Assassin's Game

FORTY-EIGHT

Christine spent the night at police headquarters undergoing a battery of coffee-fueled interrogations that tested her stamina, not to mention her resolve. In the end she gave up nothing about David’s whereabouts. At the stroke of six in the morning, on the verge of exhaustion, she told them she was pregnant, a fact that Sjoberg had apparently not forwarded to the interrogators. It was a blatantly self-serving use of her intimate condition, but seemed to do the trick. Two hours later Commissioner Anna Forsten of the Swedish National Police came to see her. She explained that criminal charges would be considered, but were not imminent. Christine was free to go, but asked to remain available for further questioning in the coming days. To emphasize this final point, her passport would be held by the police.

From there Christine went straight to Saint Göran Hospital. After a phone introduction from Dr. Ulrika Torsten, she was taken by the supervising critical care nurse to Anton Bloch’s room. There she hit another roadblock in the form of a plainclothes security man who might have been Stockholm police or, more likely, she thought, the Swedish equivalent of the FBI. Two phone calls later, Commissioner Forsten authorized Christine’s admittance, reasoning that she was the patient’s only known acquaintance in Stockholm. Christine suspected more self-serving motives, and she noticed the guard at the door watching closely as she took a seat next to Bloch’s bed.

He was breathing on his own now and, according to a nurse who came and went, the operation had been a success. The patient, however, had yet to regain consciousness. Even asleep Bloch looked his gruff, serious self, and it seemed comforting in an oblique way. She settled into a bedside chair, ready to keep vigil over the man who had put his life on the line to save hers. She had an urge to take his hand, and when she did Christine sensed a shift in the guard’s gaze.

That will be in the report, she thought.

The chair’s soft faux leather took its hold and she began to relax. She wondered what David was doing right now. He was in Geneva, of course. Lying, cheating, stealing — all the things he was trained to do. But would he take the last step? Would he kill? He had done so before many times, always in the name of his country. But now?

It struck her then, as she pushed back and molded into the soft cushions, that she had put David in an entirely untenable position. On one hand he’d been threatened, told that his wife and child would never be safe unless he carried out one last assassination. But if he went through with it, she had promised to leave him. For the first time Christine put herself in David’s place. She asked herself that same question. Would she kill a man to protect her child? Chillingly — and without hesitation — the answer came.

Oh, David. What have I done to you?

She closed her eyes tightly. The room was cool and quiet, the only noise being the rhythmic beep of a vital signs monitor. Sleep-deprived and queasy, confused and exhausted, Christine put her free hand to her belly. Soon she was fast asleep.

Sanderson sat under the chestnut tree for a very long time. On the lake sailboats heeled against a stiff breeze as they scythed through sun-flecked water, and Mont Blanc was clear in the distance, two colorful hot-air balloons hovering near its black-granite base. As he watched the crowds stroll the sidewalks, it struck Sanderson that nearly everyone seemed oblivious to the glorious morning around them. A couple arm-in-arm were too distracted by one another. A woman carrying groceries was consumed by her chore. And the elderly man shuffling with his duck-handled cane? Yes, Sanderson thought. He’s the one who’s seeing it.

Ingrid had talked for half an hour, telling him what he needed to do and who he needed to see. He was glad about that, not because of what she’d said, but simply to have someone there to say it. He would need her in the days ahead, and not for the first time labeled himself a fool for ever having let her go. He promised her he’d come home right away, knowing he wouldn’t. Sanderson did, however, take the time afterward to check tomorrow’s flight schedule. This in itself — the consideration of a flight — he saw as a clear admission of the gravity of his situation.

Thirty-five years a policeman, Arne Sanderson had witnessed more than his share of misery, and so he was well versed in the five conceptual stages of grief. He also knew he would not bother with them. Denial of facts was not in his nature, and anger he thought self-defeating. He might eventually bargain with God for salvation, but right now had more pressing matters to deal with. And depression? Sanderson thought.

Please.

So it was, he moved directly to acceptance. Sanderson even imagined, in a triumph of positive thought, that his affliction was an advantage of sorts — would it not be easier to chase a dangerous assassin as a man with nothing to lose? So with the throb at the base of his skull acting as a constant reminder, he forced himself to get on with the business at hand. Just as he’d been doing for thirty-five years.

The pastry had been quite good, and he went back to the confectionary and bought another, along with a large white coffee. Calorie counting, he decided, was going to get a holiday. Sanderson set back out on the sidewalk at a measured pace with his hands full of sugar and a gun in his pocket. He scanned faces in the shadows of trees shedding yellow, noted untended vehicles in windswept alleys, and eyed the cold lake as chestnuts crunched under his feet. It was noon on Sunday.

If his thinking was right, he had eight hours in which to find Edmund Deadmarsh.

Christine sensed movement, and she opened her eyes to find Anton Bloch staring at her. It was a weary, medicated gaze, but his recognition was obvious.

She smiled. “Welcome back.”

He blinked, as if a grin was too much effort.

Christine kept to protocol and immediately summoned a nurse, who in turn put through a call to the attending physician.

“The doctor will be here in a few minutes,” the nurse said. In English she asked Bloch how he was feeling, and got a grunt in return. She then began tending his IV.

Bloch kept his gaze locked on Christine.

“I want to say thank you,” she said. “I know what you did for me. For David.”

“Da … David?” he rasped. “Where?”

She cocked her head, then gave him a knowing nod. “You’ve been out for quite some time. Today is Sunday, October 20.”

She watched him think about it, and could almost see the slumbering synapses connect — a calendar date in his head highlighted in red. This time it was Bloch who reached out and took her hand in his. Christine felt him squeeze.