Assassin's Revenge Read online

  “Of course, there are many. I have heard Gasthaus Thaller is nice, and quite reasonable.” He gave easy directions.

  “Thank you for the recommendation,” Slaton said.

  The driver handed over an old-fashioned business card with a phone number for Flughafen Taxi. He smiled again. Slaton pocketed the card, bid the man a pleasant evening, and left the warmth of the cab.

  He zipped up his jacket and began walking east on Vorgartenstrasse, toward both the restaurant and the rooming house. Only after his taxi was out of sight did he pause on the sidewalk, do a calm about-face, and set out in the opposite direction. With one right turn, the river was ahead of him. Of all the hotels in Vienna, Gasthaus Thaller was the last he would patronize tonight. Nor would Restaurant Thalassa have his company for dinner. And if he needed a ride? In spite of its competent service and smiling drivers, Flughafen Taxi would not get the call.

  At a casual pace it took him ten minutes to reach the Danube. Slaton veered onto the pedestrian walkway built into the broad Reichsbrücke Bridge. The ebony water below reflected the city’s lights, giving definition to swirling currents and spin-off eddies. At the bridge’s halfway point he reversed onto a set of switchback stairs, descending to the tree-lined island that split the two branches of the river. He emerged from the shadows of the overpass, paused briefly, then took up the southward walking path.

  He saw no obvious tails. His surveillance detection routes on the streets of Vienna had so far mirrored the precautions of his flight and cab ride—rudimentary at best, and patently overt. Because the park was expansive, and because at this hour there were still a good number of people milling on its trails, even the most stringent defensive protocols could not rule out the chance of surveillance.

  Given the method by which he’d been contacted, not to mention the compressed time frame, Slaton thought it very possible that he was under watch. In effect, he had been summoned to this little plot of Europe by persons unknown. His thoughts roved to the negative, and for a moment he imagined himself a slow-moving target in another shooter’s gunsight. The chance of such a trap was small, he decided, and anyway, there was nothing to be done about it.

  It was simply a risk he had to accept.

  Move like what you are … an assassin plotting a kill.

  He advanced westward down the riverside path, keeping an easy pace. The island was more narrow than he remembered, a common idiosyncrasy of childhood memories. He knew it carried centrally through the river for more than ten miles. The portion he was now strolling was the most frequented, while the extremes on either end were little more than paved trails that drew the odd bicyclist or distance runner. The central gardens were the most popular, built for summer but frequented year-round. He saw a clapboard café and a paddleboat rental shack, and across the waterway, at the foot of the greater park, a disassembled pontoon bridge stood ready to be connected to the island. All of it was stilled now, dusted in snow. Waiting for the season of life.

  To his left the river kept its faithful passage, while the water on his right was closer to an elongated lake, currentless and, on this chill night, ice-bound at the edges. He walked west along the shoreward path, his orders echoing in his head.

  Danube Island, north shore semicircle

  Three benches, three trees

  The place where his target would appear in roughly twenty-four hours. A plot of ground Slaton had to find and feel and memorize from every angle. He rarely undertook such surveys under rushed conditions. He preferred to linger and study, to consider variables and make assessments. Unfortunately, on this assignment, he had no such luxury.

  He passed a number of people on the trails, couples mostly, and a few singletons walking dogs. His attention was caught by a pair of young boys—twelve, perhaps thirteen years old. They were meandering the greater park to the north, across the lake, and Slaton watched their every move. Kids were invariably local area experts. They knew where to find broken panels on fences, which vacant backyards could be cut through. In this case, he watched them disappear into a small grove of trees. They fell completely out of sight. Probably to smoke a joint, or perhaps share a pint of whiskey.

  Noted.

  There were overhead lamps at intervals along the paths, and light from the city cut the gloom between them to something near dusk. After five minutes Slaton encountered a semicircular observation patio that jutted toward the shore on his right. It was backed by a single bench. No trees nearby. He kept going, but sensed he was on the right track. Three minutes later he came upon a second arc of pavement. It was similar in size to the first, but the half-moon of concrete was accented by chords of inset stone that Slaton thought might be Wetterstein limestone—masonry was his subordinate calling. More notably, to his left, along the flat shoreward edge of the path, he saw three empty benches and three leafless trees.

