The Perfect Assassin

Chapter Seventeen

Cold sandwiches and lukewarm tea. Supper was easily ignored as Chatham and Dark poured over information that was now coming in from all quadrants. Foremost at the moment was a status report. The American’s Nuclear Emergency Search Team, or NEST, was enroute, and scheduled to arrive early the next morning. Chatham was surprised to see how inadequately prepared his own country was to undertake such a search. Scotland Yard and the military had held a few joint maneuvers, but these had more to do with disposing of a known weapon, as had been the case in Eastbourne. The process of searching for a nuclear device hidden in a large city, or for that matter a country, was a far more daunting task. Success depended on an immensely complex network of sensors and computers, which had to be driven and flown across targeted search areas.

“The Americans are bringing their best gadgets,” Dark said.

“Well,” Chatham grumbled, “I suppose they do have a knack for this sort of thing.”

“I’m told these sensors have a limited range, though. They’re not much use if you don’t know where to begin.”

“Which is precisely why we must locate Slaton. I’m still convinced he’s our best lead.”

“We’ve had a few more sketchy sightings, but none sound promising.” Dark held up a clipboard with a half dozen loose fax pages, “We’ve accounted for seven delivery trucks that were at the market this morning. They belong to one of the big co-operatives in Birmingham and their routes were all tracked by computer. We talked to each driver, and forensics has tracked down all but two of the trucks. So far, nothing suspicious.”

Chatham wasn’t surprised. “No, no. This fellow spent hours at that bus stop looking for something in particular. He had to get out of London, but there was a destination in mind. I think he waited for a truck that was going where he wanted to go.”

“Of course!” Dark said. “He stood at the bus stop and shopped for one that was bound for the right place. Now if we only knew where that was.”

“Give me the log.”

Dark handed over the clipboard and Chatham leafed through the pages.

“Sixty deliveries in our time frame.”

He mulled the list, then took a pencil and circled an even half dozen entries. Scooping thumbtacks from the top drawer of his desk, he went to the road map of England, which had been hastily stuck to the wall right next to the room’s only artwork, a cheap oil rendition of the Battle of Trafalgar. Chatham ran a finger over the map to find the towns he’d selected, then jabbed a red tack into each. All were conspicuously in the same general area. East Anglia and the East Midlands.

“Let’s track these down first. Talk to every driver. Find out the routes they took after leaving London, especially where they stopped to purchase fuel, eat, or use the toilet. We’ll have a look at the trucks as well.”

“Just in case he’s gone and left evidence behind?”

“Yes, it’s worth a try, although I doubt he’d make that kind of mistake. Our best hope is that someone might have seen him.” Chatham looked at the map again. “We’re not far behind, but we’ve got to spot him again soon. Otherwise, we’re sure to lose track.”

The Smitherton Farms and Dairy truck hit a big rut and Slaton was nearly thrown to the floor of the cargo compartment. He’d been trying to brace himself but there wasn’t much to grab. Aside from two empty wooden crates, the back of the truck was barren. It was also dark. They’d been going non-stop for four hours since leaving the London market, and the sun had set along the way. There were only two spots where light could enter the compartment to begin with. One was a fist-sized hole in the ceiling that had been taped over — Slaton had removed the tape — and the other a horizontal slit between two of the front end panels. During the afternoon, the gaps had allowed just enough light to see the corrugated sidewalls of his temporary quarters. But now he sat in almost complete darkness, wishing Mr. Smitherton could have afforded a new set of shocks and springs to keep the old contraption from bottoming out with a crunch on every pothole. Slaton tried to be thankful they weren’t carrying a full load.

Periodically, he looked through the thin opening in front. He could see past the rear window and into the driver’s cab. Ever present was the back of the old man’s head, his attention locked forward as the truck bounced onward, steady and true.

