Assassin's Run by Ward Larsen

Author:Ward Larsen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

THIRTY-SEVEN

Slaton was nudged awake by Bloch. He opened his eyes to see a gate with a guardhouse a hundred meters ahead. Bloch drew the SUV to a stop at the checkpoint. While a port security man studied their IDs, which seemed to pass muster, his partner, a woman, went around the outside of the vehicle with an undercarriage mirror. It was a cursory inspection, suggesting there had been no recent breaches or terror alerts. Whatever threat scale was used here, it had sunk to its lowest level.

They were cleared to proceed, a simple railroad gate lifted, and Bloch steered into the vast port complex. They passed row after row of factory-fresh automobiles awaiting trailers that would disperse them across Israel. In the distance Slaton saw a small cruise ship, and the festive lights strung across the superstructure reminded him of those he’d seen on Pyotr Ivanovic’s yacht. The cruise ship was the only thing in sight that wasn’t industrial in nature. Tall loading cranes hovered over the wharves, looking like great birds, and container trucks were being loaded under bright lights. A rail yard was active on the shoreward perimeter, and a new thoroughfare leading north was in the initial stages of construction. Altogether, a busy place that aspired to one day be busier.

They eventually reached an isolated tract far from the piers, a little-used stretch of gravel along the perimeter fence. Bloch parked in front of a dilapidated double-wide trailer that was resting on concrete blocks—it actually appeared to lean slightly to one side. Equipment tugs and cargo containers were rowed on either side of the trailer, some of them rusting and discarded, a few pieces looking operable. The fence behind was twelve feet high, the top laced with razor wire, and on the other side was a wide cleared area washed in bright security lights. Beyond that Slaton saw barren desert stretching into rising terrain, the shadows of rough-edged hills evident in the gloom.

Bloch pulled the Kia up to the trailer and parked next to two other vehicles—one a generic sedan, the other a white work van. On the side of the van was the same CSR International logo that was stenciled on his ID. It struck him that the vehicle was resting low on its suspension, implying a heavy load inside. Clearly the groundwork for this Mossad venture had long been in place. He wasn’t surprised. Top tier intelligence agencies kept a ready supply of corporate facades: papers in order, licenses granted, tax records current, facilities rented or purchased. All waiting for the day when they were required on short notice. Or the night.

Bloch hadn’t been kidding about the vermin—near the steps that led up to the trailer’s only door Slaton saw the carcasses of three dead rats, all of which looked to have suffered small-caliber gunshot wounds. No doubt silenced weapons.

He followed Bloch up a set of loose wooden stairs and through a dented metal door. The interior of the trailer was a hostage to overdone fluorescents, and in the harsh light he saw three familiar faces.

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