Marrakesh, like any city, puts on display its most prominent districts. Websites and brochures celebrate La Palmeraie with its sparkling villas and energetic Club Med. Gueliz stands apart for its distinctly European heritage, sporting wide boulevards, trendy shopping areas, and a span of verdant gardens. Mouassine is famously endowed with grand riads and resplendent mosques. The shadowed warren called Rue Essebtiyne finds no such promotions.
In a town renowned for tight streets and frenetic crowds, the web of shops and markets compressed within Rue Essebtiyne is nothing short of claustrophobic. The neighborhood seems to pulse in the way of a failed urban arterial system, alternately clogging and leaking, in a constant state of arrhythmia. Taking the place of any master plan are generations of winding streets, some allegedly paved and others left to dirt, that curve and loop and seize, all of it lined by patternless walls that give no suggestion as to where one shop ends and the next begins. The scents of competing street vendors whirl through the air, lamb on one gust, spices the next, all of it intermittently overcome by pungent black clouds of diesel exhaust.
It was here that Slaton arrived with great expectations.
He stood up the BMW five streets from the address he’d been given, concealed behind a wall amid a group of smaller motorcycles and scooters. The big German bike was an outlier among the lighter machines, but having seen much of the neighborhood, Slaton doubted he would find a less conspicuous place to leave it. As if to amplify the point, fifty feet to his right a disinterested mule stood lashed to a bicycle rack.
He removed the backpack from the bike’s saddle case, slung it over his shoulder, and resisted an urge to relock the empty case—any petty thief, of which he supposed there were many in residence, wouldn’t have to go to the trouble of breaking in to learn it was empty.
It took ten minutes and two polite questions to locate the correct door—which in fact was no door at all. A gap in the earthen wall beside a trellis-covered alley was covered by a tattered blue curtain. The curtain served little purpose, and he looked past it on either side to see a long-neglected dirt courtyard. Weeds predominated, and the ground was striped with slatted shadows that implied lights and some kind of structure overhead. A plastic chair lay on its side, and trash had accumulated in one corner, a mongrel nosing through hopefully. After briefly wondering if he had the right place, Slaton knocked on the wooden frame at the threshold.
The dog ignored him, but a man appeared almost instantly. He regarded Slaton with not a trace of uncertainty.
He could only be CIA.
* * *
His name was Smith, or so he said. He was ten years older than Slaton, three inches taller, with gaunt features and a dismal smile that gave him the countenance of a gravedigger on holiday.
He thanked Slaton for coming in a voice that was surprisingly rich and mellifluous, then pulled aside the curtain and invited him inside. This in itself had implications. It told Slaton the man had probably been issued his photograph as a means of identification. Which, in turn, meant his photograph was on file with the CIA. Not terribly surprising in this day and age, but a previously unknown fact. And yet another chink in his off-the-grid armor.
With the gait of an arthritic giraffe, Smith led Slaton through the courtyard and into a shambles of an apartment. If the courtyard had been rundown, the tiny efficiency was positively derelict. The walls seemed held together by peeling paint, and a filthy shag carpet was covered in crumpled food wrappers. The ceiling above had a massive yellow stain adjacent to the bathroom—presumably where the bathroom was situated in the apartment above. Slaton weighed taking a picture for Christine, just to convince her that spies didn’t always reside in embassy suites.
He noticed right away that there were no windows in the room, and when Smith closed and bolted the door to the courtyard things fell improbably quiet. A safe house, perhaps, whose appearance belied its robustness.
“Nice place,” he offered.
“It serves its purpose,” replied Smith as if reading Shakespeare from a stage.
The light inside was dim, which Slaton reckoned was intentional. Hovels had their place in any intelligence agency’s portfolio of properties. Chosen carefully, they could be both practical and discreet, and were often close to the action.
Smith diverted into what might have been the kitchen: in one corner was a tiny table, and next to it a mini-refrigerator with a microwave balanced on top. The glass door of the microwave had scorch marks.
“Can I offer you a drink?” Smith inquired. He pulled a pint-sized bottle of something amber from one jacket pocket, and from another produced two small plastic cups. “I’m afraid on-the-rocks is out of the question,” he added, gesturing to the silent mini-fridge.
“No,” Slaton said. “I’m good. But thanks.”
Smith tilted the bottle to pour a decent bracer, then, as an apparent afterthought, tilted it a second time. Screwing the cap back on his bottle, he said. “We’ve located this Russian you been looking for.”
“Ovechkin?” Slaton asked, wanting to be clear.
“That’s right. I’ve been given a file to pass on.” Smith produced a folder from the only drawer in the small counter. He cracked it open and removed a handful of photos. Each was numbered, one through five, and Smith spread them out on the table like a cardplayer laying down a winning straight. “We should start with these.”
Slaton looked down to see a series of overhead images. They ranged from very high-resolution to a ten-mile-square panorama. The tight shots looked too good for satellite footage, implying that a drone had been tapped for the job. Slaton kept the thought to himself, not caring from what altitude or platform his help was taken.
“We’ve tracked Ovechkin here,” Smith continued. He dragged a bony finger across the wide-angle shot and settled on a particular villa. Slaton tried to place it from his scenic tour with Omar, but having covered so many miles of coastline it was hopeless.
“Where exactly is that?”
“Southwest of here, between Essaouira and Tamri.”
As Slaton studied the tighter shots he heard scraping noises somewhere in the walls. Tiny claws scratching out a living.
Smith pretended not to notice. “There’s more,” he said. He removed another photograph from the folder, this an image of a printed page. “I’m to tell you that you ‘owe one’ to a certain duty officer in Langley.”
Slaton saw what looked like a legal document, then a series of signatures below. It was all quite incomprehensible because it was written in French. “What is it?”
