The Perfect Assassin

Chapter Nineteen

Chatham was asleep on one of the back room cots when Ian Dark gently rattled his shoulder.

“Inspector,” Dark said.

Chatham’s eyes opened and he gathered his bearings.

“Something you should hear, sir.”

Chatham looked at his watch and saw it was nearly noon. “What is it?”

Dark motioned for him to follow. Chatham made an effort to smooth the wrinkles from his clothes and ran his bony fingers once through the matted tangle of hair atop his head.

A man in uniform was waiting in his office. Dark introduced Chatham to Colonel Edward Binder, the Defense Ministry Liaison to Scotland Yard. Colonel Binder repeated what he’d told Dark five minutes earlier, and any cobwebs remaining from Chatham’s slumber were swept away.

“Are you telling me our suspect has broken into a military facility and taken weapons?” Chatham stood rigid.

A contrite Binder replied, “We don’t know who it was, Inspector. No one got a look at this person.”

Chatham fumed, having no doubt whatsoever. “What exactly did he take?”

“We’re not completely sure yet, but an inventory is under way. We do know he’s taken two L96A1s.”

“Two what?”

“L96A1s. They’re rifles. He’s also taken a handgun, some ammunition, a vest and … there was one other thing.”

“A main battle tank, perhaps?” Chatham ripped.

“Actually it was a Land Rover, the military version.”

Chatham exploded, “One of the most wanted men of all time has walked onto a post and taken guns, ammunition, and a truck? Without anyone even seeing him?”

Dark came to Binder’s defense, “Inspector, Colonel Binder is only the messenger.”

Binder went ramrod straight as he returned fire. “Security was lacking because nearly the entire post was thirty miles off, hiking around the countryside looking for this man! If anyone’s to blame, they’ll be right here in this room!”

Chatham stood to full height and the men glared at one another. Dark moved physically between them, but the intervention proved unnecessary. Chatham turned away, realizing he did have to share the blame.

“All right, all right,” he said, banging a fist into his palm, “we’ve no time for this. At least we know where he was this morning. What have you done to find this truck?”

Binder stood down and said, “The local constabulary are on alert.”

“How did they know it was stolen,” Dark asked, “and not just taken in a mix-up among the troops?”

“The theft was obvious,” Binder said. “The motor pool is at the rear of the facility and the gate there was locked tight. He got out by cutting a rather large hole in the perimeter fence and then driving through it.”

Chatham flinched, but held fast. He strode to the map on the wall and removed the pin that was stuck on Smitherton’s daughter’s house. After a brief search, he jabbed it on Uppingham.

Dark said to Binder, “Can you say when the truck was last seen in the motor pool?”

“No, but I’ll look into it.”

“You see,” Dark explained, “if we know the earliest possible time he might have taken it, then we know how far away he might have driven.”

Chatham shook his head vigorously. “No, no Ian. That’s not it at all. You’re not putting yourself in his place. He’s taken a vehicle that’s going to be easy to spot. And he left a gaping hole in the fence, so he really didn’t try to hide the crime. He won’t keep it for more than an hour, I’d say. He’ll make a mad dash.” Chatham looked at the map and the answer was clear. “Leicester! That’s where he’s headed. Trains, buses, taxis, even an airport we’re not watching. And he’s had all morning.” Chatham slapped his open hand over the map. “Blast! He could be anywhere by now!”

Dark echoed Chatham’s frustration. “So where do we start?”

Chatham set his jaw. “Maybe it’s not as bad as all that.” He tapped a finger on Leicester. “First we find the missing Rover. If he’s ditched it near a transportation hub, it might get us back on track. We take the picture and show it around. Remember, he’s got some oversized luggage now that must stand out.”

Colonel Binder frowned. “Inspector, the L96A1 is a very special type of weapon. Do you know what it’s used for?”

Chatham confessed he had no idea.

“Special operations equipment. It’s a sniper’s rifle.”

Dark cringed, while his superior remained impassive.

