The Perfect Assassin

Chapter Thirteen

The rising sun stirred them both from a deep sleep, its warming rays reflecting into their quiet retreat. Their bodies lay entwined in a blanket beneath the old fishing dory, still and close. Neither wanted to disturb the sanctuary they’d discovered, and so both maintained a deliberate silence. Words could only lead back to reality.

Christine was watching a seagull glide silently by when she felt him tense. He cocked his head, then sat up abruptly.

“David, what is it?”

Slaton scrambled over to the fire, which had long ago died out, and began shoveling sand over the spent ashes. Then Christine heard it too — the unmistakable sound of a helicopter approaching. With the fire well covered, he pulled her back as far as they could go under the boat. The noise from the aircraft got louder and louder, drowning out the sounds of the sea that had held them for so many hours.

“Do you think it’s the police?”

“More likely the military. I doubt they routinely patrol the coastline here, so it’s probably just a crew making a sightseeing run up the beach. But they could have some kind of infrared sensor. That’s why I doused what was left of the fire.”

“It burned out hours ago.”

“There might still be enough heat in the embers to contrast with the cool sand.”

The sound reached a crescendo, then changed in pitch as the helicopter passed overhead. They peeked out to watch the big bird. Christine saw it maneuver inland, then reverse course back to the coastline, a big sweeping S turn. The sound began to fade, and soon the craft disappeared into a curtain of haze.

“He didn’t seem very interested.”

“No …” Slaton replied.

They dressed and came out from under the shelter. Christine stretched her limbs while Slaton stood alertly, a hand shielding his eyes from the glare of the low eastern sun. His attention was still fixed on the sky, as if he expected the big machine to come swooping back at any moment.

“We’ve got to go,” he announced.

Christine said nothing. Of course they had to go, she thought. They had no food, the water was almost gone, and their accommodations were comical. Yet after last night, not running like a hunted animal, but feeling secure, relaxed, even loved. She wished they could stay here forever.

“They may have seen our car.”

“Would the engine still be warm?” she asked.

“No. But the car is metal. At dusk it cools faster and at dawn it warms more quickly than the sand and vegetation. It would stand out like a star in the night sky on an infrared scope.”

“So you think they saw it?”

“Actually, I doubt it. But there’s no way to be sure. If they did spot it, the fact that it’s parked back in the scrub would only make it more suspicious. We can’t take the chance. If we get caught out here in the open there aren’t many ways out.”

“All right,” she said. “Where do we go?”

“Back up the road, to Sidbury.”

“I almost hate to ask, but what are we going to do there?”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”

When the food came, Christine found she’d worked up a surprising hunger. She polished off her eggs and toast faster than Slaton, who wasn’t dallying, and now she was shoveling through a bowl of fruit.

“I see you’ve found your appetite,” he said.

“Being hunted like this,” she mumbled through a mouthful of cantaloupe, “it seems to crank up my metabolism a notch. Maybe when we’re all done and nobody is shooting at us anymore, I can write a diet book and get rich.”

Slaton grinned and flipped open a newspaper he’d purchased. He held up page four next to his face and Christine gagged when she saw it, a rough pencil sketch of him beneath the headline — KILLER STILL LOOSE!

“Good Lord, put that thing down!” she whispered harshly. Christine glanced uneasily around the half-full cafe.

“Nobody’s looking,” he said. “And besides, it’s really not a very good likeness.”

Christine had to admit the resemblance was poor, but it was still unnerving. “I suppose I should be happy my high school graduation picture isn’t right there next to you.”

“It will be.”

She frowned and was about to register her displeasure when the waitress scurried over to fill her coffee cup for the third time. The waitress moved on and Christine took a long, steamy sip. She was beginning to feel the zing. “You know, we can’t just run forever. We’ve got to do something. I say we go to the police, tell them everything.” She reached over, grabbed the newspaper and began scanning. “Here … ‘Inspector Nathan Chatham, one of Scotland Yard’s most experienced investigators, has been put in charge of the search for a suspect who’s wanted for —’”

“Christine,” he interrupted in a patient tone, “you’re right. We do have to take the initiative.” Slaton reached down to the floor and grabbed a large plastic bag he’d brought in from the car. “We have to figure out what’s going on, and I think it might start with this.”