Slaton wished he could make out road signs to confirm they were headed in the right direction, but the angles of view and lack of light made it impossible. That being the case, he was forced to dead reckon. For this, he looked past the old man to the instruments on the dashboard. The speed had averaged forty miles an hour for the first one and three-quarters hours. Seventy miles, but then distance was the easy part. Direction was far more problematic. Initially, he’d used the sun as a reference, its reflections clear as it set to the left. They’d been headed northbound, probably on the A1.

Then the first turn had come. Fortunately, the night skies had cleared and Slaton could see up through the hole in the ceiling. He was able to identify the Little Dipper and Orion, situated to suggest a more easterly track. Not very precise, but the best he could manage under the circumstances. And significant, because he knew that Thrapston would have been a westerly turn off the A1. They were headed elsewhere.

Slaton conjured up a mental image of the East Midlands and tried to deduce where they might be headed. No clear answer came to mind. He was still mulling the possibilities when the truck suddenly braked and turned onto a road that was in noticeably worse condition. Smitherton slowed to a crawl, smashing heavily over a series of potholes, water splashing into the wheelwells with each dip. When they finally came to a stop, the old man honked the horn once before shutting off the engine.

Slaton reached in his backpack for the bottle of rum he’d bought earlier. It was half empty now, after he’d discreetly spilled much of it into a dumpster. With the bottle in hand, he waited, squinting into the driver’s cab. The old man was waving to someone through the front window, and as he slid out of the cab, Slaton heard the voices of children.

“Grandfather! Grandfather!” they squealed gleefully.

“Hello, lads,” the old man said.

A high-pitched voice pleaded, “Can we play in the truck? Can we? I want to be the chicken!”

Another howled exception, “You were the chicken last time! You’re the pig now!”

“No, I won’t be the pig!”

“Easy now,” the old man broke in. “Tell me, has your mum saved me some supper?”

Slaton then heard a different voice, this one an adult female in the distance. He couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was universal.

“Oh, mum,” the children whined in unison.

“Come on then,” the old man said, “let’s have our supper. Then I’ll have a word with her.” He added in a stage whisper, “And remember at the end to tell her how delicious the pudding is.”

Slaton heard their footsteps fade off and then a door banged shut. The cargo compartment was almost completely dark now, virtually no light creeping in through the two openings. He felt for his bag and stuffed the rum back inside. Had the old man gone to open the rear door, Slaton would have splashed the liquor around and sprawled to the floor, simulating a drunk who’d sought some shelter and passed out. He’d done it before, convincingly, but it wouldn’t be necessary this time.

He went blindly to the back of the compartment and his hands searched until they found the thin strand of rope, which went under the door to disable the latch on the outside. He untied the knot that held the arrangement in place, then raised the door a few inches to get a look outside. The only structure he could make out was a barn fifty feet away. A fence bordered an open field in the distance. As far as he could tell, there were no people. And better yet, no dogs.

He opened the door high enough to slide out, then quietly rolled it back closed, noting that it did so without the trace of a squeak. The equipment might be dated, but old Smitherton cared for it well. Slaton considered spending the night in the barn, but decided against it. If he were discovered, the connection to Smitherton’s truck and the London market would be all too easy. He reckoned there were probably a lot of other barns around, maybe even something more comfortable. The question of how far off course he’d gotten would have to wait. Tonight he needed a place to rest. His body required it, and he suspected the opportunity might not come again for some time. Slaton ran low to the barn, planning to use it for cover as he distanced himself from the house. Ten yards away, the barn door creaked and swung open.

Slaton froze, caught helplessly in the open. A dim shaft of light cast from the entrance, and a little girl, probably no more than six or seven, backed out through the door. She held a bucket with both hands and was clearly struggling with its weight. She closed the door, turned and then stopped, her eyes wide as she saw the unfamiliar man standing straight in her path.

Slaton smiled quickly and assumed an Irish brogue, “And hello there. You must be Charlotte.”

The little girl was clearly put off by the stranger’s presence, but she didn’t seem afraid. “No, I’m Jane.”

Slaton raised a brow. He pulled out his wallet, opened it sideways and squinted, as if struggling to read a very small book. “Jane … Jane … no.” He flipped through the cards in the wallet, then held one up. “Oh, Mary above! I’ve got the wrong week.”

