The Perfect Assassin

Chapter Ten

Christine began her third spin around Belgrave Square. She checked her ugly watch. One forty-four and ten seconds. The first pass, half an hour ago, had been two minutes late. After that, she’d gotten a better take on the traffic and the second pass had been right on. She wondered, for what seemed like the hundredth time today, what in the world she was doing. Driving a rented Peugeot in timed circles around a quaint London landmark, searching for her … Christine didn’t even know what to call him. Her protector? Her killer? Her spy?

Whoever he was, he appeared out of nowhere halfway around the square. No waving or shouting to draw attention. He just stood in an obvious spot on the sidewalk, knowing she would spot him. Christine pulled over and he slid into the passenger seat.

“Turn left,” he ordered. “Work over to Kensington Street.”

And hello to you too, she thought. Christine edged the car back into heavy traffic while he immediately began scanning again for some unseen enemy. She noticed a small scrape on his hand.

“So, kill anybody while you were out?” She’d meant to lighten the mood, but it came out sounding crass. He gave her a hard look.

“Sorry.” Christine heard the asynchronous wail of sirens in the distance, and she felt a shudder of unease. “Where are we going now?”

“We’re going to get out of London for a day or two. Let’s head back west, on the M3. And if you see a pharmacy along the way, stop.”

Christine took another look at him. He was wearing a tweed jacket she’d never seen before. A small thing, she thought. He goes off wearing one jacket, comes back in another. There must be a harmless explanation. Then she noticed a dark stain on the sleeve. She pulled the car over.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Christine replied by reaching over and gently coaxing the fabric up to his elbow, revealing a fresh wound.

“My God! What happened?”

“I took a round, but it’s okay. I think it passed right through.” He pulled his arm away.

“Well, your expert medical opinion aside, I should have a look at it.”

“Keep driving. The bleeding has stopped, it’s just sore. We’ll be fine if we can put some distance between us and …”

Christine’s stomach turned over.

“Go!” he insisted.

She pulled back onto the street. “All right. I’ll keep going,” she spat. “And maybe we can take a bullet out of that gun for you to bite down on. That’s how you macho types deal with pain, right?” Christine’s anger surged. “But while I drive, you tell me what happened back there. You go off without telling me where you’re going or what you’re doing, and then come back with a gunshot. If I’m being dragged into this, I want to know what’s going on! Tell me or I’m leaving!”

He didn’t say anything right away, and Christine glanced over at him. He was staring at her, concern evident through the scraggly beard that masked his face. Finally, he spoke. “You’re correct, doctor. I was wrong not to include you. Maybe I thought the less you knew, the safer you’d be. But we’re clearly past that now.”

Christine eyed the bloodstain on his jacket and wondered what the other guy must look like.

“I went to see Hiram Varkal. He heads up the Mossad station here in London. I was guessing he had no part in this organization I’ve told you about, and I wanted to find out what he knew. If Varkal seemed safe, I was going to tell him everything so he could send it right to the top, to the Director himself.”

“The last two Israelis you met up with didn’t fare too well. Wasn’t this guy a little nervous about meeting you?”

“He would have been if he’d known about it.”

Christine listened intently as he explained how he’d cornered Varkal in the restaurant. He then went over their conversation and offered a brief version of the battle that ensued. She drove on in grim silence, acknowledging events she would never have thought possible two weeks ago. When Slaton was done, she realized things had gotten deeper yet.

“So you think you killed at least one of the three?”

“Yes,” he replied evenly. “Maybe two. I had no choice. They’d drawn their guns.”

The body count rises again, she thought. “What about this guy, Varkal? If he believed you, he’ll pass on what you told him, right? And maybe he can convince the police you were acting in self-defense.”

“No.”

The reply was too simple, too quick. Then Christine understood. “You mean you killed him?”

Slaton shook his head, “I hit two of the security guys. But one of them took out Varkal.”

“What?” She looked at him with disbelief, “Why would his own bodyguards shoot him?”

“Simple. Because he’d been talking to me.”

