The Perfect Assassin (43 page)

“It will. I’ve got to go.”

The call ended with a click that seemed deafening.

Christine told Ian Dark she had to see Inspector Chatham right away, with the irregular caveat that Anton Bloch also be present. Dark seemed tentative, so she explained who they had both just spoken to. He was stunned.

Chatham was already in the building, and Dark managed to catch Bloch as he was checking out of his hotel. Twenty minutes later, Christine was rehashing the phone call with two men whose interest was nothing less than absolute. She told them about a hawkish group within the Israeli government that was terrorizing the country’s own citizens.

“This is incredible,” Chatham said. He deferred to Bloch, “Could this possibly be true?”

Bloch’s dire expression was an answer in itself. “If you think about it, there’s a terrible logic. It would connect a lot of things.”

Christine said, “He thinks the second weapon you’re searching for is in the hands of somebody named Pytor Roth.”

Bloch and Chatham looked at one another hopefully, but Christine could see the name meant nothing to either.

“David thinks it’s going to be set off in the next few days.”

“To torpedo the Greenwich Accord,” Bloch correctly deduced.

“Yes,” she said.

“Set off where?” Chatham wondered. “Here in London?”

“David thinks it will be in a way that makes it look like Israel is being attacked or threatened.”

Bloch said, “Of course. And another country, one of our enemies, will take the blame.”

Chatham said to Bloch, “If it goes off in Greenwich and kills your Prime Minister —
that’s
a threat to Israel’s security, not to mention Great Britain’s.”

“It won’t happen in Greenwich,” Christine warned.

They both looked at her with a plaintive expression that asked,
What else can go wrong?

“David believes he knows who’s leading this group,” she said.

Chatham raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Who?” he asked guardedly.

“Ehud Zak.”

Chatham scowled. “Oh, now that’s rich. I can just see it.” Putting his hands behind his back, Chatham took a few paces and drew a tone of mock seriousness, “I’ve come to 10 Downing today, Mr. Prime Minister, to inform you that the investigation had been badly unstuck, but we’ve finally figured things out. You see, this fellow we’ve been chasing over hill and country isn’t the culprit after all. No, he called this morning and told us that it’s been your counterpart all along, the Prime Minister of Israel. We’ve sent a large party over to the embassy to drag him in.”

Nobody laughed. Bloch sat stoically, obviously working the angles, trying to validate such an incredible accusation.

Chatham gesticulated wildly toward the Israeli, “Surely you can’t buy into this? I’ve met your man Slaton, and I agree there was a certain legitimacy about what he had to say, but this is extraordinary!”

Bloch didn’t respond. Chatham turned to Christine and demanded, “What evidence does he have?”

“Think about it,” Bloch interceded

“Think about what?”

“What’s already happened. Two nuclear weapons hijacked. One turns up harmlessly in Eastbourne. And then what? The Israeli government has a swift and predictable shift. Zak becomes Prime Minister. They tell you Slaton is the guilty party, without offering anything to back it up. Remember, he wasn’t supposed to survive the sinking of
Polaris Venture
. But since he did, he would have been a threat, the one person who might unravel everything.”

Chatham said, “Sir, I’ll grant that politics is not my strong suit, but how could this make sense? Zak is only temporarily in charge, until elections are held, isn’t that the case?”

“That’s how it works on paper. But go on to what Slaton is suggesting. Let’s say that second weapon
does
go off Monday morning. Maybe it detonates fifty miles off the coast of Israel, on a ship. The government, Zak’s government, says it was a botched attempt at finishing off the Israeli state once and for all. The country faces her greatest threat. The Green-wich Accord is dead and a nation rallies around its leader. That’s what happens in times of crisis.”

They all saw how it fit.

“This can’t be happening,” Christine said wishfully.

“Proof!” Chatham insisted. “There’s no way to prove any of this. And without it we can’t act!”

Bloch stared at the floor. “Proof? There might be some. I could do a quiet run-up on Zak and this Pytor Roth fellow, whoever he is. Over the years there has to be a trail, something incriminating. But it would take time, a couple of days at least.”

“There’s one other thing,” Christine said.

