Read Assassin's Silence: A David Slaton Novel Online
Authors: Ward Larsen
His eyes grew tired, and Astrid brought more coffee. He went back another year to view Grossman’s dealings, paying particular attention to the months just before he had died. The records would have been a treasure trove to a good investigator. There was constant activity, flows of money and counterflows of illicit arms. A handful of transactions Slaton recognized, movements of arms and money that he, under the alias Natan Mendelsohn, had brokered on Israel’s behalf. Uzis to the police force of the moderate Palestinian Authority in the West Bank, the lesser of evils, from Israel’s point of view, when compared to Hamas. Explosives sent to Jundallah, the Sunni wrench in Iran’s Shiite machine. There were any number of uses for a man like Grossman, and Mossad had taken full advantage, Slaton acting as conduit.
The second pot of coffee Astrid simply brought to the desk. Slaton trudged onward, studying wire transfers, shipping documents, and accounts receivable. It was on the third page of the sixth file that he hit a dead stop. The dollar amount of the transaction was insubstantial, at least by Grossman’s standards. In mid-July, nearly two years prior, and roughly a month before Benjamin Grossman had succumbed to cancer, Slaton saw a lone transaction:
$50,000 U.S. as 10% payment.
This much was easily extrapolated: half a million U.S. dollars was to be paid for … something. Yet that wasn’t what anchored his eyes to the screen. It was the address where the money had been sent. An address he had seen in another of Krueger’s files—the last warehouse that had been curiously empty. Now, in the payment notation, Slaton had a name to go with the Beirut address.
He committed both to memory, which wasn’t hard to do.
The address was 26 Geitawi Boulevard.
The name was Moses.
Umberto was standing in a corner of the operations building, near the converted closet he referred to as his office. Across the room Captain Petrecca was filing his flight plan on the telephone. Umberto marveled at the man’s confidence—even talking on the phone he exuded authority. Umberto had grown up near the airport, and he remembered as a child standing for countless hours near the runway—there had been no fences back then—to marvel at the big Douglas and Lockheed aircraft rumbling skyward to points across the globe. If things had been different, he might have been an airplane captain. Umberto, however, was nothing if not pragmatic, and he knew he’d long ago passed the point in life when truth overtook dreams.
The captain hung up the phone and headed for the door, seeming done with his preparation. Umberto made his move. “Would you like to see the weather forecast?” he asked, holding up a ream of papers he’d printed out.
“No, I have already done that. Besides, there are only two kinds of weather here—heat and rain. The only forecast I need for that is a window.”
The captain walked outside into the gathering morning light.
Undeterred, Umberto followed him, trotting to keep up with the man’s brisk pace across the tarmac. “How long will you be airborne?” he asked.
“At least two hours are necessary for a full systems flight check. Engines, avionics, pressurization. To certify airworthiness everything must operate properly.”
“Very well,” said Umberto. “I will make sure Miguel is ready with the stairs when you return.” He was pleased, thinking he’d put that well—an oblique suggestion that he himself had no pressing duties. The captain only walked faster.
Sensing his opportunity slipping away, Umberto relented to the direct approach. “Will you take a passenger?”
The captain drew to an abrupt stop. “
What?
Certainly not! We have work to do and you would only be in the way.” He turned and strode away.
Umberto was crestfallen. He stood dumbstruck for a moment, but then scurried after the man. When they arrived at the airplane the copilot was waiting at the foot of the boarding stairs.
“He wants to come with us,” the captain said, “but I told him it would be impossible.”
Umberto looked plaintively at the second pilot. He had spoken to the man only once, and on that occasion found him to be abrupt, bordering on rude. Umberto was equally put off by the man’s unprofessional appearance—he kept a ragged beard and his shirt was old and tattered, certainly not appropriate for the second-in-command of such a magnificent aircraft. All the same, the copilot eyed him now with a degree of empathy.
“Surely you can understand,” Umberto pressed, his gaze fixed on the younger man, “there is little excitement here in Santarém. To ride in such an aircraft, it would be the thrill of my life. I think I could guarantee you free beer tonight at my cousin’s bar—all you can drink.”
