Assassin's Run Page 4

  Slaton considered it. He had been busy, and the reluctance of his entanglements in those places was immaterial. It was one thing to dodge the headlines, but whispers in the intelligence community were harder to evade. Once again, he felt the vortex of his past pulling him in.

  Sorensen went on. “When we learned that much, I wanted to get out ahead of the FSB. I tracked you down, and learned that you weren’t far away that night.”

  “You can’t be serious! Me a hired gun? I’ve never taken a dime to shoot anyone.”

  “Actually, I believe you. But you were in the general area that night. You were even on a boat.”

  Slaton conjured a map in his head. He estimated that Windsom had been at least three hundred miles from Capri on the night in question. He wasn’t going to bother arguing the point.

  “From a neutral point of view,” she went on, “you do have something of a reputation.”

  “You’re wasting my time, Miss Sorensen.”

  “Am I? In the gray world that follows people in your line of work, you’re something between a ghost and a legend. That could have certain advantages—what better cover for a high-end assassin than being dead?”

  He shook his head incredulously. “My ‘line of work,’ as you put it, has changed. I’m a stonemason now.”

  Her eyes remained locked to his, but she said nothing.

  Slaton tried to read her. “Where are you going with this? Are you trying to tell me the CIA has done me a favor by not outing me to the Russians? I could almost view that as a threat—and I’m pretty sure you didn’t come here with that in mind.”

  “No. I saw you work in Lebanon. Believe me when I say I wouldn’t have volunteered for that assignment.”

  “What then?”

  “It’s actually quite the opposite. We want to know why the FSB is so concerned about Ivanovic’s death. By virtue of your … expertise … you’re uniquely capable of helping us do that. In return, we might be able to help you.”

  “Help me? How?”

  “To begin, by deflecting suspicion of your involvement. Maybe we could plant some misinformation, help you take your name out of conversations like this once and for all.”

  “Clean names are easier to buy than to repair—I can get a solid new identity for twenty grand.”

  “Can you? I started looking for you two days ago. Now here I am, sitting on your boat six time zones away. You’re trying to disappear, David, but clearly there are flaws in your plan.”

  Slaton canted his gaze toward the harbor as he weighed her argument. Sorensen had a point—she’d found him and his family far too easily.

  She said, “The CIA is the best in the world at tracking people down. If I were to give you the latest on how we do it, help you refine your methods—I think you’d be able to keep a much lower profile going forward.”

  He refocused on her. “What exactly do you want?”

  “I want your professional opinion. Come with me to Capri. I’ll arrange for us to have a word with the detective looking into Ivanovic’s death. I want to see it through your eyes. After that, we go to the embassy in Rome.”

  “Rome?”

  “My team back at Langley is working on this from another angle. You and I will need the secure comm at the embassy to see what they’ve dredged up.” She eyed him pleadingly, and said, “I want to get a bead on what’s going on. I want to know who killed Ivanovic, and why.”

  Slaton’s jaw hardened. He knew there was more to it. “I still don’t see why you’re so interested in this.”

  She broke into a half smile. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You have good instincts—aside from the ones you’ve already proven. There is something else, but I can’t get into it yet. I don’t even know if you’re on board.”

  Slaton looked back into Windsom’s cabin. Through the forward passageway he saw Christine airplaning Davy over the bunk, his son’s throaty laughter carrying out over the deck. “How long are we talking about?”

  “It depends on what we find. A couple days. I can have you in Capri tonight, and we’ll spend tomorrow looking into this.”

  Slaton viewed that as a nonstarter. “No—I want two days to think about it. If I agree to help, I’ll meet you in Rome. The American embassy, two o’clock Wednesday afternoon.”

  Sorensen frowned. “I’d really like to get going on this … although I do understand your caution.”

  “No. Believe me when I say, you do not understand. And there’s one other thing. If I choose to get involved, I want you to take my wife and son into the embassy in Rome. They stay there, under lockdown, until my part in this is done. I want the tightest possible security.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “Probably not. But it’s nonnegotiable.”

