Assassin's Silence: A David Slaton Novel (9 page)

Christine’s response was instantaneous and right on legend, “He went to school in Sweden as a young boy.” Not,
Yes, he was perfectly fluent in four languages, and had a working knowledge of another three.

“That explains it,” said Annette. “Every once in a while I caught the trace of an accent I couldn’t place.”

They watched Davy play with the blocks, mesmerized like campers watching a fire. Christine realized she’d never seen a picture of David as a child.
Was this what he looked like?
“So tell me,” she asked, wanting to change course, “have you asked Anson out to coffee yet?”

“Anson?”

“The new tenor in the choir—you were talking about him last week.”

“Oh, Lord. He’s one of two widowers in the entire church, and there must be thirty of us who’ve lost our husbands. The poor man is besieged.”

Christine smiled. “I don’t know. If you don’t pursue these things—”

Annette’s eyes widened a bit, as though she’d just made her own point. Christine began fishing through her purse. “Here’s your February check.”

Annette took it and set it aside.

Christine said, “I need to get going. I may need you one or two weekends next month. I’ll let you know.”

“Not a problem, as long as I can make a service on Sunday.” She peered obviously out the bay window in front. “Have you seen our new neighbor yet?”

“What new neighbor?”

“A young man, although I’ve only seen him once. He moved into the Mooreheads’ place.”

Christine looked out the window, toward the house set on a diagonal from her own. “Oh, right. I forgot Ed had been trying to rent it out.”

“It’s kind of odd. I saw him pull his car in the garage a few days ago, but he hasn’t left since.”

“How could you know that?”

“No tracks in the driveway.”

Christine laughed. “I’ll say it again, Annette, you’ve been staying up too late with your mystery novels.”

“I suppose you’re right—wishful thinking. Nothing exciting ever happens around here.”

“Don’t knock it. There’s a lot to be said for boring.”

Davy squealed, and a red block went tumbling toward the unused fireplace. Christine handed over the daily diaper bag. “Cereal for lunch, and use the office number if you need to reach me. My cell has been giving me trouble lately.”

Christine leaned down and kissed her son, who ignored her in favor of a picture book, and minutes later she was backing her car out of the driveway. She tried to avoid it, but found herself glancing at the Mooreheads’ house. It looked just as it had for months, ever since Ed had taken a promotion in San Diego. The only thing new was a dim light burning behind the blind of the top-floor window. Maybe someone
had
rented the place. But there was nothing else. No smoke from the chimney, no snow-shoveled path to the front door. And Annette was right about the driveway—it was covered in snow and there wasn’t a single track.

Christine shook her head, frowned, and accelerated down the hill.
No,
she thought,
that’s a mentality I’ll never allow again.

TEN

Slaton slipped easily into his old ways. Needing to replace the work clothes he’d stolen the night before, he found a secondhand store and paid cash for khaki pants and a tan cotton shirt, making sure both were a loose fit. At a sporting goods store he splurged on a beige weatherproof jacket and a pair of quality trail shoes to replace his beaten work boots. He also bought a cheap yellow raincoat that came in a tube and a pair of wraparound sunglasses. In the gallery of deceit Mossad had instilled in him, one basic tenet prevailed—multiple small changes were the most effective.

He stepped into the street and was washed by a warm evening breeze, burnt shocks of orange painting the low western sky. He stood still for a long moment and, registering no threats, set out downhill. There was little choice but to leave Malta. The problem was that departing any island offered but two options: by air or by sea. With only one international airport for his pursuers to monitor, Slaton’s hand was forced.

He spent two hours that afternoon canvassing the Valletta waterfront. Across the harbor, moored like a floating city block, was a massive cruise ship sided by tourist shops and cab stands and vendors selling trinkets. South of this was the Virtu Ferry Terminal where scheduled boats departed to the Sicilian ports of Catania and Pozzallo. All were public, monitored by authorities, and funneled passengers to fixed destinations. Which meant all were problematic.