“And why two of them?” Binder added.

“Yes,” Chatham mused, “why indeed?”

The British Army Land Rover was spotted within the hour by Constable Hullsbury of the Leicester Constabulary. Hullsbury had been driving home in his personal car when he saw a Rover with the unmistakable drab green color scheme. A quick call-in on his cell phone confirmed that this was indeed the one everyone was after. An excited dispatcher at headquarters instructed him to keep the vehicle in sight at all costs, but added a warning to not get too close. The policeman didn’t bother to reply that he’d been to the briefing on this fellow — he wasn’t going anywhere near without a small army of back-ups.

Hullsbury followed from a distance, glad to be tucked discreetly into his small compact. The Rover moved erratically, speeding one minute, then slowing to a crawl. Eventually the driver turned into a large construction site, ten or twelve acres of freshly turned dirt and mud. A pair of graders and a huge payloader sat dormant, their crews nowhere to be seen, probably gone for lunch.

Constable Hullsbury watched in amazement as the most wanted criminal in Europe spun a wild circle in the loose soil. He called in an update on the suspect’s position while the Rover sped back and forth, mud flying thirty feet into the air. Within minutes, backup units began to arrive, discreetly taking station all around the construction site.

Ten minutes later, the Rover was caked in so much mud that Hulls-bury could no longer tell what color it was. It also appeared to be stuck, axle deep in a muck that even its nimble four-wheel-drive power train couldn’t overcome. The truck sat motionless, mired to the midsection, with its wheels spinning occasionally to no effect.

Then, on some unseen cue, it happened. More sirens than Hulls-bury had ever heard in his life, a veritable symphony of justice coming from all directions. A half dozen police cars sped by and three more appeared from the opposite side of the construction site, along with an armored car and two smaller camouflaged Army vehicles. He threw his little Ford into gear and followed, feeling more comfortable now with the numbers. They all careened wildly through the wet dirt and came skidding to a stop, Hullsbury a bit too late as his car clipped the fender of a black and white. Settling roughly a hundred feet away, the authorities formed an uneven circle around the stranded Rover, which sat motionless, spewing steam from under its hood.

At least three dozen policemen and soldiers, Hullsbury included, scrambled out of their vehicles and took protection behind doors and quarterpanels. Some of the policemen had pistols, while the Army blokes were sporting automatic rifles and at least one grenade launcher. Hulls-bury had instinctive doubts about this circular strategy. If bullets started to fly he’d take good cover, happy that the bloke with the grenade launcher was right next to him and not opposite.

In the rushed conglomeration of firepower there was no clear leader, and so no one bothered to insist that the suspect should, Come out with your hands up! The omission proved immaterial, as the present show of force rendered any such suggestions superfluous.

Hullsbury took a good look at the Rover and noticed for the first time that there were two people inside — or at least two sets of eyes, white and wide in amazement. The driver’s door opened, then the passenger’s, and two suspects emerged. The driver was skinny with orange hair and a large silver barbell pierced through one eyebrow. He was no more than nineteen years old. The other had blue hair, a large tattoo on one arm, and was even younger and skinnier than the first.

The younger boy was trembling, while the older one had enough sense to at least put his hands in the air. He smiled nervously and called across the divide, “We was just havin’ a bit of fun, we was.”

The car was a Porsche. Flashy, but the only other options had been a Maserati and a Bentley. Obey the appropriate traffic laws, Slaton reasoned, and everything would be fine. Best of all, there were no suspicious rental clerks, salespersons, or stolen vehicle reports. The car was completely untraceable, and part of the reason he’d chosen the Engineers Squadron near Uppingham.

