USA Today bestselling author Ward Larsen's celebrated protagonist, assassin David Slaton, returns for another breathless adventure in Assassin's Silence
Every so often, a great assassin novel comes along: Brad Meltzer's The Fifth Assassin, David Baldacci's The Hit, Daniel Silva's The Kill Artist. Now Ward Larsen brings us Assassin's Silence, featuring David Slaton, hero of Larsen's Assassin's Game and the award-winning The Perfect Assassin.
When it comes to disappearing, David Slaton has few equals. Police in three countries have written off trying to find him. His old employer, Mossad, keeps no forwarding address. Even his wife and son are convinced he is dead. So when an assault team strikes, Slaton is taken by surprise. He kills one man and manages to escape.
Half a world away, in the baleful heat of the Amazon, an obscure air cargo company purchases a derelict airliner. Teams of mechanics work feverishly to make the craft airworthy. On the first flight, the jet plunges toward the ocean.
The CIA assesses the two spectacles: a practiced killer leaving a trail of bodies across Europe, and a large airplane disappearing without a trace. The two affairs are increasingly seen to be intertwined. Langley realizes the killer is a man long thought to be dead, and the lost airliner has been highly modified into a tool of unimaginable terror.
When their worst fears are realized, Langley must trust the one man who can save them: David Slaton, the perfect assassin.
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About the Author
WARD LARSEN is a USA Today bestselling author and three-time winner of the Florida Book Award. His work has been nominated for both the Edgar and Macavity Awards. A former US Air Force fighter pilot, Larsen flew more than twenty missions in Operation Desert Storm. He also served as a federal law enforcement officer and is a trained aircraft accident investigator. Look for Amber Entertainment's film adaptation of Larsen's first thriller, The Perfect Assassin.
Read an Excerpt
By Ward Larsen
Tom Doherty AssociatesCopyright © 2016 Ward Larsen
All rights reserved.
Twenty months later
Centered on the sun-soaked island of Malta, the ancient city of Mdina stands tall and brusque, a defiant island of brown whose vaulted bastions amplify the country's most prominent hill. Though incorporating no more than one square kilometer, the palaces and narrow streets of the medieval city have stood the tests of a thousand harsh summers, dozens of military campaigns, and in a more contemporary test of endurance, the annual invasion of a million tourists each year. For all these reasons, Mdina is a place in constant need of repair.
Most in demand are good stonemasons.
On the falling afternoon, with a classic portrait of burnt orange clinging to the western sky, a solitary mason put his finishing touches to the foot of an arch near the Nunnery of St. Benedict. The repair, a reissue of a simple decorative façade that bore no weight, was the kind of touch-up that had played out regularly over the last millennium. And while the cement was perhaps a more uniform mix than the mud used by craftsmen of past eras, the hammer and chisel the mason used to shape the flat faces and fitted angles were virtually unchanged, notwithstanding the likes of rubberized handles and carbide tips. Stoneworkers in other towns on the island had relented to more contemporary instruments — heavy masonry saws and compressed-air power tools — yet such advances were not favored in the Old City. The patron who today commissioned repairs here, a city formerly administered by the likes of knights and noblemen, was the Maltese Ministry for Tourism, Culture, and Environmental Affairs, a body with an unyielding eye for absolute authenticity. In a curious twist of fate, the fact that this craftsman was not a native Maltese was squarely in line with tradition. Having existed for so long at the geographic crossroads of Europe, the Middle East, and Africa, the time-tested stonework of Malta had been raised almost exclusively by journeyman masons.
The man stood back to regard his work, a chisel and damp cloth in his calloused hands. After a ten-hour day he was gray-suited in sweat and dust, the only exception being a pair of clear gray eyes, and tiny streams on his face and neck where rivulets of sweat had washed the skin clear. The heat and sun were a constant here, although in early February the Mediterranean winter was at the height of its relief. All the same, the city seemed to draw a long breath as its shadows leaned to darkness.