Christine had wondered what was in the bag, but hadn’t asked, knowing he’d get around to it. Slaton pulled out a large, flat book titled Hammond’s World Atlas. He shoved aside their plates and opened it on the table. The page he selected covered the northwest coast of Africa and the adjacent Atlantic Ocean, the area where she’d first found him.

“Where did you get that?”

“I stole it from the public library in Southampton. I went there while you were checking into Humphrey Hall.”

“I guess we can add that to the list of crimes they’ll be after you for. Let’s see now, we have murder, assault, kidnapping, auto theft, forgery, vandalizing my boat … and now pilfering from the local library. Have I missed anything?”

“Plenty,” he said distractedly as he ran a finger over the map. “I’ve been giving this a lot of thought and things are starting to make sense, but I need more.”

Slaton pointed to a line he’d penciled onto the map. It started at the bottom, in the southern Atlantic, and curled up along Africa’s western coast. “This is the course Polaris Venture was supposed to have taken. At least that’s how I remember it. Now, show me where you found me. Be as precise as you can.”

Christine studied the map and found the Madeira Islands, the best reference she could remember. Then she took a table knife and laid it over the mileage scale. She measured off 280 miles, marked it with her thumb, then moved her rule to the islands along the proper bearing.

“Here,” she said, putting the point of the knife on the spot. “If I had parallels or a protractor I could do better, but I’d say this point is good to within ten miles.”

Slaton pondered her estimate, cupping his chin. “I was in the water for a day and a half. Which way do the currents run?”

“The Canary current comes in from the northwest, maybe a knot or two. The wind might have affected you. It was out of the northeast, I think, but pretty light. I’d say you drifted south, but it’s hard to say how much. Thirty miles, maybe forty. I still can’t believe you survived so long in that cold.”

“So Polaris Venture went down about here.” Slaton shook his head, “No, that’s still off the course we were supposed to have taken. A good thirty or forty miles west.”

“How were you navigating?”

“It was all hooked up on the autopilot, which gets its position from GPS.”

“Did the South Africans load the waypoints for your route?”

Slaton slouched in his seat and his head flew back, “Oh, no!”

“What?”

“He did that, too.”

“Who did what?”

“Viktor Wysinski. There were two of us in South Africa to set this up, but I was the only one to actually go along for the ride. Wysinski gave the course data to the ship’s captain. And he was there when it got programmed.”

“He’s Mossad?”

“Yep. I had a lot of time to think while I was floating around out there. I suspected Viktor, but I couldn’t believe he’d turned. He was hardcore, used to be a commando in the Israeli Army. A real patriot, or so I thought. But I can’t see it any other way now. He had access to make it all happen. Wysinski installed the explosives on the ship, and he must have set them to go off at a specific time and place.”

“Explosives?”

Slaton explained, “We were ordered to install scuttling charges on the ship. That way if there was a hijacking we couldn’t repel, at least we could sink her. I’m certain that’s how Polaris Venture went down. I was out on deck, and I remember hearing the charges go off. Unfortunately, most of the crew were down below, asleep.”

“None of them got clear? Not even the ones who were above, on duty?”

He shook his head, “I never saw anyone else. In the dark, all I could find was that cooler.”

“So Wysinski is one of the people who are making our lives so awful.”

“Has to be. And he is now on my list.”

Christine didn’t know what that meant, except that it was probably bad news for this Wysinski fellow.

As Slaton concentrated on the map, Christine tried to sort through all the blips on her very cluttered mental radar. “So this guy changed the ship’s course and sent her down using the explosives. But I don’t see why. I mean if he, or the people he works with, are trying to get those nuclear weapons you told me about — well, what have they accomplished?”

