Assassin's Silence: A David Slaton Novel (22 page)

“And once that happened, you realized you were implicated. The police might uncover the affair, uncover your relationship with the killers. You could be charged as an accomplice to murder.”

“Yes.”

Slaton amended his earlier assumption. The tracking transmitter had not been shot into his leg to lead them to Walter Krueger. They’d already recruited Astrid, and she could give them the codes. The flechette seemed to have only one purpose—to pinpoint his movements, in particular his arrival at Krueger’s office. But why?

Astrid gave the final hint. “There was also a surveillance system. After I agreed to help, the same man came one day and installed a camera in the office while Walter was out. It connected wirelessly to the computer at my desk.”

Slaton recalled the team’s approach to the building. It had been loud and sloppy, giving him a chance to get clear. The truth slowly dawned. The flechette, the surveillance system, the timing of their strike, his convenient escape. It was all part of a screenplay. “They were trying to set me up for Walter’s death. They would have known when I arrived at the airport, what cab I took, and had a record of my arrival at his office. All of it could be fed to the police afterward.”

Astrid looked at him blankly, clearly mystified.

“I end up being hunted and on the run, accused of killing Walter. Probably accused of killing you as well.”

“
What?
”

“Did they tell you they were coming yesterday?”

“No. Last week I gave them the combination to the safe in Walter’s office. I hadn’t heard from them since, and I assumed they would come late one night.”

“Only they came in broad daylight. Then two things happened they couldn’t have predicted. First you went out for coffee.”

“The other?”

“I came back to help you.”

Slaton scanned the street and surrounding buildings as he carried his theory forward. After he’d escaped from Krueger’s office, the accounts were placed in his name—more evidence. He was being set up for a gigantic fall. But what was the motive? Why would they ignore such a massive financial windfall only to put him on the run?

“This man who came to see you—what did he look like?”

“I don’t know,” she said, a tear running down one cheek. “Average height, thin. Short black hair and a dark complexion. He had an accent.” Her head bent down and her chest convulsed.

Slaton had been expecting Ben-Meir, or one of the others he’d seen in Malta. None matched her description. “Could you place the accent?”

“Not really … perhaps Middle Eastern. He looked like so many of the new immigrants who’ve come to Europe. He made me nervous, and there was something odd about him. He seemed … how do they say it … unbalanced.”

“I’m sure that was an act—he was trying to frighten you. You didn’t see this man yesterday?”

“No. I only saw the one who threatened me outside the building … the one you killed.” She wiped her cheek with the heel of a hand. “When you offered to guide me clear it seemed my only choice.”

“It was, Astrid, I promise you. Only today you doubted me again. Why?”

“When you said you had seen Walter yesterday, it occurred to me that it could have been you who … who did that to him.”

Slaton looked up and down the street. The evening was fading to gray, and passing cars sprayed slush from street-side puddles. “I didn’t kill him, Astrid. Think about it—you saw the transmitter pulled from my leg. You know they lured me to Zurich. You helped them set up a video feed to record me in the office right before Walter was killed. If you hadn’t gone out, there would have been two bodies in that office.”

She closed her eyes tightly.

He said, “You used the phone you bought today to call them, didn’t you?”

Astrid nodded. “I talked to the man who first came, and he said my doubts were correct—he said
you
had killed Walter.”

“Did you mention the tracking device?”

“Yes, I said you’d found it. He told me Mossad had to track you because you were dangerous.”

Slaton recognized this for what it was—a half-truth to support the greater lie. “Mossad is responsible to a government, Astrid. If Israel wanted to recover stolen money, this isn’t how they’d go about it.”

She looked more confused than ever. “He kept telling me how dangerous you were. He said they were working with the police, and that I should bring you here so they could arrest you.”

She looked at the gun resting on his leg.

“Who do you believe?” he asked.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t know … I only want this to end. Walter is dead because of me!”

Earlier, watching her make the phone call in Klosters, Slaton hadn’t known how deeply Astrid was involved. He wasn’t sure if she was a spurned woman lashing out or something more threatening. Now he had his answer. He also knew she was confused and unreliable at the moment, and didn’t completely trust him. Without that he was helpless to protect her.