The mason compared the column he'd repaired to its sister four meters away. It was good, he decided. The cuts were accurate, and the color of the stone a reasonably close match. Those effects he could not simulate were the ones carved by time — the gentle erosion of mortar channels, edges nicked by handcarts, stains from spilled wine. These would come in due course.
He bent down with his hammer and chisel and made his mark next to another, an artisan's signature that had, he guessed knowledgeably, most likely been hewed sometime in the late sixteenth century. That done, he began packing his tools in a hand case. Tomorrow he would regard his work in better light, perhaps make a few alterations, and wash things down for the last time. And then? Then he would move on to his next job — two collapsed pillars in the Catacombs of St. Paul. For a mason, Mdina and the surrounding city of Rabat were not a series of day jobs — they were a career.
A spindly young boy scurried up the street with a broom in his hand and stopped next to the mason.
"All done, sir?" he asked in Maltese.
The mason kept to the language he'd picked up over the last months, if only in a colloquial sense. "Done for the day." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a two-euro coin, and flipped it through the air. The boy snatched it cleanly.
"When you're done cleaning up, take the tools with you. Meet me tomorrow at the Catacombs."
"The Catacombs? That is very far from here, sir."
The mason grinned and reached into his pocket. His second coin was a one-euro denomination, and his second toss less accurate. Not that it mattered — the kid caught it effortlessly. Indeed, in the three months of their association he had never once missed. He was ten or eleven years old, the mason guessed, although never having raised a child himself he couldn't say with any authority. They didn't know each other's names because neither had ever asked. Sir and Kid sufficed, both words conveniently shared between English and Maltese. "Kid" was a straight bean of a child with a mop of curly black hair, and he invariably appeared in worn tennis shoes and a shirt with a corporate sponsor's name on the front and a large number on the back. He loved soccer with a passion, and lived in the Old City with his mother. That was all the tradesman knew — indeed, all he wanted to know. The kid did what he was asked to do, smiled more often than not, and showed up on time.
He was the perfect employee.
"El Clasico is tonight," the boy said, referring to the semiannual clash of Spanish soccer giants Real Madrid and Barcelona. "You should watch. Their new forward is better than Messi."
"I'll try to catch it," said the mason as he raised his ladder against the crest of the arch for the day's final inspection.
"There is a man up the street watching you."
The mason stopped what he was doing. "A man?"
"He has been there since I brought you the water."
"The water? That was two hours ago."
A long pause ensued. "And you think he's watching me?"
The mason stood very still, his eyes locked on the sturdy stone arch. It began as no more than a tremor, a cautionary jolt he'd felt twice since arriving on the island. Once it had been a gunshot out of a quiet night, probably a misguided celebration from some drunk who didn't realize that bullets sent into the sky still come down. The second occurrence had greater basis, a team of policemen with weapons maneuvering outside his rooming house — as it turned out, there to raid a nearby apartment where a drug dealer had bunkered up. In both instances he'd felt the surge of adrenaline, but waited with well-practiced patience until the threat was disproved.
Now he did it again. In the ensuing minutes of uncertainty, the mason went through the motions of his business. "Where is he exactly?" he asked the boy, his hand flicking away a bit of loose mortar.
"You can't see him from here — he's near the Cathedral Museum, sitting in the courtyard behind the gift shop. It was very shady there this afternoon, many customers. Now he is the only one remaining, and still watching you through the open door of the shop. I walked past twice to be sure."
"Yes. But I saw another tea cup on the table."
Right then, the mason decided the kid had a future. One that didn't involve kicking a ball.
The boy smiled eagerly. "You want me to go look again?"
"No," said the mason quickly.
