The Perfect Assassin

Chapter Twenty-One

Slaton got back to his room at six-thirty that evening. The Forest Arms Hotel in Loughton had been a compromise. More respectable than the Benton Hill Inn, but not above taking cash up front for a short stay. The lies had come fluently. Having lost his wallet, the fastener salesman from Antwerp had been forwarded enough cash to get him through the weekend. A bored desk clerk had surrendered a room key with distinct lack of interest. Slaton had been alert, watching the young woman for any shred of doubt, any momentary glint of recognition which would tell him he’d been spotted. There was nothing.

He bolted the door and dropped his most recent acquisitions on the rectangular coffee table — a box containing a four-foot long window blind, a set of eight adjustable metal brackets with woodscrews, a small battery-operated screwdriver, a standard screwdriver, a pair of pliers, and a sturdy pocketknife. The ensemble of hardware coalesced nicely for a man who was going to install a window cover.

From the closet, he pulled out a half dozen small blocks of wood he’d scavenged earlier from a construction site, and then one of the weapons. The rifle’s steel barrel was cold, its solid weight familiar in Slaton’s hands. He set it down across the arms of a chair, taking care not to disturb the sight he had calibrated the day before. He took a wood block, actually a small section of four-by-four, and held it against the butt of the rifle, tracing an outline with a pencil. He then sat down with the pocketknife and began to carve. It was a laborious process, even though the wood was relatively soft. Power tools would have made the job much easier, but the noise would have been impossible to explain if any of his neighbors were to lodge a complaint. After twenty minutes he evaluated his progress. Deciding he’d gone too wide, he started over with a different piece of wood.

The first block took forty minutes to complete. The second was quicker, being a more simple design. Next he drilled guideholes, eight in each block of wood. The electric screwdriver was quiet enough that it wouldn’t be heard outside the room.

Slaton then went to the long box containing a retractable window blind. The box was held together with two plastic packing straps and a few staples on each end. He removed the staples one at a time with the screwdriver and pliers, inflicting minimal damage on the cardboard carton. He then carefully worked the plastic straps over the ends and opened the box. Taking out the wood blind, he set the cardboard container aside. The blind had a cord for actuating the contraption, and at the bottom was a small pulley designed to anchor the cord to the side of a window frame. He removed the pulley, then cut the cord into three segments, each roughly four feet in length. Having purchased an expensive brand, the cord was good quality.

He then gathered the bulk of the blind and the unused blocks of wood. These, he shoved to the back of the upper shelf in the closet. The shelf was probably seven feet up, and stepping back, he decided no maid less than six-foot-six could have any chance of spotting it. Even if it should be noticed, there was nothing particularly alarming involved.

He laid the box on the couch and began packing. The rifle went in first. He used the carved wood blocks, the bubble plastic that had come with the blind, and a few towels from the bathroom to cradle the weapon, again taking care not to disturb the sight. Then he fit the hardware and tools around the weapon and closed up the box, reworking the staples and plastic straps neatly back into place.

As a final touch, he slid the paper receipt underneath one of the straps, giving the complete impression of one freshly purchased window covering. The appearance was right, the weight was right. Slaton only hoped the more serious security precautions hadn’t yet begun. Sunday afternoon or Monday morning was out of the question. There would be overt and covert security at every turn, and he’d never get within a mile of the stage with a package like this. But tonight the watch would be thin, England’s security forces still scattered across the country hunting a nuclear terrorist. At least he hoped that was the case.

Shortly after nine o’clock that evening, Switchboard Two at Scotland Yard took a call from a man wishing to speak to someone in Nathan Chatham’s office. It was routed to an assistant, who was busy typing on her computer.

“You want to talk to who?” she asked.

“Christine Palmer,” the man repeated.

“Whoever she is, she doesn’t work in this section,” the operator said, clearly hoping that would be that.

“No, no. She doesn’t actually work there. Look, could you ask around darlin’?”

The assistant stopped typing and frowned. “Say,” she said over her shoulder, “has anyone heard of a Christine Palmer?”

Most of the room shot her a blank look, but there was one reply. “Who wants to know?”

