The Perfect Assassin

Chapter Nine

Inspector Chatham arrived at the Penzance station at eight that morning. His first sight on entering the building was the burly Chief of Penzance Police ushering a young woman with a tape recorder out of an office and toward the door. The man’s tone was brusque, Chatham thought, fully commensurate with his appearance.

“That’s all I can say now, miss,” Bickerstaff barked.

The woman offered a few well-practiced words of protest and indignation, only to have them cut off when the door shut in her face.

Bickerstaff sighed and leaned his bulk against the door, as if expecting the irksome woman to try shoving her way back in. He addressed the sergeant at the main desk, “No more of those, Patrick, or I’ll ’ave those stripes.”

The sergeant behind the desk waved his hand dismissively.

The police chief finally noticed Chatham. “Well, hello. You must be the Inspector from Scotland Yard I’ve been hearin’ about.”

“Does it show that badly?”

“You’re the only one come to see me this morning that didn’t have a camera in one hand and a notepad in the other.”

Chatham took the Chief’s outstretched hand and, not unexpectedly, endured a bonecrushing grip. “Inspector Nathan Chatham, Special Branch. Good to meet you. I arrived late last night.”

“You could have called me right off, Inspector. I’d have filled you in.”

“That’s quite all right. I suspect that finding this fellow may take some time. Rest can be our ally. We’ll march on steady and with a clear mind, while the enemy grows tired from maneuver. Let him make the mistakes, eh?”

Bickerstaff seemed to chew on that, then jabbed a blunt thumb to the door where he’d just evicted the young reporter. “I’ve already made one mistake today by letting her in. Pesky lot, they are.”

“The media? I suppose, but they have their uses.”

Bickerstaff smiled and gestured for Chatham to join him in his office. The place was a mess. Papers and files were strewn across all furniture that was not regularly attended, and the lone bookshelf was bursting with odd, unmatched volumes stuffed in at all angles. Chatham was encouraged. This was a place where work was done.

Bickerstaff sifted through the pile on his desk, found the paper he was after, and handed it to Chatham. “Here’s the preliminary report, Inspector. Let me tell you what I know so far.”

Chatham browsed the report while Bickerstaff talked. He decided that, in spite of his brutish texture, the chief was a reasonably proficient investigator. He also didn’t seem concerned about turf — some local police got bothered when Special Branch came waltzing onto their stage. It took Bickerstaff five minutes to hit the highlights, and, in the end, he was apologetic for letting things go as long as they had. “I really thought there was nothing to this at first, but now I see I should have called for help right away.”

Chatham nodded and put down the written report. “Perhaps, but let’s not worry about that. Far too much to be done.” He steepled his hands under his chin. “This man, the attacker, no one got a good look at him?”

“The Israeli chap who survived. He’s in the hospital. Took a nasty bump on the head, he did. Claims he can’t remember a thing.” Bicker-staff scrunched his considerable brow. “Do you think it’s a diversionarial tactic, Inspector?”

Chatham tried not to cringe at the chief’s recreational grammar. “It is our job to distinguish evidence from coincidence.”

Bickerstaff nodded and a look of stern concentration fell across his mug. Chatham had the impression he was mentally recording the phrase for future use.

Bickerstaff continued, “The motel manager saw our suspect, but he was awfully far away. We know the bloke’s a bit on the tall side, thin, light colored hair, and a scruffy beard. That’s all he could tell us, basically the same description Dr. Palmer gave me the day before.”

“Doctor Palmer?”

“Right, the woman who’s disappeared. She’s a physician, American. Just finished her schooling. I made some calls to the States to verify that part. Everything she told me about herself checked, which was why by yesterday morning I was starting to believe her story after all. Certainly nothing to suggest she’d be tied up with Israeli spies and all.”

“Spies, you say?”

“Well,” Bickerstaff retreated, “they were Israelis I know, and I heard they worked at the embassy. I just assumed …”

Chatham stood and began walking slowly back and forth. “Forensics. What have we got so far?”

“The man from the lab in Exeter has been here. He’s found a few partial fingerprints that might be from our man. They came off the BMW. The door handle, the steering wheel, and shifter.”

Chatham was not encouraged. He had a feeling that whoever this man was, his prints might not be on record. At least not anyplace Chatham had access.