The two men looked at her numbly. Christine addressed Bloch.

“You know David had a wife and daughter, and that they were killed in a terrorist attack many years ago. But it wasn’t the Arabs. He believes it was this group, Zak in particular, who was responsible.” There was no easy way to say the rest. “I’m afraid David is still out there because he intends to assassinate the Prime Minister of Israel.”

Bloch and Big Red escorted Christine back to her quarters.

“I’m going straight to Tel Aviv,” Bloch said. “Hopefully, I can dig up some hard evidence and explain everything to the right people.”

“You don’t have much time. I think David’s shooting for Monday.” Christine winced at what she’d said. Bloch didn’t seem to notice.

As they approached her room, Bloch took her by the arm and stopped. Big Red’s gaze sharpened, but the security man made no move to step in. He crossed his thick arms and stood a few paces away, giving them a degree of privacy.

Bloch spoke quietly, “There’s one thing I’d like to tell you, in case David calls again. It’s something only a few people know, and it really isn’t important anymore. Except maybe to him.”

Christine eyed him warily. The unflappable stone of a man she’d gotten to know over the last two days seemed to be, for the first time, unnerved.

“I’ve wanted to tell him myself, many times,” Bloch said searchingly. “There were moments when it seemed like the right thing, but I never…”

She thought he looked pale. “What is it?”

“It has to do with his wife and daughter, how they died.”

“I don’t see how the details are important. There were some killers and David believes Zak was among them. They stopped a bus, got on with machine guns and grenades.” She paused at the terrible thought. “And they didn’t stop until everyone was dead.”

“Yes. That much happened. And it might have been Zak. Except David’s wife and daughter weren’t on that bus.”

Christine drew back and her voice went to a whisper, “What?”

“They were waiting for a different bus, over a mile away. A drunk driver bounced up on the curb and ran them down. It was an accident. The kind of tragic, senseless thing that happens every day, even in war zones.”

Christine leaned back against the hallway wall. “But why? Why did you let him think … what he thinks.”

Bloch sighed, “Someone knew David was being recruited. I don’t know who, and it’s not important. But when they found out about the accident, it dawned on them to make a connection. The police reports and autopsies were quietly altered. His wife and daughter were gone, so it was used.”

“You mean—?”

His voice filled with angst, “What better way to motivate a prospective assassin than to make him hate the enemy. To make him think they’d murdered his family.”

Her body half-turned, crumpling against the wall. She felt like she was choking, drowning in a sea of deception and hatred. Then the anger began to well.

Bloch said, “I know, it sounds barbaric.”

Christine exploded. “You’re monsters, all of you!” she shouted. She lunged toward Bloch, but Big Red intervened and Christine felt herself being tugged away. “You tortured him all these years! Just to use him, to make him as hateful as the rest of you!”

Heads peered from doors along the corridor as people tried to see what the ruckus was about. Two more sturdy men, obviously cohorts of Big Red, materialized in seconds and positioned themselves between Bloch and the agitated American doctor.

She lowered her voice, but only slightly. “There’s no way to justify something like that! I don’t care if it was somebody else’s doing. I don’t care if there was a war going on. It was wrong! Wrong!”

Bloch could only nod, a defeated expression on his leathery face, “Yes. It was wrong.”

Big Red gently pulled her away and the other two men guided Bloch in the opposite direction. “I think we should put an end to this visit,” the security man said.

Bloch acquiesced, “Yes, I understand.” He spoke over his shoulder as he was being ushered off. “If you talk to David again, you have to tell him. It’s time that he knows.”

Big Red’s arm was draped around her, steering her down the hall. Christine shrugged away, still seething. A few days ago she never would have believed there were such warped, manipulative people in the world. Christine wished she could rescue David from all of them.
I’ll tell him,
she agonized.
I’ll tell him if I ever see him alive again.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Slaton left the hotel at 9:20 that evening, having settled on the time after some deliberation. He would have to climb up the fire escape and let himself into Dhalal’s upper flat, the type of task usually best left for the small hours of the morning. The problem was the box. Home improvement shoppers weren’t typically out at 3:00 a.m. lugging packages around. This in mind, he’d settled on the late evening. It would be dark, but the streets still busy with people ending their day’s business and beginning a night’s leisure. He would blend in on the sidewalks, then disappear into the alley behind Dhalal’s.

