Assassin's Game (35 page)

But what to do about it?
he mused.

Sanderson saw three options. He could call Sjoberg and explain that he’d tracked Deadmarsh to Geneva. The AC might give his sighting the credence it deserved, but the more likely outcome was that Sjoberg would reject the political assassination scheme, deem Sanderson deranged, and order him home. Alternatively, he could slip the news to Elin Almgren and let her run things up the chain of command at SÄPO. This, however, was equally problematic. Almgren was already assisting him outside formal channels, and the first thing her superiors would do would be to verify things with Sjoberg, or perhaps Anna Forsten, either of whom would certify Sanderson to be an unhinged cannon. In both cases there was some chance of getting proper surveillance in Geneva, but more likely a pair of men with a soft-sided wagon to retrieve Sanderson himself.

The third option, of course, was to hunt down Edmund Deadmarsh himself. The drawback of this was obvious enough. What if he succeeded? The man was a highly trained killer and presumably armed. And while Sanderson had spent his early years on the force in some of Stockholm’s toughest quarters, the man he was hunting was easily half his age, and—something that had not escaped his eye—in superb physical condition. He remembered the gray eyes that kept moving, the way he’d positioned himself in the car to see yet not be seen. Today Sanderson had spotted Deadmarsh from behind the darkened windows of a bus. Tomorrow such an encounter might easily be reversed, and given his present circumstances—unarmed and without backup—Sanderson would not be an odds-on favorite in any confrontation. If he somehow cornered Slaton his only option would be to call the police and plead, in the most rational terms he could muster, for them to arrest a man for an assassination that had not yet occurred.

The waitress, a thin woman with overmanaged blond hair, slid a plate of fresh bread and cheese in front of him. Sanderson began carving as he sorted through his doubts. Perhaps his colleagues in Stockholm would work things out, make the same connections he had, and issue an alert to the Swiss authorities about a lurking assassin. It was plausible, he supposed, yet Sanderson found himself hoping otherwise. He quickly recognized this for what it was—the self-interest of redemption. Edmund Deadmarsh could be his ticket back in. If Sanderson stopped the assassin single-handed, he would become an instant legend. If he blew it, of course, he’d be facing retirement. But then, that was where he already was.

Sanderson looked at his watch, then pulled out his phone and placed a call.

His ex-wife answered.

“Hello, Ingrid.”

“Arne! Where on earth are you? I just got a message from Paul Sjoberg. He says he needs to get in touch with you about something urgent, but that you haven’t been picking up and aren’t at home.”

“Yes, I’ve been ignoring his calls. And he’s right—I’m out of town. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk to him. He’ll only make my job more difficult.”

“Your job? What are you doing?”

“Exactly what you told me to do.”

After a long silence, she said, “Are you having any luck?”

“Surprisingly, yes.”

“I’m not sure I like that answer. Blix told me this man is very dangerous. I think you should get in touch with—”

“Ingrid,” he interrupted, “I need you to do something for me right away. And please do it without questioning my motives. You have to trust me.”

“I always have, Arne. You know that.”

“Good. Do you still have your key to our flat?”

“Yes, I think I might.”

“If not there’s a spare under the pot by the back door—the one with all the dead tulips. I need you to get something from the house and send it to me express overnight.” He told her what he wanted and was met with silence. “Can you do this for me?”

He heard a long intake of breathe, then, “Yes, Arne. I’ll do it.”

*   *   *

Christine was looking at the picture of domesticity. Her colleague from residency, Ulrika Torsten, had just arrived home from work and was reading a story to her thirteen-month-old son. Her husband was making dinner in the kitchen. Unavoidably, she contrasted this to her own circumstances. In order to aid her fugitive husband, she was hiding out with friends after giving them a far-fetched story—lies given and accepted with equal ease.

She hated every minute of it, and hated that David had put her in this position. Yet there was never a question of following through. By some profound influence, she felt closer to David than ever, and she knew that he despised the lies as much as she did—probably more. She also knew that at this very moment he could be risking everything to protect her and their child. For all the trouble that dogged him, Christine was rock-solid in one belief about her husband. More than anything, he wanted what she was witnessing right now—a quiet Friday night at home with his family.