Slaton banged a palm on the table in frustration, “That’s what doesn’t make sense! If you sink her in ten thousand feet of water, the weapons are gone. The whole affair might embarrass our government, but that’s not worth the risk, not worth killing sixteen people.” Slaton stared at the atlas, looking like a frustrated chess player with fewer ideas than pieces.

Christine fixated on the small dent her knife’s tip had made on the page. “Wait a minute!” She took the atlas and flipped to the index.

“What is it?”

“David, this isn’t a nautical chart, it’s an atlas. The page we were looking at leaves out one very important part of the picture.” Christine turned to the rear of the book and found the page she wanted.

“Look at the same spot here!”

Slaton did, and his troubled expression washed away. This page covered the entire Atlantic Ocean, but also showed a relief of the ocean floor. It presented the vertical development beneath the surface, all the trenches and ridges that lay unseen in the dark depths. There, right where they had calculated Polaris Venture’s demise, was the answer.

“The Ampere seamount! That’s it! Sink her on the seamount, then you can recover the weapons.”

“It wouldn’t be easy,” Christine said. “It’s a hundred and thirty feet. I’ve done some diving and that’s pretty deep.”

“No, it’s well within reach. If you breathe a special mixture, you wouldn’t even have to decompress.”

The waitress came by and Slaton waved off a refill on their coffee. She left the check and went on her way. Christine stirred in her seat.

“There’s more,” Slaton warned.

“What?”

“The codes, the ones that activate these weapons. The South Africans gave them to us for safe keeping. They were hand-carried back to Israel after we loaded Polaris Venture. Guess who.”

“Wysinski again?”

“Touché. Whoever’s running this will have both the weapons and the codes to use them.”

Christine closed her eyes and wondered aloud, “Can it get any worse?”

“Probably.”

“Do you think someone would actually use these things?”

“There are only two reasons to steal a nuclear weapon. To use it, or sell it to someone else who will.”

It was sturdy logic, but Christine was amazed he could remain composed at such a thought. “David, we can’t just keep running. Sooner or later someone will catch up. If it’s not these lunatics, then it’ll be the British police. We know what these people have done. Now we have to tell the authorities.”

Slaton sat back and took a deep breath. “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not sure who to trust with something like this. Wysinski and his bunch have infiltrated Mossad. But I have no idea how high up it goes.”

“We could tell Scotland Yard. But it does sound so far-fetched.”

“We have no proof of anything. No Polaris Venture, no weapons. My government wouldn’t admit to any part of it. They’d just tell the Brits that I’m the assassin who’s been running around killing people. Even if we convinced someone this is all happening, the first thing they’d do is go out to the seamount and look for the ship. That could take days or weeks, and it’s already been … what, ten days since Polaris Venture went down? Given how carefully this operation was planned, I’ll bet the salvage has already taken place.”

“We have to do something, David.”

He wore a look of grim determination. “Yes. And I think it’s time we went on the offensive.”

Emma Schroeder used her ample hip to wedge a bag of groceries against the door jamb as she flipped through a massive key ring, trying to find the one that would let her into her flat. She finally found the right one, and at the same time the phone inside began to ring. Fumbling, she opened the door and trundled over. Emma balanced the groceries on the back of the couch with one hand, and picked up on the fifth ring.

“Hello,” she said breathlessly.

“Hello, beautiful.”

She stood straight and lost her grip on the bag, which fell to the couch, a half dozen oranges spilling out and thudding to the floor. There was no mistaking the voice or the greeting.

“Where the hell are you, David?”

“I’ll bet that’s the million dollar question around the office, isn’t it?”

“Don’t be cute, dammit.” Recovering, Emma saw the door was still wide open. “Hold on a minute.” She went over and closed it, then picked back up. “Do you know what’s going on?”

“No, Emma. You’re the source. I called to find out.”

“They’re saying you killed Varkal … and Freidlund and Streissan. Itzaak Simon’s still in the hospital.” Emma waited for a response, but only got silence. “David, tell me you didn’t do these things.”