  Sorensen heaved a long sigh. “Are you always so paranoid?”

  “Old habits. The only thing that’s changed over the years is the object of my concerns. I don’t worry about Mossad or Israel or a mission anymore. It’s all about them now.” He nodded toward the cabin. “You’d do well not to forget that.”

  Sorensen stood, went aft, and began unlashing her tiny boat. Before stepping aboard she handed over a blank business card with a phone number scrawled on the back. “All right. I’ll be at the Rome embassy, two o’clock on Wednesday.” She climbed down carefully into the rocking dinghy.

  “Where did you get this boat?” he asked.

  “I bought it fair and square,” said Sorensen, “fifty euros. There aren’t any water taxis here, and it seemed like the simplest way to get here without drawing attention. I told the seller my inflatable was beyond repair.” She settled onto the wooden bench seat. “I think I’m the loser in the deal, though. This thing’s got a leak.”

  Slaton saw a minor puddle along the boat’s keel. “Can’t be too bad. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll expense whatever you paid.”

  She pushed off with an oar. “I’m sure I will.”

  “You could almost say it’s part of the CIA’s navy.”

  Sorensen laughed as she took a grip on the oars. “I guess it is.”

  “One more thing, Anna…”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t ever approach my family unannounced again.” Slaton pulled the six-shooter from his waistband and pointed it at the boat. Sorensen stiffened on the bench seat, then shuddered when the gun went off. A neat hole appeared near her feet, water burbling over her shoes.

  “Now it has two leaks,” he said. “You’d better row fast.”

  Sorensen did exactly that, pulling hard on the oars as the little boat began to fill with water. The look on her face was something between shock and bewilderment.

  Slaton turned and saw Christine standing behind him. Davy was below, babbling through a song.

  “Was that really necessary?” she asked.

  “She wants me to do a favor for the CIA.”

  “And that was your answer?”

  “Not exactly. You and I need to talk about it before I answer. That was a message. Regardless what we decide, I want them to know who’s calling the shots.”

  “You have a peculiar way of expressing your views. But speaking as your wife, I’m actually not that upset.”

  “Why is that?” he asked.

  “She’s very attractive. But at the moment … I’m pretty sure you’re not hitting on her.”

  * * *

  As Windsom set sail toward the heel of Italy’s boot, the freighter Argos was plodding southward four hundred miles east, making slow but steady progress through the Dardanelle Straits.

  Captain Zakaryan stood on the bridge as the Gallipoli peninsula rose like an apparition in the midday haze. As a casual student of history, particularly regarding the waters he regularly plied, Zakaryan knew well what had happened here a century earlier at the height of World War I. The First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill, had conceived a daring campaign to wrest control of the waterway, intending to open a second front and break the stalemate in the war to en
d all wars. Unfortunately, as was too often the case, the execution of a bold military strategy faltered under poor logistics, inaccurate intelligence, and ill-conceived tactics. After a lamentable expenditure of manpower and resources, diverted from the stalled Western Front, the confrontation with the Ottoman Empire in Gallipoli was abandoned after eight months. Only the most charitable historians framed it as a draw.

  From high on the bridge, Zakaryan looked down into Argos’ main hold. As he did, he felt a sense of hopelessness that could not be much different from what those British sea captains had felt a century ago. He had set out from port on a campaign doomed to failure, no choice but to salute smartly while disaster ran its course. For Zakaryan the belligerent parties were far less clear, the objectives more opaque. Yet the sense of impending disaster was unshakable. Argos was but a cog in someone’s greater battle plan.

