Assassin's Run Read online

  Slaton checked Windsom again. Nothing had changed. The small wooden dinghy remained tied off her stern, bobbing harmlessly. He saw no one on deck. No movement in the distant windows. His conviction only solidified—he had to find a weapon now.

  His eyes swept over a fleet of fishing boats on the far side of the harbor. Many would have handguns or rifles locked in poorly secured compartments. Unfortunately, the docks would also be populated by crewmen prepping for morning launches, locals who would not take kindly to an outsider poking around untended boats.

  Increasingly desperate, Slaton was weighing a rash unarmed approach to Windsom when he turned a half circle and saw another prospect. Just behind him, in a building abutting a large warehouse, was the local chapter of the Unione Italiana del Lavoro. It was the Italian labor union whose oversight ran the spectrum of blue collar professions. In front of him, presumably, was Vieste’s longshoreman’s chapter.

  If there was a commonality on all the world’s wharves, it was that they were rough-and-tumble places. Places where hard men worked and smuggling thrived. And consequently … places where a union labor boss might want protection.

  With a glance up and down the deserted pier, Slaton trotted toward the union office and peered through a grimy window. It was dark inside, no one having yet shown up for work. In the shadows he saw worn office furnishings and bookcases, and a big banner from an old rally was strung across a wall: PIÙ FORTE INSIEME. Stronger together.

  There was an exterior door just to his right, but it looked solid. Another door farther to his left looked eminently more pliable, and appeared to lead into the adjacent warehouse. Slaton found that door unlocked, and he pushed through on creaking hinges.

  The warehouse was cavernous. There were endless rows of shelving, and pallets were stacked high, looking like tiny shrink-wrapped buildings. He heard an engine in the distance, probably a forklift working in some distant aisle. On his right was the union office, and as hoped he saw a door connecting to the warehouse. He spotted a crowbar on top of a wooden crate. Ten seconds and one splintered door jamb later, he was inside.

  In the half light he discerned a series of offices along a hallway. He found the capo’s desk in the third one. There were three locked drawers, and with the crowbar still in hand, he splintered them open from top to bottom. The first drawer held office supplies. The second, tools, including a blowtorch. This gave pause, but he moved on. Slaton’s guesswork paid off in the bottom drawer—a Smith & Wesson Model 19 revolver. It was a relic, a classic six-shooter, but the gun looked clean, and better yet, intimidating. Precisely what a union boss might brandish at a recalcitrant longshoreman. Slaton popped the cylinder open, saw six shiny rounds, then flipped it closed. He slid the long barrel into his back waistband, situated for a right-handed draw. Covering the grip with the tail of his shirt, he hurried back outside.

  * * *

  “Men can be like that,” the woman said. “Never around when you need them.”

  Christine laughed at her guest’s attempt at humor, but it belied the fact that her face was etched in worry—she’d turned away from her to pull two coffee cups from a rack.

  “Yeah, tell me about it,” she replied, trying to keep her tone light.

  So far the woman seemed harmless. Christine had seen her coming—that was her assignment when they arrived in a new port. David went ashore to take care of business, while she stood guard. There was no better term for it—standing guard, like a military sentry.

  She’d watched the woman row the last hundred yards, willing her to veer away. Instead she’d lasered in on Windsom like an arrow to a bull’s-eye. When her dinghy was twenty yards off the port beam, the woman had paused. She’d hailed to introduce herself, and politely asked permission to come aboard. It hardly seemed an assault. She explained that her name was Anna Sorensen, and that she’d come to see David. That had sealed it. The use of her husband’s true name—not the one on the passport he was at that moment showing to immigration officials—made any evasion or denials pointless.

  It also put Christine on edge.

  She filled both cups with coffee. “Cream or sugar?”

  “Black is fine.”

  As she turned toward the dinette where her guest sat, Christine glanced out the starboard window. She’d heard a small engine moments earlier, and was disappointed to see only a fishing dory running past, its faded green hull slicing the smooth water with a teenage boy at the helm. She weighed coming up with an excuse to go above and raise their Jolly Roger amidships. The flag was patently ridiculous, that cocktail-hour joke seen across the world on weekend pleasure boats. For her and David, however, it was something else—the pirate’s black-and-white standard was their personal red flag. She decided it wasn’t necessary—the dinghy attached to Windsom’s stern was all the warning David needed.

  She slid into the bench seat across from Sorensen and nestled close to Davy, who was sipping apple juice from a plastic cup. Threat or not, she was going to keep her son close. “Can you tell me what this is about?” she asked.

  “I really should discuss it with David first.” Sorensen looked at Davy, and said, “So how old are you?”

  Davy held up two fingers.

  Sorensen smiled, and Christine asked, “Do you have kids?”

  “Not yet, but I’m hopeful. I think I found the right guy. Trouble is, work has been getting in the way for both of us.”

  “Don’t let that stop you. You’d be amazed at how adaptable parenting can be.”

  “I guess you would know.”

  The comment generated an awkward silence. Both went to their coffee. Sorensen was blond and slender, undeniably attractive. She was also quintessentially American in her accent and mannerisms. Christine placed her as being from the Midwest. They hadn’t gotten that far—what part of the country each hailed from—but with her nationality all but certain, Christine saw a short list of possibilities as to who she represented. CIA, FBI—some three-letter agency that lurked on the fringes of D.C.