Christine nearly ran a red light. She jammed on the brakes and the little car skidded just short of a crosswalk. Pedestrians moved cautiously in front of them, and an old man jabbed his cane at Christine with a disapproving stare. She held a deathgrip on the steering wheel. What else? she wondered. What more could happen?

She said, “Tomorrow this will be in every paper in England, won’t it? Your picture and mine right next to it with a big question mark underneath.”

“If my picture makes the paper, that’s a very bad sign.”

“I probably shouldn’t ask, but why?”

“Because there aren’t many photos of me,” he said evenly, “and the ones that do exist are held by a particular agency of the Israeli government. The one that trained me to be what I am.”

Christine considered that. “You mean the only official photos—”

“I mean the only pictures. No family albums, no vacation pictures, no Polaroids with my schoolmates. None of that. The ones that existed before I became a kidon were destroyed. That’s how it works.”

The light turned green and Christine drove on slowly, giving thought to what he’d just said. It all seemed so cold and cynical, even cruel in a way. It was yet another part of an existence she could never have imagined.

Slaton went on, “Granted, I’ve been a busy fellow for the last eighteen years. It’s possible our enemies might have snapped one or two candid photos. But if a mug shot shows up on the BBC evening news, it’s there courtesy of my government. It would mean the Mossad thinks I’ve turned. They’d be throwing me to the wolves and they’ll go after me themselves. Hard. Governments don’t like their disaffected assassins running around. Far too messy for — there!” he spat out, his head whipping to one side.

Her heart spiked. “What?”

He pointed back to a sidestreet they’d just passed. “There was a pharmacy down that street. Turn around.”

Christine breathed a sigh of relief and wheeled the car around. She looked at his wounded arm. He seemed completely unbothered by it. She remembered all the other scars she’d seen across his battered body. How could anyone live such a life? And now she was being pulled into it. Again she tried to imagine some way out.

Christine said, “If we went to the police and told them everything right away, wouldn’t that give you enough insurance?”

“Everything on my side is speculation. They can tie me to one dead man, maybe more. They’ll think I’m a lunatic, and before they figure out otherwise — well, like I said, there are a lot of people who would be very concerned if I were sitting in a jail cell answering questions.”

She tried a new tack. “What about the newspapers? Go tell them everything. Once it’s made public, no one could come after you.”

“Do you really think anyone would print something like this? Who would believe it?”

Christine found a parking space directly in front of the pharmacy. Who would believe it? she thought. Why do I believe it? The question pounded in her mind. She had always thought herself to be an intelligent, reasonable woman. A person of science and logic. But she did believe him. He had kidnapped her. Twice. She had seen him kill a man, yet for some damned reason she sensed that everything he told her was true.

She felt him watching her. It made her uncomfortable and she forced herself to a new line of thought. Christine leaned toward him.

“Hold still,” she said in her best professional voice. She pulled the jacket carefully from his wounded arm, then unbuttoned his shirt cuff and eased it back to get a better look at the wound. It would be impossible to tell without an X-ray whether any part of the bullet remained in his body, but she could clearly make out an entry wound on the anterior forearm, and an exit wound in back.

“We need to clean and dress this. Then we should get an X-ray to check for any damage we can’t see.”

“Hospitals are out for now, so let’s just clean it and be done.”

Christine frowned. She was mentally logging what she’d need from the pharmacy when she suddenly noticed their closeness. She felt his breath on her neck and her gaze shifted. With their faces only inches apart, the two locked eyes. He looked at her openly, for the first time without calculation, without the cold alertness that had permeated his every action. And then there was more. His expression seemed to hold familiarity, as if he was looking at someone else, someone he knew far more intimately. In the silence, Christine felt awkward. She pulled away.

“All right,” she said, collecting herself. “I’ll go get what we need to repair you. Something to cleanse the wound, gauze, tape. Maybe an over-the-counter pain medication. Anything else?”

“Yeah, get me a razor and some shaving cream.”

“Okay.”

As she grabbed the door handle, he reached out gently and held her by the wrist.

“Christine … I’m sorry about that. You reminded me of someone.” She nodded thoughtfully, then smiled. It was the first time he’d ever called her by her first name. “Well, I can honestly say that you don’t remind me of anyone I’ve ever known.”

