The Perfect Assassin

Chapter Fifteen

Chatham listened as Slaton covered everything. How Polaris Venture had gone down, how Christine had rescued him and unwittingly gotten involved. The Israeli explained Penzance; that he had gone back guessing Itzaak Simon and his friend, or someone like them, would show up. Then he made a convincing case that he’d felt obligated to take Christine with him, to protect her from the danger he’d put her in. Chatham didn’t interrupt once, but mentally filed away questions for later. Once the facts were laid out, the Israeli got to why they were here.

“When these people discovered that Christine had rescued me, she instantly became a problem. I don’t think they’d been able to salvage the weapons yet, and she knew roughly where Polaris Venture was. That’s why they went after her. I convinced Christine to not go to the police right away because they wouldn’t protect her.”

“We do that sort of thing quite well,” Chatham disagreed.

“I didn’t say you wouldn’t be able to protect her. I said you wouldn’t. Last week there was nothing concrete to support what I’ve just told you. I doubt anyone would have believed her.”

“And now?”

Slaton nodded toward Christine, “This morning we figured it out. I think we know exactly where Polaris Venture is.”

Christine, taking her cue, produced the atlas and opened it to the appropriate page. She moved next to Chatham and pointed out the seamount. “By our calculations, she went down here, in roughly 130 feet of water.”

“Easily salvageable,” Slaton added. “You wouldn’t even need any fancy equipment.”

Chatham eyed the book critically and tried to remember the description of the weapon found in Eastbourne. “How heavy are these devices?”

“A little over 400 pounds. Getting into Polaris Venture and dragging them clear would have been the hard part. Then you just attach a couple of inflatable salvage buoys. At the surface you could easily lift them out with a small winch. With good conditions, and if Polaris Venture settled favorably, it wouldn’t take more than half a day. It looks like that salvage has already taken place.” Slaton gestured to Christine, “And if that’s the case, Christine is no longer a threat to these people.”

“What about you?” Chatham queried.

“I’m very much a threat to them.”

Chatham frowned. “So who are these Mossad villains you keep referring to? Pro-Arab Israelis? Are they being bought off? How could there be so many of them? And here in England, no less?”

Slaton hesitated, “That part I don’t understand. We’ve had our share of spies and turncoats like any country, but I could never have imagined something on this scale.”

Chatham wondered if Slaton was truly as mystified as he appeared. “Sounds rather fantastic, if you ask me.”

“Any more fantastic than if I’d told you yesterday that you’d find a nuclear weapon on a pleasure boat in Eastbourne?”

Chatham tried to change tack. “So you’re going to leave Dr. Palmer in my custody?”

Christine shifted restlessly, “I don’t like the word custody. David—”

Slaton cut her off by raising his hand with a violent slashing motion. A moment later there was a knock on the door. A sharp, rapid-fire knock. Nathan Chatham knew precisely who it was.

From behind the heavy wood door a sing-song voice called out, “Yoo-hoo, Inspector. I’ve got something for you.”

“It’s Mrs. Nesbit,” Chatham said at a whisper. “She makes tarts every Tuesday. Always brings one over.”

Slaton shook his head and put a finger to his lips. Another knock, then silence. Slaton waited a full minute before speaking again.

“Will she come back?”

“Probably not,” Chatham said. “She’ll just keep it until tomorrow.” Chatham watched as Slaton weighed that response, deconstructing it to uncover any deception, deciding if Mrs. Nesbit might cause complications. Apparently satisfied, the Mossad man went on.

“Inspector, I know you’ll evaluate everything we’re telling you. I know you’ll dig and cross-check, but the facts you find will reinforce that we’re on the level. Christine is guilty of nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She will cooperate fully,” he shot her a pointed look, “and answer any questions you have. Before I leave, though, I want your assurances on a few things.”

Chatham took a stab at the first. “You wish for her to have immunity from prosecution.”

The two fugitives exchanged a glance. “Yes,” Slaton said.

“I can’t guarantee anything, but if your story holds true I can’t imagine she’d be guilty of much more than aiding and abetting you, sir. As long as she cooperates, I’ll do everything in my power to see that no charges are brought forward.”

“Fair enough,” Slaton said.

“What else?”

“There’s another weapon out there somewhere. I want your military to start monitoring the area we’ve identified. Right away, in case the salvage hasn’t been completed.”

“Those forces are not under my command, of course, but I can probably convince the right people that this bears looking into. Anything else?”

“Yes. I want your word that you’ll give Christine protection, just in case I’ve gotten it all wrong. Tight protection. Not just a hotel room or a cell in some minimum security area.”

“I’ll see to it. You have my word.”

“Good. That’s it then.” Slaton went over to the modest dining area and grabbed a wooden chair from the table.

