The Perfect Assassin

Chapter Two

Benjamin Jacobs was nearing the end of his tether. He’d been elected Prime Minister of Israel nearly two years ago. His platform for regional peace was the bastion of a winning campaign, but forging promise into reality, as is so often the case in politics, was another matter altogether. It had taken twenty months — twenty months of painful, partisan negotiations — to be finally perched on this brink of success. Unfortunately, the accord he would sign in Greenwich, England, was still two weeks off, and in this part of the world two weeks could be an eternity. Jacobs’ economic stimulus package had long ago been put on the back burner, hostage to the peace process. But that would be next in line. No peace would ever stand against fourteen percent unemployment, higher in the Palestinian areas. Too many idle hands and minds on both sides.

Then there was the American problem. Israel’s staunchest ally, and her staunchest pain in the ass. They’d only sell more F-15Es if the West Bank settlements were halted. So much opportunity. So much important work to be done. And Benjamin Jacobs found himself mired in shit — ankle deep, in fact, or at least that had been the case an hour ago during his morning constitutional to the first-floor men’s room.

Jacobs sat in a wide leather chair behind his weighty desk, listening with determined patience.

“Portable toilets, sir,” Lowens said with stiff seriousness.

Jacobs was glad that Lowens was here. He doubted anyone else in his government could present the issue with such dignity, or for that matter, with a straight face. Lowens was the assistant deputy council of something-or-other, but after today, Jacobs mused, he would always associate the man with toilets. Special Assistant to the Prime Minister for Toilets — perhaps a new cabinet-level position.

“It’s a temporary solution, sir, but our only option at present. Last night some men were working on a water main across the street and they tangled into a sewer pipe. There was backflow, which the older plumbing in this building didn’t prevent as it should. We have cleaning crews working overtime, but it will take a couple of days to straighten out. Our only option for the time being is to bring in portable toilets. Unfortunately, setting up these facilities will be problematic. If we put them in back of the building there are security concerns, and that leaves only one other option.”

“I can’t imagine,” Jacobs deadpanned.

“We can put them on the roof. Lift them up with a crane, or maybe a helicopter.”

The Prime Minister’s eyes closed, visualizing the spectacle, and a tortured look fell across his naturally photogenic, politician’s face.

Lowens pressed on. “I realize it might look silly getting them up there, but if we do it at night … well, once they’re in place no one will be able to see them. We can hide them between the stairwell and the air conditioning equipment. That would be optimal. For appearances.”

Jacobs remained silent at the pause.

“Ms. Weiss thought I should run it by you before we did anything,”

Lowens finally added, an obvious disclaimer from a career civil service man. Betty Weiss was Jacobs’ Chief of Staff.

“Put the toilets on the roof, Mr. Lowens,” Jacobs said, exasperated. “Anything else I should know about?”

“No, Mr. Prime Minister.” On that, Lowens, having spent twelve years serving politicians at various levels, clearly recognized the chance to retreat. “I’ll keep you informed,” he promised. The staffer got up and left the room with exemplary decorum, no doubt hoping he’d done nothing to endanger his prospects.

Jacobs mumbled to himself, “Keep me informed. Please.”

His secretary knocked once on the open door.

“Yes, Moira?”

“It’s Anton Bloch, sir. He says it’s quite important.”

Jacobs considered a quip about the importance of his last meeting, but held his tongue. “Send him in.”

Anton Bloch was Director of Mossad, Israel’s vaunted foreign intelligence arm. When he entered the room the look on his face was grim. But then it always was. He was a solid man whose large, square mug gave a decidedly blunt appearance. His hair was cut high and tight on the sides. On top it was gone.

Without waiting for an invitation, Bloch took the seat Lowens had just vacated.

“Polaris Venture,” he said.

The name got Jacobs’ attention, and the Prime Minister braced him-self as Bloch shuffled through a stack of papers in his lap.

“We’ve lost her.”

Jacobs spoke slowly, wanting to be clear, “You mean you don’t know where she is? Or has she sunk?”

“Definitely the first, maybe both … we think.”

Jacobs deflated in his chair as Bloch found the paper he wanted and began inflicting details.

“The ship had two satellite systems, a main and a backup. They were supposed to transmit encoded coordinates hourly. Late yesterday we stopped getting the signal. She was off the west coast of Africa the last time we heard from her.”