“All right,” he said, “let’s set the order of battle. We have a young lady in our lab who’s very good at this sort of thing. I’ll bring her over to have a look. We’ll try to match those prints from the car to any on the sailboat, then eliminate those that are Doctor Palmer’s. By doing so, we can erase any doubt that the same man is responsible for both abductions. Since you’ve already started verifying this woman’s story, I’d like you to press on with it. Find out if she’s spent much time abroad. Go back, let’s say five years. What countries has she been to? How long? That sort of thing. I’ll have Ian Dark help you with it. He’s my assistant back in London. Good man.”

Bickerstaff began scribbling notes on a yellow pad.

“We’ll have to go over this house he broke into after coming ashore. And we’ll need a precise description of the motorcycle he’s taken. If we can find it, we’ll know where he’s been, and perhaps get an idea of where he’s headed.”

“You don’t think he’s still around here?”

“Not likely,” Chatham replied distractedly, his thoughts already having moved on. “The Israeli in the hospital, is he well enough for a few questions?”

“I don’t see why not. He took a few knocks in all the argy-bargy, but they tell me he’ll be fine.”

“Good. That’s where I’m headed then.”

“Do you think he can tell us who this fellow is?”

“Can he? Almost certainly. I just hope that he will.”

“All right, Inspector. I’ll have Edwards here run you over to the hospital.”

Bickerstaff summoned Edwards and issued the assignment. As Chatham was about to leave, the chief added awkwardly, “I’ll do whatever I can to help. I feel badly about this, Inspector. The woman, Dr. Palmer, she seemed a nice lady, she did.”

“We’ll just have to find her then, won’t we? Carry on, Chief.”

Two hours later, Chatham left the hospital no better off than when he’d gone in. Itzaak Simon, the Israeli who’d survived yesterday’s scrum, was recovering nicely. He was alert, lucid, and not about to say anything of use. Chatham wished he’d arrived sooner, before the man’s pain medication had worn off.

The supervising nurse confirmed that Itzaak Simon had taken no visitors other than the police. He had, however, spent a good amount of time on the telephone earlier in the morning, and Chatham was sure he knew who was on the other end. The questioning process had gone badly. After conceding a few basic, obvious facts, Simon claimed to not remember anything else, a convenient excuse given the bump on the crown of his head. Chatham had pressed, asking why the Assistant Attaché for Cultural Affairs had been so far away from his desk at the embassy, in the company of another embassy employee who was carrying a gun. From that point, things were openly hostile, and when the Israeli eventually used his trump card of diplomatic immunity, Chatham stopped wasting his time. He was sure Itzaak Simon knew the identity of the killer, but he recognized a dead end when he saw it.

Exiting the hospital, Chatham stopped at the first telephone kiosk he could find and dialed his office. Ian Dark answered on the first ring.

“Hello, Ian.”

“There you are, Inspector. I tried to ring your cell phone about an hour ago, but I couldn’t get through. Have you lost another one?”

Chatham hated the infernal thing. It always seemed to interrupt at the worst possible time. Right now it was crammed into the glove box of his seldom used car, along with that blasted beeper that was always blinking and vibrating — like having some huge, angry bug in your pocket. He ignored Dark’s question. “I’m getting nowhere here. Our witness is maintaining a very professional silence. I’m also quite sure that the man we’re looking for is no longer anywhere near this place. Tell me, what have you found?”

“Well, Bickerstaff was right on one count. There were no ships lost in the Atlantic last week. Nothing at all. Of course it might have been a small vessel, something that might go unreported.”

“Or …” Chatham prodded. There was a slight pause.

“Or a sinking that someone didn’t want reported. Smuggler, maybe, that sort of thing?”

“Right. Go on.”

“Oh, yes. There was one stroke of luck. I was cross-checking the things you mentioned through our data files and I got one hit. It seems another Israeli national was killed in London about a week ago. After some digging and a few calls to the Foreign Office, I’m quite sure this person was also a Mossad officer.”

“Hmm. A hazardous occupation. What were the circumstances?”

“It was an accident, apparently. The poor sod walked straight in front of a bus. The local division investigated but didn’t find anything suspicious.”

“You say this man was Mossad?”