“A short-term property rental agreement.”
“For Ovechkin’s villa?”
“No. Your supporter in Langley knew you were focusing on nearby residences. Since there are only a handful within the five-mile radius you mentioned, he had someone run a check. One address generated particular interest. It was rented for one week, beginning three nights ago, all arranged through a particularly shady vacation operator in Kazakhstan—as it turns out, one we’ve linked previously to the FSB.”
“Russian intelligence rented this place?”
“Loosely put … yes. Reference image number five.”
Slaton did, and saw an excellent shot of a small house perched on a cliffside. There was a patio with a pergola, and beneath that the outline of a chair and small table. Partially masked by vegetation on the pergola was the figure of a man. He appeared to be standing and staring out across the sea.
“How long ago was this taken?” Slaton asked, not seeing a time and date stamp.
“When did you ask for it?”
“Roughly eight hours ago.”
Smith gave a so there you are look.
Slaton decided he did owe a favor to the duty man at Langley. He looked again at the shadowed form, then reverted to photo number one, the “big picture.” He estimated the distance between the two villas as roughly four and a half miles.
He tried to shoot holes in his assumptive theory, and right away saw two that were glaring. To begin, there was no line of sight between the two residences—a high promontory split the coastline. Secondly, the range stretched the ballistic limits of any fifty-cal round—guided or not. Yet a short hike, most likely to the peninsula jutting toward the sea, solved both problems. From there, the issues of both range and line of sight to Ovechkin’s temporary residence were solved. Take him through a window or standing on a balcony. While he’s floating in the pool.
Was it all too straightforward? Or was truth staring him in the face in so many pixels?
He concentrated on the promontory, and saw level ground that tapered in the middle to an hourglass shape. He saw a half dozen good setups, and certainly there were hides that could not be seen from overhead. Like a ledge on a mountainside. Then something caught his eye in the narrow waist of the hourglass.
“What spectrum is this?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon?” replied Smith.
“Is it infrared?”
“I’m no expert, but our imagery these days is increasingly a hybrid product. Multiple wavelength inputs are synthesized using software. It helps pull out the slightest details. Why do you ask?”
Slaton tapped on the large-scale picture of the peninsula. Smith leaned in for a closer look. Near Slaton’s fingertip was a light-colored rectangle.
“What do you think it is?” the CIA man asked.
“I don’t know … but it doesn’t belong. It’s the only man-made object on that spit of land. Can you get me more detail?”
The gravedigger’s smile. “Possibly. But I can’t say how long it will take.”
“Do what you can,” Slaton said. “Now … what about the rest?”
Smith walked across the room, reached behind a threadbare daybed, and produced a heavy canvas bag. He set it carefully on the mattress and extracted what Slaton had requested: a Heckler & Koch UMP45, two twenty-five-round magazines, and enough .45 ACP rounds to fill them. He’d wanted the higher caliber version of the gun for its close-in stopping power, allowing that his adversary—if it was who and what he expected—would have every advantage at long range. For Slaton to win a gunfight, he had to get close. With its stock folded, he also knew the UMP would fit in the BMW’s oversized side cases.
Smith reached into the bag again and produced a set of lightweight body armor. No vest in the world was going to stop a fifty-cal round, but he wanted some protection against smaller calibers while allowing for maneuverability—which, given the field of play, might be critical. The last thing Smith provided was a set of night-vision binoculars, a military-grade German brand with image enhancing. They would be far more capable than the over-the-counter set he’d bought earlier.
“Will there be anything else?” Smith asked.
“No, that should do the job. Can I keep these photos?”
“Of course. Any new information will be sent to your phone.” Smith dropped a key on the small table. “Stay as long as you like.”
Slaton looked up at the stain on the dimly lit ceiling—it now appeared wet. “Thanks.”
Minutes later Slaton was alone in the tiny flat, Smith having wished him luck and departed to the cacophony outside.
He went to the mini-fridge and cautiously opened the door. The temperature inside was below that of the room, but only slightly. He saw something unidentifiable in a leftover box, and a fuzzy mass on a plate might once have been cheese. Two water bottles appeared sealed, and he took both, downed one immediately, then began nursing the second. The cupboards were nearly bare, his only useful discovery being a can of tuna. A subsequent search of the adjacent drawers produced no can opener, but one sturdy kitchen knife. He had the can half open before the blade broke.
Minutes later he was sitting on the bed, the second water bottle and one damaged but empty tuna can beside him. Light wafted in through joints in the ceiling, highlighting clouds of dust that drifted like a microscopic galaxy of stars. He closed his eyes.
Slaton tried not to think about the burner phone in his pocket. It was so far unused. It felt like a tiny thread linking him to Christine and Davy—a thread that, once stretched taut, would quickly have to be broken. He yearned for some tenor of normalcy, to hear a trace of their day-to-day trivialities. The squeals of a night-ending game of chase. Davy giggling as Mom brushed his teeth. How quickly it had been lost.
All at once, the tenuousness, the fragility of the life they’d built together seemed bleakly apparent. What had taken years to create was at risk, threatened by a few days of madness. The only way out: to not permit failure.
Someone in Russia was condemning him, trying to hold him responsible for killings he’d had no part in. Someone needed a fall guy. Slaton realized he was a ready-made target. In giving up his career with Mossad, he’d cast himself as a rogue. An assassin without a country. In recent days he’d associated with Mossad and the CIA, both giving and getting help. Had that been a mistake?
Exhausted, he tried to push the thoughts away. He could not afford the luxury of thinking forward—not past tomorrow. He needed a full night’s sleep. Slaton allowed himself half that.
Four hours. Then his operation would commence. A private mission that he would undertake quickly and quietly, and to the furtherance of no one’s objectives but his own. Most critical of all: he would do it alone.