The copilot smiled, first at Umberto and then at his superior. “Actually, Captain, I think we might have room for one more. Remember the sidewall seat in the cargo area. I was originally thinking one of the mechanics might come along to help conduct systems tests in the cargo bay, but perhaps Umberto would do. He’s been a great service to us, and clearly he is a capable man.”
Umberto watched as the two exchanged a look. The captain, though appearing unmoved, gave a grudging nod and climbed the stairs without another word.
When he was gone, a buoyant Umberto embraced the copilot. “Thank you! Thank you! I promise I will be useful!”
Behind the black mask of his beard, the copilot smiled back. “I’m sure you will.”
* * *
The big jet began moving less than an hour later.
The preflight checks went well, as far as Umberto could tell, and soon he was belted into a webbed seat along the sidewall of the forward cargo area. Looking aft he saw the tunnel of the fuselage—other than the big tank between the wings, the bay was completely empty, which made the aircraft seem more cavernous than ever. The big jet’s engines rose to a crescendo, and the takeoff acceleration pushed him sideways into the nylon webbing.
Soon they were airborne, and Umberto gripped the rails of his seat as the ride became bumpy. The cockpit door was open, yet from where Umberto sat neither pilot was in view. He could, however, see a sliver of sky in the forward windscreen, and through the circular portal in the entry door across from him wisps of white cloud skimmed past at terrific speed. His senses were overloaded by the sights and sounds—it was every bit as exhilarating as he’d imagined.
They’d been in the air no more than ten minutes when the captain called out from the front. “It will be turbulent for a time! Keep your seat belt fastened!”
Umberto shouted that he would, quietly hoping that things eventually settled enough to allow what he truly wanted—to see the cockpit during flight.
What a sight that would be!
Soon blue sky filled the port window, and the turbulence improved considerably. The big jet droned smoothly, and Umberto waited with all the patience he could muster. After what must have been half an hour, he could take it no more. He called out in a loud voice, “Sir, must I still remain in my seat?”
His words seemed lost in the big tube, muted by the hiss of rushing air. He wondered what caused that noise. The wind outside? Or was it the pressurization system? He had so many questions.
“Can I come up with you?” he called out.
No reply.
Could the pilots hear him? He had no idea, but he sensed his chance slipping away. For the second time that day, Umberto acted on impulse. He unbuckled and stepped cautiously toward the cockpit door. Rounding a bulkhead he saw the flight deck, bright sun streaming through the windshield, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they did, what he saw concerned him. The captain was there, half-turned in his seat. The man was completely ignoring his instruments, his gaze fixed on Umberto. Even more disturbingly, the copilot’s seat was quite empty.
The little Brazilian stood still, confused. “But where is—”
It was a question Umberto Donato never finished.
The worst news of the day came just after noon.
9847 Old Cedar Lane
.
Slaton stared at the address for a very long time. He stepped through the accounts and saw it in each one, a second administrative alteration: not only was ownership being tied to his name, but it now reflected the address of a certain suburban Virginia residence. The house where his wife and his son were likely eating breakfast at this moment.
Had someone realized he was watching? Was it some kind of threat?
Struck by an urge for fresh air, he picked up his half-full mug and went to the window. Very carefully, Slaton surveyed the nearby chalets, cars, and sidewalks before venturing onto the balcony. He leaned on the rail and a sharp breeze bit his exposed skin, countered intermittently by rays of warmth as the sun battled broken cloud layers. He should have appreciated the spectacular scenery, the steep mountainside and conifer forest, all dressed in white and accented by crisscrossing dots of color that were skiers carving their way downhill.
Slaton saw none of it.
The men from Malta once again. But who were they?
Soldiers. That much was clear, notwithstanding the fact that the original squad of four was now down to two. Ben-Meir was Israeli, the one he’d downed in Mdina Polish. The others certainly had military backgrounds—until service in the name of honor and country had been replaced by a calling of greater liquidity. Yet whatever scheme Slaton was caught up in, it was not authored by a group of hired commandos. He sensed logistics and support, someone who could recruit soldiers and sign paychecks. An unseen planner and quartermaster.