The arrangement was similar to the one at the lodge. The Porsche was owned by another sayan, this one a middle-aged commodities broker, fabulously either good or lucky, who had retired early to the downs of east Leicestershire. The man’s parents, however, were not blessed with like fortune. Orthodox Jews of modest means, they were settled tenuously in the tumult that was Gaza. No doubt guilty about his copious wealth, the financier had proven an easy recruit for Yosy. His home and vehicles were always available to the cause, a minimal sacrifice since the sayan was often abroad, as had been the case this morning. Slaton needed only to disable the garage alarm (the code being 1–9–4–8, the year of statehood for Israel), then simply select a set of keys off the rack. On the empty hook went the Star of David medallion, which hung on a nearby nail. There would be no questions. At least, not for a very long time.

Slaton had selected a circuitous route back to London. First he would travel southwest, through Coventry and Swindon, before turning direct. He made his one stop after sixty miles, in the Cotswolds. It was a remote section of the district, and aside from a few villages, sparsely populated. The terrain held a gentle contour of easy hills, where pastures blended into random outcroppings of hardwood forest.

Slaton followed a meandering series of gravel side roads, scouting back and forth until he found what he wanted. Exiting a stand of trees, he came upon a relatively flat area, a long, open meadow of grass that sloped softly downward for a few hundred yards, ending in another group of beeches and oaks. He parked the car at the far end, where a clear brook rambled quietly over a timeless bed of stones and pebbles.

Slaton got out of the car and stripped naked. With a towel he’d pilfered from the sayan’s garage, he walked to the stream and stepped in. The water ran over his feet like ice as he waded toward the center, scouting out the deepest spot. Drawing a quick breath, he dropped into the frigid water. The stinging cold seized his body like a glacial vice, giving strong encouragement to expedite the task. He scrubbed hard and vigorously to loosen a thick accumulation of dirt, grime, and sweat.

Finished, he went back to the car and toweled off, the sun aiding by way of a brief appearance. Slaton donned his last set of fresh clothes — a pair of Levis that nearly fit, and a long-sleeve, cotton button-down shirt that felt remarkably warm. Next he opened the trunk, which was at the front of the little sports car. The rifles had fit, but barely. He took one and inspected it for the first time, checking the breech, barrel, and testing its action. It was well-oiled and clean, credit that to the meticulous Royal Engineers. Slaton checked the other, then plucked out a sturdy piece of cardboard and some duct tape he’d also taken from the sayan’s garage, along with a box of ammunition. Back at the garage he had trimmed the cardboard to an egg shape, roughly ten inches in height and eight in width, and drawn a black reference circle, the size of a one-pound coin, in the center.

He hauled his collection to the line of trees at the end of the meadow and found a medium-sized beech, whose trunk was in full sun. He taped the cardboard securely to the tree at shoulder height, then walked up the slight rise, counting paces to estimate distance. At one hundred meters, he stopped and loaded the weapon. Slaton had never used the British version of the rifle, but it had a good reputation. The telescopic sight was another story. He was intimately familiar with the tight, reliable Schmidt & Bender 6x.

Slaton surveyed the ground. He needed support for the shot, but the biggest thing here was a shin-high rock. He eased down and tried to get comfortable among the loose stones and grass. Settling his left wrist on the rock, he trained the familiar gunsight on his target and studied the picture it presented. He shifted the reticle to other points, getting used to the weight and balance of the gun, then settled back on the cardboard oval. The kidon lightly touched his finger to the trigger. The trick was not to squeeze. That involved motion. Gradual pressure … track … gradual pressure … and when the weapon actually fired it would almost be a surprise. Almost.

The shot rang loud through the heavy morning air, scattering a pair of pheasant from the underbrush. The birds were probably stocked game from the hunting club he’d seen a mile back to the south. Slaton had chosen the area for just that reason. Not only was it isolated, but the few people who did live or spend time here were used to hearing the occasional report of a shot.

He shouldered the rifle and walked through tall, dew-covered grass to the target. The bullet had struck high and right, about four inches at two o’clock. Good, but not good enough. Slaton walked back to his perch, made a minor adjustment to the sight, and issued another round. His second shot was inside two inches. He took the other rifle and repeated the process. The second troubled him, striking high three shots in a row.

