Assassin's Game

FIVE

Nineteen hours later, a Scandinavian Airlines A-340 touched down smoothly at Stockholm’s Arlanda Airport, the last act of a four-thousand-mile journey. The big jet taxied in, took its place at the terminal, and three hundred and twelve passengers began the customary odyssey, steering through jet bridges, corridors, and crowd-control stanchions toward the human repository marked ARRIVALS.

Among them, fixed in the middle of the pack, was a tall and slightly disheveled man. He was tan and fit, but clearly fatigued. Wearing an untucked polo shirt and wrinkled cotton slacks, he had the look of a man returning from a well-spent vacation. His tousled, sun-bleached hair merged into the unshaven roughage of a few days’ beard. His casual shoes were untied, thin laces dragging across the polished stone floor. Everything in between these ends corresponded, weary and beaten, all easily attributable to a nine-hour red-eye flight. At a glance, he was a nondescript traveler among a sea of the same. Yet were anyone to look more closely — and no one did — certain marks might have distinguished him from the crowd. He moved quietly, with no wasted motion. He carried a bag in one hand, his left, yet there was no hint of awkwardness or imbalance. His stride was easy and controlled, even precise, and he neatly avoided contact with those around him, never bumping shoulders or locking glances. Most telling of all, his eyes were discreetly active.

The queue came to a stop at the roadblock that was immigration, and David Slaton stood patiently behind fifty other souls in the NON-EU line. For the second time since landing he checked his phone. There was still nothing from Christine. He called up the message he’d received yesterday and stared at it: Help! Only one word, yet that very simplicity made it ring even louder. Since then, she had not answer his calls, nor had she sent any texts or emails. For what seemed the hundredth time, Slaton tried to imagine what had happened. Any number of dire scenarios came to mind, but they all distilled to one source — his former life with Mossad had come back with a vengeance.

This was the day he’d hoped would never come. The contingency he had wanted to prepare for and Christine had wanted to deny. As he’d been doing all the way across an ocean, Slaton tried to shape his response. He was a product of training and methods that strove for predictability, because the predictable could be controlled. Yet for the first time ever, his attempts at thoughtful design seemed to drift. Unmoored by last words and gestures, things left unsaid. He had seen others wrestle such complications. A spotter on his sniper team with a sick child. A surveillance partner going through an ugly divorce. Personal issues always got in the way — that was a determination Slaton had long ago made. This time, however, it was different. This time it was happening to him.

To have gotten this far was simple enough — it had been the only course. Get to Stockholm as quickly as possible. But now what? Unlike the old days, he could expect no help. Funding, intelligence briefings, embassy staff, diplomatic immunity. Those were the things Slaton had once taken for granted. The things that someone in an office, deep in Mossad’s engine room, had always made happen. Now, whatever he and Christine were facing, they were facing it alone.

The line inched forward, branching into five smaller lines. As Slaton approached the podium he studied the immigration officer. She was middle-aged, attractive in a peroxide-over-tortoiseshell-glasses kind of way. There was no wedding ring on the well-manicured second finger of her left hand. Her uniform was crisp and neat, her physique trim. Perhaps a runner. He saw a faint tan line around her eyes, as if she’d recently spent time outside wearing sunglasses. If he were to venture a guess, a 10K race over the weekend. It struck Slaton then how long it had been since he’d appraised a person in such a way.

He moved to the podium.

“Passport,” she said, her words clipped and precise.

He handed over the document and she swiped it into her machine. Her eyes lingered on a display that would be full of information on an American named Edmund Deadmarsh. Full legal name, place of birth, age, vital statistics. Might there also be a flag? Slaton wondered. To this point, he’d had no reception. No police, no Ministry of Justice, no Swedish Security Service. The longer it stayed that way, he decided, the better.

She asked, “How long will you be staying, sir?”

“Only a few days.”

She handed his passport back and smiled, this time holding his gaze a bit longer than necessary. “Enjoy your stay in Sweden, Mr. Deadmarsh.”

And that was the moment it struck Slaton.

Yesterday he had gotten a desperate message from his wife, and in the intervening hours he had vacillated. Sensed tremors of conflict, even indecision. Yet right then, standing at an immigration counter, everything crystallized. There was now but one objective in his life — to find Christine and take her to safety. And if that required a complete reversion to what he had once been?

So be it.

The transition came with alarming ease. David Slaton had no interest in a casual flirtation with a nice-looking woman. Edmund Deadmarsh, on the other hand, seen at that moment as a rumpled but rather attractive traveler, could have only one response. He gave the woman his most engaging smile.

