The Perfect Assassin

Chapter Eighteen

A distracted Nathan Chatham ambled down the corridor from his office deep in thought. The operation had outgrown his own wing, and been moved to the far end of the building, where an intricate and unfamiliar tangle of conference rooms buzzed with activity. Chatham turned and weaved through a half dozen interconnecting offices, only to find himself back in the hallway where he’d started. He scowled and tried again. On the second attempt he found a wilting Ian Dark splayed out on a couch, staring blankly at another of the endless stream of messages that had been pouring in for the last two hours.

Chatham caught his associate in mid-yawn. “Dark!”

His number two sat up straight.

“What have you got?” Chatham asked, maneuvering his big frame onto a folding chair that looked far too delicate for the task. Dark handed the latest over to his boss.

“Nothing much. This one says the American NEST team has begun a search of central London.”

Chatham harrumphed, “Discreetly, one would hope.”

“Oh, yes. The vehicles are unmarked, and if anyone asks they’ll only say they’re a survey team. No need to incite a panic.”

The inspector looked down his nose at the message through half-cut reading glasses. He cast it aside with a flick of his wrist.

“But why central London?” Dark asked. “Do they know something we don’t?”

“No. We haven’t any idea where to start, so London was suggested.”

“By who?”

“Shearer, who was under the gun from above. It seems all the Members of Parliament who know about this second weapon are in London themselves, as are many of their families.”

“Good Lord! You mean they can’t see beyond their own personal well-being?”

“Achh!” Chatham spat, throwing his hands in the air. “It doesn’t matter, man. We don’t have any better ideas about where to send these Americans. At least this way it makes the pompous ninnies think we’re doing something for them.”

“Do you think they can find the weapon, assuming it’s even there?”

“No. We were briefed at Number 10. This equipment is very limited. Give them a stadium or a small neighborhood to look in and they’ll find it. But a city the size of London? Not a sausage.”

A slightly built man knocked on the open door. He had a plethora of identification badges hanging around his neck, and Chatham thought he resembled a small bird with delightful plumage around the breast. Then he remembered. The name escaped him, but this was the very competent fellow who headed up Grounds Security at the Yard.

“Inspector, we’ve got a visitor who’d like a word with you.”

“David Slaton, perhaps?” Dark offered wryly.

“No,” the security man replied humorlessly. “He says his name is Anton Bloch. He seemed to think that would mean something to you.”

Chatham imploded in disbelief. “You’ve got to be joking!”

The man shrugged, “He’s sitting on a bench in the main lobby, between a pimp and a solicitor. Shall I send him down?”

Chatham looked at Dark, whose expression held equal parts excitement and puzzlement. There was only one answer. “Immediately!”

The two Scotland Yard men exchanged pleasantries with the stocky, serious Israeli. Ian Dark, lacking an invitation to stay, made a discreet exit, closing the door on his way out. Chatham offered Bloch a chair and the two men sat facing one another awkwardly. Chatham decided a touch of hospitality might be the right thing.

“Can I send for some coffee or tea?” he offered, not sure which they took in Israel.

“No, thank you,” Bloch said, “I just finished an eight-hour flight and I was swilling caffeine the whole time. Frankly, I’d like to get straight to business.”

Chatham made no argument as Bloch cast a suspicious eye around the room. “Is this place secure?”

The question took Chatham by surprise. “Secure? This is Scotland Yard, man.” Chatham saw that his guest seemed less than convinced, so he tried to remember what Dark had told him about that sort of thing. “Yes, they … ah, what was the word now …”

“Sweep?”

“Right, that’s it. They sweep the place with some sort of electronic contraption. Every day, I’m told. I suppose one can never be too careful.”

Chatham saw doubt creep in to Bloch’s face, but it seemed to disappear when he asked, “Does anyone in your government know you’re here?”

“No,” Bloch admitted, “aside from the two pilots who flew me in. And I should tell you,” he added sheepishly, “I entered your country this morning with a … a less than accurate passport. Sorry.”

Chatham dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “What’s brought you here? In particular, why Scotland Yard and not the Foreign Office, or something along those lines?”

“I’ll have to explain further, Inspector. You see, I’m no longer the Director of Mossad. I was forced to resign earlier today.”

“Going down with your Prime Minister’s ship, eh?”

“So to speak,” Bloch grumbled. “My resignation is not public record. We keep these things to ourselves for a number of reasons, but I don’t mind if you want to pass it on to your MI-6.”