“According to our Foreign Office, he was assigned to the London station a few years back. Then he went back to Israel and they lost track of him. The police investigation clearly took him to be another tourist here on holiday.”

“I see. Better have a look at it.”

“Do you think this same fellow might have been responsible?” Dark queried.

“No telling. Better protect the flank, though. Get me a copy of that accident report.”

“Right.”

“I haven’t seen Mrs. Smythe from Forensics yet. When is she due here?”

“She checked in from Bickerstaff’s office about an hour ago. Ought to be catching up with you any time now, sir.”

“Good, good. She and I will have a quick look around the crime scene here. I’ll leave her to tally things up while I take the 11:30 train back to London. Set up a conference with Shearer. Someone at the Israeli Embassy must know what this is all about. If I can go there with some official weight, it might save us all a lot of work.”

Slaton strolled out of the gift shop, got in the car, and handed Christine a small box.

“Merry Christmas.”

She opened it up to find a hideous Casio watch. It was pink and green with an ugly, thick plastic band. The price tag in the box said twenty pounds. She had a feeling he’d paid less.

“Gee, thanks. It’s the nicest thing anyone’s given me this holiday season. Of course, it is still the first week of December.”

He put the little car in gear. “Sorry. Can’t spend a lot on Christmas presents this year. Besides, you really shouldn’t expect much. I’m not even a Christian.”

Christine tried it on for size and, unfortunately, it fit. They had spent an hour earlier in the morning buying things — or rather he had. Clothes mostly, and a few toiletries. It seemed logical at first, since neither of them had more than what was on their backs, but Christine thought his selections had been curious. If her bodyguard, as she’d come to think of him, had any sense of fashion, he kept it well hidden. Cheap jeans, expensive shirts, some brightly colored, others subdued. He made her try on a few things, while others he bought when they were obviously too big. It finally clicked when he’d picked out the reversible windbreakers and a couple of cheap hats. He was putting together disguises — all different shades, shapes and sizes — so that they might better conceal themselves. Her first urge had been to laugh, but awful memories of the previous day spoiled any humor Christine could dredge from the situation. He had rounded out the ensembles by purchasing sunglasses and some cheap, off-the-rack, clear reading glasses — cheaters, he called them.

“It’s twelve-twenty and thirty seconds,” Slaton said, glancing at a somewhat more handsome, but equally inexpensive watch on his own wrist. “I’ve already adjusted yours. It should stay synchronized to within a few seconds. That’ll be close enough.”

Christine studied her watch with a guarded expression as he went on.

“I’ve got an errand to run.”

An errand, she thought. To most people that meant going to the corner for a loaf of bread.

“You’re going to drop me two blocks from here. Can you drive a manual shift?”

Christine looked at the unfamiliar right-hand drive arrangement. “I’ll manage,” she said confidently.

“Drive around the area. Get familiar with the streets and the car.” Slaton referred to a street map that was folded carefully to show the relevant section of town. “At one fifteen do a circle around Belgrave Square — here,” he pointed. “Enter the square from Chapel Street and circle once. Work your way to the inside lane. If you don’t see me, head back the way you came, toward Buckingham Palace and the Park. Keep driving and come back every fifteen minutes. If I haven’t shown up by two-thirty, leave and come back once at nine tonight.”

“And if you’re still not there?”

“Drive away and ditch the car. Take the tube to another part of town and pay cash for a hotel room. In the morning go to Scotland Yard. Talk to Inspector McKnight. I worked with him once and he seemed like a competent fellow. Tell him everything.”

Christine looked at him, realizing what he was saying. His eyes were still empty. No fear, no trepidation, just alertness. Scanning, always scanning the traffic ahead and behind. Every car, every face on the sidewalk scrutinized for an instant. Slaton pulled the car into a parking spot and left it running.

When he reached for the door handle, Christine grabbed his arm. “But you said the police wouldn’t be able to protect me.”

“It’s your best chance if we get split up,” he said smoothly. “Remember, you’d have to convince them everything I’ve told you is true.”

Christine sighed, “That might be tough, since I’m not even convinced myself.” Then she added, “So please show up.”

“I’ll do my best.”

He got out and mixed in with the crowds on the sidewalk. In no time, he disappeared.