Chatham tried to guess what he was up to, figuring it out when he saw the Israeli pull out a big roll of duct tape. “Is that really—”

“Necessary? Well, let’s see. If I asked you to sit still after I leave and not call in my whereabouts for two hours, would you?”

“No.”

“Then it’s necessary.”

Slaton shoved the chair back against a banister at the bottom of the narrow staircase. He gestured for Chatham take the seat, and he did so reluctantly.

The thought of trying to overpower the Israeli entered Chatham’s mind. But it exited just as quickly. He had watched the man closely. For the most part he’d been pleasant and businesslike. But to the trained eye there was more. The way he moved, so efficient, with no wasted motion. The way his eyes registered every movement. And when Mrs. Nesbit had come to the door. He knew she was there before anyone, even before she’d knocked. No, Chatham thought, there was a fine line between bravery and foolishness, and he knew of at least a half dozen men in the last week who had made the wrong choice with this one.

Slaton secured him to the chair with duct tape. Then, for good measure, he connected the chair to the heavy wooden banister.

“I’m not going to worry that you might shout. I don’t think your neighbors could hear you through these walls anyway, but if you do try, I’ve instructed Christine to tune your stereo to the most annoying heavy-metal radio station available and then set the volume on maximum.”

“That,” Chatham deadpanned, “could lead to criminal charges for her after all.”

Christine watched tensely as Slaton secured the Scotland Yard man. She realized that in minutes they’d be parting ways for the second time in a week. The last time, he’d been rowing himself ashore, and Christine had hoped to never see him again. This time it was very different. The thought stuck stubbornly in her mind.

When he was done, he handed her a pair of scissors. “Two hours, no less.”

She nodded. “I need to talk to you, David.”

He looked up, scouted the room, and pointed to the kitchen. They retreated beyond Chatham’s watchful eyes.

“What is it?” he asked in a hushed tone.

“You don’t know?”

He looked at her directly, something he had seemed to avoid since they’d left Eastbourne. Christine felt a glimmer of hope.

“Look,” he said, “I know what you’re thinking. But things can’t happen that way.”

“What way?”

“The way they were yesterday, and …”

“And that night?” she said. “Why not? What was so wrong with it?” She could see him withdraw, his gaze fading to obscurity. Christine wanted to rescue him once and for all. “David, they can protect you as well as they can me. I like Inspector Chatham. I think he believes us. Stay. Get out of this life you’re so immersed in. It rules everything you do. You can’t eat, sleep, walk, or talk without worrying about who’s chasing you or who you should be chasing. You’re not even capable of love if—”

“No!” he said loudly. “I—” he lowered his tone to a harsh whisper, “I had a wife and child once, and they were ripped from my life!”

“Oh!” Christine spat back, “So you’re just going to spend the rest of your life destroying others to make up for it! That makes sense. You don’t even know who was responsible for what happened back then.”

“I can find out now!”

Christine watched him turn away and storm to the back door. There, peering out the window, he performed reconnaissance on a well-tended garden and the wall that surrounded it. That was how they’d gotten in, and that was how he’d leave.

“David, two nights ago I thought I finally knew you. I thought I saw the person you really are. But now these demons are back. Whatever it is, walk away! Stay here with me and we can both stop running!”

“You don’t understand.”

“No, you’re right. I don’t!” she yelled, not caring if Chatham heard. “I don’t understand what you’re doing, where you’re going, or what you’re thinking. For a short time I thought I did, but I was obviously wrong.”

They squared off and glared at one another, both unyielding. Slaton finally broke the stalemate. He brushed by her and went for a last check of their captive. Apparently satisfied Chatham wasn’t going anywhere, he walked right past her again and started out the back door.

She watched him, speechless, not believing he could leave it at that. But at the threshold he stopped. He spoke without looking at her, “All that I’ve brought on — I hope none of it has hurt you.”

“Only one thing,” she said quietly.

He didn’t move for a moment, as he stood staring out the half-open door. Then he was gone.

Christine folded her arms tightly and tried to hold her composure. She took a few deep breaths before returning to the adjoining room, where an inspector from Scotland Yard sat calmly taped to his dining room chair.

Chatham eyed her.

“Is it really true that you found him in the ocean? You’ve never seen him before that?”

Arms still folded, her hands clutched at her sleeves. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Well, the way the two of you interact. I’d suspect you might have known one another longer.”

She turned away briefly, not wanting him to gauge her reaction. When she turned back, Chatham made a show of inspecting the bindings that held him to the chair.

“I don’t suppose I could talk you into cutting me out of this predicament?”

She shook her head.

“No. No, I really didn’t think so.”

She sat gingerly on the stairs beside him.

“You look tired. Been a tough week, has it?”

