Assassin's Game

FORTY-SEVEN

Somewhere in the distance, in the rising hills that watched solemnly over Montreux, a church bell rang nine times to bring the third Sunday of October to its tranquil beginning.

Slaton allowed himself a late rise, and though he’d slept eight hours, it was with the deficit of refreshment that came from sleeping inches removed from a loaded gun. He went to the window and was happy to see improving weather — yesterday’s rain had cleansed the skies, and a sharp autumn breeze snapped at the twin rows of canton flags beneath his window and put a light chop on the lake’s cobalt surface. He ordered breakfast in his room, bid the server a courteous good morning, and assured the young man that there was nothing he could do to enrich monsieur’s stay.

In a rare allowance, Slaton pulled back the curtains and sat with a reaching view of the lake, his long legs straight and heels crossed on the tiled windowsill. With level eyes he charted the lake as he dug into the heavy tray, mental sketches and checklists gone over one last time. No attempt was made to savor the meal, the only important thing being to fill the void in his stomach with enough dense protein to carry the day.

When he was done Slaton dressed warmly, and in the Prada bag he packed one extra set of clothing, the cash remaining after his sorry night at the tables, and the Glock and spare magazines. The Swiss identity card and passport of Natan Mendelsohn he pocketed. Everything else Slaton left where it was — clothes hanging in the closet and toiletries strewn about the sink. In three days’ time, when Krueger’s reservation ended, it would all be rounded up by the housekeeping staff to languish in the hotel’s lost-and-found for a matter of months before eventually being donated to a worthy charity.

At the front desk the luckless Monsieur Mendelsohn made inquiries at the concierge station, where an attractive Italian woman, improbably named Victoria Ferrari, was happy to help. He requested recommendations for a route by which to tour the Savoy wine region of eastern France, and a well-versed Victoria said she would gladly help him set an itinerary. He smiled as she highlighted her favorite vineyard tours, and she blushed when he suggested lightly that she might join him, and soon Monsieur Mendelsohn was turned toward the door with a map in hand, clear directions, and a not disinterested Victoria wishing him a pleasant day’s journey.

On clearing the parking garage, Slaton pointed the Rover toward the A9, but there turned away from the French border, instead pressing south toward Lake Geneva’s far shore. He kept an eye out as he drove, knowing that one last purchase remained, a chore he had intentionally deferred to this afternoon. It would be his largest expenditure yet, but with over fourteen thousand Swiss francs in hand he expected no difficulty in concluding a sale.

Nearing Valmont, Slaton turned left, away from the lake and into steeply rising terrain. He stopped once at the side of the road to drop the passport and identity card, which bore the only high-resolution pictures of him he knew to exist, down a secluded storm drain. He continued to Les Avants, swept briskly through the village, and on the far side steered the Rover away from the main road to ride a gravel offshoot that roamed into thickening forest. Soon he was navigating switchbacks, curving left and right though rolling hills, the compass on the dashboard spinning wildly but keeping in sum an eastward vector.

The timber seemed to rise taller with every turn, and gravel became dirt, but the Rover showed its heritage and kept a firm footing on the shoulderless and rutted road. He did not see another car for two miles, and after a particularly steep rise Slaton began scouting the sidings for a dry clearing. He made his choice and drove slowly clear of the trail, taking care to not hang the differential over a ditch or bend the chassis on a hidden boulder.

Satisfied the vehicle was well hidden, he put the Rover in park and went to the tailgate. Were he of the mind to appreciate the view he would have seen that the lake was presented differently here, framed by stands of pine and fir, and footed by a valley of grass still clinging to the green of summer. Slaton noticed none of it, nor did he register the altered breeze coming strong off the lake, a northwest flow sweeping in from France and rising on the uneven Alpine upslope. His focus was absolute as he opened the tailgate, locked it in place with a pin, and with the wind lashing his hair began to assemble his assault.

Paul Sjoberg was not typically a man to work on Sunday morning. But this wasn’t really work.

Stepping from a cold rain, he shook the water from his umbrella under the portico of a grand home on Skånäsvägen. It reminded him of a house where he had once attended a fund-raiser of some sort, although the details seemed a blur. Then again, he might have thought the same about any of the well-tended mansions along this placid waterfront street. Not seeing a doorbell, he lifted a ridiculous iron ring that was hooped through a lion’s nose and knocked it against the striker plate. It made a good racket, and Sjoberg struck three times in quick succession, mist spraying from his cuff with each beat.

Ingrid Sanderson — if that was the name she still used — answered moments later.

“Oh…” she stammered, “hello, Paul.”