  If that weren’t troubling enough, he wasn’t the only one at the mercy of unseen commanders. As captain, he was responsible for his crew, both legally and morally. A part of him—admittedly small—even felt compassion for Ivan, who he suspected was as much cannon fodder as the rest of them. It was akin to a game of chess in which the middling pieces had been removed. A king and perhaps a queen, the rest of the squares filled by common pawns. He looked out over the horizon, and in the distance saw another ship, a thin trail of smoke rising easily from her stack into the misty day. He wondered mournfully where she might be headed.

  Though he could not know it, as Zakaryan stood ruminating from his catwalk, two other captains, masters of freighters very much like Argos and carrying nearly identical loads, were harboring similarly downcast thoughts. One, a Bulgarian in command of a converted reefer called Tasman Sea, had sailed from Cam Ranh Bay in Vietnam three days earlier. The Greek skipper of Cirrus had left the Syrian port of Tartus only yesterday. Like Argos, both ships made headway on a secretive schedule, and every twelve hours dispatched a message, via secure satellite link, to their new corporate parent. The messages were little more than standard reports of position and mechanical status. What was less routine was where those reports were received: not in some wharfside shipping office in Marseille or Piraeus, but rather in a nine-million-dollar chalet in Davos, Switzerland.

  EIGHT

  Windsom scythed a fast track south through heavy seas. Bari was in sight ten miles off the starboard beam, Albania somewhere beyond the horizon to port. They’d pulled anchor right away, and set a general course for the open Med. It was a magnetic heading that covered both potential outcomes. If they chose not to get involved, the open waters to the south were where safety lay. Otherwise, a right turn at the bottom of Italy led to the Strait of Messina and the approaches to Rome.

  “Davy is out,” Slaton said, emerging from the cabin to meet Christine at the helm.

  “Heavy seas do it every time,” she said. “They rock him right to sleep.”

  The wind was strong from the east, and the boat moved rhythmically on five-foot swells. With Davy napping, it was their chance for a discussion on how to proceed. Slaton had already covered the essentials of what Sorensen had in mind. Now they’d both had the morning to weigh it.

  “So,” Christine began, “could the Russians really believe you’re responsible for this man’s death?”

  “It sounds incredible, but they seem convinced Ivanovic was hit by a hired gun—in particular, a distance shooter. There aren’t many of those around. If you ask me, the fact that the FSB has any interest in Ivanovic’s death raises a red flag. It suggests he was more than just an entrepreneur.”

  “So … what happens if we ignore this?”

  “Best case, nothing. We go where the wind blows us.”

  “Worst case?”

  “The Russians come to the erroneous conclusion that I killed Ivanovic. They find out I’m not quite as dead as advertised, and resolve to take some justice.”

  “Justice?”

  “They’d have a few options. They might opt for intelligence sharing between nations. Maybe an Italian detective will show up at an immigration desk in Malta or Sicily, wherever we end up next, and take me into custody.”

  She blew out a long breath, then adjusted the trim on a sail. Her long auburn hair skimmed across her face in the wind, and she brushed it back with two fingers. Slaton couldn’t stop staring at her.

  “We’ve got to make port soon,” she said. “Our supplies are running low.”

  “I know.”

  “We could head for Greece or Spain. Even if the authorities somewhere take you in for questioning … I don’t see what we have to worry about. You were nowhere near Capri when this Russian was shot.”

  “You and I know that. Any investigation governed by rules of law would go nowhere. But it doesn’t always work that way. I have been involved in some indiscretions in recent years. Stockholm, Geneva, Paris. Truth is, you were mixed up in a few of them. If we don’t stay out ahead of this, there are police in a half dozen countries who could make uncomfortable associations. A few intelligence services would also like to have a word with me. And since you asked for the worst case … Sorensen made it clear that Ivanovic was tight with the Russian president. If the two of them were tied up in something unseemly, and President Petrov thinks I’m the one who killed Ivanovic—then the SVR itself might come looking for us. And they wouldn’t send detectives.”

  “You really think that could happen?”

  “It’s doubtful … but we can’t ignore the possibility.”

  Christine lapsed into silence.