Goodnight Moon
came to its end, the mouse and clock having run their ritual courses, and Ulrika held up a bottle and asked, “Would you like to give Fredrik his supper?”

Christine smiled. “Yes, please.”

The babe was handed over with a warm bottle, and she tried to make Fredrik comfortable. The child latched on and relaxed instantly in the crook of her arm. Christine felt a protective instinct that was distinctly maternal, and this caused her to wonder how David would react in the same situation. Would the
kidon
be changed by holding his child in his arms?

“You’re a natural,” said Ulrika. “He always screams when Anders feeds him.”

“Not true,” rang a voice from the kitchen. “That is only gas.”

Christine smiled, and said, “I’m glad I can do something to help. Dav … Edmund said it might be Sunday before he can get a flight.”

“It’s no problem. You can stay as long as you like, Christine. Edmund is welcome as well.”

Ulrika went to the kitchen, and Christine found herself mesmerized by Fredrik. He was a beautiful child—but then, weren’t they all? His mouth suckled in a slowing rhythm, and before the end of the bottle he was fast asleep, a white dribble running over his cheek that she wiped away with the ever-present slop cloth.

“I think he’s done,” she called out softly.

Ulrika reappeared and Christine tried to rise without waking Fredrik. Halfway up she felt an excruciating pain in her midsection. She fell back into the chair.

“What’s wrong?” said Ulrika, taking Fredrik.

“I don’t know,” Christine said, grimacing. “I had a fall the other day, bruised my ribs. They’ve been sore ever since, but not like this.”

“I should have a look. Perhaps we can get an X-ray to see whether—”

“No, no! I can’t have an X-ray because I’m—” She stopped there, tearing up as pain seared through her upper body.

Ulrika looked at her with concern. “I’m going to put Fredrik to bed,” she said. “Then I’m taking you to the emergency room.”

*   *   *

Slaton retrieved the Range Rover in Rolle and headed north on the A1. He estimated a two-and-a-half-hour drive to Basel, the city that divided the Rhine and was forever fixed as the junction of France, Germany, and Switzerland. With the sun falling low, what had been a glorious day looked ready to descend into something else, dark clouds riding the northern horizon. Slaton scanned through radio channels until he found a weather report. It promised a foul early weekend, with improvement late Sunday. For what he had in mind, a useful forecast.

Keeping with the flow of traffic Slaton passed through Bern, home to the Iranian embassy of Switzerland, and on the far side of the city made a series of stops. At a hardware store he purchased a small tarp, two heavy canvas duffel bags, bolt cutters, and a keyed padlock. A retail mega-box store provided three inexpensive suit coats and an assortment of spray-on fabric protectants. He worked quickly, paid cash, and kept minimal contact with the sales associates.

Back in the Rover, Slaton maneuvered to a quiet corner of the parking lot and spread the three jackets across the backseat. All were dark in color, but each knit using a slightly different blend of fabric, one mostly wool, the others leaning toward synthetics. He took the aerosol fabric protectants and applied a heavy band to the left and right shoulders of each jacket. To get the first coating to dry more quickly, he opened the windows for better ventilation. He then waited, leaning on a fender and sipping water from a plastic bottle as traffic on the autobahn built to its daily crest. After fifteen minutes he applied a second layer, but only to the right shoulder of each jacket. Three jackets, three brands of clear solvent, with a heavier application on the right side. Satisfied, he left the jackets in place to dry.

Slaton’s next stop was a travel station where he filled the Rover’s gas tank for the last time, and finally a pub where he enjoyed a bowl of thick barley soup and warm bread. He was back on the A1 just in time to blend into the leading edge of Friday’s rush-hour traffic, set perfectly to arrive in Basel shortly after nightfall.

FORTY-ONE

Sanderson decided he’d been staring through windows long enough. He asked the waitress if she knew where the nearest canton library was located. She did, offering directions along with a warning that the branch would soon close for the day. He settled his bill and set out on aching feet.