He produced a thin smile of his own, but then, in a moment, it disappeared. He returned to his duty of evaluating all activity on the streets and sidewalks. The kidon was back as quickly as he’d gone.

“I don’t like it,” Chatham declared. Back in his Scotland Yard office after the midday train ride from Penzance, he held a copy of the police accident report on the death of one Yosef Meier.

“I must say, sir, I really didn’t see anything suspicious in it myself,” Ian Dark offered.

“No, nothing suspicious. Nothing at all! This wasn’t an investigation. It was someone filling an administrative square.” Chatham jabbed a finger at the bottom of one page, “See, only one eyewitness interviewed. One!” Chatham tossed it aside.

“It’s been less than a week. Perhaps we should look into it ourselves.”

Chatham shook his head. “I wish we could, but we can’t deploy our forces too thinly. Right now it’s only us and Mrs. Smythe. Which reminds me, has she reported in yet?”

“She had Chief Bickerstaff call in. Seems this entire affair has raised quite a row in Penzance. No less than a dozen locals have gone in to see Bickerstaff this morning, all of them claiming to have witnessed some part of what went on yesterday. One woman actually identified the BMW, but she saw it leaving the motel. Nothing we didn’t already know. As for the transfer car, a number of people are certain they spotted it.”

“And?”

“Could be anything from a black Lamborghini to a Tripley Bread van.”

Chatham sighed. “What about Smythe?”

“She’s still trying to identify the car our man switched to, using those tire imprints you pointed out. Bickerstaff was curious as to what drew you to those particular tracks. He says there were tire marks all over the place, a lot of them closer to the abandoned BMW.”

Chatham shrugged, “A bit of logic, but mostly guesswork. All we have at the moment, I’m afraid. Smythe can probably identify the type of tire, but even then, they’re all so common nowadays. If we find the right car we’ll be able to match irregularities and prove where it’s been.”

“But first we have to find it,” Dark said, realizing they weren’t much beyond square one.

The telephone rang and Chatham wagged his long index finger in the air as he walked to pick it up. “This is what we need, I think.” He picked up the handset, “Chatham here.”

The conversation was a very one-sided affair. Chatham’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened as he listened. At the end, he dispensed a few pleasantries and set the phone gingerly back on its cradle, silently ordering his thoughts.

“What’s happened?” Dark asked.

The question broke Chatham’s trance. “It was the Assistant Commissioner, about the meeting we were supposed to have this afternoon with the Israelis. A few hours ago he arranged it with a fellow named Hiram Varkal.”

“Varkal? Who’s he?”

“It’s an ill-kept secret that he’s Mossad’s Chief of Station here in London. Or, at least he was. Just after noon he was killed in a shootout. It happened at a restaurant in Knightsbridge, a few blocks from the embassy. One other Israeli was killed and a third wounded.”

“Good Lord! They’re dropping faster than we can count.”

“Yes, and that’s not all. It seems today’s killer matches the description of our man quite nicely.”

“The media will go wild.”

“I think those were the Assistant Commissioner’s very words. This business has become the Yard’s top priority. The Commissioner himself has seen fit to name me as being in command of what is now a highly public investigation. I’ve authority to use any assets necessary to apprehend this fellow.”

The phone rang again, and Chatham motioned for Dark to pick it up. He did, and after exchanging a few words he held the phone to his chest.

“It’s Security down in the lobby. They say there’s a throng of reporters outside looking for you. It seems the word is out that you’ve been put in charge of a big investigation and they want a statement. Apparently they’re quite agitated.”

Chatham checked the time. “Of course they are. The deadline is fast approaching to get something onto the evening news. Tell them we’ll have a briefing in fifteen minutes.”

Dark relayed the message.

Chatham went to the rack and retrieved his great coat. “Our man-power problem has gone, Ian. Let’s call in the reserves. Get through to Inspector Grant, Homicide Division. He and his best five men will reopen the investigation of Yosef Meier’s death. Call Shearer back and tell him to find out who’s running Mossad affairs at the embassy now. I must see that person, tonight if possible. Get a half dozen people out to Penzance to help Smythe with anything she needs. Have forensics send …” Chatham snapped his fingers in the air, trying to remember the name, “Moore, yes, that’s it. Sharp lad. Have him meet me right away at the Lo Fan Restaurant in Knightsbridge. That’s where I’ll be if you need me.” Chatham strode to the door.