  Not for the first time, she was struck by her unconventional thought processes. A pretty young blonde had come looking for her husband, and Christine’s main concern was which spy agency she worked for. Extrapolating further, she wondered if some new reprisal was descending upon them. David was a former Mossad assassin, and his past seemed to haunt them with clockwork regularity. Like a heart condition that never quite normalized.

  Sorensen began making funny faces at Davy. He giggled, and apple juice sprayed from his nose. “Sorry,” Sorensen said, laughing along with him and pushing a dishcloth across the table.

  “So tell me,” Christine asked as she wiped Davy’s nose, “how did you find us?”

  After some deliberation, Sorensen seemed to let a barrier fall. “It took some effort. We asked around a bit, and heard you might have passed through Israel recently. What sealed it was your boat’s name. We knew it, and that allowed us to track your movements through a few ports. Connecting those dots in chronological order, we got a general idea of where you were heading. From there a few overheads sealed the deal.”

  Setting aside the question of who “we” referred to, Christine asked, “Overheads? As in satellites?”

  “I know what you’re thinking—it’s a big sea. But it’s not as hard as it sounds. Do you know how many Antares 44s are cruising this part of the Med right now?”

  Christine didn’t venture a guess.

  “Two. The other is docked in Split, Croatia.”

  “You mean … from a satellite photo you can identify a sailboat by manufacturer?”

  “I didn’t say that—but would you be surprised?”

  “I guess not.” She blew out a long breath. “It’s getting harder and harder to disappear these days.”

  “Almost impossible, depending on who’s looking for you. If it’s any consolation, not many countries have the assets we do.”

  There it was again, Christine thought. We.

  “So how long have you been cruising?” S
orensen asked.

  “A little over a year … but you probably know that.”

  Her guest didn’t respond, and Christine had a fleeting thought that perhaps she should have raised the Jolly Roger after all. As a doctor she often dealt with misrepresentations and half-truths. How many times had she seen addicts lie to get prescription painkillers? How many drug reps had she seen exaggerate clinical trials for some new and expensive medication? The difference now—she was on the duplicitous side, while the woman across from her was dealing in truth. At least, as far as she could tell. That’s what I get for marrying an assassin, she thought.

  The awkward interlude went on for a few more minutes. It ended suddenly when David appeared in the companionway. He had a large handgun Christine had never seen. It was leveled squarely at their new guest.

  SIX

  “Your hands stay on the coffee cup,” Slaton said, his eyes alternating between the stranger at the dining table and the rest of the cabin. He saw no one else.

  “Not a problem,” the blond woman said.

  Slaton cocked his head slightly. On hearing those three words, two of his questions were answered. He knew who the woman was. And he knew who she represented.

  “Sorensen, CIA,” he said.

  Christine looked at him, then the woman who was facing her. “You two know one another?”

  “We’ve never met in person,” said Sorensen, “but we talked over a satellite link. David did some work for us not long ago in Lebanon. It was—”

  “No,” he interrupted. “I never worked for you. We had mutual interests in a matter that was settled a long time ago. That doesn’t give you the right to show up on my doorstep without warning.”

  “We need to talk to you about—”

  “Stop right there! Before you say anything more, I want a private word with my wife. And before I can do that—” Slaton tipped the barrel of his gun upward twice, indicating that Sorensen should stand. He looked expectantly at Christine.

  She protested, “David, is that really necessary?”

  Before he could answer, Sorensen said, “No, it’s okay.” She stood and held her arms away from her body.

  Slaton watched as his wife reluctantly patted down the CIA officer for weapons—he’d taught her the basics. She didn’t find anything.

  “Satisfied?” Christine asked.

  “No.”

  * * *

  Three minutes later Slaton had reestablished a degree of order in his life. After his wife’s halfhearted search, he had frisked Sorensen himself and found her to be clean: no wires, no transmitters, no weapons. He then banished her to Windsom’s aft rail.

  Christine steered Davy toward the forward stateroom. By the time she returned to the main cabin, Slaton was nibbling crackers and tossing a Nerf basketball at a plastic hoop.

  “You let her aboard,” he said in a hushed tone, no inflection to imply a question.

  “What was I supposed to do? A strange woman rows up and asks for you by name.”

  “You should have sent her away.”

  “I tried, but she asked to wait. I was trying to be civilized.”

  “Civilized? What would have happened if she—”

  “Give me some credit, okay? When she came below I made sure she sat with her back to the companionway. I kept Davy close. I left a section of lifeline disconnected on the port side to signal you how to approach. I didn’t raise the damned pirate flag because I knew her boat would be obvious enough.” She reached into her rear waistband and showed him their family Heckler & Koch 9mm, the only gun they kept on board. Its grip was marred—not from any firefight, but from accompanying him on various masonry jobs.

  “I was ready, David. I did all the things you briefed me to do. But we only arrived here a few hours ago—I can’t just point a gun at the first stranger who comes up to our boat. And besides, this woman knew your real name. She didn’t appear armed, and I didn’t see anyone else nearby. I made a judgment call in an awkward situation. So yes, I let her come aboard.”