“Wrong week for what?” she asked cautiously.

Slaton smiled again and looked over his shoulder at the farmhouse. He could hear the faint sound of voices inside. He bent down on one knee. “To deliver the surprise.”

Jane put down her bucket. “Surprise?” She eyed his backpack hopefully.

He spoke in a whisper. “It’s in me truck, up at the top of the drive. I just come down here to make sure I knew where it was going before I tackled that road.”

“What is it?” she asked, curiosity overriding caution.

Slaton wagged a finger for her to come closer. The girl left her bucket and closed the gap, still stopping a few feet away.

“Well now, I don’t think I should really be telling ye that.”

Her eyes lit. It was clearly the answer she wanted. “Is it for me?”

“Ahh, Miss Jane, I canno’ speak of it. But listen,” he said, holding up his now closed wallet, “I’m not supposed to deliver this until next week. If my boss finds out I’ve messed up another delivery, I think he’ll sack me.”

The girl wore a look of forced concern.

“I’ll be back this same time next week to deliver it. But I need you to help me out of this jam,” he said seriously. “Don’t tell anyone I’ve been here. Not your parents or your friends. Nobody. That should keep me out of trouble, and it’ll keep my delivery schedule on time next week.”

“It’s a Christmas present, isn’t it?”

He winked and the little girl squealed. Slaton put a finger to his lips, but it was too late. The front door of the house creaked open.

“Janie?” a voice called out.

“Yes, mum?” The girl looked to the house. Jane could be seen from the porch, but Slaton was behind the truck, still out of sight.

“Janie, who are you talking to?”

“Oh, no one, mum.” Jane lied with that complete lack of conviction reserved for children. She went back for the bucket. Struggling to lift it, she sloshed some of the fresh milk onto her dress.

“Do be careful!”

“Yes, mum.” The girl shuffled her feet under the load and made her way to the house. As she passed Slaton, who was still in the shadow of her grandfather’s truck, she looked directly at him. Slaton put an index finger to his lips again, which only made her giggle.

“Jane?”

Slaton heard footsteps, hollow across the wooden porch, then crunching over the gravel and dirt driveway. He eased into a shadow and saw Jane approach her mother, the girl’s head-low posture a model of contrition. The woman stood with her hands on her hips. After watching her daughter pass, she walked down the drive to where the girl had been standing. With a quick look around, she shook her head.

“That girl will be the end of me,” she muttered, turning back to the house.

When the door closed, Slaton ran at full speed up the drive to the main road. It had been a small mistake, but years in the field had convinced him — it was the small mistakes that killed you. There was a good chance the girl wouldn’t say anything, or if she did, that it wouldn’t be believed. Still, her mother might have heard something, and Slaton had to assume the worst. After five minutes, he slowed to a sustainable pace and checked the time. It was quarter past seven in the evening.

In fact, it took less than an hour. Angela Smitherton-Cole’s suspicion had been aroused. And Jane was a rotten secret-keeper. Right after dinner the girl confessed that a delivery man had come to bring the big Christmas present, but that he was early and he wasn’t supposed to deliver it until next week and he might get sacked if she told anyone and, by the way, he was very nice.

Jane was the fourth child, so her mother and grandfather were both well versed in children’s storytelling, experts at distinguishing fact from fantasy. Jane’s account had details and a touch of guilt that left no doubt in their mind. She had been talking to a man outside.

When Jane was done with her confession, she was dismissed to her room to get ready for bed. Angela and her father exchanged a serious look and went outside. He retrieved a tire iron from the cab of his truck, then walked back to the cargo door. There were large footprints in the fresh mud all around the rear bumper. He gripped the iron and threw open the door, only to find the compartment empty. He did notice a small piece of rope tied to the latch that had never been there before. Old man Smitherton looked at the tracks on the ground again. He could see where the person had moved around to the far side of the truck, and then, judging by the gap between steps, run back up the drive toward Brightly Road.