The woman recognized the voice of the boss’s right-hand man and her attention ratcheted up a few notches. “Some doctor from the States.”

Ian Dark took the handset.

“Hello. To whom am I speaking?”

“Howdy. This is Dr. Upton Downey. I run the residency program at the Maine Medical Center. I’m trying to locate Dr. Christine Palmer.”

“How did you get this number?” Dark asked.

“Her mother gave it to me. Say, is this really Scotland Yard?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Well, Christine’s mom wouldn’t tell me much, except that she’s probably going to miss her next rotation. I can’t imagine Chrissi bein’ in trouble over all this stuff.”

“No, I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”

“That’s good. I can rework her turn in radiology, but after that things get a little sticky.”

Dark hesitated, then said, “Perhaps you should speak to her directly, Dr. Downey. Hold on for a moment.”

Christine was reading a newspaper when the rap came on her door. She smiled on seeing who it was. She couldn’t help but like Chatham’s calm, amiable counterpart who’d gone out of his way to make her feel less a prisoner and more a guest.

“Hello, Ian.”

“Hello,” Dark said, returning the smile. “Tell me something. Is there a doctor back in the States who acts as your supervisor or mentor, that sort of thing?”

“I have a resident advisor, yes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Upper Downey. Or Upton, if it’s official.”

Dark looked puzzled by the silly name. “Is he a Texan?”

“Even worse. An Aggie.”

That clearly went past the Englishman. “Yes, he’s a Texan,” she said.

Dark wagged his finger for her to follow, “He’s on the phone out here. Why don’t you come talk to him.”

Christine followed Dark down the hall, Big Red in trail as always. The thought of talking to Upper seemed strange. She’d been in his office for an interim evaluation only two months ago. The hospital, her career. It all seemed like a previous life. But Upper would be the one who’d smooth things over when she got back.

Ian Dark quietly admonished her to not say anything about the ongoing investigation, then handed over the phone and disappeared.

“Upper? Are you there?”

“Hello, darlin’.”

Christine froze. The accent was right, but the voice was distinctly not. To her credit, she avoided blurting out “David!”

Slaton held quiet while she recovered.

“How are you?” Christine asked, managing to avoid the instinctive and far more delicate where question.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly. “How are you? Are they keeping you safe?”

Christine hesitated, wondering if she should try to keep some kind of verbal ruse going.

He read her thoughts. “Don’t worry. They’re probably monitoring this conversation, so let’s not bother talking in circles. I want you to pass some information on to Chatham.”

Christine didn’t want to pass information. She wanted to talk to David, she wanted to convince him to turn himself in so they could be together in the fortress that was Scotland Yard.

“David—”

“Darling,” he cut her off, “we have less than a minute. I need your help.”

Christine bit her lip. “You always know just what to say. All right, go ahead.”

“I think I’ve figured this out, or part of it anyway. There is a group in Israel, very high up in the government, who are committing terrorist acts themselves that can be blamed on others. They’ve been doing it for years, and now they’ve stolen these weapons. They’re going to use the second one this weekend, or possibly Monday morning.”

“What?”

“Don’t you see? They don’t want the Greenwich Accord. If a nuke goes off at the right place and the right time, the deal would be dead.”

“Lots of people could end up dead. Where would it happen?”

“That’s the part I don’t know. In the past they’ve attacked inside Israel, but they can’t do that now. Not without destroying — well, you can imagine.”

“Yes,” she said breathlessly.

“But they’ll use it in some way that creates a clear threat to Israel.”

“Who are these people?”

“You’ve already met some of them.”

Christine remembered Harding and Bennett and the black-clad figures at The Excelsior.

“There’s someone named Pytor Roth. I think he may know where that second weapon is. And there’s one person who runs it all.” Slaton told her who.

“Dear God, David! If you’re right—” she stopped, realizing what else it meant. “David, no! You can’t mean he’s the one responsible for—”

“Time’s almost up.”

Christine finally understood what he was going to do. Why he was still out there. She felt ill, but nothing she could say in the next few seconds would change his mind.