He then walked all the way to the end of the meadow, again measuring paces to estimate line-of-sight distance to the target. Unfortunately, it was necessary to calibrate the rifles for a wide variance of ranges. Eight rounds later he was getting consistent with both weapons. He could still improve, but Slaton decided not to risk any more attempts for fear of drawing attention to his work. In any case, the primary was well set.

Slaton collected his gear and made one last trip to the beech at the far end of the clearing. There, he ripped the obliterated target down from a pock-marked tree trunk and tossed the remnants into the stream.

Christine’s quarters at Scotland Yard were rudimentary. The bed was comfortable enough, but the rest of the tiny room was set up as an office, no doubt its customary function.

It had not been a restful night. A large man with crew cut red hair loomed outside her door. He had seen to it that she’d been left alone, but Christine still heard the constant commotion outside. A copier whirring across the hall, footsteps passing. Occasionally someone would stomp by on a dead run and she’d wonder. Why the urgency? Had something happened to David? Chatham had originally mentioned a hotel with heavy security, which certainly would have provided fewer distractions, but Christine asked to stay at the Yard, telling the Inspector she might be able to help bring David in safely. In reality, of course, she was just desperate for information. And she suspected Chatham knew it.

It was nearly noon when a hand rapped softly on her door. The knock was followed by a muffled voice, one she recognized as that of Chatham’s assistant, Ian Dark.

“Dr. Palmer?”

Christine went to the door. “Yes, what is it?” she said eagerly, surprised to find Dark backed by a beefy, dour-looking fellow who seemed to be trying to smile.

“Good morning, Dr. Palmer. I’ve brought someone who’d like a word with you. This is Anton Bloch, until a few days ago he was—”

“David’s boss,” she interrupted.

Bloch said, “Well, one of them. He’s told you about me?”

Christine remembered vividly. Anton Bloch was the person David had wanted to talk to, the one he would trust. “Yes, he spoke of you.” She wondered if she should invite them in to the sparse little cubicle she called home. Dark answered the question for her.

“There’s a meeting room down the hall.”

Dark led the way, turning into the plushest room Christine had seen at the Yard. There were leather chairs on royal blue carpet and a table that might have been solid oak, an entire suite that had somehow evaded the pragmatic misers who’d furnished the rest of the building.

Dark left them alone and closed the door, although Christine noticed that Big Red, the guard, had tagged along and was lurking just outside. She took a seat and Bloch did the same, the leather squeaking as he settled his big frame. He looked around at the walls and ceiling, frowning openly.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I’m paranoid by nature. I feel like someone’s watching us,” he grumbled.

Christine looked suspiciously at the light fixtures and picture frames.

“Ah, well. No matter,” Bloch said. “So, I understand you’ve had quite an adventure over the last two weeks.”

Christine sighed, “Yes. Not the kind of stuff I’m used to.”

“Me either, to tell you the truth. In fact, I think David has even found some new ground.”

“I think so.”

“David probably told you I run Mossad.”

Christine nodded.

“That was true up until yesterday. Unfortunately, I’ve been booted out, along with much of the Israeli government.”

“I’m sorry,” she offered, not really sure if that was the right thing to say in such circumstances.

He waved his hand dismissively, “Bah! A good job to be rid of.”

Christine found the answer less than convincing.

He looked at her, his eyes narrow with curiosity. “How well have you gotten to know David?”

She almost laughed at the loaded question. For the head of one of the world’s top spy organizations, this guy didn’t have much guile. “Well enough,” she said with a shrug. “He saved my life. More than once.”

“And you his.”

“I was in the right place at the right time. Anyone would have done what I did. I only wish I could help him now.”

“So do I,” Bloch concurred. “But to do that, I’ll need your help. Can you tell me the story?”

Christine sighed. She’d been over the whole thing so many times. But this was the man David had wanted to talk to all along, the one who really might be able to help, so she went through it once more. The Israeli listened carefully. When she finished, he had a few of the usual questions, and Christine tried to offer accurate answers. That done, he grew more circumspect.