“Thank you. I’m sure I will.”

And with that, the kidon turned toward the exit and disappeared.

Slaton slipped into a taxi five minutes later.

“Strand Hotel, please.”

“Strand Hotel,” the driver repeated.

The cabbie was a burly sort, a man in need of both a smile and a sharper razor. He made a stab at conversation in troubled English, the usual weather observations and have-you-been-here-before banter. By his accent, Slaton pegged him as Eastern European, Bulgarian perhaps. Slaton was minimally receptive, and the chatter soon ended.

For most, a backseat ride in a cab is an idle affair. For an assassin it is something else. Of primary importance is position. Slaton sat where he could see the driver’s hands, wanting to know if they were on the wheel or elsewhere. The rearview mirror held greater nuance — he had to be able to see the driver’s eyes when it suited him, but fall out of the reciprocal view with a shift of his shoulders. He checked his line of sight to each sideview mirror, not to watch the following traffic — a discreet turn of the head was always better — but rather to monitor the blind spots along either rear quarter-panel, particularly when stopped. The cab’s physical security measures were standard issue. The doors were not the type to lock automatically — some did — and Slaton noted the positions of the mechanical latches. All the windows were presently raised, except for the driver’s. The man apparently did his best work with an elbow hanging over the rail. There was a Plexiglas bulkhead between the front and back seats with an opening too small for a man to pass through. Yet it did allow access. A strong arm. A hand to the wheel. That was all the control Slaton could assume in an emergency. On most days, details that amounted to nothing. But one day details that might matter very much.

The ride took thirty minutes, and approaching downtown Slaton began to study his surroundings. How long since he’d been to Stockholm? Eight years? Ten? Things would have changed. Things like how you bought a bus ticket and which local football clubs were playing well. He supposed surveillance cameras were everywhere now, watching businesses and municipal parking lots and traffic corridors. His Swedish would hold up, he was sure of that, but for the moment it was of little use. Edmund Deadmarsh, a man who lugged stone blocks across well-manicured Virginia lawns, ought not be fluent in six languages.

The cab turned onto a busy thoroughfare. Slaton soon saw the harbor, and with another turn he spotted his objective in the distance. It stood wide and tall, like a granite throne at the water’s edge — the Strand Hotel. He settled back and sequenced his thoughts. Christine was here, somewhere, yet he had no more than a starting point. It struck him that he didn’t even know her room number. Again Slaton admonished himself. For a year he had relaxed, allowed his skills to tarnish. He had practiced recycling instead of marksmanship. Planned grocery lists instead of countersurveillance. Now Christine was suffering, and it was a direct result of his half-measures. A direct result of his carelessness.

He would not be careless again.

Slaton was dropped at the hotel awning at 1:14 in the afternoon. He settled with the driver, then gave the bellman his bag and a ten-dollar bill, saying he’d be back shortly. The size of the gratuity was well considered. Enough to be remembered when he claimed his bag in an hour or two. Not enough to be remembered tomorrow.

Slaton turned sharply away from the entrance and started up the street. He was already quite sure he was not being followed. In truth, he wished it were the case, because any tail would likely be a lead to Christine. He walked straight to Berzelii Park, at the head of the waterway, and turned right. He navigated a misaligned web of streets, making two brief stops, and paused to marvel at the nouveau architecture of the Royal Dramatic Theater. Changing course, he weaved westward until he came to the Kungsträdgården, and there he passed a statue of Charles XIII, the much maligned king of the early nineteenth century, before meandering the park’s well-manicured gardens with an approving eye. With one more left turn, at the Strömbron bridge, Slaton picked up his pace. He ended back at the Strand Hotel at 1:41, twenty-seven minutes after he’d started.

Slaton considered the time well spent. He had located two separate curbs where cabs congregated, their drivers leaning on fenders and drawing down cigarettes. He’d purchased an unrestricted day pass for both the water taxi and subway, and was aware of seven access points for trolley and bus service. At a nearby parking garage he’d noted a valet stand where the keys to no fewer than fifty late-model vehicles resided on a pegboard. Irregular flows of traffic — points of congestion and one-way streets — were fixed in his mind, as were the two security guards with Steyr TMP machine pistols stationed obviously outside a bank on Stallgatan. Slaton knew that a mobile police station had been situated near the Kungsträdgården, and was staffed by two officers, both carrying SIG Sauer semiautomatics and spare magazines, who could reach the hotel in no less than four minutes on a dead run. He also knew that the hotel had one service entrance, six fire escapes, and an entire north-facing wing with unbarred windows at street level.

