The Perfect Assassin (45 page)

“What is it?”

He recognized the pilot’s voice.

“We’re beginning our descent, Mr. Prime Minister. It might get bumpy and I wanted to make sure you were buckled in.”

“How long until we land?” Zak demanded.

After a slight pause, the pilot replied, “Seventeen minutes, sir.”

The pilot was a colonel in the Israeli Air Force, and had probably received his commission about the same time as one retired Major Ehud Zak. Timing
was
everything.

“Make it sixteen.” He hung up and smiled.

By coincidence, ten miles to the south another Israeli executive transport, this one much smaller, was climbing as it began its six-hour journey back to Tel Aviv. Inside, Anton Bloch was also talking on a handset, he to a hotel in Casablanca. His expression was both grim and determined.

When Anton Bloch arrived in Tel Aviv there was no limo waiting. Instead, he’d called ahead and his wife was there to give him a ride, escorted by two bodyguards. For all the privileges Bloch would lose, the muscle would be around for many years. No one would particularly care if he were blown to bits, but ex-Directors of Mossad knew far too many dirty secrets to risk capture.

Bloch was exhausted after the all-night flight from London, and he sat with his wife in the back seat as they went straight to his office. Or what used to be his office. On the way there, the Blochs made a feeble attempt at conversation. They covered the weather, their leaking bathroom sink, and finally ventured to more tender ground, the status of their recalcitrant daughter who had been mucking up her first year at university. The last subject was a sour one, and they both knew he couldn’t give the issue the attention it required. At least not now. Arriving at Mossad headquarters, Anton Bloch shot his wife a look that told her she’d have to handle it for the time being. As he was about to get out of the car, she grabbed his arm.

“Oh, wait. I have something for you.” She dug into her purse and handed over a message, scripted in her own meticulous handwriting. “Some fellow named Samuels called you at the house. He said this was important.”

He took the note, kissed his wife more than dutifully on the cheek, then hurried inside.

Bloch was recognized immediately by security at the entrance and ushered straight to his old office. His successor, Raymond Nurin, wanted a word with him. The choice didn’t surprise Bloch. Nurin had never spent much time in operations, but he was competent, and a safe pick who would neither stir controversy, nor go in and turn the place upside down to put his personal stamp on things.

Once alone on the elevator, Bloch read the message his wife had taken.

Sunday, 6:00
A.M.

Found second boat chartered from Rabat in Pytor Roth’s name. 34’ Hatteras. Name Broadbill, registered in Morocco. Went to sea two weeks ago, no sign of boat or crew since.

Advise.

Samuels.

Bloch crumpled up the note and vowed to call Nathan Chatham as soon as he could with the name
Broadbill
. He suspected there might have been a second boat, one to carry the second weapon. The first had been chartered in Casablanca, by Wysinski and his bunch. From there it had been a dead end — but now Rabat. Roth’s name had been the key. Bloch suspected a little research might turn up more on the man. Find him, and maybe they could get to that second weapon in time.

The elevator opened and Bloch was shown to his old office. Not much had changed. There were some new, half-opened boxes of junk to take the place of his own lot, which was presently shoved against the far wall. The desk was already buried under a maelstrom of papers and files.

“Anton,” Nurin said with false familiarity and a smile. Bloch had met the man a few times, but he’d always worked in other sections, socialized in different orbits.

“Where have you been?” Nurin asked guardedly, clearly uncomfortable in the company of his predecessor. The man almost seemed intimidated, and for the very first time Anton Bloch wondered how the rank and file of the Mossad had always seen him. Perhaps some gruff and surly tyrant? Bloch discarded the thought. He didn’t much care.

“In England,” Bloch grunted, “but you already know that.”

Nurin looked embarrassed. “Well, yes. But what were you doing there?”

“Trying to figure out where that missing weapon is.”

The new boss tried to exert some control. “Anton, jetting off to Europe is not the Director of Mossad’s job. We have people who do that kind of thing. And you left your personal security detail behind.”

“I’m not the Director anymore.”

“There’s a lot of people who were nervous about where you’d gone.”

“Like who?”