If he was going to have any chance of finding one person in an urban sea of a million he had to narrow his field, yet with no actionable intelligence to work from Sanderson saw only one course—it was time to start thinking like his quarry. If Deadmarsh was indeed here for an assassination, his first job would be to find out everything possible about his target. Sanderson, therefore, would do the same. His began his inquiry as he walked with a call to Elin Almgren.

She picked up immediately. “Good to hear from you, Arne. Any luck?”

“Perhaps.”

After an extended pause, she asked, “So how’s the weather in Geneva?”

Sanderson didn’t remember mentioning where he’d gone. “You can be maddening, you know that.”

“You asked for any information I could give you on Dr. Ibrahim Hamedi, and the first thing I saw was that he’s going to be in Geneva this weekend. Would you like the rest?”

“I sense I’m running up a catastrophic bar bill.”

“That you are. I’ve found a lot on Hamedi, although not much that’s going to help you. He’s a top-flight physicist, well respected in academic circles. He was offered a teaching post in Hamburg, and also a research position with CERN on the big particle accelerator project outside Geneva. He rejected it all to go back to Iran and build ballistic missiles with nuclear warheads. Or course, this is all publicly available information.”

“Tell me something that isn’t.”

“All right. Anytime a nuclear scientist is suddenly recalled to a place like Iran, questions get asked. Germany’s BND, and their Swiss counterparts, the FIS, both made quiet inquiries after he left. It was the usual raft of questions. What kind of expertise did Hamedi have. Had he shown any unusual political leanings or frequented particular mosques in the Hamburg area. Did he have family members back home who might be at risk. No one who knew Hamedi thought he had any affinity for the Iranian regime, and in the end the investigators drew nothing but blanks. There was not the slightest indication that Hamedi was anything other than what he appeared to be—a brilliant scientist returning home to take part in a government program. Despite the objectionable nature of the work, there was nothing anyone in Europe could do about it.”

“Can you tell me where he’s staying in Geneva?”

“You want me to ask about the projected movements of a man who’s been a serial assassination target? That’s one way to get highlighted. If you want me to keep this little inquiry of yours quiet you’ll have to come up with something less direct.”

“Yes,” Sanderson relented, “I suppose you’re right.”

“I wish I had more for you. I’ll keep an eye out all the same.”

“Thanks, Elin.”

“And Arne … please take care of yourself.”

Sanderson arrived at the library thirty minutes before closing time. He spent the entire half hour researching archived news articles about the head of Iran’s nuclear weapons program, in particular the years Hamedi spent at the University of Hamburg and the names of colleagues he worked with. The most promising findings Sanderson printed for later study, and at 6:02 that Friday evening he was the last patron to leave the building, a stack of papers under his arm and a stern-faced librarian bolting the door behind him.

*   *   *

Slaton arrived at the warehouse outside Basel at eight o’clock that same evening. A city that clawed outward into both Germany and France, Basel had long been an industrial center, with a particularly vibrant presence in the pharmaceutical field. As such, it was a place with no shortage of office parks and warehouses. Of specific interest to Slaton was an address owned by LMN Properties, a shell company whose vague title—the late Benjamin Grossman freely admitted—had been lifted shamelessly from the middle of the Roman alphabet.

Slaton had been to the building twice before in his dealings with the arms merchant, so he was sure he could find it. He was equally sure that the property remained in Grossman’s holdings, this confirmed by the detailed inventory records provided by the estate lawyer, Herr Holmberg. The only open question was what remained inside. Slaton knew what the storage facility had once housed, and it was not, as alleged in Holmberg’s Addendum Three, a waypoint for pass-thru inventories of “seat cushions, wicker baskets, and scented candles.”

Slaton steered the Rover through blocks of low office buildings and disjointed parking aprons. The buildings varied in size from stand-alone corporate headquarters to space-sharing small businesses, all interspersed with the odd vacant property awaiting new tenants. He saw a handful of other cars in the area, and lights blazed brightly in random windows. Building 17G, however, nestled in an inconspicuous and ill-lit corner, rendered no more than four empty parking slots and a pitch-black entrance. Slaton maneuvered into the nearest spot and backed the Rover tight to the front door. He retrieved the bolt cutters, already hidden in one of the canvas rucksacks he’d purchased, and made his way to a threshold that had likely not been crossed in months.