“I didn’t kill Varkal,” he said flatly.

“And the rest?”

“The rest I did, but only in self-defense. I had no choice, Emma. There is a group of traitors inside. I don’t know how many, but they’re on the verge of something really terrible.”

“I saw an ops order today that was really terrible. Basically, it instructed the entire station to drop everything and look for you. They want to bring you in, David, one way … or the other. I’ve seen a lot of orders, but I’ve never seen one like that.”

“I have,” Slaton replied. “But they’re pretty unusual. And this one’s a mistake.”

“You mean it’s a bogus message?”

“No, darling, it’s a legitimate message. But the reasons behind it are all skewed. I don’t have time to explain now, but I can tell you that the people behind it are the same ones who killed Yosy.”

Emma was dumbstruck. “Killed Yosy? You mean as in murdered him? It was an accident, David.”

“Trust me. I know about things like that. It wasn’t an accident.” He paused, as if letting it sink in. “Emma, I need your help. I know I’m putting you in a bad spot, but I’m asking you to trust me and not—”

“What do you need?”

“Emma, understand, I could get you in trouble here.”

“I expect trouble from you, you scoundrel. Now what do you need?”

“We have to be quick,” Slaton said.

Emma realized what he was suggesting — that her phone might be recorded, or even live-monitored. “Go on.”

“See if you can find out where a guy named Viktor Wysinski is. You’ve probably never heard the name, he’s a headquarters puke. But I really need to find him. I’ll call you back tomorrow at—”

“Eastbourne.”

“What?”

“He’s in Eastbourne, at the Harbor Hotel.”

“Dear, you’ve always been a model of efficiency, but how on earth could you know that?”

“Alpha roster. One went across the acting Chief of Station’s desk yesterday and I got a peek at it. I guess he wanted to find out exactly who we had in country, probably so they could all go out and look for you.”

“Wonderful.”

Emma explained, “This guy Wysinski was the only one listed as being in the U.K., but not checked in here at the embassy. I remember things like that.”

“You always amaze me.”

“That’s why you love me so, you and …” Emma felt tears well up in her eyes. “Do you really think somebody did that to Yosef?”

“I’m afraid so, Emma. Listen, I’m sorry to mix you up in this. I’d better go now.”

“All right. Be careful.”

“You do the same.”

“And call me if you need anything else. You know how good I am.”

“You’re the best, beautiful. The best.”

It had been frustrating to wait all day for Emma to get home from the office, but Slaton had seen no other way. Calling her at the embassy would have been far too risky. Since then, things had gone well. He and Christine made good time from Devon, pulling into Eastbourne shortly after midnight. With little chance of spotting Wysinski at that hour, they found a secluded spot to park and struggled for some shut-eye. The previous night at the beach already seemed like a lifetime ago.

Slaton was always cautious, but his instincts told him to be particularly aware now. An hour before sunrise, he sent Christine off with instructions. She’d run a few errands when the shops opened, then, much as they’d done at Belgrave Square in London, she would drive the car periodically by a designated rendezvous point.

It began perfectly. Slaton spotted Wysinski soon after setting up watch, headed toward Dunn’s Harbor Hotel from the direction of the harbor. He granted the stocky ex-commando a wide berth. Slaton would rather lose sight and pick him up later than be spotted. Wysinski turned into the lobby of the hotel and disappeared into an elevator. He seemed both casual and alone, characteristics that Slaton found troubling.

Slaton set up camp at a café down the street, well clear of the hotel entrance, but near enough to monitor the traffic going in and out. It was two hours before he picked up Wysinski again, this time leaving the hotel and heading back to the waterfront. Having already settled his check, Slaton waited for Wysinski to pass, then took up pursuit.

The sun had made intermittent appearances over the course of the morning, but dark skies to the north made for an easy forecast. Wysinski marched at a brisk pace into the ocean breeze, his thick legs churning near double-time. Minutes later he reached the waterfront and trundled down one of the five long piers that jutted into the harbor.

