Assassin's Game by Ward Larsen

standing at the front desk of a noble hotel. There was nothing.
    When the men were ten steps away they spread left and right. This told Slaton they were trained. He saw two possibilities. Unfortunately, two possibilities that demanded very different reactions. Slaton planned for the worst case and rehearsed a flow in his mind. With a half step back, he could pivot to his left and strike the man on the right, the biggest, with a heel to the head. Next, he would rotate a right elbow to the center target. He ended his blueprint there, knowing that was as far as it would realistically hold.
    Seconds from launching into a melee, he took one more look at the older clerk. Slaton weighed her expression very carefully. She was concerned, but in a controlled way. Guarded, yet not preparing to dive behind the counter. That made his decision.
    With the men positioned three steps behind him, Slaton slowly turned.
    The one in the middle, the smallest and a man who had ten years on the other two, put a hand under the lapel of his jacket. It came back out, as Slaton had hoped, with a well-worn set of credentials.
    “Polisen. Vi vill prata med dig.”
    Slaton gave the man a questioning look. “English?”
    “Police. We’d like to have a word with you.”

 
    SIX
    “Might I see some identification, sir?”
    Slaton gave his passport to the man in the middle and watched him type E-D-M-U-N-D D-E-A-D-M-A-R-S-H into his phone. The two bookends stood motionless and appeared unconcerned. In truth, Slaton was happy to see the police—they were next on his list to contact. He was not, however, happy to find them here. Slaton was sure he’d been highlighted by the receptionist after inquiring about Christine, and it struck him as ominous that this had earned him special recognition. It meant the police were at the Strand for reasons relating to her, and committing three officers to such a quest would not be done lightly.
    “I’m trying to find my wife,” Slaton said, his voice perfectly askew.
    “Her name?”
    “Dr. Christine Palmer. She’s here for a medical conference.”
    The man in the middle seemed to study him for a moment, then handed back his passport. He said, “Mr. Deadmarsh, I think we should talk.”
    They moved to a quiet corner of the lobby where two couches were separated by a glass table. The lead man introduced himself as Detective Inspector Sanderson. He was late fifties, a small man with a crooked nose and more than his share of scars. A bantam scrapper if Slaton had ever seen one. He sensed a toughness about the man, along with a manner that implied there was little he hadn’t seen, nothing he hadn’t heard. His most striking feature was a set of ice-blue eyes that ran clear and sharp. After a businesslike handshake, Sanderson settled onto one of the couches. The two supporting men—twin monuments of bulk, sinew, and seriousness—drifted to the perimeter.
    “What can you tell me about Christine?” Slaton asked, not having to manufacture the edge in his voice.
    “I can tell you we’re looking for her.”
    “Why?”
    “Actually, I was going to ask you that same question. Why are you here?”
    “I got a text from Christine yesterday. I was back in the States.” Slaton pulled out his phone and showed Sanderson the message.
    The inspector studied the display with apparent interest, although Slaton suspected the message was something he’d already seen. If the man was indeed searching for Christine, the first thing he would have done was acquire a record of her mobile traffic.
    “And based on this one-word text,” Sanderson surmised, “you booked the first available flight to Stockholm?”
    “Yes,” Slaton said matter-of-factly. “My wife said she needed help. I tried to contact her, but she didn’t answer. So I took the first flight.” All true, and once again points that Sanderson, if he was thorough, had already verified.
    “Has anything like this happened before?” the inspector asked.
    “My wife