He considered his position. The archway he was repairing was situated at a T-shaped intersection. He glanced ahead, along the length of Triq San Pawl, and saw the gift shop with the open front door. In the opposite direction the street reached its southern end near the Xara Palace, and the third leg of the intersection was made by Triq Mesquita, a narrow cobbled path that ran toward the Piazza Mesquita. The walls bordering all these streets ran the same, indeed like every other street in Mdina, thirty-foot tan stone faces with minimal ornamentation. There were no windows at street level, and the doors came at odd intervals, brilliant blue and red invitations that the mason recognized as no more than temptations to chance — doors here were famously sturdy, and some had been bolted shut for centuries. He admonished himself for not knowing in advance which were accessible. In years gone by he would never have made such a mistake.
He turned to face Triq Mesquita. The crowds had thinned considerably with the setting sun. A street vendor was pushing his handcart home for the day, and an old man walked an old dog, a pronounced resemblance in their uneven gaits.
He spotted the second man easily.
He was standing with a gelato, his back against a wall, a stone-sober image in a spill of stray light. On appearances he wasn't Maltese, and he showed no apparent purpose beyond scooping ice cream from a cup. He was dressed in khaki trousers and a loose-fitting shirt, dark wraparound glasses in the waning sunshine. He was tall and thickly built, with fair skin and hair, the trim a close burr-cut that would have passed any military inspection. What concerned the mason most, however, was how the man wore his shirt — free and untucked. It might have been a carryover from an unseasonably warm afternoon, or perhaps he'd eaten too many gelatos and his trousers were tight.
Yes, the mason reasoned, it could be any of that.
He turned and looked to the third leg of the T, the far end of Triq San Pawl. He saw a mother and a small girl walking toward him in a flurry of skipping legs and bright fabric. Two men walking in the opposite direction wore matching yellow bibs of the Cleansing Directorate, the pair deep in an animated conversation whose words and cadence were clearly Maltese. The mason saw no one on this street that he could stamp as a threat, yet he noted a number of intersections and alcoves. The kinds of places he might once have sought himself.
Altogether, three avenues of escape — two covered and the third in question. The first possibility was that he was being overly suspicious, sensing another false alarm. If so, no reaction was necessary. The second option: he was being watched. This implied trouble, though not necessarily a threat. The third possibility was more problematic, and one that demanded immediate resolution.
"I need you to do something for me." The mason took the broom from the boy's hand. "I'll clean up. I'd like you to take the tools and walk toward the gardens. Keep a good watch until you make the turn onto Triq Inguanez."
Kid looked at him quizzically.
"You have good instincts — trust them. If you see any other men up the street, anyone who looks out of place, put the toolbox on the ground as if it's too heavy, then switch hands and keep going. Don't look back at me, and whatever you do, don't stare at anyone."
The boy nodded.
"If there is someone else," the mason continued, "don't go home tonight. Do you have a relative who lives nearby?"
"An uncle in South Rabat, near the old seminary."
"Good. If it comes to that, go straight to his house and stay inside. Tomorrow take my tools and sell them. You know what they're worth."
The boy nodded again, a teasing smile at the corners of his mouth. The prospect of a good payday? the mason wondered. Or was it the implications of what he was being asked to do? He would lay odds on the latter — the excitement of his first op plan.
"And if there is not anyone else?" the kid asked.
"Then meet me at the Catacombs tomorrow morning. And don't be late."
The kid grinned openly at that. He was never late. He picked up the tools with a show of effort and waved, adding a loud, "Arrivederci, sir."
The mason turned toward the ladder. He climbed two rungs and began running his hand over a stone cornice. He glanced when the boy was thirty meters away, then again at fifty. He was just past the alcove of the Nunnery of St. Benedict, standing in a strong shaft of light, when he set down the tool case. The kid shook out his arm as if it was cramped, then picked up the case with his opposite hand. He walked no more than ten steps.
Then he did it all over again.CHAPTER 2
For the second time in his life David Slaton had become careless. The first had occurred not long ago, at the end of a problematic year in Virginia. He had gotten too comfortable, and his wife and child had nearly paid the ultimate price. He vowed never to let that happen again, and carried through on his pledge by the most tried and true method — distance.