Slaton turned aside, wandering the path that arced along the harbor’s perimeter, all the time keeping an eye on his quarry. Wysinski stopped at a slip halfway down the pier, boarded a big motor yacht, and disappeared into its cabin. Since he wasn’t carrying any baggage, Slaton doubted the man was going anywhere. Wysinski had also ignored the use of tradecraft on his walk to the harbor — no double-backs, quick turns, or slowdowns. Just a casual stroll that Slaton disliked.

The harbor was quiet. It was the wrong time of year to begin with, and the impending dismal weather acted as a final blow to curtail the waterfront’s more casual pursuits. The small rental sailboats were chained together. The trinket vendor’s carts were all shoved aside in a line and locked down. A few boat owners scrubbed and fiddled with their prize possessions, and a handful of the scrappier merchants were open for business, probably more out of habit than anything else.

Slaton scouted for a position that would give an unobstructed view of Wysinski’s boat. He selected an empty bench, adjacent to a kiosk whose optimistic owner hoped to sell T-shirts with pictures of waterbirds on them. Slaton unfurled the newspaper he’d been carrying all morning and settled in. Patience was demanding, but more so now as Slaton remembered the last time he’d seen Wysinski, on Pier Three in Cape Town. He had given Slaton a “see-you-later” nod as Polaris Venture pulled away from the dock — with full knowledge that the ship and her crew were doomed by the explosives he had so meticulously planted. Very simply, the man had tried to kill him. And Slaton knew Wysinski was associated with whoever had killed Yosy. He felt anger and hatred, just as he had for so many years, only now the source was different. Yet as strong as these feelings might be, Slaton knew how to push them aside. The kidon remained calm, for there was much to be done.

He looked across the harbor, registering all pertinent details. The roads that led to and from the waterfront, the maze of buildings and structures that sheltered people and channeled traffic. He checked lines of sight and noted those vantage points that would have a clear view of Wysinski’s boat. Slaton studied the few people who were out, recording where they were and what they were doing. One man had a dismantled rudder up on a dock, applying a coat of red bottom paint. Another was installing some kind of antenna on a cruiser. A bored waiter at an empty café stood folding napkins, probably hoping for a break in the weather that might draw out a healthy crowd for lunch. Then he saw a young girl, probably no more than seventeen or eighteen. She was smiling as she tended the row of flower boxes that fronted the café. There was an open, genuine look of content about her, and Slaton imagined that, by innocence of youth, she was enamored with what her work would bring. In time, the boxes would explode with color, contributing to spats ended, weddings enhanced, or — best of all — the simple, romantic beauty of a lone magnificent flower, a gift from one lover to another. Seventeen, the kidon thought. Seventeen years old.

Suddenly there was movement on the boat and Slaton saw the ex-soldier astern, sorting through a pile of equipment. Wysinski was still in no hurry. The kidon cocked his head and looked back to where the young girl had been tending her flower boxes. For some reason he wanted to see her again, in all her faithful purpose and innocence. She was gone.

His approach was completely silent. The pier was wide, and along each side lay a solid row of boats and wooden finger slips that blocked the view almost continuously. If any passerby had happened to look in just the right gaps, they would have seen the vague, dark silhouette of a small inflatable Zodiac beneath the pier. It moved so slowly that anyone who might watch it for a moment or two would see nothing other than the motion one would expect from such a craft if it were moored on a loose painter, drifting randomly back and forth. Indeed, it moved in two directions — six inches slowly shoreward, then a foot toward the end of the pier. Six inches in, another foot out. In the dim light there was no way anyone could make out the man who was crouched inside, his head just clearing under the dock’s stringer planks as he inched his way out.

