The Perfect Assassin (34 page)

Slaton felt a chill shoot down his spine. Something Zak had said. Something. He watched without listening. Zak’s thick forehead was gleaming, his blunt finger raised to make a point.
As long as our Arab neighbors continue along this path—

Slaton sat transfixed. It didn’t happen instantly, but was instead a slow, simmering path to recognition. He relived the past weeks and put everything in a new light, trying in vain to disprove the sick idea that was making more and more sense with every moment. Each old piece fell perfectly into the new mold, all along so obvious, yet so insane. He’d had it all wrong. For twenty years.
The man who had Yosef killed … the shooter in Netanya … he will lead us there … he is leading us there!

Slaton finally understood. For twenty years he had been fighting the wrong enemy, exorcising the wrong demons. There were so many implications. The second weapon would be used, but how and where? Slaton couldn’t think about it. All he could do now was stare at the television until Zak’s picture finally disappeared. The newscaster began talking again, and over her shoulder was a photograph of the National Observatory at Greenwich. Through all the emotions, the hatred and confusion, one thing became clear. Crystal clear. Slaton battled to regain control as the waitress strolled up and took his empty plate.

“Anything else, luv?”

“No, nuttin’,” he managed.

The waitress left a check on the table. When she returned five minutes later, the man in the corner booth was gone and his mug finally empty. She found enough money on the table to cover the tab, and an extra pound for her own troubles. The usual.

“We’ve found the car, Inspector,” Ian Dark said, rushing into the Scotland Yard cafeteria.

Chatham immediately put down the knife and fork he’d been using to saw through a particularly tough steak, then ran a napkin across his mouth and bushy mustache. “Where?”

“The Barcomb Insurance building. It’s …” Dark hesitated as Chatham closed his eyes dejectedly.

“Straight across the street from this building,” Chatham finished. “How long ago?”

“Twenty minutes. One of our special teams found it. They were going through the big parking garages, just as you instructed.”

Chatham shoved aside the daily special with few regrets. “Tube, rail, car,” he murmured rhetorically, “how will you move now my friend?”

“Shall I concentrate our forces?” Dark suggested.

Chatham frowned, “I’m worried this might be a diversion, but yes, there’s really nothing else to do. Keep up surveillance of the major transportation centers, but get everyone else over here. Start with a two-mile radius, then work outward. Talk to every cab and bus driver who’s been through for the past …” he glanced at the wall clock, “four hours. Question the ticket agents at all the nearby tube stations. And car hire agencies, check them all. Also, see if there were any security cameras in that parking garage.”

Chatham set off briskly toward the elevator. “The Israelis promised us a photograph. See if it’s come in yet. That drawing is good, but nothing like a current photo.”

As they waited for the elevator, Dark pulled out his cell phone and began punching buttons. By the time the elevator call light had extinguished, Chatham had his answer.

“The picture came in ten minutes ago. They’re reproducing as we speak, and it should be out to the field within an hour.”

“Capital,” Chatham said distractedly. He looked at the little device in Dark’s hand, grudgingly accepting its utility. “Perhaps I should learn to use one of those after all.”

Dark smiled at the small victory. “Really nothing to them, Inspector,” he said, holding it up. “Anyone can learn how.”

Chatham eyed it with suspicion as he reached out and punched a button on the elevator. The moment was ruined by the elevator’s fire alarm bell. Scotland Yard’s top detective glared furiously at the illuminated red button on the control panel, the one he had just pushed.

“Blast!”

Slaton stood at a bus stop where no bus was due to arrive for over an hour. Earlier, a kindly old passerby had brought the matter to his attention, but Slaton simply thanked the man, explaining that he didn’t mind having to wait on such a lovely morning. The old man had looked up at a solid overcast, shrugged, and gone on his way.

