Assassin's Game

SIX

“Might I see some identification, sir?”

Slaton gave his passport to the man in the middle and watched him type E-D-M-U-N-D D-E-A-D-M-A-R-S-H into his phone. The two bookends stood motionless and appeared unconcerned. In truth, Slaton was happy to see the police — they were next on his list to contact. He was not, however, happy to find them here. Slaton was sure he’d been highlighted by the receptionist after inquiring about Christine, and it struck him as ominous that this had earned him special recognition. It meant the police were at the Strand for reasons relating to her, and committing three officers to such a quest would not be done lightly.

“I’m trying to find my wife,” Slaton said, his voice perfectly askew.

“Her name?”

“Dr. Christine Palmer. She’s here for a medical conference.”

The man in the middle seemed to study him for a moment, then handed back his passport. He said, “Mr. Deadmarsh, I think we should talk.”

They moved to a quiet corner of the lobby where two couches were separated by a glass table. The lead man introduced himself as Detective Inspector Sanderson. He was late fifties, a small man with a crooked nose and more than his share of scars. A bantam scrapper if Slaton had ever seen one. He sensed a toughness about the man, along with a manner that implied there was little he hadn’t seen, nothing he hadn’t heard. His most striking feature was a set of ice-blue eyes that ran clear and sharp. After a businesslike handshake, Sanderson settled onto one of the couches. The two supporting men — twin monuments of bulk, sinew, and seriousness — drifted to the perimeter.

“What can you tell me about Christine?” Slaton asked, not having to manufacture the edge in his voice.

“I can tell you we’re looking for her.”

“Why?”

“Actually, I was going to ask you that same question. Why are you here?”

“I got a text from Christine yesterday. I was back in the States.” Slaton pulled out his phone and showed Sanderson the message.

The inspector studied the display with apparent interest, although Slaton suspected the message was something he’d already seen. If the man was indeed searching for Christine, the first thing he would have done was acquire a record of her mobile traffic.

“And based on this one-word text,” Sanderson surmised, “you booked the first available flight to Stockholm?”

“Yes,” Slaton said matter-of-factly. “My wife said she needed help. I tried to contact her, but she didn’t answer. So I took the first flight.” All true, and once again points that Sanderson, if he was thorough, had already verified.

“Has anything like this happened before?” the inspector asked.

“My wife calling for help? No, never. This scares the hell out of me, Inspector. Why are the police involved?”

The cool blue eyes probed. “First I should tell you that we have no reason to believe your wife is in immediate danger.”

“Immediate danger? What the hell does that mean?”

“Yesterday there was a shooting at a café nearby. Two men were gunned down. Your wife was at that café.”

“Was she injured?”

“No,” Sanderson said, “at least not that we know of. But she was seen talking with one of the victims right before the shooting began.”

“Who?”

“I’m afraid that has been vexing us. We’re not sure, which is why we’d very much like to talk to her. Unfortunately…” Another heavy pause.

Another dead stare from Edmund Deadmarsh.

“Soon after this shooting took place, a woman — we believe your wife — was seen by a number of witnesses running across the waterfront.”

“Running?”

“She was being pursued by a man, we think one of the assailants.”

Slaton put his head in his hands, a reaction that was part theater. But only part. He tried to incorporate what he was learning with what he already knew, yet the possibilities remained overwhelming. He needed more information. “A man was chasing Christine? Why? Was this a robbery or something?”

“At the moment, I’d say not. But we really aren’t sure.”

Slaton sensed a degree of honesty in that answer, laced perhaps with frustration. “All right, so this man was seen chasing my wife — what happened then?”

“Again, we have a number of witnesses, and their statements all correlate. They saw your wife jump onto a departing boat to escape her pursuer.”

For the first time Slaton saw an answer he liked, but he gave no tell. Remaining in character, he pulled an incredulous tone. “She jumped onto a boat? Where did she go from there?”

The policeman turned his palms up to say he didn’t know.

“Have you identified any of these people?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid.”

“But you said two men were shot. Don’t people in Sweden carry driver’s licenses or identity cards?”

To his credit, Sanderson remained steady. “We strongly suspect that these men are not Swedish. And this is where I was hoping you might be able to add something.”

“What could I tell you? My wife is a doctor and she came here for a conference.” Slaton held up his phone like a lawyer holding an exhibit to a jury. “She called me for help, and now you’re telling me a man with a gun was chasing her.”

“Did I say the man had a gun?” Sanderson countered quickly.

“You said there were shootings.”

Both fell silent for a moment, and the policeman leveled his cool stare, probing for any glimmer of deceit or indecision. Slaton showed him desperation, rising anger.

Sanderson sighed. “Well, Mr. Deadmarsh, it appears you don’t understand what’s happening any more than we do.”

“I wish I did.”

“All the same, there might be something you can do to help us find your wife.”

“Anything.”

Minutes later they were weaving through traffic in an unmarked police car. Slaton was in the backseat, shouldered next to the larger of the two bookends, a massive and unsmiling man with a blond crew cut. He supposed they were trying to intimidate him, trying to force the right mind-set. At that moment, Slaton imagined he was going to waste the rest of his day answering questions. He expected photographs and stale coffee in a room that stank of sweat and fear. He expected takeout food on a scratched wooden table. He expected police headquarters.

He was wrong.