Hiram Varkal sat impatiently at a booth in his favorite Chinese restaurant in Knightsbridge. It was dimly lit, like Chinese restaurants all over the world, but that didn’t bother him. What bothered him was the crowds. The place was incredibly busy today and his order was taking forever. To a lesser extent, he was also troubled that the booths at Lo Fan’s seemed to be getting smaller. Either that, or … he looked down at his stomach. Varkal was a huge man in every proportion. When younger, he’d actually been trim and athletic, but the curse of time brought a slowing metabolism that, augmented by an unabashed love of culinary excess, had taken him to his present state. Varkal sported a rolling girth that was unending, unfit, and, around Mossad’s London station, unmistakable. Still, for all his mass, Varkal harbored no regrets. Good food, good drink, good cigars — there was the stuff of a good life and he embraced every calorie.

Varkal pushed the table away slightly as he spotted Wu Chin coming his way. He was delighted to see an extra large helping of sweet and sour pork. The waiter gave a slight bow as he slid the heavy plate in front of his regular.

“So sorry for waiting, Mr. Varkal. Cook very busy today.”

Varkal took a hand and idly combed a few strands of hair from one side of his head, over the bald spot, to the other. He couldn’t be upset after seeing the huge portion Wu had brought, no doubt to make up for the delay. The waiter rushed off and Varkal tucked in his napkin, calculating how much time remained for the pleasure of savoring his meal before the afternoon staff meeting.

He had just shoveled the first big helping of pork between his jowls when someone slid into the booth’s opposing seat. Looking up, his eyes became huge circles. Varkal choked and coughed spasmodically, spewing the food back onto his plate.

“Jesus!” he sputtered.

“Hardly.”

David Slaton pushed a glass of water toward the huge man.

Varkal took a messy drink from the glass. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked in a harsh whisper.

“Get your hands on the table.”

It took Varkal a moment to decipher the implications of that directive, then a look of worry glazed over his face as he realized that Slaton’s hands were out of sight underneath the table. Varkal plopped his fat fingers across the hardwood as if he were expecting a manicure.

Slaton was confident the man would be unarmed. Varkal had never been a field agent. He was a politician, a bureaucrat who had worked his way up. But having seen him in action, Slaton knew to be careful. What ever the man lacked in tactical experience and polish was more than compensated for by a shrewd nature and an outstanding intellect. Varkal had excelled in a cutthroat organization, and he was near the pinnacle — he headed up Mossad’s London station, a vital post that wasn’t handed out lightly. Slaton would have to work hard to keep the man off balance.

“What do you want?” Varkal asked.

“I want to submit my resignation.”

“What?”

“I quit. I resign my position, effective immediately.”

Varkal’s eyes narrowed. “Your position? I don’t even know what your position is. You don’t work for me.”

“Not really, I guess. But you could pass it on for me. I’m sure you know the right people.”

Varkal frowned.

“I also need to find out a few things. I thought you might be able to help.”

“Such as?”

“Such as who killed Yosy Meier.”

Varkal’s face wrinkled in confusion. “What do you mean? Yosy killed? It was an accident.”

“Said who? The London police?”

“Yes. And we did a quiet investigation ourselves. Accidents do happen, David, even to Mossad officers. Particularly here in England. Until the Brits learn to drive on the right side of the road like the rest of the world, there’ll be no end to mowing down the tourists—”

“Don’t give me that!” Slaton spat. “You knew Yosy. If there was an investigation, it didn’t go very deep.”

“All right,” Varkal admitted, “I thought it was strange. But there really wasn’t any evidence of foul play. We pressed hard on a couple of informants, but none of the Arab groups here seemed to be involved.”

Varkal was recovering. Slaton caught him glancing to the entrance. He was wondering where his security was. The chief of an important Mossad station didn’t wander around town without someone to look after him. It was time to tighten the screws.

“They’re gone.”

“Who?”

“The guy standing out front. Rosenthal, I think is his name. And some new thug in a car across the street. You know, this is a very good restaurant, but you shouldn’t be so predictable. Same time, same day every week. It makes for bad security.”

“What did you do to them?” Varkal asked guardedly.