In fact, Slaton had seen two buses come and go. The reason for his loitering had nothing to do with them. Adjacent to the bus stop, behind a chain link fence, lay his true objective — the loading dock for the New Covent Garden Market, the biggest and busiest produce market in London. Slaton had spent the morning watching the operation. Big lorries brought in huge loads from the ships in port. There were bananas from Panama, oranges from Spain, and Haitian sugar. Intermixed with the big trucks were smaller versions that came from across England, and a few from the continent. These brought their own cargo, moderate in quantity and even more limited in range — beets, potatoes, broad beans, and onions — the narrow range of tubers, leeks, and vegetables that comprised the bulk of agricultural production in Northern Europe.

Slaton had already culled his search to these smaller trucks, which were mostly from family farms, engaged in bringing the fall harvest to market. Conveniently, the sidewalls and doors of these vehicles were often stenciled with the names and locations of the farms they serviced.

He’d been watching for nearly three hours when his patience was finally rewarded. An ideal prospect rumbled into the yard, a boxy red contraption that advertised Smitherton Farms and Dairy, Thrapston, Northamptonshire. It was the first to meet all his requirements. Not just an open air crate, this truck’s bed was completely enclosed with a roof and rear cargo door. The driver was alone, a wiry, older man. And no doubt a Smitherton, judging by the care he exercised in unloading the forty or so boxes of turnips that made up his load. Most important was the address in Thrapston. It wasn’t the exact place he was looking for, but Slaton doubted he’d get much closer.

The old farmer set his last box onto the loading dock and stood waiting for a foreman to come round. That was the important part, the paperwork which would eventually route a deposit into the likely modest coffers of Smitherton Farms and Dairy. As Slaton watched, the dock foreman shouted something to the old man and spun a finger in the air. The old man raised his hand in acknowledgment, walked over to his truck and got in.

Slaton worried for a moment that his first choice was about to drive off. He saw the old diesel chug to life and maneuver away from the loading dock. Then he understood. The old man parked his rig toward the back of the lot and another truck, much bigger, took the now vacant slot at the busy loading pier.

The driver walked back to the platform to patiently wait his due. Slaton grabbed his backpack and began to move.

Anton Bloch was cleaning out his desk. He’d been informed of his ouster only hours ago, yet Zak wanted him out immediately. Bloch’s ties to the
“Polaris Venture
debacle,” as it was now internally known, were inescapable, and his downfall a fait accompli. Still, he was surprised at how quickly the end had come. In two hours, the new Director of Mossad would be quietly sworn in.

Bloch fished through the drawers of his desk. There were few personal effects to deal with, a result of his efforts to compartmentalize his life. The office was for work, and private mementos could only distract. One wall was accented with a few obligatory family photos, poor ones his wife hadn’t minded parting with. Bloch had brought them in at the suggestion of one of his staff, a woman who’d dryly noted that the only preexisting decoration, a large framed
Code of Ethics,
did little to soften the room’s tone. (The
Code
was a vestige of the previous Director, who had thought it marvelously funny given that Mossad’s chartered mission was to lie, cheat, and steal.)

Then there was the sword mounted by the door, a relic from Bloch’s days at the military academy. It was inscribed with one of those cryptic Latin phrases, the meaning of which he’d forgotten over the years. Bloch had nailed the thing up on the wall of his office because that was about all you could do with something like that.

All in all, there wasn’t much to give insight into the person who sat behind the Director’s desk, and scant evidence that he held a life beyond this building. At the outset, Bloch had made a reciprocal promise to himself that he wouldn’t take his work home. On that count, he’d failed abysmally. It was easy enough to not take the papers and files home. Since most of it was classified at the highest levels, it would have constituted a severe security breach to do so. However, the unconscionable nature of his position could never be left behind. Bloch’s work was a never-ending sequence of troubling events. Sometimes he even arranged them. He couldn’t remember the last night he’d gone to sleep with fading thoughts of a good dinner, his granddaughter’s laugh, or loving his wife. Maybe it would be different now.

Bloch pulled files out of his desk and stacked them to be returned for safekeeping in Documents Section. Had his departure been under more favorable circumstances, he might have browsed through and reminisced over the missions they represented. But on this day, he had neither the time nor the inclination. He was elbow deep in the bottom drawer when the secure line rang with its distinct high-pitched tone. He picked up and was rewarded with the voice of a trusted friend.