“Let me go!” she pleaded. “I just want this to be over!”

Slaton had no choice. He slid the gun back under the seat. “All right, I won’t stop you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of twenty-euro notes. “Take the train back to Zurich. As soon as you get there call the police. Tell them everything, including your own part in this. The only way to get your life back is to face what you’ve done—
please
trust me on that.”

He held out the cash and watched her think through life or death decisions like none she’d ever faced. Slaton recalled watching someone else wrestle with a similar dilemma not so long ago—a beautiful auburn-haired woman who’d sat confused and terrified in his passenger seat, wondering where safety lay. Christine had stayed with him that day. Astrid would leave, that much he knew. But where would she go?

She took the money, opened the door, and got out.

Slaton made no attempt to stop her. He pressed a button to lower the passenger-side window, and she hesitated on the sidewalk for a long moment, a tentative figure in a world gone mad. Again she reminded him of Christine—a capable person whose world of routine had imploded.
Where do I go? Who can I trust?
That’s what Astrid was thinking as she stood statue-like in a chill wind.

Finally, she made her choice.

She half-turned and walked briskly away, looking once over her shoulder to gauge his reaction. Astrid was ten steps gone, accelerating down the sidewalk, when Slaton was surprised by the trill of a phone. He looked down at the prepaid device she’d bought in Klosters—the one he had confiscated and set on the console between the seats.

The sound struck like a Klaxon, each unanswered ring seeming to rise in pitch as Slaton realized only one person in the world knew this number. And why call now?
Because they think she’s still carrying it
. It was a trick he had once used himself, with lethal results—when a mobile phone rings, people pause to extract their handset and answer.

He slammed the shift lever into gear and gunned the engine. The little car caught up in seconds. “Astrid!” he screamed.

The roar of the engine froze her on the sidewalk, and she took a defensive step back.

“Get in!” he shouted. “Get in, now!” He reached across and threw open the passenger door.

She stood paralyzed with indecision. It proved fatal.

Slaton heard nothing more than a pair of muffled thumps, sounds he recognized all too well—the lethal signature of high-velocity rounds striking center of mass in a human body. Her tall figure snapped forward and she crumpled to the ground.

Slaton instantly knew three things.

Astrid was dead.

There were two shooters.

And he was next.

THIRTY-TWO

Slaton lowered his head just as the driver’s side window exploded in a storm of glass. The passenger window blew out at almost the same time. Caught in a crossfire, he pressed his face to the center console, stomped the accelerator to the floor, and popped the clutch.

Movement was his only defense.

He grabbed the wheel above his left hip and steered in the blind, trying to remember if a car had been parked on the curb ahead. Unsure, he veered left into the traffic lane. A horn blared immediately, followed by a jolt and a metallic crunch as the Peugeot sideswiped a car in the opposing lane. Bullets raked the dashboard and roof, semiauto rounds hurtling in as fast as two men could pull two triggers.

His headrest burst into a cloud of insulation and faux leather, but the car responded, its tiny engine clipping the redline in first gear. Slaton chanced a glance forward and saw his path angling toward the oncoming lane and a massive truck. A horn bellowed, and he swerved right as the rear window shattered.

Rear window
. One shooter was falling behind.

He ventured another look while shifting into second, and straightened his path down the street. The steering seemed heavy and unresponsive. They’d taken out at least one tire. It didn’t matter. He needed a mile, two at the most, and even on fully deflated tires he could outpace a man carrying a rifle.

Then a flash of motion—a man rushing into the street ahead. He stood squarely in the middle of the road, a hundred yards distant, a weapon pressed to his shoulder. The gun was thick and compact, a complete mismatch in firepower compared to the Glock under Slaton’s seat. There was no way to turn around—the car was drifting as it was, and a hard corner might cause the ruptured tire to separate completely.

