The Perfect Assassin (31 page)

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” Her request met silence. “Where are we going?”

Slaton’s eyes were riveted to the winding road ahead, probably a good thing given the speed at which they were traveling. She leaned forward to be sure she was in his field of view and stared at him.

“Circumstances have changed,” he said abruptly.

“How?”

“I don’t think you’re in danger any longer.”

“The way you’re driving, I am!”

He ignored her critique. “I’m convinced the reason they went after you was because you might have blown their whole operation. You knew where you picked me up, and so you might have known where to look for
Polaris Venture
.”

“That makes sense, I guess, but now you’re saying I’m no longer in danger. What’s different?
Polaris Venture
hasn’t gone anywhere.”

“No. But her cargo has.”

“The weapons?”

Slaton nodded.

“How do you know that?”

“Because I saw one of them this morning. It was on a big cruiser, in the harbor at Eastbourne.”

Christine jerked back in her seat. “You’re telling me there’s a nuclear weapon sitting on a boat back there? In the middle of a good sized city? Could … could it …”

“Detonate? Wouldn’t make sense to me,” he said doubtfully. “East-bourne’s not much of a target. But I really have no idea what it’s doing there.”

“What about the other one?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. They might only have salvaged one. But the point is that one of the weapons is there. The salvage has taken place, so you’re off the hook.”

Christine supposed he was trying to offer relief, but instead she felt bleak and hollow. The cat and mouse game they’d been playing was now much more encompassing, no longer simply the two of them scurrying from a few madmen. The lives of thousands could be at stake.

“So why are we in such a hurry?” she asked.

“Because along with the weapon there were three men on that boat. At least two are dead, and the police got a good look at me.”

Christine didn’t even flinch. A mild numbness set in and she wondered if she could be getting used to such things. Perhaps this was how he always stayed so calm — a series of psychological jolts that gradually, indelibly wore you down until there was nothing left. How much must David have seen in so many years of undeclared warfare? How much could he take? How much could anyone take?

She watched him concentrating on the road ahead and behind, summing up all the sights, sounds, and smells; categorizing everything as friend, foe, or neutral. Last night he had been a warm, caring man. Now he was altogether different. She saw a volatile fury seething within him that she didn’t understand. Even more, for the first time since she’d pulled him from the ocean, she was frightened. Not for her own well being, but for his. Something was terribly wrong.

“David, are you all right?”

The softness of her voice captured his attention. At last, the man she had known last night reappeared. He eased off the accelerator and put a hand to her cheek. “We’re going to get you safe now.”

“How?”

Slaton told her. When he finished, she thought about the plan. It made sense and she could hardly argue against it.

“What about you? What are you going to do?” she asked.

The car accelerated and Slaton was again lost to the task at hand. He never answered, and Christine was left wishing she had never asked.

Anton Bloch shifted uncomfortably in his seat outside Prime Minister Jacobs’ office. He’d been there for nearly an hour, waiting patiently while shouts reverberated behind the two thick wooden doors. He looked at Moira who was, as always, implacable. She sat typing on her computer, as if unaware that the future of their country was being decided in the next room. Bloch had tried to catch her eye once or twice, but her professionalism was unyielding, and she kept tied to her task.

The news about one of the weapons turning up in England had hit three hours ago. The Brits tried to make the communiqué as diplomatic as possible, but the magnitude of the event transcended what little conciliatory language the Foreign Office could include. Great Britain strongly suspected Israeli involvement in the matter of a nuclear weapon turning up on their doorstep, and they demanded an explanation. The fact that the weapon had been dragged out to sea, and was no immediate danger to anyone, save the sailors who watched over it, carried little comfort. A multimedia feeding frenzy had begun. The world wanted answers.

In Tel Aviv, the news hit particularly hard among those who knew the details of the “
Polaris Venture
fiasco.” For those in power the story ran wild, a fire driven by hurricane winds and jumping the feeble breaks that were security clearances and chains of command. Now the true elite, the Knesset leaders and coalition makers, all knew the facts, and they realized it was only a matter of time before the whole thing would land with a crunch at Israel’s diplomatic feet. A political bloodletting of the highest order was under way in Jacobs’ office, and Anton Bloch sat quietly, impotently on the sidelines, knowing he was as much to blame as anyone.