Nurin huffed, clearly not liking the vector of the conversation. His tone eased, “Look Anton, we’ve got to figure this out. I’m sorry about all that’s happened, but we have to work together.”

The last thing Bloch wanted was a togetherness speech. “I went to England to find Slaton and look for any leads on where that second weapon might be.”

“Did you have any luck?”

“No,” Bloch said, not bothering to add,
And if I did have anything, I wouldn’t share it with you right now.

Nurin sighed, glancing at his watch. “I’m expecting a conference call from the Prime Minister any minute, but I’ve got to see you later today. There are some ongoing projects I’d like you to brief me on.”

Bloch tried to look enthusiastic. Then a thought came to mind.

“Yes, I’ll brief you on everything this afternoon. You know, it would help to have the files. That way we could go over them together.”

Nurin looked at a day planner on his desk. “How about three o’-clock? I’ll cancel the rest of my afternoon.”

“Fine,” Bloch said. “Do I still have authorization? Two days ago I was the Director, but if they’ve gone by the book, those pencil-necks downstairs might have pulled my access.”

Nurin looked surprised, “Oh, of course. I’ll make sure they give you whatever you need.”

Bloch retained his business-like expression. The new Director had just made his research a lot easier.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Inspector Chatham stood fast against the cold drizzle and brisk wind that whipped his face. It was a long face, longer than usual, and beads of precipitation peppered his mustache. He was standing on the ceremonial stage in Greenwich Park, and under his feet were two pieces of tape. They formed an
X
, this being the very spot where the signing table would be tomorrow morning. From this spot, the leading powers of the most embattled region on earth would commit to a lasting peace. That is, unless David Slaton got in the way. Or a nuclear weapon, or … what else? Chatham wondered fretfully. Perhaps a meteor from the heavens? It was his job to worry about things. All sorts of things. Yet, at the moment, he had an ill feeling he’d missed something.

A tireless Ian Dark came slogging across the wet sod and climbed up to the stage. Chatham’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon as his assistant came alongside and stood silently, apparently allowing rank its privileges.

“You know,” Chatham began, without taking his eyes off the park, “I’ve been at it a long time, this business of chasing after criminals. And I’ve had some success in hunting them down, putting them behind bars as necessary. Some were quite stupid, made the job easy. Others were actually rather clever. But they have all—” Chatham finally looked at his colleague, “
all
been done in by one thing. The predictability of human nature. It has always amazed me. They’ll rob a bank, then a week later when the money’s gone, they’ll rob the same one again. We’re very much creatures of habit, Ian. People go to work, eat lunch, exercise, and cheat on their spouses with amazing punctuality. My sister has gone to the same hair stylist at ten-thirty on Wednesday mornings for the past twelve years.”

Chatham began to stroll the platform. “My first case was a hit-and-run. Some poor chap got run down on a backstreet intersection at four in the morning. No witnesses, no physical evidence to speak of. I went out and stood on that corner from three to five in the morning for two weeks. Finally, a woman drove up one night and paused at the intersection. I was in uniform, and as soon as she looked over at me I knew. We both knew. I’ll never forget the look on her face. She confessed. She was a nurse, worked the late shift every other Saturday. She’d gone home sleepy that one night and missed the stop sign. Hit the fellow and panicked, kept going.”

Chatham moved slowly, almost as if conserving energy.

“Creatures of habit?” Dark asked. “Predictable? Even Slaton?”

“Especially Slaton!” He stopped and waved a hand out across the park. “Here. He’ll be here tomorrow, somehow.” Chatham strode back to the
X.
“While Israel’s Prime Minister is standing on this very spot!”

Dark looked around doubtfully. “Ten plainclothes men are already here, and twice as many uniforms. Tomorrow will triple that count, not to mention the head-of-state protection details of a half dozen countries. They’ll stop and question anyone having the faintest resemblance to Slaton’s photo. The trash cans are gone, the sewer covers bolted closed. And the only cars permitted within three blocks will be those carrying the participants. I can’t see how, Inspector.”