  He heaved a sigh, then motioned for her to put the H&K away. “Okay, I’m sorry. You handled it well. It’s just that when I saw the dinghy tied off the stern … I was really worried.”

  “Where did you find that?” she asked, pointing to his new six-shooter. “You looked like Wyatt Earp punching through a saloon door.”

  “An Uzi would have been better—this was all I could find on short notice.” It was another old point of contention between them. At the outset of their cruise, he’d argued that they should keep a comprehensive arsenal on Windsom. At least a shotgun, he’d said. Maybe a semiautomatic with a high-capacity mag. Christine had countered that they might as well mount an eight-pound cannon in the forward porthole. Of course she was right—having heavy weapons on board would be a customs and immigration nightmare.

  “Okay, what has she told you so far?” he asked.

  “She said she has a boyfriend and wants to start a family someday.”

  Slaton stared at his wife skeptically.

  “That’s it, we made small talk. Do you have any clue why the CIA wants to talk to you?”

  “No. But whatever it is, it can’t be good.”

  “So you’ll send her packing?”

  He hesitated. “Maybe.”

  “Can you tell me anything about the time you worked with her?”

  “It was in Lebanon last February. But that mission is history, and I don’t think she came all the way from D.C. to get my signature on an after-action report.” He tried to think it through. “On the other hand, I did help the CIA out of a tight spot. Maybe she wants to return the favor. Maybe she’s here to help us.”

  This time it was Christine who looked doubtful.

  “Okay, strike that.” He looked out on deck. Sorensen was standing exactly where she’d been told to, one hand gripping a stanchion as the boat rocked gently. “I’ll give her ten minutes,” he said, “find out why she’s here. After that, I’ll send her on her way, and we pull anchor and get the hell out of here.”

  Christine seemed to let the idea percolate. “All right … if you think that’s the best way to handle it. I’ll keep Davy up front.”

  They locked eyes for a moment, then exchanged a half smile. A thaw in the making. He reached out and kissed her on the forehead. “You did great.”

  She gave a wistful sigh. “Are we ever going to go back?”

  “Back to what?”

  “Our three-two in the burbs with the back deck. Maybe a tree house and a swing set this time.”

  He didn’t answer right away. “Is that what you want?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And the other times?”

  “The other times … I realize it doesn’t matter where we are.” She smiled his favorite smile. The one that could not have been more genuine. The one that still took his breath away. She moved toward the forward stateroom where Davy was chirping away. Halfway there she paused. “I did learn one useful thing from our guest,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “We need to change the name of our boat.”

  SEVEN

  “You can call me Anna,” Sorensen said. “I can’t remember if I mentioned my first name when we last spoke.”

  “You didn’t,” replied Slaton. “But then, it wasn’t exactly a social call.”

  They’d taken opposite sides of the cockpit on Windsom’s aft deck, the ship’s big chrome wheel between them. Slaton regarded Sorensen closely, having a face now to go with the voice he’d heard so many months ago. That association had been strictly operational, a mission-oriented comm link. A relationship of mutual necessity. The fact that “Anna” was now sitting serenely on his boat, framed by the shimmering Adriatic and offering first-name rapport, only fanned Slaton’s suspicions. He harbored a deep and lasting mistrust of all intelligence agencies, brought on by a series of manipulations imposed upon him by Mossad. Regrettably for Sorensen, his misgivings about those organizations were transferrable to all who
represented them.

  She began in a reticent tone, telling him his doubts were apparent. “What you did for us last year—the director was very impressed. Everyone was.”

  “We were lucky in a lot of ways, but it worked out in the end. I’d suggest you don’t dwell on the past. I told my wife I would give you ten minutes. You’ve got nine and a half left.”

  Sorensen actually smiled. “Yeah, I remember that about you—no wasted motion.” She appeared to organize her thoughts, her blue eyes concentrating intently. “Have you ever heard of a man named Pyotr Ivanovic?”

  Slaton thought about it. “Russian, a big-time oligarch. I don’t get many intel briefings these days, but at one time he was pretty tight with the Russian president.”

  “Right until the very end.”

  “What end?”

  “Ivanovic was killed four days ago. He was standing on the deck of his yacht, which was anchored off the Isle of Capri, when someone put a very large hole in his chest.” Sorensen paused longer than was necessary.

  Slaton actually grinned. “And what … the CIA thinks I had something to do with it?”

  “It’s not a matter of what we think. The Russian reaction to his passing has been very acute. Very dynamic. They’re making a lot of noise, trying to find out who was responsible. Which implies to us that Ivanovic was either still tight with President Petrov, or involved in something important.”

  “Or both.”

  She nodded. “FSB message traffic suggests they’re gathering information on assassins-for-hire. To what end we don’t know.”

  Slaton remained impassive. The FSB was the post-Soviet resurrection of the KGB.

  She continued, “From what we’ve heard, attention seems to be focusing on a certain former Mossad kidon. A man who supposedly died a few years ago in England, but whose name keeps popping up in places like Paris and Beirut.”