  He looked up the trail, wondering if there could be others like it ahead. He decided the possibility had to be ruled out, and continued for another mile. The farther he walked, the more remote things became. Fewer people encountered, more space between lights. Convinced he’d found the right spot, Slaton turned back. When he again reached the half-circle terrace he paused.

  He stood in the center and turned 360 degrees. He imagined how the scene might be different tomorrow night. Would there be changes in weather or visibility? Was tomorrow an Austrian holiday of some kind? Across the river to the north he noted a natural amphitheater with a small stage. Could there be an event scheduled for the following evening? A concert or a party? A corporate gathering? All seemed doubtful given the season, yet points worth checking. Discreet variables that could be factored out. He recalled passing a cluster of buildings at the outset of his walk, the small café and a pair of docks backed by boat sheds. All were locked down for the season, but these were the nearest structures, and so they warranted closer inspection.

  Absorbing the scene around him, Slaton found his attention drawn northward. His shooter’s eye progressed instinctively to areas of high ground and cover, no bias given for what was natural or manmade. As he did so, he was struck by an obvious spectacle: something that made this tiny slab of concrete and stone different from anyplace else on the thirteen-mile-long island.

  There, straight across the river and fixed centrally in Danube Park, was a landmark that stood above all others—quite literally.

  The Donauturm.

  The Danube Tower.

  Slaton remembered touring the tower as a young boy. At over eight hundred feet, it was the tallest structure in Austria. It had been built sometime in the sixties, when giant urban needles topped by rotating restaurants were all the rage. He recalled two high-speed elevators. A harried teacher ushering her gaggle of wide-eyed schoolboys inside. He remembered standing on the high observation platform and marveling at the spectacle beyond: one of Europe’s great cities sprawling before him. He supposed little had changed since then, other than a thickening of the city’s urban waistline.

  He pulled out his smartphone and checked the hours of operation for the Donauturm. It was open nightly until 11:30. A peculiar notion began to settle in Slaton’s head. It began as a curiosity, but soon grew and gained definition. Before he knew it, he was succumbing to an outright revelation.

  Twelve hours ago, he had received the instructions to an assassination on what he’d thought was his “safe phone.” Since then, he’d been operating on the assumption that he was dealing with a state actor. Or at the very least, some established criminal or terrorist organization. Either way, an adversary who would know how assassins operated, and who understood the implicit rules of such contracts.

  Now, as he stood staring at the needlelike tower, Slaton realized he’d gotten it all wrong. He wasn’t dealing with professionals at all.

  He was dealing with amateurs.

  On one hand it made tomorrow’s job that much easier. On the other—it made the outcome far less predictable.

  NINE

  If words could have natio
nalities, repression would keep full citizenship in North Korea. A traditionally agrarian society, its people have an extensive history of suffering. While surrounding nations have modernized, the North has lagged at every turn. Foreign invasions, royal assassinations, and outright annexation by neighbors have all laid the pitch.

  These epic struggles are largely a misfortune of geography. The upper Korean Peninsula lies doomed in a political no-man’s-land, vised between great powers whose strategic turns and shifting alliances are nothing short of tectonic. To the north and west, respectively, are borders with Russia and China, the world’s corruption-laden communist champions. Along the 38th parallel it stares down South Korea, Asia’s new and full-throttled economic miracle—which from the North’s perspective can only be like looking into a mirror to see the beauty that might have been. Across the eastern sea is Japan, the previous generation’s powerhouse, and, as oft reminded by the North’s leadership, a former colonial master.