“But sir! You just scheduled a press briefing in fifteen minutes.”

“Right,” Chatham called over his shoulder. “And I’m sure you’ll do a cracking good job.”

They arrived in Southampton at 4:30, Slaton at the wheel as they made their way through City Centre. Ten minutes earlier he had pointed out a hotel called The Excelsior, but the car didn’t stop. They traveled two blocks away from the hotel, toward the waterfront, a blatantly mercantile trap anointed the Town Quay. From there, he circled back to The Excelsior, and eventually repeated the exercise from three different directions.

“Do we have to be that careful?” Christine asked as he finally pulled into a parking spot a block from the hotel.

“Just doing a little reconnaissance. It’s quicker than walking.” He shut off the engine, but left the keys in the ignition. “I’m going to see about a room. I’d like you to stay here. I’ll explain when I get back.”

She eyed him, “You’d better.”

Slaton checked in as Henrik Edmunson, the name taken from his Danish passport and the associated credit card. He requested, in poor English, a room facing the front street, explaining that he and his wife had stayed in a similar room at The Excelsior years ago while on their honeymoon. The clerk seemed troubled by the request, explaining that availability was minimal, but he eventually found an acceptable room at a ruinous price. Slaton made a show of flinching at the cost, but took the room anyway, a dutiful husband determined to show his wife that there was still some romance left in the old boy. Once registered, he went to the room, spent fifteen minutes inside, then headed back to the car.

Christine realized she was acquiring a number of disturbing new habits. She found herself watching men and women, even children on the sidewalks, trying to decide who might be paying her too much attention. She resisted an urge to move to the driver’s seat, not wanting to succumb to paranoia. She spotted David instantly as he rounded the corner. He climbed into the driver’s seat.

“All right,” he said, “there are two reasons for our being here. First, we need to let the world quietly pass us by for a day or two. We’ll read newspapers and watch the BBC to see just how much trouble we’re in.”

Christine moaned, never having been in trouble before on a national, newsworthy scale.

“Second, I can’t get to the bottom of all this without freedom of movement. I’ve got to be able to travel. The documents I’m using now were issued by Mossad. In theory, there were no records kept, so they shouldn’t be traceable to me.”

“But you think that’s not the case?”

“I think we need to find out. The people after me know I’m running. They know I need documentation and they’ll try to uncover it. Until now, the only thing I’ve used this identity for is the car. Knowing about it would help them, but only so far. It’s a moving target. Now I’ve used the credit card to check into a hotel.”

“So they might be able to find us here.”

“They won’t find us because we won’t be at The Excelsior.” He pulled out a wad of twenty-pounds notes and peeled off a dozen. “Here. There’s another hotel right across the street from The Excelsior. It’s called Humphrey Hall. Go there and get a room. It has to face The Excelsior and be on the second or third floor.”

“I can’t use my own name, can I?”

“No, just pick one you’ll remember, a friend’s name. Something you’ll recognize if a clerk calls as you’re passing by. You won’t have ID, but if they do ask, be reluctant, tell them you’ll have to go back to your car and get it. If they persist, tell them you’re going to get it, come straight back here and we’ll leave.”

Christine sighed. She felt like a student taking Espionage 101.

He continued, “Honestly, I don’t think ID will be a problem. I suspect it’s the kind of place that won’t ask much as long as you’re paying cash up front. It’s just best to think these things out ahead of time.”

“Of course.”

“Once you get the room, go straight to it. Open the window halfway and draw the curtains half closed. That way I’ll know what room you’re in. I won’t come up right away, I’ve got some things to do. It should take a couple of hours.”

Christine grew anxious, remembering the last time he went off on his own.

“Don’t worry. I’ve just got to do something with this car.”

“And what’s the secret knock for me to let you in?” she queried, trying to lighten the mood.