Slaton worked his fingers into the gaps between the wooden two-by-sixes, careful to never let the tips protrude above the top surface. At one point, someone, probably a dockhand, walked directly overhead and stopped. Slaton, motionless, saw the soles of a pair of deck shoes through the cracks, and heard the man grunt as he tossed a sailbag onto the deck of a nearby boat. It landed with a thud, then the shoes retreated back up the pier toward shore. Slaton pressed on, finally stopping twenty feet short of Wysinski’s boat. He pulled out the Beretta and released the safety.

For a full five minutes he listened, mentally logging the sounds, the patterns of movement, and selecting a point of entry. The boat was stern to the pier and had a large, flat swimming platform behind the transom. It was clearly the quickest and easiest way aboard, assuming he could get there unseen. The name on the stern was artfully scripted, Lorraine II, home port Casablanca.

Slaton wondered if this was the boat that had been used to retrieve the weapons. It was not a salvage ship by any means, but could have done the work. There were two small davits astern, of the type normally used to hoist and carry a small skiff. But there was no skiff, and a few strong men would have had no trouble swinging a pair of five-hundred pounders aboard.

Slaton heard Wysinski go below and he edged closer. The last ten feet would be the toughest. Wysinski would have a narrow line of sight, over the transom and under the dock. Slaton saw the coast was clear and moved fast to the platform. He stepped across silently while pushing the Zodiac back into the shadows, then stayed low until he heard Wysinski back on deck. When Slaton stood, the gun was sighted and ready.

Wysinski had his back to Slaton, but he sensed a presence and turned. Slaton saw something in the man’s expression. But it wasn’t surprise. There should have been surprise. And maybe a trace of fear, even in an old soldier. Alarms went off in Slaton’s head. Something was very wrong. He quickly glanced up and down the pier but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

“Get below!” Slaton ordered, wanting to get out of the open. “Hands behind your back!”

A sneering Wysinski complied, moving slowly to the boat’s cabin. Slaton followed, every sense on alert for the slightest deviation. Wysinski was a few steps in front as they reached the big main cabin, and as Slaton passed through the companionway, he assessed the interior. Aside from Wysinski’s steady movement, there was nothing. Then he spotted the two descending stairwells, one to his left and one to the right, passageways that led back and down, probably to a stateroom below the aft deck. If he followed Wysinski forward—

A barely audible creak. Slaton heard the sound just as Wysinski’s eyes gave it away. He twisted right, saw movement and fired without waiting to focus on the target. There was a groan as the man fell back, tumbling down the staircase.

Slaton spun left and saw a glint arcing toward him from the opposite stairwell. He lifted an arm to parry the blow, but felt the knife slice across his chest and wrist. In close, Slaton dropped his gun and grabbed the arm that held the knife. With all his strength he turned, letting the weight of his body do the work. The attacker lost his balance and stumbled against Slaton. At that moment a shot rang out from Wysinski’s direction and Slaton felt the man he was struggling against go limp. He dove down the stairs to his left as another shot rang out, this one shattering a nearby porthole and spraying glass everywhere.

Slaton crashed painfully to the bottom of the stairs, banging his head against a rail. He saw the first man he’d taken, lying crumpled on the floor with a crimson pool spread across his chest. The man’s gun lay on the floor and Slaton grabbed it as he rolled behind the central bulkhead for cover. He got his first look at the stateroom under the aft deck. It was stunning.

Not ten feet away, chained to a wooden cradle, was a ten kiloton nuclear weapon. Resting snugly in Eastbourne’s harbor. He could easily see how they’d done it. There was a large hatch overhead, near the port davit, and Slaton noticed that the furniture and trimmings in the state room had been torn apart to make room for the weapon. He heard movement above. Wysinski wasn’t giving up.

Slaton checked how many rounds remained in the gun’s clip and was glad to find it full. He then looked down and evaluated his wound. The cut on his chest wasn’t deep, but his arm was stinging in pain. The sounds above stopped. Wysinski was waiting for him to make the next move. Slaton wondered how long it would take for the police to react, then mused that, at the rate he was going, he could soon write an authoritative treatise on the subject.