For fourteen months Slaton had taken up a quiet and solitary existence in Mdina. He never made international phone calls and avoided the Internet. He rarely left the city, and had not once ventured outside the country. His lone contact with the outside world was an obscure e-mail account he rarely accessed, and then only from random Internet cafés across the island. He rented a small flat and made a few casual friends — to be a complete recluse would only raise suspicion — and allowed the occasional dinner out, even then only during off-hours. As far as he could tell, he'd blended in perfectly. Or as perfectly as a six foot two, sandy-haired stonemason could manage on a Mediterranean island.
Someone had found him anyway.
He knew how it had happened — his mind-set. That healthy mistrust so essential to his former life had gone slack. He had become a stonemason. Slaton knew because he went to sleep each night with fading thoughts that did not involve safe houses or zeroed sight pictures. Now it was corner joints and rubble veneer, and in the morning vague dreams recalled of a family he would never know. At some point, he had stopped taking precautions, the result being that a ten-year-old boy had seen what he should have seen. Four men covering all the angles.
The questions of who they were and why they were here he discarded for the moment. Of far greater relevance were the where, when, and how of the situation. The answers came quickly.
A man emerged from the shadows of the café, tall and lean, with wireless glasses over high cheeks and a patch of black chin whiskers. He moved with the air of a hurried mortician. Slaton thought he looked familiar, although in that moment he couldn't put a name to the face. He next spotted the two in the alley, where the kid had alerted. This pair were swarthier, two-hundred-pound sacks of muscle with comparable squat builds. The most discriminating feature between them was the color of their shirts — one drab green, the other mud gray. The crew cut was still there on Triq Mesquita. Slaton watched him scrape the last gelato from his cup before taking to the cobble street.
Was there a chance they were here to talk? Could they want to hire him?
No, Slaton decided. He had never been a mercenary, and anyway, such negotiations would not require four men. He gave up pretenses and looked directly at each man, one by one. If their pace did not alter, there might still be a peaceful way out. All four began moving more quickly. They dodged passersby with quick, purposeful strides, and when one put a hand under his shirttail the charade was officially over. Slaton was watching a well-orchestrated takedown, and from the worst point of view.
They were doing a good job of it. The time of day was ideal, indeed when he would have chosen. Minimal street traffic led to fewer bruised elbows, fewer bystanders to accidentally screen a shot. The light was nearly gone, but adequate for a marksman and offering the target no cover of darkness. It was also the time of day, Slaton knew, that shift changes took place at police departments, leading to a period of sluggish response. The opposing pincer along Triq San Pawl was nicely staggered, the twins shouldered against the eastern wall, and the man with the glasses keeping to the west. Slaton recognized this for what it was — an attempt to deconflict firing lanes. They were smooth and well-coordinated. Certainly disciplined. In sum, they were very much like him.
They were assassins.
Slaton found himself under a stone arch and surrounded by high walls. He had no weapon with which to respond. With his closest pursuer a mere thirty yards away, he saw only one viable option. He scrambled up the ladder.
He was halfway up when the first shots rang out, followed by shouting all around. The wooden rung near his head shattered, and Slaton bypassed the step and vaulted upward, launching himself the last few feet onto the top of the arch. A kick sent the ladder tumbling sideways to the ground. It gave them a way up, of course, but hopefully bought precious seconds.
More shots echoed, and bullets chipped stone all around him. The arch was three feet wide, enough to cover him shoulder to shoulder if he hugged close and kept his face planted. But he had to move. They would soon find elevation, better angles that would leave him exposed. The rooftop behind him was blocked by a knee wall, but straight ahead the arch blended perfectly into a flat roof. Slaton fast-crawled on his elbows and knees, bullets pinging into the stone on either side. Then the first impact — a vicious bite in one thigh.
He kept moving.
Excerpted from Assassin's Silence by Ward Larsen. Copyright © 2016 Ward Larsen. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
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