His reply was humorless, “I’ll just knock and tell you it’s me. The people we’re worried about wouldn’t bother knocking at all.”

David had been right about getting the room at Humphrey Hall. Once the clerk had cash in hand, he produced a key and a simple registration card on which Christine hastily scribbled the pseudonym Carla Fluck. Carla had been one of her best high school friends, a girl who married badly soon after graduation, some thought simply to escape so many years of adolescent suffering under the weight of her unfortunate maiden name.

The stairs to the second floor creaked as Christine made her way up. It was the kind of place that would be granted “character” or “old-world charm” by the more generous tourist guides. The room turned out to be old and damp, like the rest of the building, but reasonably clean. It was a suite, one main room facing the street, and a separate bedroom and bath to one side. She arranged the window and drapes in the main room to the proper configuration, then looked down to the street. Christine knew David was out there somewhere. She couldn’t see him, but he was there, perhaps watching right now. It was oddly comforting.

She decided to take a shower, knowing he’d be gone for a while. She closed the bathroom door and was about to lock it when she remembered what had happened on Windsom — the look on his face when he had burst in and seen her naked. He had stared for just a moment, a shocked, confused look on his face until he finally turned away. He’d expected to find her up to no good, brandishing some newfound weapon or a radio. Instead, he had miscalculated, his surprise compounded by Christine’s indecent state and his own obvious lack of trust. Christine thought about that. Things had certainly changed. Through all the madness she was sure of one thing about David Slaton — he trusted her now. He had left her alone in the car. Right now she could be sitting in this very room with a police contingent, awaiting the arrival of a thoroughly dangerous man. But he trusted her. And so much of what he had told her seemed to make sense.

Earlier, she’d found herself staring at the phone, seriously considering a call to her mother, who had to be worried sick by now. David had specifically warned her against it, reasoning that any angst her mother was going through now was nothing compared to the mourning of a dead child, which might be the case if any traced calls gave away their location.

Humphrey Hall compensated for its lack of ambiance by having an abundant supply of hot water. Christine soaked in the shower for a full twenty minutes, allowing the warm, high-pressure stream to work deep into her muscles. She let her mind wander home, contemplating what she might be doing in a week or a month; sooner or later the nightmare would end and she could get back to her life. A rotation to all-night shifts in the ER would seem mundane now. Christine followed with even better thoughts. Home with her mother cooking Christmas dinner; having coffee, bagels, and aimless, giggling banter with her sisters at Le Café Blanc.

When Christine left the shower, clouds of steam permeated the suite and meandered out the half-open window in the next room. On the bed, she opened her small rollerbag, the one David had bought for her at a secondhand store. They hadn’t purchased any clothes specifically to sleep in, so she put on a loose-fitting pair of cotton sweatpants and a T-shirt, also from the secondhand store. It was gloriously comfortable. Christine didn’t take anything else out of the suitcase and she repacked the dirty clothes she’d been wearing earlier. Never leave anything behind without reason. Always be ready to go on a moment’s notice. Reluctantly, she was learning.

She went to the living room and relaxed on a couch, wondering what other diversions might work. The phone still beckoned, but she’d promised not to try. The morning’s local newspaper sat on a table by the door, but that wouldn’t do. It would undoubtedly contain an article she had no interest in seeing at the moment. The same went for the television. Christine envisioned two grainy photos behind a news anchor, one of her and one of David. “Be on the lookout for these two outlaws …” Just like Bonnie and Clyde. Had it gone that far yet? She didn’t want to know.

Christine felt a chill as brisk evening air began to settle in through the window. She wondered if it would be all right to close it. Surely David had seen the signal by now. With a sigh, she decided to leave it open. She retrieved a blanket from the bedroom, settled back on the couch and tried to drift toward the good thoughts.

The knock roused her from a deep sleep. It took a few moments for Christine to orient herself. She glanced at her watch and saw it was nearly ten o’clock in the evening. Another gentle knock.

She got up and made her way to the door, keeping the blanket wrapped around her shoulders to ward off the cold that had descended on the room. Her eyes were narrow slits as they adjusted to the light and her hair lay severely askew, having dried while she slept. She opened the door without asking who it might be.