He meandered around the piers, memorizing the names of cargo ships and bulk carriers. At the Port Authority office he inquired politely about the mooring fee schedule for private vessels, and was steered toward an office near the back of the building. Slaton never entered that suite, but instead spent ten minutes rambling through the place, and in a dreary side office he encountered a dry erase board on which was listed the scheduled time and date of departure for every vessel in the harbor. Unfortunately, the subsequent destinations for these sailings were not included, but he reckoned at least half would take him in the direction he needed to go—north to Europe. There his passport would be at its strongest, allowing him to move with the least amount of scrutiny, and from any port on Europe’s Mediterranean shore he could easily cover the remaining ground to the only destination that made sense—Zurich. A place where he could acquire the means to carry whatever battle had found him.

Satisfied with his reconnaissance, he turned away from the piers, and after no more than fifty steps Slaton found what one found within a block of all the world’s wharfs—a squalid watering hole topped by a sputtering neon sign and footed by beer-fouled gutters. Most intelligence operatives liked bars—people were drunk, talked a lot, and made bad decisions they often couldn’t remember the next day. Slaton disliked them for the same reasons. He ducked inside and let his eyes adjust to the dim light. It was barely six in the evening, but the place was busy. Ships docked and sailed, he knew, on schedules drawn by profits, no consideration given for human circadian rhythms. It explained why merchant seamen rarely wore watches, and never drank by them.

The building was likely a converted warehouse, stone-walled and ancient, not dissimilar from the Catacombs of St. Paul where he’d originally expected to work today. Leather-skinned sailors and bulky longshoremen were planted behind tables, and a round-bottomed waitress swerved between them taking leers and pats, and certainly large tips, with an all-knowing smile.

Most of the patrons were here to socialize, a few simply to drink, yet there was always an underlying element of those looking for work. They held at the fringes, mostly alone, a brackish blend of the downtrodden, fugitive, and otherwise unemployable; journeyman sailors hoping to haul lines and scrape rust all the way to the next port where they would squander their earnings in another bar as they waited for the next ride.

Slaton went to the bar, and when the aproned man behind it made eye contact, he said, “Coffee, black.”

Slaton reckoned this was not a breach of etiquette. He had an abrasion on his cheek and hadn’t slept well, the edges of his rough night there for all to see. The barkeeper didn’t hesitate. He drew a tall steaming cup from a dented pot on a burner.

“I’ve been stranded,” Slaton said in decent Maltese as the cup was slid in front of him. “Need to get back home. You know of any skippers taking passengers? Something to Italy or France?”

The bartender was a surly sort with lined jowls and sad eyes that afforded him the aura of a basset hound. He looked Slaton up and down, and said, “People order whiskey, I give them whiskey. The travel agency is across the harbor.”

Slaton pulled a twenty-euro note from his pocket and edged it across the table.

The bartender feigned a look of surprise, then pushed it back. “You know how many people come in here every day trying to get north? Algerians, Pakis, Ethiopians. It’s a goddamn exodus, I tell you.”

Slaton left the money where it was.

“But you don’t look the type,” the barman hedged.

Slaton took a long pull on his mug. The coffee wasn’t bad, strong and hot. He produced two more twenties and laid them on the first.

“Maybe you are police,” said the Maltese.

“Police?” Slaton replied. “Hardly. I have a passport, I have money. There’s nothing illegal about buying passage in a cabin, is there?”

“The ferry across the harbor is easier. Always less trouble.”

Slaton didn’t reply.

The barkeep seemed to think about it, then tapped his index finger twice on the oak counter. Slaton pulled out two more bills, and the stack disappeared. The bartender turned away. He lifted three fresh mugs from a rack, filled them with beer, and slid the lot in front of Slaton. He nodded toward a corner table where three men were sitting.

Slaton sipped his coffee, studied them, and decided they were certainly officers. None of the three wore a uniform—always bad form in a bar—but their shoes had life in them and their shirts were clean, and their hair had been cut by someone other than a bunkmate with a number-two guide.

“Do you know what ship they’re from?” Slaton asked.

“
Ionian Star,
” the barman replied.

This told Slaton they were regulars. Greek most likely and, if he remembered correctly from his earlier survey of the docks, the ship was a bulk carrier. Coal or gypsum or salt. Three thousand tons of dry stores on a programmed run across the Med, with a regular stop in Valletta. A vessel that size suggested a complement of twenty officers and crew, more or less, all of it tethered loosely to a home office in Athens or Piraeus.

