Assassin's Game

FIFTY-TWO

Slaton went still, the only option when looking down the barrel of a 9mm.

Behrouz said, “Almost, Jew. You almost did it.”

Slaton said nothing, and the Iranian’s eyes seemed to narrow with suspicion. He thought Behrouz might be having a flashback, remembering his face from yesterday’s encounter in the elevator. But then Slaton was taken completely by surprise.

Hamedi kicked out a leg, perhaps to get his balance in the rocking boat, and for some unfathomable reason Behrouz took it as a threat. He shifted the gun and pointed it at the scientist. Only a few feet away, Hamedi backed against the fiberglass hull, fear etched into his broad face.

Behrouz appeared baffled, unsure. His bewilderment was compounded when someone shouted his name from the sinking yacht. At that moment an acrid wave of black smoke washed over everything and, as if to make the chaos complete, a muffled explosion shook the night. Slaton guessed the blast was not from a grenade or a gun, but rather a death throe from the ship, probably a pressure door giving way behind tons of water or a keel beam buckling.

He watched the two Iranians intently and saw a passionate mistrust between them. The implications of this defied logic. Why was the security chief threatening the man he was duty-bound to protect? Slaton wasted no time on analysis. With a hunter’s instinct, he saw Behrouz’s hesitation as his chance. The man was ten feet away, too far to reach before the gun could swing again. But Krav Maga did not fail. The rope was still looped around the dead man’s neck, yet there was more of it, a hundred feet of braided nylon painstakingly coiled by some meticulous crewman. And at the end of that, inches from Slaton’s left hand, was what he needed.

“You’ve made a mistake!” Hamedi pleaded, staring at the gun. “You don’t understand!”

Behrouz seemed more confused than ever, and that was Slaton’s cue. He reached for the rope.

The Iranian sensed movement and tried to shift his aim. Slaton had five feet of line to work with, plus the length of his arm. At the end of that radius was his weapon. With only one chance, Slaton twisted sideways and whipped a ten-pound galvanized anchor into a sweeping arc that ended perfectly at the side of Behrouz’s skull. There was an audible crunch, and the little Iranian crumpled to the deck, dead before he hit.

Slaton never stopped moving. He sprang to his feet as a fearful Hamedi rose and tried to defend himself. Shots rang in from the foundering yacht, and Slaton launched himself shoulder first, flying across the gap toward the panicked scientist.

Both men went headlong into the frigid lake.

Bullets ripped the water, their trails effervescent shards of orange and white light.

Slaton had a handful of Hamedi’s collar and was dragging him lower. The scientist was a large man, but thankfully he didn’t resist right away. He was in shock after having endured an armed assault, and then being pitched into an icy lake. Slaton pulled and kicked toward his only chance — the scuba rig hanging beneath the Whaler by a quick-release knot. He was nearly there when Hamedi began to struggle. They’d been under only seconds, but the Iranian was not prepared, not trained, and the lack of air induced panic.

Slaton looked up, but without a mask he could see no more than the shadow of the small craft. It was enough. Aft, starboard side, a ten-foot line hanging straight down from the surface. There was Slaton’s salvation. Hamedi began thrashing for all he was worth, fighting the man who he imagined was trying to drown him, fighting the insistence of his lungs to breath. In a matter of seconds, everything would be for naught. Slaton paused just long enough to deliver a short, compact elbow to the side of Hamedi’s head. It did the trick, stunning the man, and with one last heave Slaton reached the regulator with his free hand.

He ignored his own mouth, instead feeling blindly for Hamedi’s face and stuffing the mouthpiece between his lips. Slaton hit the purge button, forcing air out of the system and into the scientist. Either by basal instinct or good sense, Hamedi began breathing, sucking long draws from the tank. The rig was a standard octopus setup, two regulators, and as his own lungs strained Slaton found the second mouthpiece and took his first breath after a minute of strenuous work. He disconnected the rig, put one strap over a shoulder, and then donned his mask and fins.

The kidon began kicking furiously.

Direction was everything.