He looked again at the hatch above the cradled weapon, then noticed that the port stairway had a privacy curtain at the bottom. It wouldn’t stop bullets, but it would conceal his activities. Slaton reached across the stairwell and yanked the curtain closed, his action drawing fire through the flimsy fabric. Three rounds, one of them clinking to rest in something metallic. He looked at the bomb to see a nice round hole in the nose cone. Slaton was grateful it wasn’t a conventional, high-explosive type, or he and Wysinski might both be at the bottom of the harbor. Curling his wrist into the starboard stairwell, he fired four shots blindly. He then ran to the hatch, unlatched it, and threw it open. The big fiberglass door swung up slowly on pneumatic lifts and stopped in a vertical position. Slaton moved quickly.

Victor Wysinski stood watching the two stairwells. He didn’t see the hatch rise until it was nearly straight up. It hinged forward, blocking his view of the opening. Wysinski fired three shots that easily penetrated the thin fiberglass. There was a moan, and a gun slid out onto the deck. Then a muffled thud. Wysinski moved out on deck, keeping his firearm trained on the hatch. Slaton was nowhere to be seen, but there was blood around the opening. Wysinski rushed to the hatch and pointed his gun downward, certain he’d scored a hit. He saw nothing.

Slaton cued on Wysinski’s hesitation. It only took a moment for the ex-commando to realize his mistake and turn, but it was too late. Slaton rushed him from behind, crashing a shoulder into Wysinski’s side. He held his arm upright and they slammed headlong into the transom, Wysinski’s gun going over the side and into the harbor. The two struggled and fell entwined, crashing heavily to the deck. Wysinski recovered first and saw the gun Slaton had lost lying a few feet away. He scrambled over and grabbed it. Slaton struggled to his feet, looking stunned and grimacing in pain.

“You’re slipping, kidon,” Wysinski said with a smirk.

Slaton looked down the barrel of the weapon and slumped to one knee.

Wysinski glanced toward shore. “You let an old paratrooper get the better of you.”

“Those other two aren’t so smug,” Slaton said, gasping for breath.

“Joacham and Sergeant Heim? They were good men. You’ve been costing us a lot of good men lately, but not anymore.”

“The police will be here any minute. Your revenue from this fiasco is about to be cut in half,” Slaton said with a nod toward the hatch.

Wysinski laughed. “You haven’t figured it out yet, have you?”

“What?”

“Do you really think we’re going to all this trouble for a few million in cash? It’s too bad you won’t be alive in a couple of days to see. It’s beautiful, the way everything will work.”

“How what will work?”

“If only you could have been on our side, kidon. Unfortunately, the person in charge has some history with you. Or maybe I should say, you with him. That’s why you’re here. In ten minutes the police will find the killer they’ve been looking for — dead. And with an alarming surprise below decks.”

“Where’s the other weapon?”

“In the hands of Pytor Roth, a mercenary and an imbecile who will unwittingly shape the future of our country. It all fits perfectly.”

Sirens and screeching tires announced the arrival of a large police contingent. Slaton stood straight, his eyes locked to Wysinski. “You say the person in charge has a past with me? Who?”

Slaton took a deliberate step forward. Wysinski straightened his arm and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked harmlessly. Slaton didn’t even blink, his movement steady and strong. Wysinski tried to shoot again with the same result. His smugness disintegrated as he realized he’d been duped.

Slaton closed in. “Who?” he screamed.

Wysinski backed up, his eyes sweeping, searching frantically for something to use against the kidon. Wysinski spat out, “He was one of the shooters on the bus in Netanya.”

Slaton stopped dead in his tracks. “What?”

“And the man who ordered Yosef killed. He’s the reason you are here today.”

“Netanya? That was the Palestinians, Anand’s group.”

“Rubbish! We never identified anyone, did we, kidon? We only rounded up the usual suspects. You of all people must know — no one was ever held responsible.”

“You? You and your sick friends? Working with the Arabs?”

“No. Don’t you see? It’s exactly the opposite.”