  “There’s something else we should consider,” Slaton said. “This is the second time in a year that somebody’s tracked us down. Our off-the-grid plan isn’t working as well as we’d hoped.”

  “Meaning what? That we dry-dock the boat and try to hide out in Idaho? New names and a log cabin in the mountains?”

  “I’m not saying that. But as much as I hate to admit it, there are times when we could use some help.”

  “Help? From the CIA?”

  “At least as a one-off. They could tell us where the holes are in our cover. Maybe even warn us of impending threats.”

  “You sound like you’re leaning towards working with them.”

  “On its face, what Sorensen is asking for is simple. She wants a little professional advice on how Ivanovic was killed. In return they’ll do what they can to remove my name from the conversation.”

  “But it’s not so simple.”

  “Never is. She’s already admitted that there’s more to Ivanovic’s story than what she’s told me so far. There has to be to generate such interest on their part.”

  Christine made a slight course adjustment, then looked at the navigation display. “Okay, we’ve got ten hours to our turn point. We don’t have to commit until then.”

  “True. But I don’t expect any new revelations between now and then.”

  She was silent for a time, then looked down into the cabin. “It’s been a while since Davy has had a play date. Do they have two-year-olds in Rome?”

  “Last time I was there they did—lots of them.”

  Her voice went quiet as she studied the nav display. “I’m not sure we can make Rome by Wednesday.”

  “I figured it earlier. It’ll be tight, but with these winds I think we’re good. We can put in to Amalfi, take the train from there.”

  She eyed him accusingly.

  “I was only covering all the bases.”

  “Right. Well … I guess Rome is on our list of places to see.”

  He moved behind her and put his arms around her waist.

  She said, “All the same, if you come up with a good reason to go somewhere else in the next ten hours—I’d like to hear about it.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Now, get up to the bow—that anchor line never got stowed.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  Slaton weaved his way up front, his legs bending in concert with the boat. At the bow he coiled the hastily pulled anchor line and dropped it into
a stowage compartment. The boat lurched on a big wave, and he grabbed a stanchion to steady himself. He looked out across the sea ahead and wondered if they were doing the right thing. Had he presented the facts evenly, without any bias? Or had he steered Christine to his predetermined course?

  Slaton was content with the new life he and Christine had built, no regrets for the practical hurdles or requisite wanderlust. Yet there was a part of him—a very small part—that missed his work with Mossad. The adrenaline, the sense of mission, the camaraderie. Was it some deep-seated character flaw he was only now recognizing? Perhaps getting involved with the CIA was a symptom of his recovery—a kind of delirium tremens for state-sponsored assassins. Whatever the case, he vowed to tread carefully in working with Sorensen.

  As the Adriatic fell behind them, Slaton made an internal promise. His decisions in the coming days had to be taken with the greatest care, reflecting his new reality. With Mossad he had put his life on the line, but now he had responsibilities. He had people counting on him in different and very enduring ways.

  Most sobering of all, he knew that if his family were ever harmed as a consequence of his actions, he would never forgive himself.

  NINE

  They arrived in Amalfi on a wet Wednesday morning. Under the cover of a steady drizzle, Slaton located the police station with far more ease than in Vieste, and by ten o’clock Windsom was cleared for entry. Slaton made arrangements for their boat to be berthed in a slip for a week, telling the dockmaster that he and his family would be touring Rome—as ever, lies dressed in elements of truth. It was longer than they’d likely need, and would never have been possible at the height of the season. In late October, however, such an unscheduled stay was welcomed with a pleasant smile and an outstretched palm.

  Slaton, Christine, and Davy had breakfast ashore. They watched the weather clear from beneath an awning with a spectacular view of the Duomo di Amalfi, the famous cathedral framed by serrated mountains beyond. The end of breakfast brought a return to reality. Slaton purchased a pair of burner phones, got them up and running, and gave one to Christine. Soon after they were on a train to Rome.