“You know, David was lucky to have been found out there in such a big ocean. And luckier still that it was someone like yourself.”

She had the feeling he meant it. “Have you known David long?”

“Since he began with Mossad. I recruited him, so I suppose you could say I got him into this mess.”

“Did you ever know his wife and daughter?”

Bloch shifted in his chair as the witness turned the table. “I was never introduced, but I know a little about them. Did he tell you what happened?”

“He told me they were murdered, by an Arab group. And I know he still has nightmares about it.” Bloch listened closely, but showed no surprise until the next question. “Who was responsible for their death, Mr. Bloch. Do you know?”

“Specific names? No, we never found out who attacked that bus. I don’t think we’ll ever know. And now, it’s so long ago …”

“He knows,” she said quietly.

“What?”

Christine stared off into space, verbalizing what she’d known since his last words to her yesterday. “David knows. After all these years, he’s figured it out. And that’s where he’s going. To find that person.”

“What makes you think that?”

“It happened yesterday in Eastbourne. He found something out from a man named Wysinski, one of the men he …” Christine couldn’t bring herself to say it. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. David, you’ll never get what you’re looking for. Not that way.

“Wysinski knew who attacked that bus twenty years ago? Who?”

Christine regrouped. “David didn’t say. But he knows, I’m sure of it.”

Bloch studied his hands for some time before asking, “Did David say anything at all regarding this nuclear weapon, the one that’s still out there?”

“No, but I think it’s tied to the rest. Find who killed his family, and you’ll find that weapon.”

They both sat silently, lost in their respective thoughts. It was Anton Bloch who brought things to an awkward close. “Dr. Palmer, I’d like to talk some more, but I have a lot to do.”

“I understand. Will you tell me if you hear anything about David?”

“I will,” he promised.

“You know, David trusts you. So I will too.”

“Good.”

Bloch left the room and asked the guard where he could find Ian Dark. As he wound his way through Scotland Yard’s byzantine corridors, he thought back to the tragedy. Twenty years ago the Mossad and Shin Bet, Israel’s internal security service, had done a quick rundown of a murderous attack in Netanya, basically relying on the police report. It was rare to find the actual culprits in such an attack. The killers would hit, then disperse, disappearing into homes, markets, and mosques within seconds. Is-rael had taken to a policy of retribution versus legal justice. No need to find out who pulled the trigger. Just keep a list of the combatants and commanders. For every Israeli killed, take out two of the enemy. It was a campaign of numbers. A simple, logarithmic, escalation in-kind. The policy was shaped by continuous, small-scale violence, and limited resources. But it gave little solace to victims’ families on either side. And now, perhaps, it was coming back to haunt them.

For years Slaton had tried to find out who was responsible for the massacre in Netanya, while the Mossad had shown little interest. A fearful Anton Bloch began to think it should have been precisely the other way around.

Slaton worked his way south to Swindon, then rode the M-4 back to the bustling anonymity of London. He crossed to the East End, arriving at the onset of dusk. Here, the tired warren of streets were void of the tourists who flocked to the more trendy boroughs. The people he saw were locals — born here, lived here, died here. And not many drove Porsches. Slaton knew he couldn’t do as he had this morning. Then, he’d known the Land Rover would be missed immediately, and he figured that leaving the keys in the ignition might buy an extra hour or so. The Porsche would not have been reported missing, but if it turned up wrecked from a joyride or van-dalized, Chatham might make the right connections and know where to start looking.

Slaton scouted for twenty minutes until he found what he was looking for — a bank with a public parking garage that looked like a fortress. He decided to circle the place once to make sure. On the backside, the neighborhood trended downward, a row of dilapidated brownstones. They were weather-beaten and crumbling at the edges, but clearly occupied.