“Tell Chatham everything,” he said.

“What about Anton Bloch?”

“Anton?”

“He was here. I met him yesterday.”

This time she’d surprised him, but he answered right away. “Yes. Chatham and Bloch, but nobody else. They’ll know what to do.”

“All right David, I’ll do it if it will help you.”

“It will. I’ve got to go.”

The call ended with a click that seemed deafening.

Christine told Ian Dark she had to see Inspector Chatham right away, with the irregular caveat that Anton Bloch also be present. Dark seemed tentative, so she explained who they had both just spoken to. He was stunned.

Chatham was already in the building, and Dark managed to catch Bloch as he was checking out of his hotel. Twenty minutes later, Christine was rehashing the phone call with two men whose interest was nothing less than absolute. She told them about a hawkish group within the Israeli government that was terrorizing the country’s own citizens.

“This is incredible,” Chatham said. He deferred to Bloch, “Could this possibly be true?”

Bloch’s dire expression was an answer in itself. “If you think about it, there’s a terrible logic. It would connect a lot of things.”

Christine said, “He thinks the second weapon you’re searching for is in the hands of somebody named Pytor Roth.”

Bloch and Chatham looked at one another hopefully, but Christine could see the name meant nothing to either.

“David thinks it’s going to be set off in the next few days.”

“To torpedo the Greenwich Accord,” Bloch correctly deduced.

“Yes,” she said.

“Set off where?” Chatham wondered. “Here in London?”

“David thinks it will be in a way that makes it look like Israel is being attacked or threatened.”

Bloch said, “Of course. And another country, one of our enemies, will take the blame.”

Chatham said to Bloch, “If it goes off in Greenwich and kills your Prime Minister — that’s a threat to Israel’s security, not to mention Great Britain’s.”

“It won’t happen in Greenwich,” Christine warned.

They both looked at her with a plaintive expression that asked, What else can go wrong?

“David believes he knows who’s leading this group,” she said.

Chatham raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Who?” he asked guardedly.

“Ehud Zak.”

Chatham scowled. “Oh, now that’s rich. I can just see it.” Putting his hands behind his back, Chatham took a few paces and drew a tone of mock seriousness, “I’ve come to 10 Downing today, Mr. Prime Minister, to inform you that the investigation had been badly unstuck, but we’ve finally figured things out. You see, this fellow we’ve been chasing over hill and country isn’t the culprit after all. No, he called this morning and told us that it’s been your counterpart all along, the Prime Minister of Israel. We’ve sent a large party over to the embassy to drag him in.”

Nobody laughed. Bloch sat stoically, obviously working the angles, trying to validate such an incredible accusation.

Chatham gesticulated wildly toward the Israeli, “Surely you can’t buy into this? I’ve met your man Slaton, and I agree there was a certain legitimacy about what he had to say, but this is extraordinary!”

Bloch didn’t respond. Chatham turned to Christine and demanded, “What evidence does he have?”

“Think about it,” Bloch interceded

“Think about what?”

“What’s already happened. Two nuclear weapons hijacked. One turns up harmlessly in Eastbourne. And then what? The Israeli government has a swift and predictable shift. Zak becomes Prime Minister. They tell you Slaton is the guilty party, without offering anything to back it up. Remember, he wasn’t supposed to survive the sinking of Polaris Venture. But since he did, he would have been a threat, the one person who might unravel everything.”

Chatham said, “Sir, I’ll grant that politics is not my strong suit, but how could this make sense? Zak is only temporarily in charge, until elections are held, isn’t that the case?”

“That’s how it works on paper. But go on to what Slaton is suggesting. Let’s say that second weapon does go off Monday morning. Maybe it detonates fifty miles off the coast of Israel, on a ship. The government, Zak’s government, says it was a botched attempt at finishing off the Israeli state once and for all. The country faces her greatest threat. The Green-wich Accord is dead and a nation rallies around its leader. That’s what happens in times of crisis.”

They all saw how it fit.

“This can’t be happening,” Christine said wishfully.

“Proof!” Chatham insisted. “There’s no way to prove any of this. And without it we can’t act!”