Slaton watched a skier in a red jacket at the top of the mountain. It was a woman, he was sure, moving fast but with control. She floated left and right down the mountain, carving past the slower dots effortlessly like an alpine snowflake on a breezeless day. He envied her freedom, and appreciated the single-mindedness with which she went about her task. Watching the red jacket curve downhill Slaton was mesmerized, and soon one word settled in his mind.
How?
How did they track me to Zurich?
He had escaped the assault in Mdina by the thinnest of threads, then disappeared into the alleys of Valletta. He’d quietly arranged passage on a tramp steamer, and from there jumped into the cold Mediterranean. Finally, he’d traveled hundreds of miles under identity documents he knew to be pristine. Yet there they had been, lying in wait near the steps of Krueger’s office within an hour of his landing at Zurich International.
How?
The red jacket reached the bottom and was lost in a sea of brightly colored parkas. Slaton paced across the balcony, and as he looked out across mountains glistening in the sun, he deconstructed the attack in Zurich. He recalled every detail as best he could, hoping to spur something new, something useful. And it did come.
The plumber’s van.
He envisioned it parked in front of Krueger’s office, and recalled the name and logo emblazoned on the side: L
ASZLO
I
NSTALLATIONEN
. And below that: S
INCE
1940.
Slaton hurried back inside and typed the name into the computer’s search engine, along with “Zurich.” The answer came immediately. Laszlo Installationen was nowhere to be seen, not today, and certainly not in 1940. Which meant the van was a well-devised cover. Fictitious companies were always preferable. To steal a legitimate plumber’s van guaranteed police involvement, not to mention the chance of surprise requests for warranty work from neighbors, or that another employee might spot the vehicle and recognize a fictitious work crew. Well-planned lies were always preferable. The only catch—they took time to manufacture.
Taking things further, Slaton knew it defied probability that Ben-Meir and his crew had planned a break-in of Krueger’s office, and that he had simply stumbled in at the wrong moment. The timing was too perfect. Which left but one option—a preplanned hit on Krueger’s office, the timing of which was based on his arrival. They had tracked him to Zurich. Once again,
how?
He was confident in the efficacy of his false identity, and from the airport he had gone directly to Bahnhofstrasse.
He was missing something.
He shifted in the seat, and a stab of pain caused him to glance down at his thigh. Slaton noted steam venting under the door of the master bathroom, Astrid in the shower. He went to the second half-bath and closed the door. Easing off his trousers, he pulled away the bandage and gauged his wound under the brilliant Hollywood lights. The gash was still there, and underneath the inch-long cut was a large lump. A foreign body lodged in the muscle tissue. Slaton had assumed it was a chip of stone or wood, or in the worst case, a deformed slug from a low-velocity ricochet.
Or?
An old thought echoed in his head, one that had first settled three days ago in a battered rooming house in Valletta.
Given such a team—experienced and heavily armed, with a well-designed plan, and facing an unarmed and surprised target—how on earth am I still alive?
He then remembered the words he’d heard the crew-cut man utter into his microphone:
“No contact. Do we pull back yet?”
Yet.
As if a retreat was planned. As if their objective had already been met.
Slaton put it all together, and suddenly saw everything in a new light—a light that shone with disquieting clarity. There
was
a way to prove the theory.
The question was how to go about it.
The distress call came one hour after takeoff, or as eventually noted by investigators, 10:21 a.m. Brasília Standard Time.
“Mayday! Mayday!”
Lucas Da Silva bolted upright in his chair. An air traffic controller for five years, he had heard those words on only one other occasion, a breathless plea from a student pilot who’d wandered too near a thunderstorm. The ever-steady Da Silva had managed to calm the young man and guide him to safety that afternoon, earning a plaque of commendation, and more meaningfully, a case of quality rum from the pilot. In spite of that favorable outcome, Da Silva had never forgotten the tone he’d heard on the radio that day—the naked, visceral helplessness of a man staring fate in the eye. Now he was hearing it again, only this time from a big jet, undoubtedly piloted by an experienced, professional crew.