It could have been anything. An overzealous port official or a marine mechanic looking for work. A neighborly welcome from another boat. Perhaps the police were more competent than expected, and had boarded Windsom for a customs inspection. Those were the best-case scenarios. Bleaker possibilities governed Slaton’s response.
With one look at his distant inflatable runabout, he realized his dilemma. If anything ominous was taking place, he was in a deep tactical hole—as things stood, he was facing an approach to Windsom not only unarmed, but with no hope of surprise. It was an unacceptable equation, meaning he had to change a variable.
For an assassin—in essence what Slaton was, despite his attempts to leave that life behind—it is an essential skill to employ a weapon. By extension, the ability to acquire firepower when empty-handed is every bit as fundamental.
He had actually once given a lecture on the subject during a brief stint at Mossad’s academy—teaching fledgling field operatives improvisational means of finding weapons. The most obvious choices—military and police arsenals—came with obvious limitations. Such facilities were generally well guarded, and in most cases, anything stolen was quickly missed. The more immediate problem: As Slaton stood looking down at the docks of Vieste, he’d already spent nearly an hour trying to locate the nearest police station, and he knew of no nearby military base. That being the case, he progressed to the more imaginative chapters of his old lesson plan.
He ran downhill to the pier where his runabout was moored, and on reaching the seawall Slaton skidded to a stop. His gaze settled on two waterside bars. Both were obviously closed, and he ran a quick decision matrix. Gun laws in Italy were strict, but it was reasonable to assume that the owner of a waterside bar might keep a handgun beneath a counter to protect cash drawers or encourage destructive brawls to be taken outside. The problem—liquor was valuable, which meant that the strength of doors and windows on closed saloons, rustic as they might appear, often rivaled those found on banks.
Slaton checked Windsom again. Nothing had changed. The small wooden dinghy remained tied off her stern, bobbing harmlessly. He saw no one on deck. No movement in the distant windows. His conviction only solidified—he had to find a weapon now.
His eyes swept over a fleet of fishing boats on the far side of the harbor. Many would have handguns or rifles locked in poorly secured compartments. Unfortunately, the docks would also be populated by crewmen prepping for morning launches, locals who would not take kindly to an outsider poking around untended boats.
Increasingly desperate, Slaton was weighing a rash unarmed approach to Windsom when he turned a half circle and saw another prospect. Just behind him, in a building abutting a large warehouse, was the local chapter of the Unione Italiana del Lavoro. It was the Italian labor union whose oversight ran the spectrum of blue collar professions. In front of him, presumably, was Vieste’s longshoreman’s chapter.
If there was a commonality on all the world’s wharves, it was that they were rough-and-tumble places. Places where hard men worked and smuggling thrived. And consequently … places where a union labor boss might want protection.
With a glance up and down the deserted pier, Slaton trotted toward the union office and peered through a grimy window. It was dark inside, no one having yet shown up for work. In the shadows he saw worn office furnishings and bookcases, and a big banner from an old rally was strung across a wall: PIÙ FORTE INSIEME. Stronger together.
There was an exterior door just to his right, but it looked solid. Another door farther to his left looked eminently more pliable, and appeared to lead into the adjacent warehouse. Slaton found that door unlocked, and he pushed through on creaking hinges.
The warehouse was cavernous. There were endless rows of shelving, and pallets were stacked high, looking like tiny shrink-wrapped buildings. He heard an engine in the distance, probably a forklift working in some distant aisle. On his right was the union office, and as hoped he saw a door connecting to the warehouse. He spotted a crowbar on top of a wooden crate. Ten seconds and one splintered door jamb later, he was inside.
In the half light he discerned a series of offices along a hallway. He found the capo’s desk in the third one. There were three locked drawers, and with the crowbar still in hand, he splintered them open from top to bottom. The first drawer held office supplies. The second, tools, including a blowtorch. This gave pause, but he moved on. Slaton’s guesswork paid off in the bottom drawer—a Smith & Wesson Model 19 revolver. It was a relic, a classic six-shooter, but the gun looked clean, and better yet, intimidating. Precisely what a union boss might brandish at a recalcitrant longshoreman. Slaton popped the cylinder open, saw six shiny rounds, then flipped it closed. He slid the long barrel into his back waistband, situated for a right-handed draw. Covering the grip with the tail of his shirt, he hurried back outside.
* * *
“Men can be like that,” the woman said. “Never around when you need them.”
Christine laughed at her guest’s attempt at humor, but it belied the fact that her face was etched in worry—she’d turned away from her to pull two coffee cups from a rack.
“Yeah, tell me about it,” she replied, trying to keep her tone light.
