Assassin's Revenge Page 6

  In the greater scheme, of course, backgrounds were secondary. Boutros knew that when the time came for sacrifice, all would be equally committed. For now, he was happy to keep the mood light—no small feat for an ISIS commander guiding his team through the most rigid police state on earth.

  “Is the heater working?” asked Saleem. The weather was deteriorating, curtains of cloud seeming to touch the brooding black sea. The temperature, according to the dashboard readout, was −9 Celsius. Well below the freezing point.

  “Barely,” said Rafiq.

  “We need warmer clothes before the next part of our journey,” said Boutros in English. They’d all brought jackets from home, but the Arctic wind sweeping off the sea was unlike anything they’d experienced.

  “It will be arranged,” said Park.

  “How long until we reach our destination?” asked Saleem.

  Park either didn’t hear the question or chose not to answer.

  “I think we are close,” said Boutros. He had a general idea of where they were headed, but no map, nor any way to fix their present position.

  “What will it be like?” asked Sami, switching to Arabic.

  “You think I have been here before? Look out the window. It is cold and wet and gray.”

  “Just like the women!” Rafiq added.

  There was laughter among the squad, until Saleem asked, “How long will we stay?”

  Boutros could almost feel the light mood seep from the car, as if pulled into the bitter air outside. He was suddenly struck by the precariousness of their situation. North Korea and ISIS, born of wildly different circumstances, had somehow been cast together. He supposed it was inevitable—a strained brotherhood among the world’s outcasts. One a hermit kingdom, the other a decimated army of Allah. But together? Soldiers in search of a battle.

  “We stop here,” Park announced.

  Boutros looked ahead and saw a roadblock, two trucks and a handful of soldiers. One of the soldiers put up his hand in a classic halt signal.

  “Stay inside,” Park ordered. He didn’t seem particularly worried.

  Park got out, walked toward the guard, and put his credentials on display. The man went to rigid attention, and the ensuing conversation was decidedly one-way.

  “Is there a problem?” asked Sami.

  “No, it will be fine,” Boutros replied. He turned to face his men, his voice going an octave lower. “I have shared few details of our plan with you, but I’m sure you can understand why. If any of us had been captured or interrogated during our travels, it could have jeopardized everything. Believe me when I tell you this—we are pursuing the most important mission our caliphate has ever attempted.” He let that sink in for a moment. “We are traveling to a small fishing village. We will stay there one night, perhaps more—things are very dependent on the weather this time of year. Once conditions permit, we will be given a boat carrying almost everything we need for our strike.”

  “Almost?” queried Saleem.

  “We are to be given the components of a very lethal weapon. Most of it is in place, and the rest will be delivered soon.”

  A clearly doubtful Saleem looked outside and said, “It seems strange that we can find something so important here, in this godforsaken place.”

  Boutros followed his eyes out the window. Snow rippled over the road in waves. It reminded him of sand undulating across dunes during the haboobs back home. There was something about this landscape, with its frozen sea and downtrodden people, that seemed ideally suited to their mission. “For what we are attempting,” he said, “this is the perfect place. We should be thankful God has forsaken it.”

  “Will there be time to pray when we arrive?” asked Saleem.

  “Yes, rest assured. There is always time to pray.”

  ELEVEN

  Slaton slept fitfully in a modest rooming house two blocks from the river. He woke at eight, showered to shake away the mental mist, and took a buffet breakfast on the first floor. A breakfast, most critically, that included a deep cup of coffee. At the front desk he arranged to keep his room for another night, and assured the manager that it required no attention from housekeeping—Slaton did not expect to remain until tomorrow, but it gave him a safe house for the balance of the day.

  He set out on foot under clear skies and a cool breeze. The city in the light of day was much as he remembered: classic yet unpretentious, like an art museum that displayed fine paintings, but whose curator preferred the honesty of scratched frames.

  Slaton had put no more than three blocks behind him when he confirmed his first tail. He shot a glance back while standing at a crosswalk, and noticed a young, slightly built man wearing a black jacket and sunglasses. He was idling at the entrance of a closed restaurant, pretending to study a menu in a wall-mounted glass encasement. Pretending, Slaton knew, because he himself had passed the same menu box and noticed it was empty. His eye had been drawn to the same man a block earlier when he’d hurried around a group on the sidewalk, only to then slow when Slaton paused at a store window. That kind of movement had but one logical explanation.

  Slaton kept going, and within two blocks he identified a second man: tall, thin, blue ski parka. The two were clearly running a tag team, one drifting out of sight while the other kept a visual. They were coordinating by text message, evident by flourishes of intermittent tapping on their mobiles. It could be an effective method, done well. But these two were agonizingly obvious. No professional team would perform surveillance in the way they were going about it. He saw no one else, but it was always healthy to assume a bigger detail than could be seen. He figured three was quite possible. Five a stretch.

  The question of who they were he put aside for the moment. Or at least he tried. Anyone following him here, today, had to be linked to Christine and Davy’s disappearance. In that moment, Slaton would have liked nothing better than to double back, eliminate one of the men, and beat the other mercilessly until he divulged what he knew. There was a slight chance such a plan would work. A far greater one that it would backfire and precipitate a disaster of the highest order. Anger as a strategy was rarely effective.