“I don’t like it,” he said to his daughter. “Might have brought him here all the way from London.”

Angela held her arms across her chest as if she were cold. “He’s gone now, at least. Whoever it was.”

She waited for her father to confirm this thought. Instead, he said, “Let’s call Rodney.”

Rodney was Angela’s younger brother, and a brand new constable on the local police force. Rodney thought the issue serious enough to take it up with his sergeant, who nearly dismissed the matter before remembering the new message from Scotland Yard. Something about trucks that had recently been to the London produce markets. By 8:45 it got to Nathan Chatham.

Slaton decided he’d keep moving until three in the morning, then look for a place to hole up. If he couldn’t find satisfactory shelter, he’d stay in the woods. It wouldn’t be comfortable, but as long as he kept them searching a wide enough area, it would be safe. He wondered if he was being overly cautious, if perhaps little Jane had kept quiet after all. Or maybe her mother wasn’t the suspicious type. Then a car would come into view, or a plane would fly overhead and the thought would be vanquished.

He considered hopping into another truck or stealing a car, but the area was thinly populated. There would be few such opportunities to choose from, and, more to the point, few for Chatham to check out. Slaton was glad he’d met Chief Inspector Nathan Chatham. He wondered what the man was up to. Was he still mired down questioning Christine, hoping she held some key to it all? At least she was safe now, Slaton thought. Maybe the great inspector was pacing furiously in his office, empty-handed and trying to predict the unpredictable. Or were men swarming around a little farm nearby, taking photographs, searching a produce truck for some shred of a hair, and slinging pointed questions at a bewildered little girl? Perhaps not.

Slaton had, however, settled on one point. Of all the people looking for him now, there was one man at Scotland Yard who was the biggest threat. He had the resources, home field advantage, and something else — that calm self-assuredness that emanated from people who regularly got what they were after. Chatham would be tenacious, and there was only one way for Slaton to get the man off his tail. He had to give Chatham that second weapon, along with those responsible for taking it. And to do that, he had to get clear.

To begin, Slaton could only assume that the encounter at the farm had exposed his position. If Chatham started a search, he’d get a map and place a big marker on the farm. From there, he’d blockade all roads and rails leading away from the area, the distance of the inspection points being proportional to the amount of time since Slaton had last been seen. Then another circle would be drawn, this one corresponding to that same amount of time, but smaller because it assumed travel on foot. The allowance would be generous, probably six or seven miles per hour. Within that circle, the search would proceed methodically, as many men around the perimeter as possible, an effort to contain, and dogs in the center to track and flush. That’s how it would happen, and so Slaton’s tactics were set. Stay clear of the major roads and lines of communication. Move on foot, but move fast.

There was advantage in knowing what the inspector had to do. Adding to it, Chatham could never guess where Slaton was headed. The only question was how best to get there. He took another look at the touring map he’d found in the addict’s car, and the name of the village jumped out at him. Uppingham. It lay fifteen miles farther to the northwest. This was his immediate objective. Slaton had been there before, on more casual business, and he knew the area. The more he thought about it, the more Slaton liked the plan. It would provide a number of critical tools for the work ahead. And it would screw one particular inspector straight into the ceiling.

Chatham was ecstatic when the news came in about Jane Smitherton-Cole’s encounter with a stranger. In minutes he’d been able to confirm that her grandfather had indeed been to the New Covent Garden Market that morning, and almost certainly carried someone from there to his daughter’s farm. And while Chatham wouldn’t typically put much emphasis on the testimony offered by a six year old, Jane’s description had matched Slaton squarely. The command center at Scotland Yard was put into action.

The local police began a search of the immediate area around the farm near St. Ives. Chatham ordered a blockade of the roads leading away from the district, and a checkpoint was set up along each end of the rail line that traversed three miles to the south. The police from four surrounding counties were dispatched, with another two hundred to arrive within the hour. Two military posts had deployed nearly their entire detachments, three hundred at last count. The troops would provide a wide-ranging assortment of tools to aid the search, everything from all-terrain vehicles to dog teams. Then there were other things Chatham had never heard of, let alone understood, including four Westland helicopters, equipped with low-light TVs, searchlights and infrared something-or-others. The helicopters would cycle through a search pattern that centered around old man Smitherton’s truck.