  Notwithstanding North Korea’s troubled pedigree, the bygone ravages inflicted by its neighbors are trivial compared to those more recently endured. The Kwon dynasty has ruled since the settling of dust after World War II. In that time, slave labor, Soviet-style Gulags, and religious persecution have become the norm. Outside Pyongyang there are few basic services, and years of mismanagement have made famine and malnutrition pervasive—to the point that an entire generation of North Koreans suffer stunted growth. The ruling class is spared hunger, but suffers in its own way, a fitful blend of infighting, purges, and arbitrary executions. Yet if the Kwon dynasty could be distilled to one summing legacy, it would be that after seventy years in power, following Soviet and Japanese domination, not a single living North Korean has a first-hand recollection of living in freedom.

  Boutros looked out the window as the small airplane descended. He saw what could only be the Sea of Japan. It looked utterly frigid, slabs of ice lining the shore like so many winter beachgoers. Distant breakers gave the appearance of being tipped in snow before fading into the nothingness of a flat black sea. For a lifelong resident of the Fertile Crescent, it was all strange and mesmerizing. It was also a timely distraction. A rare buoyant moment to lessen the weight on his shoulders.

  He pulled his eyes back into the cabin and took stock of his team. Four out of five, he thought with satisfaction. Not bad.

  It had taken the best part of two days for his squad to reach North Korea. But reach it they had. Only one member had failed to complete the journey—Adnan, one of the two martyrs. According to a message he’d been detained in Frankfurt. The authorities had released him after a brief questioning, but he’d missed his connecting flight to Beijing. Boutros realized that trying to go through Germany was a mistake—they were always such sticklers. But what was done was done. He had no idea if Adnan was still trying to reach China, but it hardly mattered. Sami, the martyr who’d gotten through, was capable enough, and probably the more useful of the two. Even more encouragingly, both technicians had arrived—a sure sign of Allah’s blessing. Boutros never doubted that he himself would complete the passage.

  Not bad at all.

  They’d been collected at the Beijing airport by a taciturn man who spoke tortured English through lemon-sour lips. He claimed his name was Park, and he was certainly North Korean. Boutros guessed him to be an intelligence officer of some manner—and by the clout he’d displayed so far, he had to be high-ranking. His face was round and smooth-skinned, and dark eyes were set behind thick glasses. He had a stocky, squarish build beneath a fur-trimmed hat and high-collared parka. After Boutros and his men had arrived, closely spaced at Beijing’s Capital International Airport, they’d waited over an hour for word on Adnan. It was Park who finally received a call detailing Adnan’s troubles.

  When Boutros mentioned that Adnan wasn’t critical to the mission, Park never hesitated. He had whisked them through a series of hallways, somehow bypassing customs. At three security checkpoints their guide flashed his credentials, the guards snapping to attention and waving them onward every time. Boutros knew the Chinese and North Koreans had a close alliance, but he’d been prepared for at least a cursory inspection before departing Beijing.

  Next had come a short ride on a shuttle bus to a remote corner of the airport. There Boutros and his squad had been ushered onto a small turboprop. Park complained they were running late—he said they never should have waited for Adnan if he wasn’t critical to the mission. The flight across the final border took less than an hour. Now, after transiting the narrow waist of the Korean Peninsula, they were skirting the eastern coastline. Boutros heard the engines throttle back, felt the airplane begin to descend.

  He watched through the oval side window, and soon they were skimming low, the trees below seeming close enough to touch. The forest suddenly fell away and a runway appeared. The airplane touched down smoothly, and as it slowed Boutros saw what looked like a military airfield. On a tarmac washed in blowing snow, a small fleet of mismatched aircraft sat parked in a row. He saw one fighter, three transports of various types, and a pair of helicopters. The only commonality between them was the paint scheme—dull gray body, a bold red star on the tail. All looked old enough to have flown in the big war seventy years ago.

  The turboprop pulled to a stop, its nose bowing once as if playing to an audience. The engines went quiet, and a short set of stairs were wheeled to the entry door. Park produced a small leather satchel, then led the way outside. At that point, four lifelong residents of the Middle East were introduced to true winter. Beneath a steel gray sky that would have done London proud, a harsh wind swept snow sideways. Boutros and his squad walked unsteadily across the ramp, which seemed to undulate under ribbons of snow. The visitors slipped on patches of ice and stuffed their hands deep into the pockets of their light jackets. Park hurried ahead of them. With short quick steps and a satchel looped over his shoulder, he looked like a mailman running behind schedule.