He took a cab, not wanting the exposure of the tube on a busy Friday evening. The driver tried to chat at first, but Slaton was minimally receptive and the fellow finally gave up. When they arrived at the prescribed address, two streets south of the tobacco shop, Slaton handed over his fare along with an average tip and bid the driver a courteous good evening.

From that point Slaton walked quickly, a man with things to do. There were plenty of people about, and he realized that by holding the box upright as he carried it, he could partially shield his face from oncomers. When he reached the mouth of the alley, he stopped. Slaton pulled the receipt from his box and pretended to study it. He might have been looking for an address that had been scribbled down, or double-checking the price he’d just paid. When the sidewalk was clear, he slipped deftly into the narrow passageway.

To his left were the businesses that lined Crooms Hill Road. Among them, fifty yards ahead, was Dhalal’s smoke shop. To the right the configuration was similar — the backsides of small buildings, some with residences above. At this hour the businesses were all closed, except one at the very end which Slaton recalled was a restaurant. The alley was much darker than the street had been, only a few shafts of illumination straying from the flats above. To each side lay a shadowy assortment of trash cans, crates, and grungy boxes. Slaton heard a stereo playing soft jazz, and somewhere overhead two jagged voices, a man and a woman, were locked in a profane argument.

He reached the back of Dhalal’s shop and gauged his task. The building opposite was unlit and quiet. Unfortunately, Dhalal’s was not. A light shone brightly from the window of the owner’s second-floor flat, and Slaton could hear a television blaring a variety show. The fire escape was also a problem. It looked in worse shape than Slaton remembered, rusty and crooked. Strangely, something else came to mind — another fire escape, the one that had been by the window at Humphrey Hall. Slaton had spent hours looking past it as he tried to concentrate on The Excelsior Hotel. As he tried to spot the enemy. As he tried not to watch her. She had fallen asleep on the couch, her long limbs stretched languidly under a blanket, her lovely profile silhouetted in a soft, indirect light. It was a captivating, distracting picture. Until the two men had come. Then he’d woken her and brought her back to the nightmare of reality.

A loud voice echoed at the end of the alley, interrupting Slaton’s mental excursion. Backing into the shadows, he waited and listened for a full minute before deciding there was no threat. Slaton cursed under his breath. He studied the ladder, briefly wondered if there was any better way up. He felt exposed standing at the bottom of the fire escape.

With a good look to make sure no one had just entered the alley, he scrambled up the steps. The crusty metal framework creaked and groaned under his weight, flakes of rust sprinkling to the ground. He was making too much noise, but there was no turning back now. Sacrificing stealth for speed, he made it to the third floor in seconds. Fortunately, Dhalal had not discovered the open lock on the window. Moments later, Slaton was in with his package, closing the window behind. He fell to the floor and listened.

The television still blared from below. He heard voices outside, but soon realized it was only the argument flaring louder in the other building. He realized how incredibly stupid that had been. Why had he been in such a hurry? What if the window had been re-locked? Slaton lay still. He closed his eyes tightly, but the vision would not be pressed away. She was there, sitting on the beach, an inquisitive look on her face as she tried so hard to understand—

The television suddenly went silent in Dhalal’s flat. He heard rustling downstairs, then someone on the inside staircase. The soft, quick steps were receding, going down. Creaks as the front door of the shop opened, closed, and then a faint click as the lock tumbled into place. Shrivaras Dhalal was going out. Slaton remained motionless. What was happening? He’d lost focus and done a completely amateurish thing. It had to be the fatigue.

Slaton forced his mind to acquire order. He listened carefully for ten more minutes, then went to work. It might have been a simple task had it not been for the small confines of the attic. It was little more than a crawlspace, and he had to keep movement to a minimum as the business end of forty-year-old roofing nails scratched at him from above. It also didn’t help that he had to perform the entire job by illumination of a small pen light, held in his mouth. After forty minutes, though, the preparations were complete. Complete to give him the one chance he needed.