Within the hour, west Cambridgeshire would be overrun by an authoritarian cast of thousands, all in the interest of finding one man. Never in his twenty-eight years at the Yard had Chatham seen such an array of forces brought to bear. He only hoped that soon he’d have something to show for it.

In the first hour, Slaton estimated he made nine miles, but only by staying on a secondary road that was light on traffic. It helped considerably that he was only carrying the backpack, now looped over his shoulders, and lighter after getting rid of the bottle of rum. Slaton ran at a steady clip along the shoulder. By staying on the road, he knew his chances of being spotted were greater. For the time being, though, speed was all-important. Also, the cloud cover had thickened, allowing no moonlight through. This would make moving to the fields and forests painfully slow, not to mention the increased chances of turning an ankle or tearing up his clothing.

Every five or ten minutes, a passing car would force Slaton to scurry aside and conceal himself in the overgrown hedgerows, those that seemed to so conveniently border all English roads. He estimated eight miles in the second hour, then the clouds began to break and he decided to move to the fields. There, on choppy, uneven ground, his pace slowed considerably. He circumnavigated a few flocks of sheep so as to not make any disturbance, and kept well clear of the few buildings he could make out. Most were barns and sheds that looked like they hadn’t been used in years, but Slaton couldn’t allow a repeat of his earlier mistake.

Cresting a hill shortly after ten o’clock, he spotted a small village in the distance. Nestled low in a valley, its lights cast a subtle yellow hue into the misty air above. Slaton moved perpendicularly to the city, and a few minutes later came to a road. Staying behind the ancient, ivy-covered stone fence that ran alongside, he followed along until he came to a road sign. It declared the place two kilometers ahead to be Oundle.

He found a grassy spot and sat down, leaning back against the wall. Slaton stretched out his legs and felt immediate relief in the tired muscles. The sweat on his exposed face and neck began to feel cool in the night air, no surprise with a temperature near the freezing point. He noted that his shoes and the bottom of his pants were covered in mud and grass. One shirtsleeve was sodden from a slip he’d suffered crossing through a gully.

He took a long draw from the water bottle in his pack, then pulled out the map and a small penlight. Slaton wished he had the luxury of a topographical map, something that showed terrain contours, but at least the one he had was of sufficient scale to identify the smaller roads and towns. He instinctively held the map in a concave manner, shielding the source of light — the reflected illumination only found his eyes and the wall behind. Slaton quickly located Oundle, then estimated where he’d gotten off Smitherton’s truck. He was disappointed, but not too surprised, to find that he’d only made twenty-one miles, two less than he’d hoped. Still, the going had been rough. Recent wet weather had made the fields exceptionally soggy, and footing for the last hour had been a real problem. He’d have to go back to moving along the roads.

Taking another drink, he folded the map to display the area he’d be covering in the next hour. It was then that he heard the engine of a truck approaching. He killed the light. His senses went to full alert, discerning that there were actually two heavy diesels. They sounded identical. And at this time of night—

He shoved everything into his pack and quickly glanced left and right. The wall, about four feet high, extended as far as he could see toward town, but ended twenty feet to his right. Since the trucks were coming from town, it would give plenty of cover as they passed. With the belching engines directly behind him, Slaton could feel the ground vibrate. Then came the unmistakable squeal of brakes.

The big rigs paused and then, judging by the grinding of gears, maneuvered back and forth a few times. Finally, the engines stopped and their cavernous rumble was replaced by an even more troubling sound.

A young man’s voice called, “This how you want it, Sergeant?”

“Right, that should do the trick. Leave the headlights on.”

“You sure this is the right spot?”

“The major said two kliks this side of Oundle. Now keep those weapons handy lads. No leaving them about.”

“For show, right?”

“That’s it.”