So far the woman seemed harmless. Christine had seen her coming—that was her assignment when they arrived in a new port. David went ashore to take care of business, while she stood guard. There was no better term for it—standing guard, like a military sentry.
She’d watched the woman row the last hundred yards, willing her to veer away. Instead she’d lasered in on Windsom like an arrow to a bull’s-eye. When her dinghy was twenty yards off the port beam, the woman had paused. She’d hailed to introduce herself, and politely asked permission to come aboard. It hardly seemed an assault. She explained that her name was Anna Sorensen, and that she’d come to see David. That had sealed it. The use of her husband’s true name—not the one on the passport he was at that moment showing to immigration officials—made any evasion or denials pointless.
It also put Christine on edge.
She filled both cups with coffee. “Cream or sugar?”
“Black is fine.”
As she turned toward the dinette where her guest sat, Christine glanced out the starboard window. She’d heard a small engine moments earlier, and was disappointed to see only a fishing dory running past, its faded green hull slicing the smooth water with a teenage boy at the helm. She weighed coming up with an excuse to go above and raise their Jolly Roger amidships. The flag was patently ridiculous, that cocktail-hour joke seen across the world on weekend pleasure boats. For her and David, however, it was something else—the pirate’s black-and-white standard was their personal red flag. She decided it wasn’t necessary—the dinghy attached to Windsom’s stern was all the warning David needed.
She slid into the bench seat across from Sorensen and nestled close to Davy, who was sipping apple juice from a plastic cup. Threat or not, she was going to keep her son close. “Can you tell me what this is about?” she asked.
“I really should discuss it with David first.” Sorensen looked at Davy, and said, “So how old are you?”
Davy held up two fingers.
Sorensen smiled, and Christine asked, “Do you have kids?”
“Not yet, but I’m hopeful. I think I found the right guy. Trouble is, work has been getting in the way for both of us.”
“Don’t let that stop you. You’d be amazed at how adaptable parenting can be.”
“I guess you would know.”
The comment generated an awkward silence. Both went to their coffee. Sorensen was blond and slender, undeniably attractive. She was also quintessentially American in her accent and mannerisms. Christine placed her as being from the Midwest. They hadn’t gotten that far—what part of the country each hailed from—but with her nationality all but certain, Christine saw a short list of possibilities as to who she represented. CIA, FBI—some three-letter agency that lurked on the fringes of D.C.
Not for the first time, she was struck by her unconventional thought processes. A pretty young blonde had come looking for her husband, and Christine’s main concern was which spy agency she worked for. Extrapolating further, she wondered if some new reprisal was descending upon them. David was a former Mossad assassin, and his past seemed to haunt them with clockwork regularity. Like a heart condition that never quite normalized.
Sorensen began making funny faces at Davy. He giggled, and apple juice sprayed from his nose. “Sorry,” Sorensen said, laughing along with him and pushing a dishcloth across the table.
“So tell me,” Christine asked as she wiped Davy’s nose, “how did you find us?”
After some deliberation, Sorensen seemed to let a barrier fall. “It took some effort. We asked around a bit, and heard you might have passed through Israel recently. What sealed it was your boat’s name. We knew it, and that allowed us to track your movements through a few ports. Connecting those dots in chronological order, we got a general idea of where you were heading. From there a few overheads sealed the deal.”
Setting aside the question of who “we” referred to, Christine asked, “Overheads? As in satellites?”
“I know what you’re thinking—it’s a big sea. But it’s not as hard as it sounds. Do you know how many Antares 44s are cruising this part of the Med right now?”
Christine didn’t venture a guess.
“Two. The other is docked in Split, Croatia.”
“You mean … from a satellite photo you can identify a sailboat by manufacturer?”
“I didn’t say that—but would you be surprised?”
“I guess not.” She blew out a long breath. “It’s getting harder and harder to disappear these days.”
“Almost impossible, depending on who’s looking for you. If it’s any consolation, not many countries have the assets we do.”
There it was again, Christine thought. We.
“So how long have you been cruising?” Sorensen asked.
“A little over a year … but you probably know that.”
Her guest didn’t respond, and Christine had a fleeting thought that perhaps she should have raised the Jolly Roger after all. As a doctor she often dealt with misrepresentations and half-truths. How many times had she seen addicts lie to get prescription painkillers? How many drug reps had she seen exaggerate clinical trials for some new and expensive medication? The difference now—she was on the duplicitous side, while the woman across from her was dealing in truth. At least, as far as she could tell. That’s what I get for marrying an assassin, she thought.
The awkward interlude went on for a few more minutes. It ended suddenly when David appeared in the companionway. He had a large handgun Christine had never seen. It was leveled squarely at their new guest.