Bloch tried to imagine what was happening in England. Slaton and Wysinski had gone to South Africa together to load the weapons, then they had split up. Now both of them, and one of the weapons, turn up in a quiet English harbor. Viktor Wysinski and two other Mossad men, dead. David Slaton the killer. Again. And God only knew where the other nuke was. It all made Bloch reel.

Finally, Jacobs’ office grew quiet. The heavy mahogany doors flew open and a stream of the most powerful men and women in Israel filed out. Some looked at Bloch contemptuously as they exited, while others ignored him, more rushed and purposeful. The last few out simply looked defeated. Jacobs did not emerge.

Bloch got up and started into the office. He momentarily wondered if Moira would announce his entrance, but she stayed locked to her work. Passing her desk, Bloch got a good look and saw that her eyes were glistening. Moira knew what was happening, but she was doing her best to keep up a front. It was her way of dealing with it.

Jacobs was alone in the room, seated at his desk but facing away, toward the window behind. Bloch could only see the back of his head.

“Well?” he said, announcing his presence. “How did it go?”

Jacobs didn’t say anything for a moment, then slowly eased his chair around. He looked thoughtful and subdued. When he finally spoke, he did so slowly, as if making a conscious effort to shift gears from the free-for-all that had just ended. “Badly, Anton. Badly.”

Jacobs stood. He looked weary and his shoulders sagged. “We’ve sent word to the British ambassador here, admitting we lost the weapon that turned up in Eastbourne. We also admitted that there’s a second one loose. I suspect we’ll look for it together, quietly for now. But if we don’t find it soon, Anton, I’m afraid word’s going to get out.”

“We’ll find it,” Bloch said, more with hope than conviction.

“I’ll be making a speech tonight. I have to acknowledge Israel’s part in this whole affair. It will also contain my statement of resignation.”

“Resignation? You’re kidding!”

Jacobs shrugged. “There’s really no other way.”

“There has to be! Say it was a Mossad screw up. I’ll take the blame.”

The Prime Minister came around the desk and put a hand on Bloch’s shoulder. “I appreciate your loyalty Anton, but we can’t get out of this so easily. A lot of people know that I approved the mission right from the start, and some of those people don’t like me or my party.”

“Fight them!”

“I did. I fought for all I was worth, but it was no use. It all comes down to support, numbers. There were too many against me.”

“Politics,” Bloch spat.

“Politics, my friend. That’s what got me here, and that’s how it ends.” Jacobs struck a fist into his open palm. “Damn! If I only could have held it together. There were so many things in the works, things I cared about.”

“Who will take over?” Bloch asked.

Jacobs laughed. “You should have seen them. The posturing, the threats, the blatant dealmaking. I’d say Steiner, or maybe Feldman. Whoever can scheme up the right coalition. For now, Zak will run things until a special election can be arranged.”

“Zak? He was briefed on everything right from the start. Isn’t he as dirty as the rest of us?”

“Of course, but somebody has to run the country for a couple of months, Anton. Zak’s a Knesset member, and since he’s always been in my shadow, he hasn’t stepped on many toes yet. To tell the truth, I think the others see him as the least ambitious of the bunch. He agreed to not be part of the next government. And we’ll erase his name from any records that might have put him at the meetings.”

“Whose idea was that?” Bloch asked.

“It was mine. We have to insulate him.”

“What about Greenwich on Monday? Will this threaten the Accord?”

“A few of the Arab countries will raise a predictable fuss, but we’ll confess our sins carefully. At worst we’ll look careless, but there’s no new strategic ground. We’ve been nuclear capable for decades. No, the Accord will go forward. I’m sure of it.”

“That’s your peace agreement! You spent an entire year battling for it. You have every right to be the one who signs it and finishes the deal.”

“No,” Jacobs said, “this has to be done right away. Once I’ve taken responsibility for this mess, there’s nowhere for me to go but out. I can’t linger for a few days for something like that. My resignation will take effect at midnight. Zak will go to Greenwich and sign the Accord.”