Chatham nodded in appreciation of the gesture.

“Inspector, I’m here to help you find that second weapon.”

“I see. And where exactly did it come from?”

“As we explained yesterday to your ambassador in Tel Aviv, the weapons were South African. Beyond that …” Bloch hedged. “Inspector, I don’t represent my government any longer. I’d rather not get into how this all came about, or why.”

Chatham relented. “I can see you’ve gone and put yourself in an awkward position, so I’ll take whatever information you can offer.”

“And I would like to keep my visit here private.”

“Obviously. That’s why you showed up at the reception desk downstairs and announced yourself by name and not title. No one in the building would recognize you, and few would be able to associate your name. Direct, yet unobtrusive,” Chatham said approvingly.

“Thank you for understanding. Have you had any luck yet?”

“Finding the weapon? No. But I’ve spoken with your man Slaton.”

Bloch was clearly surprised, “You found him?”

“Well, I must admit, it was he who found me. When I went home last night he was waiting for me, with the American woman.”

“The doctor, the one who pulled him out of the ocean?”

“Yes, Dr. Christine Palmer. Slaton asked me to take her into protective custody.”

“And you did?”

“Of course.” Chatham nodded toward the door. “She’s right down the hall.” He watched the Israeli’s reaction carefully.

“What’s she like?”

“Attractive,” Chatham found himself saying. “Slaton insists she’s quite innocent with respect to all that’s been going on.”

“Maybe I could have a word with her later,” Bloch suggested.

Chatham’s reply was off-hand, “Perhaps.”

“What about Slaton?”

“We’re still looking for him. We’ve tracked him to a small farm out-side St. Ives, in Cambridgeshire.”

“You won’t catch him.”

“Time will tell,” Chatham countered. Spooks were always so full of themselves. “He put forward a rather incredible version of our recent events.”

“You must know more about the whole thing than I do then.”

“Perhaps. But I think there were a few parts he left out.”

“I’d like to hear everything,” Bloch suggested. “Maybe I can fill in the gaps.”

Chatham eyed his guest, calculating the possibilities. Had the Is-raelis sent Bloch to find out what the Yard knew? Would Bloch offer truth, or a carefully guiding script? There simply wasn’t time to dwell on all the ramifications. Had he been of a more self-promoting nature, Chatham might have succumbed to the professional risks of divulging sensitive information to a foreign national. Instead, he possessed a singular mindset. That of finding his quarry in minimum time. Being two strides behind Slaton, and probably farther behind that second weapon, Chatham decided he’d press ahead, listen carefully, and decide later whether he trusted what Bloch could add to the puzzle.

It took twenty minutes to cover it all, with Bloch asking questions and filling in the occasional blank. Afterward, Chatham had questions of his own.

“You say you found these electronic beacons that were installed on Polaris Venture?”

“Yes, in eleven thousand feet of water. But not the ship.”

Chatham put this together with what Slaton had told him. He was struck by the inescapable beauty of the plan. “So there you are. A lovely bit of deception. Someone put these beacons in deep water, assuming you’d then consider the weapons lost and out of reach. Safe, in a sense.”

“Right. But we finally did something right by pressing ahead with the search. Other than that, we don’t know much. Except that Slaton has turned up here in England and is decimating our U.K. contingent.”

“But if Slaton is going around killing your people, then isn’t it reasonable to assume that he’s one of those responsible for stealing the weapons?”

Bloch spoke grimly, “Officially, my government has no doubts. Slaton is the guilty party. But if you’re asking me, I can’t believe it. I know him, Inspector. He’s the last person I’d ever expect to turn or sell out.”

The phone suddenly rang and Chatham filed that answer away for further consideration. It was the Commissioner himself on the line, and Chatham promptly directed his superior to standby. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and addressed Bloch, “Sorry, this might take a few minutes. I doubt the Commissioner would find it amusing that the head of another country’s spy service was loitering in my office.”

“Ex-head.”

“Right. How long will you be here in London?”

Bloch shrugged, “My calendar is suddenly very empty. I’ll stay as long as I can help. That is, if I’m not deported. I am here illegally, you know.”

Chatham winked. “I’ll take care of that. And Dark will set you up with a place to stay.”

“Thanks.” Bloch added introspectively, “You know, Inspector, I wish I could talk to David. I think he’d trust me enough to tell me what he knows.” He let that float for a moment, then as an apparent afterthought added, “Oh, and do you think I could have that word with Dr. Palmer?”

