rain could not dampen her showing, and as her port side nudged the pier along Quai du Mont Blanc, Farzad Behrouz looked on intently while five deckhands in crisp white uniforms secured mooring lines. He already knew a great deal about the ship. He knew that she measured one hundred and thirty feet along the waterline, a custom hull cast by Benetti, the well-known Italian shipbuilder. He knew she’d been carted here, all eight hundred tons, in an undertaking that had involved four trucks, two road closures, and six months’ worth of permitting. On an alpine lake in landlocked Switzerland, the vessel was a monument to excess, but then, Behrouz supposed that was the point. To her owner — and he was the only one who mattered — the ship had to be an ideal accouterment for the business of light music and martinis on Lake Geneva.

Standing on the dock under a wide umbrella, Behrouz was surrounded by a contingent of eight men, and as soon as the gangway was lowered they set to their mission. The captain was at the rail to greet them, but the Iranians ignored him as they shoved their way aboard, although one man — Behrouz knew him to be the group’s comedian — snapped a ridiculous open-handed salute as he passed the skipper. Behrouz was watching his team begin their inspection when his phone trilled.

He saw who it was and thought, It’s about damned time!

“You had better have good news,” he said.

“I am trying,” came the delayed voice of Rafi. “But no, nothing yet.”

Behrouz bristled. His body went rigid and his face warped in anger, but he could think of nothing to say. He had already threatened the Lebanese in every conceivable way. He had promised to cut off the man’s Hezbollah ties, his money, and finally parts of his intimate anatomy, all without result. So Behrouz said nothing. He simply ended the call and stood fuming, glaring up at a dreary sky as a swirling drizzle spackled his coarse black hair.

So lost in fury was the security chief that he did not notice, a hundred yards behind him, a tall and clean-shaven man who slipped quickly between the stone flowerpots of the Hotel Beau Rivage and disappeared inside.

Dr. Christine Palmer knew hospitals well, and those in Stockholm were like any other. She waited until her nurse had cycled through on her regular rotation, then got out of bed. She’d been admitted overnight for observation, but her diagnosis was a relief for an expectant mother — the pain in her upper abdominal region was no more than an aggravation of the injury she’d sustained from her leap across the harbor a week ago. A broken rib, possibly, but this could not be verified by X-ray since her pregnancy test had come back positive. She was still in pain today, but reckoned that the hospital was done with her. The reason she hadn’t been discharged likely had more to do with the police. She had not seen them yet, but since she’d given her true name when she was admitted, Christine knew it was only a matter of time.

She peered into the hallway but didn’t see her nurse. Still dressed in a hospital gown, she spotted a wheelchair across the hall, which she thought might draw less attention than simply ambling down the hallway. She was one step out of her room when she heard, “Going somewhere?”

To her left was a fair-skinned man with graying blond hair. He said, “I’m Assistant Commissioner Paul Sjoberg, Criminal Investigation Unit of the Stockholm police.”

“It’s about time,” she said. “Where have you been?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“That’s a long story.”

“I have all morning,” the policeman said.

Christine pointed toward the chair. “I wasn’t going to leave, if that’s what you’re thinking. I believe I have a friend on another floor.”

He seemed to consider this. “Perhaps we could go see him soon. But first, I think we should talk.”

Sjoberg put her in the wheelchair, and then pushed her back into her room. He took a seat on a yellow visitor’s chair so ugly it would have looked at home in any hospital in the world. He said, “I’m not sure where to begin. This interview ought to take place in a proper room at headquarters — you can expect that soon. But right now time is critical. I want to find your husband. He is your husband, isn’t he?”

She nodded.

“Are you aware that he killed two men here in Stockholm?”

“He told me that was—” Christine hesitated, then, “let me start at the beginning.”

And she did, a recap much like the one she’d given David on Bricklayer. She followed with a brief account of her exploits since their split at the island of Bulleron. She said as little as possible about David’s activities since arriving in Sweden, and nothing at all about his past. After fifteen minutes Sjoberg asked the question she knew was coming.

“Where is he now?”

Christine closed her eyes and took a deep breath to brace herself. This was the question David had predicted. And the one he had asked her not to answer. It wasn’t the first time he’d put her in an awkward position. Would it be the last? Would the lies ever end? Once again David’s past was drawing her in like the relentless pull from a black hole.

She shook her head.

The policeman’s teeth clenched behind tight lips. “But you do know where he’s gone,” Sjoberg said accusingly.

A nod this time.

“You should be aware of your position, Dr. Palmer. You are admitting to me that you know the whereabouts of a suspected killer. To not give this information leaves you subject to prosecution. A woman in you condition, expecting a—”

“Don’t you bring our child into this!” Christine snapped with a vitriol that surprised even her. “I may have done wrong, and possibly my husband, but the child I am carrying is no part of this!”

Sjoberg turned and took a few steps away, chin on his chest, hands clasped behind his back. He finally turned and issued what had to be his most severe gaze. “You are making things worse for everyone, your husband included. I’ve talked to your doctor and he tells me there’s no medical reason for you to remain here at Saint Göran. That being the case, I’ll insist you come with me to headquarters for a proper interview.” After a long pause, his tone lost some of its authority. “But before we leave, perhaps we should go see your friend — if you still want to.”

Christine nodded to say she did.

Sjoberg guided the wheelchair through two halls and an elevator, ending at the window of a critical care room. A uniformed policeman was standing guard at the door, and behind wire-fenced glass Christine saw Anton Bloch. He had a breathing tube and multiple IVs, and his chest rose and fell rhythmically to the post-operative tune she knew all too well. It was a sad sight, but a victory of miracles compared to her last vision of him — bleeding and lifeless on a concrete floor. He also seemed pale and drawn, to the effect that he seemed to have aged years in the last week. In a curious thought, it occurred to Christine that she had met a number of Mossad field operatives, and none were near Bloch’s age. Was it because few survived that long? Those left standing, by default, became management? A good question for David when I see him again, she thought. If I see him again.

Having allowed her a few moments with her thoughts, Sjoberg finally said, “You know who this man is, don’t you? Or perhaps I should say, what he once was?”

She nodded, once again preferring motions to words.

The policeman leaned down and put his smooth face in her peripheral view. “Dr. Palmer, I don’t know who your husband is. I don’t know what he’s trying to accomplish. But I fear if it continues, he will end up like the man we’re looking at — or worse.”

Christine didn’t reply right away. As she stared at Bloch she felt her chin quiver, felt her eyes began to water. But then she was revived by something else. Trust. David had never let her down, and she had to trust him now more than ever. Buoyed by that, she looked Sjoberg firmly in the eye.

“No,” she said, “I will not tell you where he’s gone.”