Bloch had never been more frustrated in his life. Again and again he tried to figure it out. How had the weapons been taken? How did one end up in England? And above all else,
why?
He’d give anything to talk to David Slaton for sixty seconds.

“And Anton,” Jacobs added awkwardly, “I’m afraid you’ll be going down with me.”

Bloch nodded. “I expected as much. You’ll have my letter in the morning.”

Jacobs went to a small cabinet where a bottle of brandy was waiting, a prepositioned salve. He held out a glass, inviting Bloch to join him.

An agitated Bloch shook his head. “No. Maybe tomorrow, but not now.”

Jacobs poured a stout bracer, snapped his head back and downed it in one motion.

Bloch headed for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“There’s still one weapon out there, and I want to find it. I hate being made the fool!”

It was the kind of evening Nathan Chatham enjoyed, cool and clear. Living a mile and a half from the Yard, he generally eschewed the clunky old conglomeration of iron that passed for his automobile. He always felt that a crisp walk helped to clear his thoughts, thoughts so regularly muddled amid the daily scramble of people and information. Today had been particularly hectic, and he’d gotten no sleep the night before. Exhausted, Chatham had explained to Ian Dark that he’d be going home for dinner, a nap and, most critically, a few hours of quiet in which to think things through. He’d be back at the office by midnight.

Chatham walked at his typical brisk pace so as to take advantage of the cardiovascular benefits. No need then for a time-consuming exercise program. It also had the advantage of getting him home a few minutes sooner.

He reached the brownstone row where he’d made his home for the last twenty-one years. His particular dwelling was over two hundred years old, built for a sea captain, or so the property agent had told him. It was solid and well-maintained, two stories squeezed narrowly into a row of similar homes that ran the length of the street. Lately the address had become fashionable and, one by one, widows and pensioners were giving way to the
nouveau riche,
young advertising and financial princes who parked Italian cars in the street and spruced their housefronts in the most god-awful colors. Chatham didn’t mind much. They were loud at times, but the walls between the homes were a full one meter thick and he had no trouble getting his sleep. (Neighborhood legend had it that even Hitler’s V-2s had gotten no satisfaction here, one having bounced off the backside of a house to make a large crater in a resident’s backyard. Old timers swore the defiant owner had filled the gaping hole with water and used it for many years thereafter as a duck pond, though Chatham had never seen evidence of it.) His only complaint was on Sundays, the day he liked to work in his garden. Occasionally the parties at nearby properties got out of hand, disturbing Chatham’s cherished day of peace and reconstitution. It was during these instances that the Chief Inspector from Scot-land Yard had no hesitation in putting his rank and position to good use.

He spent a few minutes chatting up Mrs. Nesbit, who was sweeping her porch two doors down. A great hater of the “bloody tele,” she was probably the only person on the block who hadn’t seen the evening news, and thus had no idea what Chatham had been up against all day. He found it a pleasant diversion to hear the neighborhood gossip — Number 20 at the end of the street had been sold to a speculator, and Mr. Wooley’s gall bladder operation had ended favorably.

Chatham bid goodnight to Mrs. Nesbit and went to his door. He fumbled through his keyring, found the correct one and went inside, right away noticing the familiar, cool dampness that came from leaving the furnace off all day. When he closed the door, it struck him that the room seemed darker than usual, no illumination from the streetlights filtering in from the front window. Chatham tried to remember if he had closed the drapes for some reason. Then something else seemed off, though he wasn’t sure just what. A moment later his instincts were proven correct. A light came on. When his eyes adjusted, he saw two people sitting comfortably in the matching armchairs of his living room, a man and a woman he’d never met. He recognized them instantly.

“Good evening, Inspector,” Slaton said.

Chatham paused to regard his intruders. The man looked casual and relaxed, a manner at odds with the handgun lying obtrusively in his lap. The woman, rigid and nervous, was the far less worrisome of the two.

“Is it?” Chatham replied. He casually removed his topcoat, noticing the man’s hand tense almost imperceptibly over the gun. “At ease, sir. I don’t carry a weapon. And I might add, it is illegal to do so in this country.” He calmly walked to the thermostat and turned on the furnace. “It will take a few minutes to warm. Can I offer you some tea?”