Slaton slowed for a group of schoolboys playing soccer in the street ahead. They stopped their game and parted enough to let him pass. If he’d been driving a Ford the boys probably would have glared down the intruder who’d interrupted their match. Instead, they looked on Slaton, or actually the car, with a certain reverence. The sleek machine was innately the kind of thing that young men aspired to, especially when in the company of other young men. Slaton waved as he passed and wondered how old they were. Eight or ten? Maybe eleven? He really had no idea. Slaton watched as the game resumed in his rearview mirror, then turned at the next corner. The bank would have to do.

The Benton Hill Inn was a seedy establishment, even by East End standards. A well-constructed young woman sauntered across the enlarged hallway that passed for a lobby. She wore a loose-fitting top that shifted a great deal as she moved, offering intermittent and ever-changing views of her considerable cleavage. Her pants took another course altogether, tight to the point of being a second skin, notwithstanding their lime green hue. She stopped at the front desk, which was really nothing more than a well-worn counter separating the entrance from the owner’s “suite.” She slammed her hand down on a bell and its ring pierced the early morning silence. A clock on the wall confirmed that it was nearly five in the morning. Hearing no response from the room behind the counter, the woman banged on the bell a few more times. “Roy!” she shouted in a husky voice.

A bleary-eyed man finally emerged from the doorway behind the desk. He wore a rumpled T-shirt and old brown boxers. “All right! All right, Beatrice! Keep your knickers on!”

Beatrice grinned through an earthen hardpan that blurred the distinction between cosmetics and masonry.

He squinted at the clock. “Working late are ye?”

“I’ve got a bloke taking good care of me, I ’ave.”

The proprietor looked past her to see the figure of a man hunched over by the staircase. He was wearing a run-down overcoat and a brimmed cap. He was also swaying as though he were on a ship in a storm, his hands locked to the banister in a determined effort to stay upright.

The man behind the counter chuckled. “He’s been taking care of you, you say?”

She produced a wad of crumpled bills and handed over the usual fee. There were two fivers left over and she managed to wedge them into the back pocket of her pants.

“I want him out by noon,” he whispered loudly.

“I’ll leave a note, luv, but it might be a touch later.”

The man behind the counter shrugged, handed over a key, and disappeared into the back room.

Beatrice went to the foot of the stairs and put an arm around her newfound friend. “All right, third floor.” The man muttered something unintelligible and they started up.

Five minutes and a couple of shin bruises later, she let them into Number 36. The room was dark and musty, and looked like it hadn’t been swept in years. Beatrice was at least happy to see the bed had been made. She gave her ward a playful nuzzle and guided him to the bed.

“It ain’t the Ritz, now, but it ought to serve our purposes, eh ducks?”

The man was clearly feeling it. She helped him take off the old greatcoat and threw it over a chair as he flopped onto the bed face first. “Now you just lie there a minute or so, luv, whilst I freshen.”

Beatrice made her way to the bathroom. There, she took her time, primping her bleached hair and rubbing over a few smudges in the spackle. After ten minutes, Beatrice opened the door a crack and peeked out. Happily, she saw the bloke right where she’d left him, on his belly, with one leg hanging off the bed. And snoring mightily. She tiptoed over to make sure. His face was scrunched sideways on the mattress and a string of drool leaked from the corner of his mouth. Beatrice smiled, pleased that he’d gone down over easy. She reached smoothly into his rear pocket and slid out the wallet, the same one he’d been drawing twenties out of all night at the Burr and Thistle. She counted two hundred and ten quid.

“Let’s see,” she thought out loud, “that was going to be fifty. Or did I say seventy?” She gave herself the benefit of the doubt, and then some. In the end, she left forty-five quid, and resisted a temptation to snag the credit card. If she took everything, he might get mad and come looking for her. This way he’d just kick himself for spending what was probably a week’s wages, and that would be that.

Before she left, Beatrice couldn’t resist a look through the small tote bag he’d been lugging around. She opened it and found some duct tape, a magazine, a pair of eyeglasses, shaving gear, and a jumble of toiletries. Nothing of any interest. She took a last look at the poor sod passed out on the bed. He was rather dirty and had a rough beard. Still, from what she could see of his features, he probably wouldn’t have cleaned up half bad.

