Free Assassin's Game by Ward Larsen Page B

if…” Sanderson paused and rubbed his chin, “as if once he’d entered Sweden, his documents were somehow wiped clean. They were legitimate at one point, but now have gone lost in cyberspace.”
    “Is that possible?” Sjoberg asked witheringly.
    “I don’t know—we’re looking into it. In the meantime, I’ve asked Sergeant Elmander to keep an eye on Deadmarsh.”
    “On a Sunday? You realize our extra pay accounts are already overextended this quarter.”
    Sanderson bit down hard on the reply that was welling up.
    Sjoberg raised his chin theatrically, in a way that made Sanderson think he might order canvas put to the mizzenmast. “Arne, I’m counting on you—we can’t drop the ball on this one.”
    “Is that something I’ve made a habit of?”
    “No, of course not. I put you in charge with every confidence. It’s just that…” Sjoberg hesitated, “well, this is a high-profile inquiry. I want you to know what’s at stake.”
    Sanderson knew precisely what was at stake—Assistant Commissioner Paul Sjoberg’s step up to National. He said, “I think I have a good idea.”
    “Good. Give me an update this afternoon. Three o’clock?”
    “Three o’clock,” Sanderson repeated, retreating to the door.
    Paul Sjoberg stared at the threshold long after Sanderson was gone, his fingers tapping the blotter on his desk. After a full minute, he went back to his computer. He called up his email and reopened a file near the top.
    From: Dr. Ernst Samuels, M.D./NPMS
    Subject: D/I Sanderson
    Please be advised that Detective Inspector Sanderson has no-showed a second appointment. Given the nature of his evaluation, I recommend that he reschedule immediately, and if necessary be pulled from duty to accommodate. A third event will result in a formal letter of complaint through department channels.
    Regards,
    E. Samuels, M.D.
    NPB Health Services
    Sjoberg composed the most conciliatory reply he could muster and hit the Send button. He then wondered what the hell to do.
    *   *   *
    It took nearly two hours for Slaton to be proved correct. He was scanning a review for a thriller he would never read when a man sat down at his table. Slaton didn’t look up right away, but instead tipped the last of the tea into his cup, the dregs of the pot thick and flavorful. It was a good ten seconds before he lowered the Times .
    “It took you long enough,” he said in Hebrew.
    He was looking at a man roughly his equal in height, but considerably heavier. He had dark eyes, curly black hair shot with threads of gray, and was casually dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. One hand gripped the arm of his chair while the other, in an awkward set, was positioned near the open zipper of his dark windbreaker. Outside, there was not a breath of wind. The man responded to Slaton’s taunt by simply sliding a black iPhone across the table, angling between a spent glass of orange juice and a bowl of sweetener packets.
    Slaton put the Times on the table. He ignored the phone and gave the man a level, dispassionate stare. The same look a headmaster might give a recidivist truant.
    “How long have you been in country?” Slaton asked.
    The man obviously didn’t want to chat, but Slaton waited, making it clear who was in charge.
    “A week,” the man replied, keeping with Hebrew.
    Slaton’s eyes drifted obviously to the street. “Where is your partner?”
    To his credit, the man didn’t flinch. “Just take the damned phone.”
    The waiter was bearing down. Slaton waved him away, and while his right hand swiped the air dismissively, his left foot inched forward under the table.
    “Who will I be talking to?” Slaton asked.
    “It’s a secure line.” The courier offered nothing more.
    Slaton picked up the phone and saw that it was ready to connect to a number labeled HOME . He tapped the screen, and the call was answered before even a single ring had rattled the handset. “This is the director.” The voice was flat and featureless,