  They reached a big sedan, and, after the visitors dropped four pieces of hand luggage into the trunk, everyone bundled inside. Park started the engine, then went back outside and began feverishly scraping snow and ice from the windshield. His breath went to vapor as he worked, clouding in front of his mouth like so many empty speech balloons. He finally got back behind the wheel. Boutros was next to him, the other three bundled in back.

  Without a word, Park put the car in gear and steered north along the coast road. Everyone waited for the heater to take hold.

  TEN

  After an hour Boutros couldn’t say where they were. He certainly knew better than to ask. The late-afternoon sun topped the hills to his left, and on the right the Sea of Japan ran defiantly to the horizon. He studied the water with a cautious eye, and thought how different it seemed from the Persian Gulf.

  They passed through villages dotted with ramshackle houses, and a few clapboard sheds might have passed for businesses. The people he saw looked weary and beaten, and more than a few appeared to be gathering firewood. Along the two-lane highway, he noted the occasional road sign, although those without pictograms were wholly indecipherable. They had so far encountered three roadblocks, but were waved through each time. Boutros noticed that the soldiers at the checkpoints seemed to have no transportation beyond the odd bicycle. Even ISIS, in its heyday, had managed to supply traffic stops with technicals.

  His men conversed occasionally in hushed Arabic—what sounded to Boutros like the musings of tourists on their first overseas trip. With the first part of their journey behind them, things were loosening up.

  “Look!” Sami said to Saleem. “What is that?” He was pointing toward a great concrete monument on the shore to the right. It consisted of a thirty-foot-tall concrete fist holding a hammer, and next to that was something akin to a rain gutter—albeit large enough to carry a small ship to sea.

  Boutros exchanged a knowing glance with Rafiq. The engineer was the only one among them who’d traveled abroad. He had been born in Syria, and attended university for a t
ime in London, although he’d never graduated. He had also spent a year in Russia, which meant he was well versed in the Brutalist glory of communist architecture.

  Park’s attention had been stirred. Sami had posed his question in Arabic, yet they were all looking at the monument. “Monument of Victorious Liberation,” said Park with no small measure of pride. “A tribute to Chinese soldiers who died in war.”

  Boutros thought it looked more like a monument to subjugation, hectares of gray concrete brooding over the shoreline, all sharp angles and conquest.

  “Do you think such a monument will be built in our honor?” asked Sami, keeping to Arabic.

  “Of course,” said Saleem. “There have long been plans to build a martyrs’ square in the center of the caliphate. God willing, when our lands are restored we will be so remembered.”

  In the visor mirror Boutros saw Sami beaming. The kid was nineteen, or so he said, from a rough section of Tripoli. He had the smile of a schoolboy but the nerve of a true believer. The best weapon Allah has ever bestowed upon us, thought Boutros.

  Sami and Saleem were actually cousins, albeit from opposite sides of Libya. As if reflecting that geographic divide, they displayed diametrically opposed personalities. It was a false premise that suicidal jihadists were uniformly taciturn and twitchy young men. Sami had worked as an entertainer at children’s parties, and confessed to once being an aspiring comedian. That dream had been curbed two years ago, on the day a rival militia had sent a rocket-propelled grenade through his mother’s kitchen window. He’d immediately vowed revenge, but lacking a clear idea of who was responsible, Sami had let God and his ISIS disciples set the course for retaliation. And so they had—owing to Adnan’s non-arrival, he was now the lone martyr on their mission.

  Saleem, with his sunken cheeks and dark eyes, was a stark contrast to Sami’s cheerful visage. Innately grim and purposeful, he had his own foundation in religious-fueled outrage—the loss of two older brothers to an airstrike in Syria. That the bombs could have been dropped by the Russians, Syrians, or even the Americans was immaterial—in his eyes, they were all cut from the same godless lot. Saleem was consumed by anger, and ISIS had been happy to funnel his rage into a relationship with improvised explosives—over time, a calling that came to border on artisanship.