She nodded.

“I can help him.”

Christine studied the inspector, “How?”

“I don’t know yet, honestly. But I’ve a great deal of manpower at my disposal.”

“He’s just a terrorist to you. Perhaps the most dangerous one ever, if you believe what’s in the press.”

“The press,” Chatham scoffed. “I believe only what I can verify. You and that fellow say you’re the victims here. Surprisingly, I have an urge to believe you. However, I must support that urge with evidence.” Chatham softened his tone, “I will find him. Hopefully before anything more happens. But in order to do that, I must know who he is, what he’s going to do next.”

“Who he is?” Christine hunched forward, bringing her knees to her chest. “I don’t think he even knows that. What could I tell you?”

“Anything. Everything. Tell me he’s six-foot-one, a hundred eighty pounds, with a round scar on the back of his left hand, and two small moles on the back of his neck at the collar. Tell me he’s got a scruffy beard with some recent scarring underneath, probably a result of the exposure at sea. His English is good, but the accent is continental. He seems well-educated, perhaps proficient in other languages. He also favors his left arm as though it’s been injured recently.”

“You’re very observant, Inspector.”

“I’ve been at this a long time. I repeat, I will find him.”

“You might, but he’s also very good at what he does, Inspector Chatham.”

“Right, and since we have some time here, that would be a good place to start. What does he do?”

Christine thought about that. As far as she knew there was only one true answer, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it. He kills people, Inspector. He shoots them and kicks them in the face so hard that their necks break. She had to tell this policeman everything without condemning David. There had always been circumstances to support what he’d done, and she knew there was another side to him, another person within. One night she had seen that person, held him, even loved him. But there were two David Slatons, and the one that had just walked out onto the streets of London was the one she would probably never know or understand. Perhaps it was because of the ghosts, the demons that always tore into his dreams. In any event, Christine knew she had to do everything possible to help him. She would not let him fight the world alone. He’d been doing that for far too long.

“His name,” she began, “is David Slaton …”

Christine released Chatham after exactly two hours of captivity in his own living room. He made a lengthy phone call and, before the end of it, a large sedan pulled up directly in front of the house. When Chatham finally finished his call, he and Christine got into the car.

The inspector said nothing to the two men in front, but within minutes the driver had whisked them to a back gate at Scotland Yard. Through security checkpoints and a labyrinth of passages, the car deposited Christine and Chatham at an entrance, which posted no signs to guide the unfamiliar. There was simply a door, more security, and an unmarked elevator. They got on the elevator and, to Christine’s surprise, went down, mocking the huge multi-story structure that towered above them.

All the while, they kept in tow the two quiet, solidly built men who had been in the car. Christine found herself watching the bodyguards, studying them. Alert and expressionless, they never once seemed to look at her or Chatham. They were simply fixtures — silent, watchful and ever-present — and she realized that they reminded her of David. At any rate, Christine decided Chatham was keeping his word. The security men made her feel safe, notwithstanding the fact that she was now tucked away in the headquarters of one of the world’s preeminent police organizations.

Christine was ushered into a small, utilitarian room and told to wait. She tried to get comfortable, figuring it could be a long night.

By coincidence, the press releases were issued almost simultaneously. From Scotland Yard came word that a suspect had been identified in connection with the nuclear weapon in Eastbourne, indeed the same man who had been sought concerning shootings in Penzance and a West End restaurant. The American woman who had purportedly been abducted by that same man was now in police custody, and being questioned about her involvement. An excellent drawing of the man, courtesy of Nathan Chatham’s memory and the Yard’s best computer-aided sketch man, was issued with a request for the widest possible dissemination.

From Tel Aviv came a communiqué admitting that the weapon found in England was of South African origin, and had been hijacked while under transport to Israel for safekeeping. Three cleverly worded paragraphs managed to avoid placing any blame on the state of Israel. It also dodged, just as the British had, any mention of a second weapon. Both governments wanted to sidestep whatever panic that announcement might incur.

In a brief speech half an hour later, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Jacobs announced his resignation, citing tragic security lapses that had taken place under his watch. The failures had irretrievably undermined the support of his governing coalition. Ehud Zak was named as acting Prime Minister, until elections were held in two month’s time. Zak vowed to cooperate completely with the United Kingdom and all other nations to bring those “guilty persons or organizations” to justice.

CNN could barely keep up.

Chatham had allowed her to phone her mother. The call was brief, and the Inspector himself had listened to every word. In roughly a minute, Christine assured her mother that she was safe, and would be home soon. That conversation should have provided final relief for Christine, a confirmation that, for the first time in weeks, her own personal safety was not at question. Instead, she still felt uneasy and the reason was clear. David remained very much in danger. He was being hunted down by the world’s top police forces, not to mention a shadowy band of killers.