“We figured out where the
Lorraine II
came from, boss.”

“Casablanca. She was chartered for a fishing trip two weeks ago. The Moroccan captain and first mate have both disappeared, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out where they ended up.”

The caller sounded crestfallen. “How’d you know that?”

“The British told us this morning. They’re taking this pretty seriously. Have you got anything else?”

“Uh, no. Sorry.”

“All right,” said an exasperated Bloch. “Stay in Morocco and keep looking. And if you call me again, I want you to use a different number.” Bloch gave his home phone number, lacking any better ideas, and hung up. He sat tapping his fingers on the desk. With only a few more hours as Director, if he was going to use his authority, he’d have to do it now. There were two immediate problems — David Slaton and a ten-kiloton weapon, both of which had disappeared into thin air. To get answers, a multitude of options came to mind, but they all carried a common theme. Bloch picked up the phone and dialed. A female voice answered.

“Flight dispatch.”

“Anton Bloch,” he said authoritatively, “I want a plane ready in thirty minutes.”

“Number traveling and destination, sir?”

“One passenger. London.”

The search had gone on for six hours when Chatham called the first meeting. Four supervisors, one from each twenty-man team, assembled at the Yard with Chatham presiding. There was a painful lack of new information. The first three teams had reported six possible sightings of their quarry, all thin in detail and none that got Chatham’s hopes up. Lieutenant Barnstable was the last chance, however his solemn expression matched those who’d gone before. Just as he began, Ian Dark walked in and quietly handed Chatham a copy of the evening
Times
.

Barnstable stood before the large city map that dominated one wall and went over his troops’ findings. Chatham let his eyes wander across the newspaper. The headlines were still bold.
NUKE DISARMED! SUSPECT IDENTIFIED!
The picture of David Slaton was on the front page, in a bottom quarter. Rough and grainy in the print reproduction, it had lost a good deal of clarity. If the paper had known another weapon was unaccounted for, Chatham suspected the photo would have covered the entire front page. He scanned idly while Barnstable droned in to an approach and landing.

“Altogether, we’ve identified only one possible match,” he said. “A bus driver claimed to have seen a fellow at a bus stop who looked something like our man.”

Chatham browsed to page four.

“I interviewed him personally,” Barnstable said, in an ode to his own efficiency, “but he didn’t seem very sure. Apparently he didn’t get a good look at the bloke either time.”

“Either time?” Dark asked.

“Well, yes,” Barnstable explained. “It seems the same fellow was at this stop on two consecutive passes.”

Dark queried, “You’re saying this bus got around to a stop twice, and the same man was there both times? A man who bore some resemblance to our suspect?”

“Right.”

“Did he get on the bus?”

“No,” Barnstable said.

Chatham surprised everyone by jumping in. “How much time had elapsed between those two stops?”

Barnstable fished a notepad from his jacket and began searching. Finding the times, he did the math, “One hour and forty minutes, sir.”

Chatham’s attention was now complete. “Ian, get a city schedule. I want to see if there were any other buses he might have been waiting for.” He turned back to Barnstable, “Lieutenant, did this driver have anything else to say?”

Barnstable shuffled through his notes. “No. No, he just said the fellow was standing around. He didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the buses.”

“A man standing at a bus stop, but not waiting for a bus,” Chatham commented.

“Well, yes. I suppose,” Barnstable mumbled. He had the look of a man waiting for the boot to drop.

“Have you been to this stop, Lieutenant?”

“Not recently, but I’m familiar with it.”

“What else is nearby?”

“It’s right next to the New Covent Garden Market. Overlooks the backside, the loading docks.”

Chatham grinned knowingly at his crew. They looked back blankly, not seeing it yet. “We are assuming he’s trying to leave the city. Put yourselves in his shoes. He knows we’ll be watching all the usual means of transportation.”

Dark was the first to speak. “The lorries. They’re in and out of the market all day.”

“Empty when they leave,” Barnstable added.

“Right,” Chatham said encouragingly. “Barnstable, find that bus driver and get the exact times he saw this man. Let’s see if any other buses went by the same stop. If so, we must talk to those drivers.”