  Slaton kept walking, keeping to his task amid the morning throngs. He’d left the rooming house with only a vague sketch of how to prepare for tonight’s killing. Now, having hooked two trailers as easily as a charter boat trolling for mackerel, his thinking evolved. He combined the presence of the men behind him with what he’d seen in the park last night. Considered why they might be here and what they might know. The answers that came were not to his liking. Up until that moment, Slaton had been unsure how to pursue tonight’s assassination. Now his hand had been forced.

  He kept walking—not because he had a destination in mind, but more because he didn’t. He needed time to think. Slaton mentally blueprinted a number of schemes, and while none seemed perfect, he realized that certain essential elements were universal.

  At a major thoroughfare, with the Hofburg Palace coming into distant view, he stopped to reference his phone. He selected a map application and typed a search for what he needed. Three options appeared, and based on their websites, the most promising was a mere twenty-minute walk to the west.

  Slaton set out in that direction.

  Along the way he made two unexpected moves. He began by crossing against a light. Soon after that he performed an abrupt reversal, referencing his phone as if lost. It would keep his pursuers on their toes, but wasn’t enough to lose them. Not unless they were completely incompetent. As he made his way west, his plan gained definition. By the time he reached his destination, Slaton had most of the details in place.

  Buoyed to be making progress, he strode decisively under a green and brown awning and entered the second largest gun shop in Vienna.

  * * *

  There were two sales clerks in the store. Both were busy with customers.

  Slaton studied the place as he waited, his eyes wandering over pegboard walls and heavy glass display cases. One of the asso
ciates was a twenty-something man who, upon getting stuck on a credit card transaction, asked for help from the other. The senior man was in his fifties, and his quick response and commanding manner left no doubt—he was either the owner of the shop or the manager on duty. Either would suffice.

  This was the man Slaton needed to talk to.

  Conveniently, the man in charge was the first to become available. He bid good day to a customer in cargo pants and a camo jacket who walked outside with three boxes of .223 Remington cartridges.

  Slaton approached the counter and asked, “Do you speak English?” Regrettably, German was not among the half-dozen languages he spoke fluently.

  “Of course, sir. What can I do for you?”

  Slaton put his hands on a counter made of thick security glass. In the case beneath all manner of arms were on display: handguns, optics, magazines, knives, cleaning kits. “I’m in town on business,” he said. “When I have an hour to kill I usually end up in a place like this.”

  “I am the same,” said the Austrian. “Are you a collector, or a hunter perhaps?”

  “A bit of both, I suppose.”

  The man half turned and directed Slaton’s attention to one of the racks behind the counter. “Are you familiar with this model?”

  Slaton recognized an FNH FNAR .308 with a MIL-SPEC fluted barrel, forward laser rail, and ambidextrous mag release button. He said, “Not really.”

  The Austrian was reaching for the rifle when Slaton said, “Actually, I’ve been searching for a piece that’s a bit out of the ordinary.”

  The man looked at him blankly, neither eagerness nor caution in his expression. Slaton explained what he wanted, but only in a general sense, knowing it wasn’t the kind of thing kept on sales racks. The specific make and model, he went on to say, was of little concern. “Would you have something like that?”

  A long hesitation. “I should ask … why would you need such a weapon?”

  Slaton gave a shrug that he hoped was relaxed. “I suppose the same reasons anyone would.” He quickly shifted his gaze to the glass case. “Also, I am in the market for a good sight. You have the Schmidt & Bender T96?”

  The man’s expression brightened, finalizing Slaton’s earlier deduction. Owner.

  “Yes, a fine scope. Excellent for low light conditions. It also has a wide range of adjustment, making long-range shots easier.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “It is the scope that turns us all into the marksmen we wish we were.”

  Slaton smiled agreeably. “At that price, one would hope. I have had my eye on it for some time.”

  The owner pulled the scope from the case and put it in Slaton’s hands. He studied it in silence, nodding admiringly.

  After a time the owner cocked his head slightly, and said, “As for the other … I might have something that would interest you.”

  TWELVE

  The proprietor curled a finger to draw Slaton to the back of the store. They walked together, separated by the long display case, until the owner pushed through a curtain. Slaton followed him into a store-room where dozens of rifles and shotguns were locked down on racks. There were a half-dozen gun safes, and boxes of ammunition were stacked neatly to one side. The smell of gun oil permeated the air.

  The owner kept going, past the storeroom and turning down a hall. They ended in a small office. Slaton saw a desk littered with invoices and files. A computer to one side was a classic, a tower model whose plastic case had yellowed severely with age. Thick wires connected to an old cathode-ray monitor the size of a file box. On the wall were plaques of appreciation from gun manufacturers and framed certificates from weapons-training courses. An eight-by-ten photo showed the owner kneeling beside a trophy elk.

  The Austrian reached behind a cabinet in one corner and pulled out a matte-black shape that was intimately familiar to Slaton. “M16,” he said, impressed.