When he saw her, he grinned.

“What’s so funny?” she said.

“Nothing. It’s just that you look …” Slaton paused and the grin suddenly disappeared.

“What? Is something wrong?”

He seemed uncomfortable. “No. No, never mind.” He eased by her into the room. “It’s cold in here.”

Christine wondered what that was all about. Since he was obviously trying to change the subject, she decided not to pursue it.

“I know. I wasn’t sure if I should close the window.”

Slaton moved around the room, turning out all the lights. When he was done, only one shaft of light remained, emanating from the adjoining bedroom. Next he went to the window and closed it, leaving the drapes halfway open.

“Sorry, it’s my fault,” he said. “You’re not used to this kind of thing. I should have told you to close this up after an hour. You did the safe thing, though. That’s good.”

“You’ll make a spy out of me yet,” she mused.

Slaton looked out the window and beckoned Christine over with his hand. He pointed across to The Excelsior. “See the room directly across? The one with the light on?”

“On the third floor?”

“Right. It’s a suite like this one. A living area and one bedroom, only the bedroom has a window as well, off to the right, see?”

“Sure.” The lights were off in the bedroom, but Christine could see the vague outline of a big bed and a few pieces of furniture. “Compared to Humphrey Hall it looks a bit more … I think the English would say, posh? Next time let’s do this the other way around.”

“Next time.”

“So now what? You think if these people can trace you to The Excelsior that they’ll come looking for us?”

“If they can trace the documents, then yes, I’m sure of it.”

“That could take days, couldn’t it?”

“Possibly. But like I said, we have to stay out of sight anyway. This way we use the time productively.”

“So you’re just going to sit there and watch?”

“I know it sounds boring, but that’s what people like me spend a lot of time doing. Why don’t you get some more sleep. Sorry I had to wake you.”

His eyes were alternating now between the room at The Excelsior and the street below. Christine looked at his profile in the dim light. His beard was thickening, each day’s growth further eclipsing his facial features. Only the eyes were clearly visible, and they were obscure in their own way, seldom giving insight to the soul beneath. Christine went back to the couch and got comfortable.

“You’ve got to rest sometime, too,” she said. “Wake me in a couple of hours and I’ll take a shift.”

“All right,” he replied.

She knew he wouldn’t.

There was no noise this time, but rather a hand on her shoulder, a gentle squeeze. The room was completely dark, but Christine’s night vision was well adapted. She saw him move to the window. He said nothing, but curled his index finger to draw her over. She got up against her body’s weary protest, and went to stand next to him.

His attention was fixed on the room at The Excelsior. Christine studied it closely but saw nothing new. It was vacant and still, the lights burning steady in the main room. Suddenly she was afraid. Bile began to churn in her stomach. Then it happened.

Two men burst in the door. They were wearing ski masks and had weapons leveled, sweeping across the room in search of a target. Within seconds they ran to the unlit bedroom. Christine jerked involuntarily as a faint strobe of light lit the bedroom for an instant, followed by a half dozen more. She knew it was from the guns, but there was no sound. Even from this far away there should have been some kind of sound. The guns must have been silenced.

A light came on in the bedroom as one of the men went to the bed and threw back the covers, revealing two long sets of pillows. Something like snow seemed to be floating eerily over the bed, and Christine realized it was a cloud of feathers, remnants of the bedding that had just been annihilated. The two men saw they’d been taken. They looked around the room frantically, then glanced out the window toward the street. Christine knew there was no chance she and Slaton could be seen in their dark nook, but she froze instinctively. The gunmen exchanged a few hasty words, then left the room as quickly as they’d entered, turning out the lights and closing the door neatly behind.

Christine could do nothing but stare at the darkened windows across the street. Whatever doubts had remained were now gone. She had just witnessed her own execution.

The world seemed to spin and then a strange vibrating sensation caused her to look down. Her hands, shaking uncontrollably, were enveloped in his. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself.

Slaton brought a thumb and forefinger up, gently lifting her chin until she met his gaze.

“We have to go now,” he whispered.

Christine nodded. Her reply was even and controlled. “Yes. We do.”