“Nor can I, Ian. But just because we don’t see it — that doesn’t mean it’s not there. An opening. Somewhere.” Chatham looked out at the Queen’s House in the distance. “What about that, over there? Too far?” he wondered aloud.

“Oh, yes. I’ve talked to some of the Army chaps who do this sort of thing, the sharpshooters. They tell me four hundred yards is the outside, and then it would require a good bit of luck to hit a target the size of a person. The Queen’s House is nearly a thousand yards.” Dark raised one arm up at an angle. “You’d have to raise the gun up like this and loft the bullet in the general direction of a target. Hitting anyone would be sheer luck.”

Chatham eyed his assistant. “You
have
been busy.”

Dark grinned. “Those Army lads are really top drawer. I spent some time with them this morning. You see, I thought that of all the people I know, they’re the most like him. They make their livings much the same way he does, knowing how to hide and shoot. They’d know how he might go about doing it. I’m going to meet two of them in an hour, right here. I’ll have them look over the area firsthand and tell us what they think.”

Chatham cocked his head and nodded approvingly. “Yes, I see.” He went back to scanning the park. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

He rarely issued compliments, and when he did, they often seemed to come obtusely. But Chatham saw this one had hit home. Dark couldn’t have looked giddier if the Queen Mum herself had just touched a sword to his shoulders.

“Of course,” he added pensively, “that assumes he’s going to use the rifle.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it occurred to me that he might have stolen those rifles in order for us to think these exact thoughts. For example, if we were concentrating on looking for a concealed sniper with an outsized rifle, we might ignore the more obvious. A well-disguised face in the crowd, an impostor on one of the security details. Remember, he’s stolen a handgun as well.”

“Yes. I suppose.”

“Still,” Chatham reasoned, “we’ve got to cover everything. You meet with those Army lads and tell me what they say.”

“Right, sir.”

“Oh, and anything yet on that boat Bloch told us about, the
Broadbill
?”

“No. I think we’ve gone over every harbor and slip in the country. Nothing.”

With a thumb and forefinger, Chatham slowly groomed his moustache, brushing away the accumulated droplets of rain. It might not be in England, he thought, but it was out there.

Most of the East End shops were closed on Sunday, so Slaton phoned the hotel concierge. Once he’d explained his needs, the sprightly young woman efficiently directed him to a shopping area a mile north of the hotel. She then offered to call a cab, but he politely declined the transportation. The streets were quiet on Sundays. He would walk.

The concierge was right about the shopping complex. Slaton quickly found what he needed. He made his first purchase in a clothing shop, then two in an electronics store. Avoiding crowded areas, he paid cash and kept his contact with the sales assistants to a minimum. On his way back to the hotel, he considered stopping at a restaurant for one last good meal. As tempting as it was, there was no point in taking chances. Not when he was so close.

He stopped at a small grocer he’d spotted a few blocks from the hotel, picked out a baguette, some sliced ham, and a container of orange juice. He took a spot in line to be rung up by a disinterested young woman who was chewing gum like a cow might chew a mouthful of grass. She mumbled an obligatory greeting of some sort, then summed up Slaton’s purchase. He proffered a ten-pound note and she plopped a few coins in his hand in return, dropping the food in a plastic sack. She mumbled again, this time probably “Thank you,” with little more than a glance at her customer. Slaton left the store pleased that his groundwork was complete.

The customer who had been standing behind Slaton, a well-dressed elderly man, shoved his tea and fudge in front of Prudence Bloom. She ran it through the scanner, distracted as she did so. After ringing the man up, she stood staring at the rack behind him, forgetting to give him his total.

The customer patiently leaned forward, trying to see the display on the cash register. “Four pounds, six?” he queried. “Is that right?”

The question broke her trance. “What? Oh, yeah. That’s right.”

He pulled a handful of change from his pocket.

“Did you see that bloke in front of you,” she asked, “the one that just left?”

“Yes, I suppose. Why do you ask?”

“It was him,” she said with certainty.

“Who?”

“Him!” Prudence pointed to a rack of newspapers behind her customer.

Every front page blazed with pictures of the terrorist fellow the police had been after. The man looked, then turned to Prudence, his skepticism evident.