“Hello, Ingrid. It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, hasn’t it?” She suddenly went ashen, the way policemen’s wives — even policemen’s ex-wives — did when grim-faced supervisors came unexpectedly to their door. “Oh, God! Don’t tell me it’s Arne.”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “Or actually, yes, but not like that. Nothing dire.”

She looked at him guardedly.

Beyond her Sjoberg saw the innards of an opulent mansion, the kind of place in which policemen — even assistant commissioners — did not find themselves without either an invitation or a search warrant.

“You have a lovely home,” he said.

“Oh, how rude of me. Come in if you like. But I have to warn you — I’m not sure if my husband is presentable yet.”

“Actually, Ingrid, I just need a minute of your time.” Sjoberg retreated a step. “A private word, perhaps?”

Ingrid looked back into the house, then pulled an overcoat from a hook near the door. She wrapped it round her shoulders, stepped outside, and shut the door quietly.

“What’s this all about?” she asked.

“You didn’t return my call.”

Her eyes cast down to the well-polished Italian marble. “No, I didn’t.”

“Arne isn’t returning them either. He’s turned off his phone and I can’t find him.”

“Has he done something wrong?” she asked.

“No. He’s on leave — it’s a medical issue. Has he told you any of this?”

“Yes, I saw him a few days ago. He said he’d quit, and that you and he had had a row.”

“We did. But that’s over and done. Arne and I have always had our differences, but I have a great deal of respect for him, both as a policeman and a person. Ingrid … I spoke with his doctor yesterday. Arne is ill, very ill. He needs to see a specialist right away.”

“What’s wrong?”

Sjoberg told her.

“Dear God, no. How bad is it?”

“They won’t know until they get in and do a biopsy.”

She seemed to stiffen. “Paul, do you think … do you think he might know about this?”

“I don’t see how. His doctor and I have been trying to reach him for days, but he seems to have taken a run after this killer we’ve all been hunting — which is another reason I’d like to talk to him.”

Sjoberg saw a woman who was visibly shaken. She almost seemed to age right there in front of him, her back more bowed, her face coming drawn.

He said, “Please, Ingrid. If you can reach him in any way, tell him to come home. He needs to see a doctor. That’s the only important thing — the rest we can manage.”

He turned to leave.

“Paul—” she said.

He turned.

“Thank you.”

Sjoberg nodded, then raised his collar and opened his umbrella, and stepped once again into the wet morning.

Back on the porch Ingrid stood gripping the door handle. She made no effort to turn it — it was more a matter of connecting herself to something steady when she realized what she’d done. Her ex-husband was ill, perhaps terminally. Certainly despondent.

And she had just sent him a gun.

Sanderson began Sunday morning studying the layout of the United Nations Office at Geneva. Unlike yesterday, he saw tight security at every corner of the fortress-like building, and he was sure things were equally tight within. A routinely inviting target, the U.N. building would undoubtedly have fixed screening stations in place to inspect everyone who entered, a well-monitored surveillance system, and a security force that was well versed in the perils of hosting presidents and prime ministers. After an hour, Sanderson reprimanded himself for wasting as much time as he had. For a lone assassin to make an attempt here would be absurd. If Deadmarsh was going to strike, he decided, it would be at the waterfront.

Sanderson contemplated walking but he was feeling awful, and so he hailed a cab and collapsed into the backseat with yet another terrible headache. Reaching into his pocket he found a bottle of over-the-counter painkillers, but a quick shake told him it was empty. He dropped it onto the seat wondering, When did I use the last of it? The driver negotiated light weekend traffic, and Sanderson found himself scanning the sidewalks. He saw no familiar faces. All the same, the heavy SIG was a comfort in his pocket.

He was light-headed when he got out of the cab on Rue de la Cloche, his feet feeling as if they were made of lead, and a short flight of steps nearly got the better of him outside Chapel Eglise Emmanuel. Deciding he ought to eat something, Sanderson bought a pastry and container of juice at a confectionary on the esplanade, and gratefully took a seat on a retaining wall in the shade of a chestnut tree on Quai Wilson.

He turned on his phone and saw that Ingrid had called. His finger hesitated for a moment, but then he tapped to return her call.

She picked up immediately.

“Hello, Ingrid.”

“Arne, thank God! Where have you been?”

Sanderson thought she sounded rattled — something he had rarely witnessed in their years together. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Is it Annika?”

“No, no, she’s fine. It’s you.”

“Me? What do you mean?”

“Arne … Paul Sjoberg came to see me this morning. He was contacted by Dr. Samuels. You’re not well.”

“Tell me something I don’t bloody know. As soon as I’m done with what I’m working on I’ll—”

“Arne, you fool, will you just listen for once! You’ve got a tumor in your brain!”