Free Assassin's Game by Ward Larsen

Mossad. Centering on this, and disregarding who else might be involved, his answer fell into place. He knew precisely what his next step had to be.
    That settled, Slaton allowed his body to relax. He heard the sounds of the city outside his window—passing cars, shouted greetings, a far-off siren. Then, amid the asynchronous din, he extracted another sound, this more constant. It was deep and resonating, a distinctive signature to anyone who was familiar—the diesel rumble of a boat on the waterway. He knew nothing of the boat’s function, nothing about its destination, but that steady sound gave Slaton a fleeting peace of mind.
    Minutes later, he was fast asleep.

 
    NINE
    Slaton woke at six-thirty. He’d slept well but was hardly refreshed, his body still in arrears to the tune of six time zones. At the bathroom mirror he weighed the question of whether to shave his thickening beard. He’d not bothered since Christine had left for the conference, almost a week now. Slaton decided to leave it as it was, reasoning that a disheveled look was ideal for a man in his circumstances.
    He showered and donned fresh clothes, a pair of tan cotton pants and a long-sleeve button-down shirt. The shirt was a shade of red so bright it might have doubled as a bullfighter’s cape. He pocketed his passport and a wallet full of identification attesting him to be Edmund Deadmarsh, along with the grand sum of thirty-seven hundred dollars—he had cleaned out his and Christine’s joint checking account before leaving Virginia. Everything else went into his suitcase, and that went into the closet.
    He passed under the Strand’s front awning at 6:55, turned left, and took up a leisurely pace. Rounding the waterway, Slaton passed the café where Christine had last been seen two days ago. The establishment, which he imagined had been cordoned off by police tape yesterday, was again open for business, the maître d’ ignoring a pressure cleaning crew that was busy removing a dark stain from the nearby sidewalk. Slaton might have stopped to take a seat, and from there sketch what had happened. He could ask questions of employees and regular customers, and study the hasty repairs.
    He didn’t because his strategy precluded it.
    Farther up the street, he stopped at a news kiosk and purchased the only English language newspaper on the stand, a day-old copy of the New York Times . He put the paper under his arm and walked toward the waterfront, stopping now and again as if taking in the sights. The air was still and crisp, and the sidewalks quiet on a languid Sunday morning. Along the waterfront he saw tour boats, water taxis, and a lone police runabout. Sanderson had not mentioned the type of vessel Christine used to escape her pursuers, and Slaton made a mental note to ask that question when the chance came. If the chance came.
    He began moving again, a red-shirted sightseer keeping a predictable pace. He never once looked behind him or reversed direction, and made not a single abrupt turn. He nodded cordially to two policemen riding past on bicycles, and ignored a white panel van that was parked crookedly at the mouth of an alley. Two blocks from the first café he paused at the entrance of a second, the Renaissance Tea Room, and pretended to study a breakfast menu that was posted on a stand. As if finding the fare agreeable, he turned inside and asked for a specific table, a request the host was happy to accommodate on what was clearly a slow morning.
    Slaton sat overlooking the waterway and Strandvägen, much as Christine had done two days earlier only a few hundred yards away. Morning smells filled the air, coffee brewing and bacon on the grill. He lingered over the menu, and on the waiter’s third pass ordered a comprehensive breakfast—fresh fruit, eggs, sausage, and toast. As his meal was being prepared, Slaton addressed a pot of English Breakfast tea. He found it a nicely robust and flavorful blend, as one would expect from a