Slaton gathered the three steins and left an empty coffee mug on the bar. The oldest of the three men was talking as he approached, and all three gave a lusty laugh at a punch line—the two junior officers finding unquestioned humor in their captain’s story. Slaton set the mugs on their table, pushing aside a set that were empty. Their laughter dropped like a buckshot-strewn quail.

“Can I join you for a moment?” Slaton said in English, pointing toward the empty seat on the fourth side of the square table.

The skipper regarded the beers, his men, and Slaton in turn. He nodded to the seat.

Knowing directness would be in his favor, Slaton got right to the point. “I’m looking for passage north. I can pay for a bunk and know how to stay out of the way.”

The old Greek, more weathered up close but with clear brown eyes, studied him critically. Slaton reckoned he was drawing the same inferences the barman had—that he didn’t look like the usual kind of refugee, and might be some kind of policeman. “I don’t run a cruise ship,” the skipper said. “That dock is across the harbor.”

“I hear your food is better.”

The captain looked at him evenly for a beat, then his furrowed face cracked and he broke out laughing. His lieutenants joined the chorus.

“Where is your next port?” Slaton asked.

“Marseille. But it doesn’t matter. My shipping line has recently taken a hard stand against passengers. The insurance companies don’t like it—too many complications. Go see the Turks in the corner. They are on their way to Istanbul. For the right price, they would deliver Jesus to the cross.”

“But I want to go to Marseille.”

One of the younger men, the larger of the two with curly black hair and a flat, crooked nose said, “The captain said no.” He took a long draw on his free beer, wiped the foam from his lips with a sleeve, and said, “Now leave us alone.”

Slaton didn’t move. “Five thousand euros,” he said.

The skipper’s eyes narrowed. It was enough to buy ten legitimate round-trip tickets, either by sea or air.

“What kind of trouble are you in?” the skipper asked.

“Not the official kind. No immigration or police. I just want to leave Malta quietly. If your company has rules about paying passengers, they probably have them about stowaways too. Only the crew wouldn’t be responsible for that. I’m sure people sneak aboard and get away with it now and again. Or maybe you’re short a crewman and need to bring aboard a short-term replacement.”

The big man stood, towering over the table. “The captain told you to—”

The skipper raised his hand and his minion went quiet.

Slaton ignored the second man’s physical challenge. He remained completely still, his eyes flat and expressionless.

The captain studied him, then stood and went to the bar where he had a prolonged conversation with the bartender. Slaton was encouraged. The captain returned, and asked, “You have papers?”

“Of course.”

“Are they good?”

“Perfectly legitimate.”

The captain leaned back in his chair and took a pull on his beer. “Eight thousand—cash.”

Slaton made a point of frowning, but in fact had expected a five digit number. After an appropriate pause, he said, “Done.”

“We sail at four tomorrow morning. Be at the gangway by three.”

Slaton rose to leave.

“Oh,” the captain added, “and send us another round, would you?”

ELEVEN

Slaton arrived at the pier sharply at three. The old ship, which had appeared a weary shade of blue in yesterday’s high afternoon, looked anemic under the yellow sulfuric haze of the nighttime loading dock. There was a bright glow of white from the bridge, but otherwise the ship appeared lifeless. Twin deck cranes poised like skeletal birds over the iron hull, all of it beaten and stained, and held together by rivets the color of old pennies. The wharf was quiet in the early morning, the only activity being a few longshoremen who were hauling last-minute provisions aboard
Ionian Star
by hand cart. The more relevant load had already been poured into the holds, a few thousand tons of some dry-bulk cargo, and the ship rode noticeably lower on the water than when Slaton had first seen her.

He found the captain smoking a cigarette at the foot of the gangway, a curl of smoke rising into the black night. Without a word, he flicked his cigarette into the harbor and led Slaton up the metal incline. On the main deck they rounded the aft hold, its big hatches already secure, and at the base of the stern deck the skipper descended a steep metal staircase.