Slaton referenced the luminous compass on his diving rig and pushed southeast. Overhead he saw all colors of light playing the surface, yet they were patternless and chaotic. Not yet searching. In twenty minutes that would change. By then Entrepreneur would be resting on the bottom of the lake, and things would begin to organize.

The lighthouse was less than a mile away, and when he got closer it would act to the inverse of its design — it would guide Slaton straight toward the rocky jetty. His problem was speed — he was dragging a full set of gear and a two-hundred-pound physicist. Hamedi had at least gone still. Slaton knew he hadn’t drowned, because the regulator’s exhaust port was venting a rhythmic flow. More likely the man was dazed from prolonged immersion in fifty-degree water. Slaton’s thick wetsuit gave him protection, but the scientist would soon succumb to hypothermia.

Slaton did everything he could to lighten his load. He ditched all his equipment, including the damaged MP7, until the only thing left was the scuba rig. The next twelve minutes were an underwater sprint that felt like a marathon. It was the most challenging physical test he had ever faced, and there had been many, both in training and in the field. His lungs heaved and his legs burned. He shifted to different strokes as cramps set in, and following a long-honed practice Slaton translated his pain into anger. He cursed Mossad and Director Nurin, cursed Iran and the depraved genius he was dragging behind him.

Finally, he saw the glow of the lighthouse.

Nearing the jetty he popped his head up once to confirm his bearings. Slaton didn’t allow Hamedi to surface, knowing a taste of fresh air would only incite further panic when he was pulled down again. With legs that felt like rubber and straining lungs, his pace declined markedly over the last twenty yards. When he broke the surface the second time they were on the calm backside of the jetty.

The sky overhead was clear, populated with stars and planets that were every bit as tranquil as the scene behind him was chaotic. Hamedi sputtered and coughed, and spit the regulator from his mouth. He began gulping air like a just-landed fish on the deck of a boat.

The jet ski was right where Slaton had left it, and he ditched the scuba gear before muscling Hamedi over the slick rocks. The tiny cove created by the breakwater was out of sight from the quai. In the distance he saw what was left of Entrepreneur, her white steel stern rising, air venting from portholes and blown-out windows. There were a half dozen smaller boats circling, shining spotlights and plucking survivors from the water, and at the nearby dock a shore-side contingent of police and Iranian security men scoured the water for their lost scientist.

Hamedi tried to say something, but it came out as no more than a croak. Slaton hauled him the last few yards to the waiting watercraft. He had purchased the fastest model he could find this morning, twelve thousand cash for a two-seater that would reach seventy miles an hour on their run across the lake to the quiet overlook where the Rover was waiting. From there, Slaton would call Director Nurin and make his bargain.

He tried to wrestle Hamedi onto the watercraft, but the Iranian began struggling again.

“Get on!” Slaton ordered.

Hamedi said something else unintelligible, still coughing uncontrollably from his underwater ordeal.

Then another voice rang in from behind. “Stop! Don’t move!”

Slaton froze. It was a voice he recognized.

He turned his head and saw Detective Inspector Arne Sanderson. One hand held a gun unsteadily while the other gripped the iron railing that encircled the lighthouse. He was in a wide-set stance, but swaying like a sapling in the wind. If Slaton were to guess, he’d say the man had been shot — he looked like he might pitch over at any moment. Slaton checked behind Sanderson, and as far as he could see up and down the jetty there was no one else. Neither did he see a radio bud in the detective’s ear, nor a microphone on his lapel. Slaton remembered the news article — Sanderson had been taken off the chase for unspecified medical reasons. The detective is here alone, he thought.

“I’m not as good a shot as you,” Sanderson said, seeming to read Slaton’s thoughts, “but from ten meters I won’t miss.”

Slaton was about to reply when Hamedi, finding strength from some reserve, stood straight. He pushed Slaton away with a stiff arm, and shouted, “Do you not realize what you’ve done? You have ruined everything!”

Slaton stood absolutely still. Absolutely stunned. The words themselves were not a revelation. The shove was weak and meaningless. What shocked him to the core was that Hamedi had spoken in perfectly succinct and fluent Hebrew.