Slaton’s head spun. Wysinski was only trying to save himself. Nothing more. “No, not Netanya,” he said hoarsely. “No Israeli could do that. What would it accomplish?”

“Yes, what have we accomplished?”

Slaton took a step away, and slowly, agonizingly, he tried to comprehend the incomprehensible. A world he always controlled seemed to be spinning now, and he was at the vortex.

“And wait until you see what we accomplish this time. The policies of compromise for our country will be over. We will be strong once again and he will lead us there. He is leading us there.”

The words swirled in Slaton’s mind and one thought, one image overrode everything else. He was waiting outside the room, the nurse standing squarely in his way. Let me in! I have to get in! Do something — anything!”

The burly soldier charged Slaton, knocking him off balance, then ran. Slaton stumbled backwards as Wysinski clambered up to the dock.

“Who did it? Who?” Slaton stammered. He saw Wysinski racing away and realized the answers would soon be gone. All at once, the fog lifted. Slaton riveted on the man who knew, the one who could slay his nightmare once and for all.

Slaton bolted, immune to his pain, immune to feeling anything. He lunged across to the dock and caught Wysinski in ten strides, twisting an arm behind his back. Wysinski leaned ahead, clearly expecting Slaton to try and stop him. Instead, Slaton propelled him forward and the heavier man completely lost his balance. With all the force he could muster, Slaton slammed the stocky soldier head first into a concrete dock piling. Wysinski’s body crumpled to the dock and lay motionless.

Slaton dropped next to him and put his hands around a throat that would never again carry a breath. “Who?” he screamed. “Who did it?”

“Don’t move!” a voice commanded from somewhere up the pier.

Slaton was oblivious as he strangled the limp corpse.

Another shout, “You!”

This time he looked up. Three policemen were twenty feet away, approaching very, very slowly. Slaton looked down to see the lifeless eyes of Viktor Wysinski. It was the first time he had ever killed a man without planning, without premeditation. He had simply killed due to rage. The kidon had lost control. But now he had to regain it, because there was still someone else out there. Someone even more dangerous. And more deserving. Slaton stood slowly.

The policemen were an experienced contingent and they stopped five paces away, seeing no surrender in their suspect’s posture. What they saw in his eyes was closer to madness.

“Here now,” the one in front said, “let’s do this the easy way.”

It happened without warning. Their man dove to his right and disappeared with a splash into the inky water of the harbor.

“Bloody hell!” one of the bobbies said as they all ran to where the man had been. Two searched the water in vain while a third checked Wysinski, which didn’t take long. “He’s done,” the policeman said with certainty.

Another policeman came running up the dock and more were in the distance. All converged on the pier. They searched the adjacent boats, not finding any trace of their quarry. Then, at the very end of the pier, an outboard motor churned to life. The two who were closest ran out and spotted a small inflatable boat, thirty yards off and speeding toward the harbor entrance. The driver was hiding under some kind of blanket or tarpaulin.

“He’s makin’ for open sea!” one of them yelled. The constable in charge barked orders to the nearest man. “Get to the harbormaster and commandeer a boat. Something fast!” He pulled out his radio and put in an emergency request for a helicopter from the Royal Navy in Portsmouth. They watched the Zodiac as it headed out through the channel. At one point it crashed into a seawall, before bouncing crazily back to open water.

“He’s stark mad,” one of the bobbies said.

Another nodded. “Did you see the look in his eyes? And the way he killed that poor sod?”

“I don’t know about you, but it doesn’t bother me one bit that some one else will have to wrap him up now.”

Half an hour later, a Royal Navy helicopter, a Westland Sea King, intercepted the Zodiac. The little craft was two miles offshore, still at full throttle and making large, lazy circles on the choppy seas. The Westland’s crew moved in for a closer look and immediately noted three things. First was a tarp that was flapping along loosely behind the craft, slapping in and out of its wake. Second was a rope, tied from beam to beam, and in the middle secured to the little outboard’s steering arm. Of course the third, and most relevant observation was that there was no one in the boat.