She bent down close enough to smell his whiskey breath and whispered, “Next time, eh luv?” Beatrice left, closing the door with a deft, practiced softness.

Slaton didn’t move for a full five minutes. He heard her footsteps descend the creaky stairs, and soon after, the sound of a door closing and her high heels clacking on the sidewalk outside. Then there was nothing, save for the usual sounds of late night — the occasional passing car, a dog barking in the distance.

When he got up he did so quickly, which was a mistake. Slaton wasn’t used to the liquor. He had staggered into the bar sober, and discreetly spilled most of the first drink on his clothes, rubbing it over his chin and face to create the right air about himself. Once Beatrice had latched onto him, however, there was no choice but to take a few the proper way. Now he would have to fight the haze, at least for a short time. Only when the room was safe could he allow a much earned rest.

He latched the deadbolt on the door, realizing the old rotted frame probably wouldn’t hold against a stout kick. His wallet was on a table next to the bed and he noted what she’d done. Beatrice was no beginner. Walking down the street earlier, he’d felt her patting down the pockets of his coat as she coaxed him along in a straight line. He knew she wouldn’t be able to resist a check of the duffel as well, so while Beatrice had been engaged with the proprietor in the lobby, he’d removed a few things from the duffel — the handgun he’d stolen from the Royal Engineers (a Heckler & Koch 9mm), a bottle of hair dye purchased earlier at a pharmacy, and most of his remaining cash. These he had stuffed into a hip pocket of his overcoat. He kept her on the opposite side as they ascended the stairs, and after taking off the coat in the room, she’d made no effort to go through it again. He was glad, because otherwise he would have been forced to make use of the duct tape. And he’d have lost a lot of valuable time.

Slaton took the money and hair dye from his overcoat, and put them back in the duffel. He then removed his shoes, shirt, and pants. The clothes he laid neatly across the back of the chair by the bed, trousers on top. The duffel went to the seat of the chair. He took the shoes to the bathroom and washed off the remnants of mud from yesterday’s excursion, then set them on the floor to dry next to his shirt and pants. Next, he pulled a small night table toward the bed, positioning it to a point midway along the rail. The H&K went on the table to be precisely at arms length, barrel left and away, safety off. He put his hands on his hips and did a quick inventory. If he had to go, he could be dressed with the money in one hand and the weapon in the other in no more than twenty seconds.

Finally, Slaton laid down, which seemed like an effort in itself. His body still, he felt fatigue fall over him like a heavy blanket. He had done well. In the forty-eight hours since leaving London he’d gotten safe, and, along the way, acquired tools that would be vital to his plan. The rifles were still safely locked in the trunk of the Porsche. He’d collect them tomorrow. The only glitch in the last two days had been the little girl, Jane, who had seen him get out of Smitherton’s truck. She had forced him to move faster than he would have otherwise.

Presently, the only person who could place him in this room was Beatrice, and Slaton doubted she was having any second thoughts about the poor drunk she’d just rolled for a hundred and sixty-five quid. He had to assume that a photo would soon be released, or was perhaps already circulating. If Beatrice should see it, there was a chance she’d recognize him. But the police wouldn’t be focusing on neighborhoods like this, and Slaton doubted Beatrice read many newspapers. Right now she was probably headed home herself. Professionals of all sorts needed sleep to function.

As Slaton lay still, the soreness in his muscles became more pronounced, his body’s protest to last night’s pounding run. It would improve with rest. The last time he’d gotten any true sleep was on the beach. It seemed so long ago. An image of Christine came to mind, the two of them back on the beach, talking about something unimportant. She was laughing, a deep, easy laugh, from the soul of a contented person. He hoped he’d done nothing to change that.

Slaton pushed the thoughts away. Now was the time for sleep. There would be few opportunities in the days ahead. He tried to mentally go over the next day’s timetable, but the schedule began to blur. Slaton finally succumbed and drifted off, his right hand inches from the H & K.