Bloch stared at the floor. “Proof? There might be some. I could do a quiet run-up on Zak and this Pytor Roth fellow, whoever he is. Over the years there has to be a trail, something incriminating. But it would take time, a couple of days at least.”

“There’s one other thing,” Christine said.

The two men looked at her numbly. Christine addressed Bloch.

“You know David had a wife and daughter, and that they were killed in a terrorist attack many years ago. But it wasn’t the Arabs. He believes it was this group, Zak in particular, who was responsible.” There was no easy way to say the rest. “I’m afraid David is still out there because he intends to assassinate the Prime Minister of Israel.”

Bloch and Big Red escorted Christine back to her quarters.

“I’m going straight to Tel Aviv,” Bloch said. “Hopefully, I can dig up some hard evidence and explain everything to the right people.”

“You don’t have much time. I think David’s shooting for Monday.” Christine winced at what she’d said. Bloch didn’t seem to notice.

As they approached her room, Bloch took her by the arm and stopped. Big Red’s gaze sharpened, but the security man made no move to step in. He crossed his thick arms and stood a few paces away, giving them a degree of privacy.

Bloch spoke quietly, “There’s one thing I’d like to tell you, in case David calls again. It’s something only a few people know, and it really isn’t important anymore. Except maybe to him.”

Christine eyed him warily. The unflappable stone of a man she’d gotten to know over the last two days seemed to be, for the first time, unnerved.

“I’ve wanted to tell him myself, many times,” Bloch said searchingly. “There were moments when it seemed like the right thing, but I never…”

She thought he looked pale. “What is it?”

“It has to do with his wife and daughter, how they died.”

“I don’t see how the details are important. There were some killers and David believes Zak was among them. They stopped a bus, got on with machine guns and grenades.” She paused at the terrible thought. “And they didn’t stop until everyone was dead.”

“Yes. That much happened. And it might have been Zak. Except David’s wife and daughter weren’t on that bus.”

Christine drew back and her voice went to a whisper, “What?”

“They were waiting for a different bus, over a mile away. A drunk driver bounced up on the curb and ran them down. It was an accident. The kind of tragic, senseless thing that happens every day, even in war zones.”

Christine leaned back against the hallway wall. “But why? Why did you let him think … what he thinks.”

Bloch sighed, “Someone knew David was being recruited. I don’t know who, and it’s not important. But when they found out about the accident, it dawned on them to make a connection. The police reports and autopsies were quietly altered. His wife and daughter were gone, so it was used.”

“You mean—?”

His voice filled with angst, “What better way to motivate a prospective assassin than to make him hate the enemy. To make him think they’d murdered his family.”

Her body half-turned, crumpling against the wall. She felt like she was choking, drowning in a sea of deception and hatred. Then the anger began to well.

Bloch said, “I know, it sounds barbaric.”

Christine exploded. “You’re monsters, all of you!” she shouted. She lunged toward Bloch, but Big Red intervened and Christine felt herself being tugged away. “You tortured him all these years! Just to use him, to make him as hateful as the rest of you!”

Heads peered from doors along the corridor as people tried to see what the ruckus was about. Two more sturdy men, obviously cohorts of Big Red, materialized in seconds and positioned themselves between Bloch and the agitated American doctor.

She lowered her voice, but only slightly. “There’s no way to justify something like that! I don’t care if it was somebody else’s doing. I don’t care if there was a war going on. It was wrong! Wrong!”

Bloch could only nod, a defeated expression on his leathery face, “Yes. It was wrong.”

Big Red gently pulled her away and the other two men guided Bloch in the opposite direction. “I think we should put an end to this visit,” the security man said.

Bloch acquiesced, “Yes, I understand.” He spoke over his shoulder as he was being ushered off. “If you talk to David again, you have to tell him. It’s time that he knows.”

Big Red’s arm was draped around her, steering her down the hall. Christine shrugged away, still seething. A few days ago she never would have believed there were such warped, manipulative people in the world. Christine wished she could rescue David from all of them. I’ll tell him, she agonized. I’ll tell him if I ever see him alive again.