Slaton had already decided not to overplay the answer to that question. He pulled a small radio out of his pocket and shoved it across the table. It was the size of a cigarette pack, with an earpiece and microphone, the standard issue for Mossad security work. Slaton had retrieved it from his apartment, but he wouldn’t need it again. “Somebody reported a gun in the ambassador’s wing. Your boys ran off to help. The place ought to be locked down tight by now, but it’ll take fifteen minutes to figure out there’s no intruder.”

Varkal nodded. A thin sheen of perspiration had begun to mat the strands of hair on his scalp. It was decision time for Slaton. His instincts told him to go with Plan A.

“All right, listen,” he said. “I think there’s a group within the Mossad that’s making trouble, and I have a feeling you’re not part of it.”

“What do you mean making trouble?”

“Killing Yosy, for starters. Sending a ship and fifteen crewmen to the bottom of the ocean. There’s a lot happening, but I haven’t got it all figured out yet. I only know that it comes from inside our organization. Deep inside.”

“What? You’re saying our enemies have infiltrated the service?”

“I don’t know. If that were the case, I’d expect it to be one or two people. And they’d just stay quiet, get as high as they could within the organization to pass information. From what I’ve seen there’s a lot going on, a lot of people involved.”

“Like who?”

Slaton made a quick scan of the restaurant. “Why did Itzaak Simon and his buddy go out to Penzance?”

“We got a message from Tel Aviv. It instructed us to keep an eye out for anything that had to do with a ship named Polaris Venture. We found out from a source in Scotland Yard that a woman had sailed into Penzance in a boat that was beat to hell. Said she had picked up a man in the middle of the ocean, who then turned around and commandeered her boat. Supposedly he was a survivor from a ship that had sunk, and the name she gave was Polaris Venture. We sent that much back to Tel Aviv and they replied right away, told us to monitor the situation closely.”

“How?” Slaton said impatiently.

“What do you mean how?”

“Were you supposed to contact her? Question her?”

“No, the order was very specific. Just watch from a distance. No contact.”

“All right. I’m sure you’ve talked to Itzaak by now. How did he describe what happened in Penzance?”

Slaton saw suspicion in Varkal’s face. The uncertainty and fear were wearing off.

“He said that he and his partner, Freidlund, had set up surveillance. They spotted some guy trying to get into this woman’s room and decided to approach him. Itzaak recognized you and asked what was going on. That’s when you went off and attacked the two of them. They weren’t ready for it and you got the better of them.”

“Simple enough. Now let me give you my version.” Slaton allotted one minute to explain what had happened. It wouldn’t be long before security at the embassy figured out his ruse. When he finished, Varkal was skeptical.

“You’re telling me Itzaak and his partner were going to bury this woman? Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know exactly, but I’ve got a feeling it has to do with Polaris Venture. That ship had a very unusual cargo, the kind of stuff people get killed over. Tell me, how did Itzaak’s team get assigned this specific detail? Did you send them out?”

Varkal looked skyward, as if rewinding his mental gears. “When I got the message, I went straight to the duty swine. He told me Itzaak and Freidlund were already on the way.”

“Isn’t that kind of strange?”

“At the time I didn’t like it, but I wasn’t worried. It was Priority Two. When I got to my desk that morning, it had been there for at least an hour. Somebody saw the message and acted on it.”

“Or maybe Itzaak and his buddy knew it was coming.”

Slaton watched it sink in, then saw something else register.

“Itzaak …” Varkal said thoughtfully.

“What about him?”

“I told you we looked into Yosy’s accident. Well, Itzaak was in charge of the investigation.”

“Who gave him that job?”

“He volunteered for it. Said he was a friend of Yosy’s and wanted to do it for personal reasons. I didn’t see anything wrong with that — figured he’d be motivated to do a good, thorough job.”

Slaton watched Varkal closely and could see the facts sinking in. The man was no longer concerned about his immediate, personal well-being. Slaton had been able to plant the seeds of a more insidious, familiar danger, and the station chief was reacting predictably. If it was all true, if there really was a threat from within, then there was also a golden opportunity. Varkal would want to break it open in such a way as to reflect maximum credit upon himself.

“You see the pattern. And the more you look, the more you’ll find.”

“That’s what you want from me? You want me to investigate this?”