  “Military surplus. I took it only recently as…”

  “A trade?” Slaton ventured.

  The owner grinned sheepishly. “Army reservists often manage to keep such trophies when they retire—I suppose they should be accounted for more accurately, but one rather understands. It could never be sold openly, of course, yet for someone like me who might consider an exchange? I don’t ask where it comes from, and they are happy to receive fair credit.”

  “I’m sure they are.”

  Slaton took the long black stock in hand, testing its weight and balance. He noted the texture of the barrel and stock, and deemed it to be in reasonably good condition. Perfect for what he had in mind.

  “It is a one-of-a-kind item,” said the Austrian.

  Slaton knew otherwise, but didn’t belabor the point. “Tell me,” he asked, “are there any restrictions on such a sale?”

  “Austria has many restrictions on gun purchases,” said a man who would know. “But here, I think, an exception can be made. Tell me, you are Swedish, perhaps?”

  “Yes … my English always gives me away.”

  The owner looked pleased.

  Slaton set his prospective purchase down. “As you say, it’s a unique item. How much would you ask?”

  “Three hundred seems reasonable.”

  Slaton’s eyes shot up. It was a ruinous price. But it was exactly what he needed.

  “However,” the owner hedged, “if you were to buy the sight as well … I think two hundred would suffice.”

  “Done.” Slaton looked around the room. “Do you have something I can carry it in?”

  “Of course,” the owner said, adding a knowing smile. “One cannot simply go waltzing around Vienna with such a menacing armament in hand.”

  On another day, Slaton might have laughed. It was undoubtedly the owner’s go-to line for customers not wanting to be seen hauling fully automatic weapons through the peaceable streets of Vienna.

  “You won’t try to mount the Schmidt & Bender on that, will you?”

  “No. It would hardly be of any use.”

  The owner nodded, then eyed Slaton curiously. “What is it that you do for a living, my friend?”

  “As little as possible. I’m retired.”

  The Austrian looked at Slaton questioningly, perhaps skeptical that even Sweden could have such a lenient early retirement policy. When no further explanation was offered, the owner took it as his cue.

  He disappeared into the storeroom, and soon came back with a long, narrow cardboard box. The only markings on the outside were serial numbers and a scrawled inventory reference. Generic as it might be, the size and shape of the box belied its provenance as a shipping container for a rifle. Inside were foam seats that cradled the black stock and barrel perfectly. Back at the front counter, the owner made room inside for the scope. As he sealed it all with the original packing straps, Slaton found himself again perusing the glass case.

  “I’ll take that KM2000 as well,” he said, pointing to a sheathed combat knife on the bottom shelf.

  The owner retrieved the blade happily and wedged it into the box. “Our most popular knife.”

  Slaton was not surprised. He knew it was a solid piece, and standard issue for the German Army.

  “Will there be anything else?” the owner said hopefully.

  Slaton pried his eyes away from a Sig Sauer 9mm in the display case. Tempting as it might be, that was a bridge too far. “No, that will be all.” He pulled a wad of cash from his pocket, and the owner raised an eyebrow. It went down as soon as Slaton began peeling off bills.

  With the transaction complete, the two men exchanged best wishes for the day.

  * * *

  Slaton headed outside into a warming midmorning. He turned left on the sidewalk and picked up a course toward his rooming house. Within the first block he caught a glimpse of a blue ski parka across the street to his right.

  He made no attempt to keep track of his pursuers. Slaton still had no idea who they were. Not yet. But he was increasingly sure he knew why they were here. Any way he constructed it, he could see but one endgame.
He would put that to his advantage, and without any trace of mercy or remorse. From Slaton’s point of view, a line had been crossed. His family threatened. His first goal was simple: locate Christine and Davy. His second would be to get them safe. Only when that was done would one final act ensue—a more personal mission to ensure it never happened again.

  Fifteen minutes later, with the scalloped awning of his gasthaus in sight, Slaton glimpsed the blue parka once more. His convictions only deepened.

  Back in his room, he set the box across the arms of the sitting chair. He crossed the room to the window and fingered back the heavy blind. He saw no sign of either man. This raised his level of caution a notch. But only one.

  Slaton spent ten minutes on the smartphone he’d retrieved from his stash on Sirius. He input information on a website, waited five more minutes, then headed back out to the street. He walked three blocks north, one west, and disappeared into the office of a well-known car rental agency. With his reservation and paperwork already completed online, he gave a warm smile to the indifferent attendant behind the counter. Ninety seconds later he had a key in hand and was out the rear door to the parking garage.

  * * *

  “What happened?” the Uzbek asked urgently. He was completely out of breath.

  Around the corner from the car rental agency, three men huddled in a tight triangle on the sidewalk. The Uzbek, a squat fireplug of a man, presided over the hastily called conference. With him were a young Tunisian in a black jacket and sunglasses, and a lanky Somali wearing a blue ski parka. They stood together on a cold slab of sidewalk, a thousand miles from any of their birthplaces. Three men bound by little more than a loose commitment to Islam. On this day they were doing Allah’s work in a way none could ever have imagined.