Slaton shifted into third and put his head down. Bullets rained in, full automatic now, pinging off the metal roof and the engine firewall in front of him, destroying what was left of the windshield and launching chunks of spidered safety glass. Then a pause in the assault, and with the car’s engine screaming, Slaton ventured one last glance. The man was standing calmly—the only way to shoot straight and true—and switching magazines for a final, point-blank barrage. Slaton recognized him as the second swarthy twin from Malta. In seconds he would pass on the left side and empty a full magazine into the driver’s compartment.

There was only one option.

Slaton counted two beats, then leaned his head out the side window. He peered over the side-view mirror, spotted his target, and whipped the wheel left. The man shifted aim, but in that same instant he recognized the car’s new vector. He jumped, but too late, and the Peugeot struck a direct blow.

Slaton felt the impact, and in a blur the man bounded onto the hood and flew back, his body jackknifing across the forward edge of the windowless roof. His MP7 flailed by its carrying strap, and the writhing assailant flung out a hand, trying to reach his weapon. Slaton was quicker. In a smooth, mechanical movement, he swept the Glock from under his seat and dispatched the killer with a double-tap to the head.

His problem half solved, Slaton sat higher and steered the car with one hand while yanking the limp body into the passenger seat. He ventured a look back and saw the other shooter far behind, his weapon at his side. He simply stood and stared, and for a brief moment Slaton felt a contrarian sense of fellowship. In the immediate moments after a gunfight, nobody cares about caliber or tactics or rounds fired, or even whose objectives were achieved. All that matters is who’s still standing. In this case there were two survivors. Slaton recognized the other as Ben-Meir. With an image of Astrid in his mind, he turned away and made a promise to himself he had never before made.

On two bad tires and with the engine overheating, he negotiated another two miles before steering the remains of the Peugeot onto a quiet side street. Slaton parked as tightly as he could between a Dumpster and a brownstone wall, and made a cursory search of the body next to him. In the dead man’s hip pocket was a wallet with cash but no identity documents. He had more success in the inside jacket pocket—a passport with a slip of paper tucked inside. Hearing a siren in the distance, he pocketed the passport and left the man where he was, no consideration for last rites or prayers—just as would have been the case in the reverse outcome.

Slaton got out of the car and ran.

*   *   *

For six minutes he sprinted over ice-encrusted sidewalks, keeping to shadows where he could as dusk fell to night, and following signs to the Siebnen Bahnhofplatz.

He paused outside the station to drop his weapon, folded neatly into a discarded flyer for the Swiss Peace Foundation, into a curbside trash bin, and was glad to have done it when he saw a pair of police officers searching a man near the entrance. One officer was male, the other female. Both seemed agitated. After sending their subject on his way, the woman took a call on her mobile. Her responses were much like Astrid’s this morning.

Yes. All right
. Taking instructions.

Guardedly watching the police contingent, Slaton veered to another entrance. Once inside he purchased a ticket from a machine and stood on the southbound platform where a train was just arriving. He stood patiently, his eyes quietly sweeping the station. A northbound train was parked behind him, and when an automated female voice announced the last call for boarding, he crossed quickly to that train and stepped aboard, the doors closing immediately behind him. Slaton saw no one else mirror his move.

At a glance he saw fewer passengers to the rear, and so he moved in that direction, walking slowly to facilitate his seat selection process. Roughly half the car was occupied, and he found the situation he wanted near the back. A set of two unoccupied seats facing another set of two, one of these occupied by a fiftyish woman. She was professionally dressed, slender, and well-groomed. Her hair was cut short, the way women did when style gave way to a packed daily calendar. There was a leather satchel on the seat next to her with a lone manila folder edging out. She was talking on a mobile phone.

Slaton met her eyes and nodded politely as he took a seat, and through the station-side window he checked the platforms again. No police in sight. That would change in another ten minutes. The train began moving, and the panorama in the window altered from well-lit tidiness to snow-encrusted steel girders and walls of graffiti. Discarded on the seat next to him was a route map for the rail line, and he picked it up and studied the connecting options ahead—Zug, Luzern, Zurich. From any of those stations he could disappear easily into the grid of efficiency that was Swiss Rail.