Nearing midnight, Christine was comfortably seated in the anteroom to Chatham’s office. At the hallway entrance she saw two big, familiar shoulders, one on each side of the door frame. Across the room, Chatham was barking instructions to a harried staff.

“Heathrow in particular, but don’t forget Gatwick, Stansted, and City. He’s got a head start, but not a big one. Containment! That’s the thing. Take those men off the tube and put them on National Rail, all the big stations. And the car. He’ll have to ditch that ridiculously conspicuous car. Check all the rental agencies, particularly the smaller ones. We must know about anyone trying to deal in cash …”

On and on Chatham went, and after a final verbal boot to their collective bottoms, a half dozen men and women scurried out of the office and dispersed down the halls. The inspector appeared and beckoned Christine into his office.

“Dr. Palmer, if you please.”

Christine went into Chatham’s office. It seemed a dark, haphazard place. The appointments were tasteful, though dated, and papers and files lay strewn about the place, with a big pile stacked loosely on the floor in one corner. The furniture looked comfortable but had to be fifty years old, judging by the worn fabric and scratched wood surfaces. Christine saw scant evidence of the twentieth century, let alone the twenty-first. There was a telephone at his desk, and a television and VCR sat on a wheeled cart. The digital clock on the VCR was insistently flashing 12:00 and, given that the stroke of midnight was approaching, would soon be correct for the second time today. The rest of the room’s furnishings had likely been in place for generations.

Chatham got straight to the point. “Tell me again how he purchased the car, the last one you were driving.”

“He said he bought it from a young kid,” Christine said.

“Do you know how he found it? An advertisement of some sort?”

Christine’s patience was spent. “Inspector Chatham, I’ve gone over this. I’ve answered all your questions. I want to help you as much as possible, but so far, everything I’ve heard leads me to the conclusion that you’re putting all your efforts into finding David. If you believed what we’ve told you, you’d be searching for the people who really hijacked Polaris Venture. They’re the ones who have a nuclear weapon.”

“Dr. Palmer, I understand your frustration, but your friend Mr. Slaton remains a very dangerous man. He’s proved it time and again.”

“David is not the danger here!” she said angrily. “You’re after someone who’s on your side while the real murderers are out there, maybe plotting to kill thousands of people.” Christine glared at the Scotland Yard man, ready to jump on any reply.

Chatham’s stony face broke and his lips curled into a grin. At that, Christine’s posture relaxed as well. Chatham walked over to the door and closed it quietly.

“I’m not accustomed to being second guessed in my own office,” he mused. “But then I wish more of my staff would force a good point when they have it. Most nod their heads without thinking.”

He took a seat next to her on a worn leather couch. Chatham spoke in a hushed tone, not that anyone would hear them beyond the solid oak door. “Let me start by saying that I believe you. I think David Slaton is not our biggest problem. In fact, he might well be out there trying to find that weapon, just as we are.”

“Then why not let him go and look for the real criminals?”

Chatham sighed with exasperation. “Quite simply, because I have no idea who they are.”

“Well they’re Israeli … traitors or something. That’s what David thinks and it makes sense.”

“Does it? Dr. Palmer, I know most of the people he’s gotten mixed up with were Mossad. We figured that much out days ago. But my government has asked Israel for an explanation of all this weapons business — at the highest levels, I might add. Do you know what we were told?”

“What?”

“That your Mr. Slaton is responsible for everything.”

“You don’t believe that,” Christine implored.

“No, I don’t. Which leads me to one of two possibilities. Either the government of Israel is lying about it, or they don’t know what’s going on any more than we do. Given the amount of heat they’re taking over this whole affair, I’d say the latter is the case. They’re as stumped as we are. And with the Greenwich Accord next week, I think they’ll do anything to finish this embarrassment as quickly as possible.”

“What do you mean by anything?” she asked guardedly.

Chatham leaned closer and tilted his head to one side, his long face awash in seriousness. “I’m looking for David Slaton because he’s the best lead I have. But I must add that I think he’d be safer in our hands than roaming across the world with a bull’s-eye on his back.”

Christine cringed, though Chatham was only reaffirming what she already suspected. She took a deep breath, held it, then let out a long sigh. “I can’t wait to get back to medicine. It’s so much easier.”

“And I don’t want to risk losing my Tuesday tarts this summer.”

“What?”

“If I don’t tend to my roses soon, Mrs. Nesbit will have nothing for her centerpiece come Easter Sunday. She’s very unforgiving about these sorts of things.”

Christine smiled and Chatham put a hand on her shoulder.

“Help me find him,” he pleaded. “The sooner we do that, the sooner we can all get back to our boring old lives.”