Slaton hadn’t stumbled onto a roadblock. The roadblock had stumbled onto him. For the second time tonight his luck seemed cursed. He sidled against the wall to the only cover, a spot where the vegetation had gotten out of control. He tried desperately to move behind the dense foliage without causing any movement of the vines that grew up and over the top of the wall.

Slaton listened as five, possibly six, soldiers settled in. They bantered about the things soldiers typically bantered about and exchanged theories on the terrorist they’d been assigned to hunt. None of their ideas were of interest to the Israeli who sat silently concealed not ten paces away. Slaton continued to dig in and pull cover around himself. Across the wall, the group’s mood ascended, becoming more loose and lighthearted. Then the first car came.

The sergeant barked terse instructions and Slaton heard a safety click off on at least one weapon. The car stopped and its driver, a woman, was asked, “Have you seen this man?” Slaton reckoned the picture was a pretty good likeness by now. The bewildered driver replied she had not, and consented to a brief search of her car. Minutes later she was cleared to go on, everyone seeming happier at that point.

Slaton wondered how effective his concealment was. Through gaps in the foliage he had a good view of the end of the wall — he doubted anyone would find reason to vault straight over — but it was hard to tell if any part of his hunkered down body was visible. Thankfully he’d had the foresight to choose dark clothing. And he no longer cursed the mud that had splattered over his extremities on that foray through the ditch. Slaton delicately moved branches here and there to fill in thin spots, and slowly raked dead leaves around his legs. He was still fine-tuning his camouflage when he saw movement. Slaton froze.

One of the soldiers, a squat, fireplug type, appeared from around the end of the wall. He had an automatic weapon hung loosely across his chest and was coming straight at Slaton. With the man only steps away, Slaton prepared to take him, knowing it would be impossible to do quietly. The kidon was an instant away from lunging into a melee when the man stopped. He undid his fly and began to urinate. Midway through, someone shouted a question and the sergeant turned slightly to answer. On doing so, his stream splattered squarely on Slaton’s left foot. Once finished, the man zipped up, turned, and trundled back through the muck and around the wall. Slaton took a deep breath, wondering if his luck wasn’t quite so bad after all.

An hour after taking up post, the soldiers had searched three cars and a truck with nothing to show for it. They were getting bored. The prospect of staying up all night to harass a few civilians was causing mild dissension, and the sergeant allowed two men to sack out in the cabs of the trucks. The others would get their turn. Soon after, a deck of cards appeared and a half-hearted poker game broke out.

Slaton planned his egress carefully. He could move only one way, left and low behind the wall. Fifty yards in that direction the road and wall curved out of sight. There were no obstacles, nor any cover, save for the wall itself. His only concerns would be complete silence, and to not cause any movement that might be seen from the other side. Slaton waited for the next vehicle. It would provide a distraction, and also be the least likely time for anyone else to serve a call of nature.

The car that finally came was perfect. The driver was middle-aged, his passenger a much younger woman. They were both loud, argumentative, and quite drunk.

Amid the shouting, Slaton got up carefully and inched free from his hiding place, the muscles in his legs aching the instant he did so. Moving silently behind the wall, he made a good hundred yards before venturing a look back. The driver was standing by the hood of his car, hurling insults and jabbing a finger in someone’s chest, oblivious to the fact that he was grossly outnumbered by heavily armed soldiers. His companion got out of the car, ostensibly to help. She teetered momentarily on stilt-like high heels, then fell flat on her face. Slaton was almost tempted to stay and watch the show.

He drank the last of his water, then put the empty bottle back in his pack. It was getting late. The roads would be nearly deserted in another hour. A hundred yards farther down there was no line of sight to the roadblock. With the coast clear, Slaton vaulted the thick stone fence that had served him so well and started out at a trot along the shoulder. Blood came back quickly to his legs and the stiffness that had set in during the delay began to subside. For all the inconvenience, Slaton knew he was safe for the next few hours, outside Chatham’s perimeter of search. He noted the time on his watch and gradually picked up speed.