Chatham had already decided on the matter. He made a show of looking at the clock on the wall, which read ten minutes after eleven. “First thing in the morning.”

Slaton arrived at the compound shortly before sunrise. He was disappointed in his timing, having arrived too late to make a move in the predawn hours, the preferred schedule for attacking an unsuspecting adversary. With that chance gone, Slaton granted himself a break. He’d essentially run a marathon last night, after little rest in the last three days. He could feel the tendrils of fatigue setting in fast, sapping his strength and, more ominously, clouding his thoughts. Certain that he was outside Chatham’s immediate search area, he allowed himself a tenuous combat nap in a thick, quiet stand of trees overlooking the post.

It lasted nearly two hours. Just before eight, a storm of noise, dust and diesel exhaust violated the still morning air. Three truckloads of troops lumbered to the front gate, where a single guard sat slouched on a chair inside the small gatehouse. Slaton watched as the guard stepped from the shack to exchange shouted obscenities with his departing mates. When the trucks disappeared, the man quickly moved back to the warmth of his shelter.

The Royal Engineers 119th Field Squadron, a mile outside the village of Uppingham, was not a high security facility. The soldiers here were an engineers regiment, a contingent whose time was spent in the practice of building temporary encampments, bridges, roads, and runways. Of course, they remained soldiers first, which was why the bulk of the force had been rousted from their normal duties and, Slaton was quite certain, sent thirty miles southeast to beat bushes for Scotland Yard.

He watched from the treeline, a hundred meters away, as a slight young man walked from the barracks to the headquarters building. Minutes later, a young woman performed the reciprocal act. Shift change at the command post. Somewhere a small gas engine, probably a generator, droned continuously. The sentry looked bored, and was probably miffed that he’d been left behind on post while his mates had gone off to track down the world’s most wanted terrorist. David Slaton, the object of that search, waited twenty more minutes before he was satisfied. All was quiet.

He reckoned there might be a dozen troops remaining, mostly for command and control, and maybe a guard or two for the next shift. He started to move, making a wide half circle to the rear of the facility. There were thirteen buildings of various sizes strewn across the compound. A few were obviously barracks. Then there was a headquarters building, a mess hall, and a couple of others he discounted for various reasons. He decided his objective lay in one of those five buildings whose purpose seemed indeterminate. Slaton moved in closer.

Yesterday there might have been a roving sentry, perhaps with a dog, to patrol the fence surrounding the post. But clearly not on this morning. The fence itself was a simple twelve-foot high chain-link variety, with bands of razor wire across the top for show. Slaton had raided a barn a few miles back and requisitioned a set of bolt cutters. As long as there were no motion or vibration sensors on the perimeter, which he strongly doubted, getting in would be easy.

The ground outside the fence had been stripped of all vegetation, leaving a fifty-yard clear zone all around. At the rear of the post, a second road, this one gravel, came in from the surrounding forest and led to a back gate. This gate was heavily chained and looked as if it hadn’t been used in years. Just inside the rear entrance were the remains of the motor pool — a small armored troop carrier, a drab olive Land Rover, two dump trucks, and three bulldozers. There were large voids in the parking area, empty spots where the troop trucks and command vehicles had no doubt been last night.

Under other circumstances he might have watched for a few more hours, but he knew he had to move. Chatham would be widening his efforts soon, and the head start Slaton had earned would quickly evaporate.

He clawed up some dirt and rubbed it over his face and hands, an exercise of redundancy since he was already filthy from head to toe with the mud from three English counties. Hygiene aside, it made for excellent camouflage. The backpack he’d been toting contained his worldly possessions. One spare change of clothing, British identification documents, cash, map, penlight, an empty water bottle, and the bolt cutters. He didn’t want to take the bag since it might prove cumbersome. On the other hand, he couldn’t leave it here. If anything went awry, he might not have time to retrieve it. Slaton settled on a middle ground. He took the identification papers, along with his remaining British pounds, and stuffed them into a filthy pocket. The papers were probably compromised, as the Danish documents had proven to be at The Excelsior. They were, however, all he had left, and might buy a few minutes in an emergency. Slaton extracted the bolt cutters, then zipped up the backpack and slid it under a prominent bush beside the gravel road.

The cutting tool in hand, Slaton made one last survey of his target. With no one in sight, his gaze settled on the motor pool, and a particularly wicked idea came to mind. He moved off low and fast toward the fence.