Then, and only then, did Slaton walk into the Strand Hotel.

He stepped though the entrance, paused, and began a carefully governed survey.

Belying the hotel’s stately, ivy-covered exterior, the lobby was a contrast in Scandinavian contemporary: maple hardwood floors under Finnish Rya rugs; mid-century modern chairs and fixtures, all glass and angles and polished chrome. Aside from their physical arrangement, however, Slaton had no interest in the furnishings. He instead plotted the room’s landscape: counters, staircases, elevators, lounge areas. He took in the sounds and registered the general mood. His practiced eyes brushed over each guest and employee, hoping to capture any gaze that seemed equally practiced. Nothing drew his attention.

Slaton saw two clerks at the reception desk, both women, and an older man staffing the adjacent concierge station. The concierge was deeply engaged with a guest, so his choices were narrow. He walked to the desk, veering toward the younger of the two women. Early twenties, blond, dazzling smile. Eager to please.

She looked up as he approached, and said, “Kan jag hjälpa dig?”

Slaton was not unprepared. His blue-gray eyes and sandy hair — lighter than usual after a summer outdoors — certainly made him appear more Swedish than American. Or, for that matter, Israeli. Yet another reason Mossad had found him so useful.

“Sorry,” he said, “I’m American.”

She shifted effortlessly to English, “Of course. How can I help you?”

“I’m trying to locate one of your guests, but I don’t know the room number. Could you look it up for me?”

“I am not permitted to give out such information,” she said, telling Slaton what he already knew. “But if you like I can dial the room and let you speak with the guest.”

“That would be fine.”

“What is the name?”

“Christine Palmer. Dr. Christine Palmer.”

Watching closely, Slaton sensed a hesitation. Her thin fingers typed the name into her computer.

“Here it is,” she said.

The clerk turned an adjacent house phone to face Slaton and performed the connection, again using her computer. For the second time he watched her type, and happily she used the number pad on the keyboard as opposed to the upper numeric bar. By some quirk of memory, inputs to ten-digit keypads were easily recalled by pattern alone. Seven, three, two, four. The seven was almost certainly a prefix to denote an internal line, which meant that Christine was in room 324.

Or had been.

Slaton picked up the house phone and listened as it rang. A dim hope rose that Christine would answer, that he would wake her from a midafternoon nap and they’d be laughing about the grand misunderstanding over dinner. On the eighth ring he hung up, both the phone and the idea.

“I’m afraid she’s not in,” he said. “I’ll try again later. Thank you for your help.”

“My pleasure,” she beamed.

Slaton was about to turn when she added, “One moment, sir…” Another hesitation.

He went to full alert, and saw her eyes flick to the right — toward the other receptionist. The second woman stood stiffly, her gaze locked to a spot behind him in the lobby.

The pretty young clerk began to say something, but Slaton didn’t hear it. His attention was padlocked to a reflective strip of stainless-steel trim on the wall behind the counter. In the mirror-like surface he saw three men approaching.

Slaton did not turn, but he moved. Ever so slightly, his stance widened and his left foot edged back in preparation. His hands were already free, so there was no need to set down a briefcase or pocket a mobile phone. As he braced his body, his eyes searched for improvised weapons, but he was standing at the front desk of a noble hotel. There was nothing.

When the men were ten steps away they spread left and right. This told Slaton they were trained. He saw two possibilities. Unfortunately, two possibilities that demanded very different reactions. Slaton planned for the worst case and rehearsed a flow in his mind. With a half step back, he could pivot to his left and strike the man on the right, the biggest, with a heel to the head. Next, he would rotate a right elbow to the center target. He ended his blueprint there, knowing that was as far as it would realistically hold.

Seconds from launching into a melee, he took one more look at the older clerk. Slaton weighed her expression very carefully. She was concerned, but in a controlled way. Guarded, yet not preparing to dive behind the counter. That made his decision.

With the men positioned three steps behind him, Slaton slowly turned.

The one in the middle, the smallest and a man who had ten years on the other two, put a hand under the lapel of his jacket. It came back out, as Slaton had hoped, with a well-worn set of credentials.

“Polisen. Vi vill prata med dig.”

Slaton gave the man a questioning look. “English?”

“Police. We’d like to have a word with you.”