Four minutes after walking away from the gas station, Slaton was in Belgium. He dodged bicycles as he crossed the Sûre River beside two lanes of traffic. There were no border crossing constraints, and on entering Rombach’s sister village of Martelange, Belgium, he maneuvered to the nearest high ground to get a look at the distant gas station.
From an ancient cemetery atop a hill he could see the three patrol cars, two of which had the Renault blocked in. Anna was no longer in sight, and he was sure she’d been put in one of the cars. An officer was searching the Renault’s trunk. Slaton had left behind little of note. His passport, phone, and weapon were all in his possession—standard on an op—and there was nothing in his rollerbag that would raise suspicion.
There was, however, one problem. Anna operated by the same rules, and so she still had the Beretta Nano. Slaton knew it was in her handbag—it was also standard practice that case officers shared the location of their weapons. This presented a problem: the gun laws in Luxembourg were strict. No civilian could own a firearm without going through a lengthy registration process, and foreigners were prohibited from bringing weapons into the country. All of this had been covered in the pre-mission briefing. It was conceivable Anna had ditched the weapon when she’d seen the police coming, perhaps dropping it in a trash can. Or better yet, into the bed of the work truck that had been parked at the adjoining pump—now probably miles away.
He chided himself for losing focus at the coffee stand. In those critical seconds he might have intervened, or at least gotten a better take on the situation. In the end, he decided the issue of the gun was a minor one—assuming Anna was being truthful about not being the shooter last night. Slaton wanted to believe it, now more than ever. Weapons charges Anton Bloch could manage; murder was something else.
Slaton spotted another police car, this one on the Belgian side. Different paint scheme, one officer behind the wheel. It was arriving from the northern road and didn’t pause near the bridge. A good sign, most likely a coincidental appearance. All the same, he edged behind a chestnut tree budding with new growth, another year’s shade arriving for overwatch on this tiny garden of souls.
As the Belgian squad car passed, Slaton tried to imagine how everything would play out. Sometime in the next twenty-four hours, Anna’s legend would fall apart. Calls made to Austria, her passport looked at closely. Mossad’s documents were good, but the information age had its way. He had to presume he’d been seen arriving with Anna. Her attractiveness was a double-edged sword—last night an advantage when it came to luring Moussa, today a beacon for every red-blooded male at the travel station. Someone would remember her, and perhaps also that she’d arrived with a man—on the tall side, athletic build, sandy hair. A man who’d gone inside and purchased two cups of coffee. On top of that, Slaton had seen cameras both inside the store and around the gas pumps—the modern bane of all clandestine operators. One way or another, his presence would be noted.
The mere act of crossing the border, simple as it had been, had bought him some time. The Belgian police car was gone, but could reappear at any moment. The authorities on this side of the river operated under an entirely different command structure. They would certainly assist the Luxembourg police, if asked, yet that kind of coordination took time. Slaton gave it thirty minutes. By then, he needed to be on his way.
He walked back to the street and turned into a tiny commercial district. As he searched for transportation options, he was thankful to have over a thousand euros in his pocket. Cash was best for not leaving an electronic trail, although in an increasingly cashless world it also drew attention. He saw an old car for sale in the driveway of a house, yet it didn’t look mechanically sound and one tire was flat. A bus might work, but they often had cameras, and sometimes alert drivers. Ride sharing would necessitate setting up an account using his false identity, and thereafter leaving an electronic record of his movement.
He was ducking under the awning of a tiny retail strip, intending to use his phone to explore public transportation, when a map in a window caught his eye. He edged closer, studied it in detail. It showed not only the roads in the area, but other paths that wouldn’t appear on a traditional map. Slaton backed up and regarded the business in front of him. The building was old and weathered, closer to a barn than a retail establishment, all dirty windows and paint-peeled siding. Yet it was perfect for its niche enterprise.
He weighed the idea carefully and decided it met all his requirements. Simple, cheap, and best of all, virtually untraceable. It was his best option.
First, however, he had one very important phone call to make.
“Where are you?” Bloch asked. He was leaving a follow-up meeting with Mordechai, getting the latest on the data cache from Moussa’s laptop.
Slaton’s voice was distant, traffic in the background. “Martelange, Belgium. We’ve got a problem.”
Bloch came to a dead stop in the brightly lit hall, a portrait of Golda Meir glaring down reproachfully. When assassins called in with “a problem” it was never a good thing.
“Anna is in police custody,” Slaton said.
“What happened?”
“They somehow tracked our car, blocked us in at a gas station right before we crossed into Belgium.”
“What’s your status?”
“I wasn’t in the car when the police showed up. Three patrol cars came, one right after the other. I didn’t see any way to intervene, at least not without creating an international incident. I left on foot and crossed into Belgium. I’m working on alternate means of transportation as we speak. I’d recommend you get in touch with the foreign ministry—this is going to require some diplomacy. Anna can stall through an interrogation, but her docs won’t hold up for long. Sooner or later, they’re going to find out she’s Mossad. They’ve probably already linked her to Moussa’s death. Witnesses at the hotel can place her at the bar with him last night, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize that Israel would have wanted him dead.”
“Was she carrying a weapon?”
“Yes, but it can’t be tied to Moussa’s murder. I asked her point-blank, and she swore she didn’t go back last night.”
“You believe her?” Bloch listened for any hesitation. There wasn’t one.
“No, Anna did not kill him.”
The director heaved a sigh. “All right. I will reach out to the prime minister and tell him we have a disaster in the making.”
“We should also assume the authorities are looking for the other car.”
“We heard from Yosy only minutes ago—he and the 8200 team are in France and nearly to Paris. Still, it’s a valid point. I’ll tell him to ditch the car immediately.”
“Where do you want me?”
The question gave Bloch pause. It was delicate ground, and his tone turned cautious, deliberate. “There has been a development. According to information taken from Moussa’s laptop … we believe his brother arrived in Luxembourg last night.”
“Ramzi? He almost never travels. Why would he go to Luxembourg?”
“The reasons are not completely clear, yet there was mention of him appearing in person to sign some documents.”
A lengthy pause on the Belgian end. “Or maybe he went to kill his brother.”
The thought had crossed Bloch’s mind as well, but the logic escaped him. “I agree, the timing is suspicious. But why would he do such a thing?”
“Why would he kill innocent women and children thinking it would make the world a better place? I stopped trying to understand these butchers a long time ago. It wouldn’t be the first time brothers turned on one another. Moussa handles a great deal of money, Ramzi does a great deal of killing—there’s a lot that can go wrong in a family like that.”
“Perhaps. On the other hand, if Ramzi wasn’t responsible—he might search for his brother’s killer himself.”
“Do you know if he’s still in the city?” Slaton asked.
“We’re scouring the data, but there are no specifics other than a meeting they’d arranged with a lawyer tomorrow.”
“I could go back and—”
“No! I know what you’re thinking, David, but now is not the time! You must get clear and make your way to Brussels. By the time you arrive, I will have your passage to Tel Aviv arranged. One case officer in jail is enough.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Slaton said.
The call ended.
Bloch stood looking at his phone. He felt like a launch officer in a missile silo who had no idea what button he’d just pressed.