“I want you to pass what I’ve told you on to Anton Bloch. Tell him that’s why I’m running around England killing his people. Tell him I haven’t turned against Mossad. It’s turned on itself.”

“But if what you’re saying is true, how can you know who to trust?”

“You mean how can we know.”

Varkal frowned, then his eyes went to the window at the front of the restaurant. Slaton checked his watch. “They’re back a little soon.”

“Yes,” Varkal said quietly.

“Well, it’s that time. In the next ten seconds you have to decide whether I’m full of crap or not.”

Varkal’s hands began to fidget on the table. He made no move to signal anyone. Slaton couldn’t see the front entrance directly, but he’d been keeping an eye on the mirror behind the bar. If anyone came within twenty feet of their table, he’d know it. Slaton heard the door open, and at the same time, Varkal made his decision. He smiled. Trying to look casual, Varkal waved away whoever it was.

“It’s Streissan. He heads my detail,” Varkal said under his breath. “I tried to wave him off, but he’s coming over anyway. Probably wants to tell me about the false alarm. If he gets one look at you …”

Slaton wasn’t listening. He was about to lose the advantage of surprise. He spotted Streissan in the mirror, twenty feet over his shoulder and closing fast. Worse yet, the man had realized someone was at the table with Varkal.

Slaton’s hand went into his jacket and gripped the Berretta. In one motion, he swung out of his seat and leveled the weapon at Streissan’s head. To his credit, the Mossad officer froze, realizing it was his only chance.

A customer at the bar saw the commotion and yelled drunkenly, “’ere now!” Only when one of the barmaids screamed did the whole room go quiet. All attention in the establishment went to the man with the gun.

Slaton wondered whose side Streissan was on. Was he a traitor? Or just a guy on security detail doing his job? He’d like to ask some questions, but there was no time. He had to get out now. As he backed toward the rear exit, two figures appeared on the sidewalk outside. Slaton had a clear view through the big plate glass windows at the front. The men were moving quickly. Too quickly. He didn’t know either, but in an instant they recognized Slaton and their weapons were drawn. His options were gone.

Slaton shifted aim and fired, the room’s silence disintegrating into a crackling hail of gunshots and crashing glass. He let go two quick rounds at each of the moving figures outside, then leapt for cover behind the end of the bar. Halfway there he felt a stinging pain in his forearm.

A few of the restaurant’s patrons tried to run for the front door as bullets whizzed by. Most fell to the floor and turned over tables, seeking any protection they could find.

Slaton popped up from behind the bar and loosed a rapid succession of shots at someone jumping in through the shattered window. He saw another man down, writhing on the sidewalk outside. He quickly ducked back down as return fire scattered around the bar. He distinguished two guns now, one to his left, and one to the right. The one on the right had to be Streissan, with a standard issue Glock. Four rounds fired. The one on the left was different, maybe a Mauser. Five shots. His left arm blazed in pain.

Suddenly the Mauser started spraying shots wildly around the room. When the count reached nine, Slaton moved slightly right, stood full, and spotted Streissan, poorly protected behind a booth divider. He fired twice before Streissan could shift his aim and the big man sprawled back with a shout, then stopped moving. Slaton shifted his aim to where Mauser would be changing clips, but saw nothing. Whoever it was had to be holed up behind a large, particularly solid table, waiting for help. That would be the smart thing to do. There would be ten more Israelis here within two minutes — with bigger weapons. The local police would be right behind. It was time to go.

Slaton moved to the rear of the bar, took one good look to clear the area, then fired a shot in Mauser’s general direction. One second later, another. One second, a third shot, and the cover pattern was set. He dashed low to the rear exit, and was almost there when Mauser let go a single shot. Slaton looked back to take aim with the next round. He was still running low when a big drunk who’d been hiding near the rear door made a lunge for the same exit. The two met shoulder to shoulder and both went down. Slaton fell awkwardly on his injured arm and the pain seared in. But he had to keep moving. Scrambling, he made it to the passageway and out of Mauser’s line of sight. He took one last look back at the wreckage that had moments ago been a popular restaurant. The sight was vivid. Screaming people, broken glass, overturned chairs — and the massive body of Hiram Varkal splayed out on the floor, his face bloody, and his eyes wide and still in death.