“And you don’t think it’s a technical problem?”

“That’s what we hoped, at first. We spent all last night trying to raise her, but no luck. The communications links are independent, with batteries to back up their power supplies. The odds of everything failing are slim, but if that’s what happened, our man on board had instructions to use the ship’s normal radio gear to send a message — in the clear if necessary.” Bloch descended into grim certainty, “No, I have a feeling there’s more to this than communications problems.”

The Prime Minister put his elbows on the desk and buried his face in his hands. He took a deep breath as he recalled the previous week’s meeting. “Anton, when we debated this mission we came up with a worst case scenario. Is that where we are?”

“It’s going to take some time to find out, but yes, she may have sunk. Or been hijacked.”

The Prime Minister slouched lower. His political instincts had told him this was a risky venture. But Bloch and the rest had made it sound so easy. Of course, in the end, the decision had been his.

“How many of our people were on board?”

“Only one, from my section. And a crew of fifteen, all South African Navy.”

“What about a rescue? If she sank there would be survivors, right?”

“There’s a good chance. The British and French have aircraft, and of course they’d be willing to help. Morocco is closer, but I doubt it has much capability for search and rescue that far out. The problem is—”

Jacobs waved him off with both hands, “I know what the problem is. If we ask for help, a lot of questions will come up. What kind of ship? Where was it going? What was on board? Everything could come out.” The thought made Jacobs’ stomach lurch. “What would our capabilities be?”

“For a search? I’d have to ask Defense to be sure, but we’re awfully far away. It’s not the kind of thing our Navy and Air Force are built to do. We probably have a half-dozen airplanes that could get out that far. And our ships, the few real ocean-going ones we have, are all here. It would take days to get them to the Atlantic.”

“How do we find out what’s happened?”

Bloch was out ahead for once. “We have to send a reconnaissance aircraft, our EC-130. I’ll get right with Defense and have it sent to the area. My team arrived in South Africa the day before Polaris Venture sailed. They installed, among other things, two emergency beacons. If the beacons come into contact with salt water, or are turned on manually, they’ll emit a signal once every hour on a certain frequency. Our EC-130 is instrumented to pinpoint these kinds of beacons. It’ll take a day or so to get the airplane overhead, but if the ship is there we can get a good fix and find out exactly where she went down.”

“And if she’s not there?”

“Then she’s been taken. And we’ll find her.”

Bloch spoke with a certainty the Prime Minister knew was optimistic.

“All right, call Defense and have them send out everything they can for a search. I’ll convene the Cabinet in two hours,” Jacobs said with a look at his watch.

Bloch scribbled notes onto the mess of papers in his lap, then strode to the door, a locomotive gathering steam. Jacobs yelled for Moira and she appeared almost instantly.

“Cancel the rest of my day. The Cabinet will meet in two hours.”

“The French Foreign Minister just arrived downstairs,” she warned. “He’ll be here any minute.”

Jacobs sighed. He noticed that nasty smell again. One of his security detail had tried to clean Jacobs’ shoes after the sorry affair earlier in the men’s room, but the stench was hanging tight.

“All right. Stall him for a few minutes. And get Lowens back up here right away,” he added.

“Lowens, sir?”

“Yes, he’s about my size, and a sharp dresser. Tell him I want his shoes.”

A blue BMW. It had only taken a matter of minutes for Yosef Meier to distinguish the tail behind his taxi as they snaked their way through heavy traffic in London’s West End. Meier felt good about spotting it. He was no longer a field operative, having taken a headquarters job back in Tel Aviv, so that he might finally get to know his two young children. Evie was seven and Max eight. After missing the greater part of their first five years, he’d put in for the transfer. Now, in spite of two years on the sidelines, Meier was glad to see he hadn’t lost his touch.

The initial satisfaction of spotting his pursuer faded briskly as Meier considered why anyone would be following him to begin with. Try as he might, he always came back to the same, unsettling answer.

Meier saw the familiar facade of the Israeli Embassy just ahead. Behind, in the distance, he caught glimpses of the brooding structure that was Kensington Palace. He half-turned to see the BMW a few cars back, as it had been all the way from Heathrow. The cab stopped directly in front of the embassy and Meier gave the driver a healthy tip, asking him to wait. He avoided an urge to look again for his escort. It was around somewhere.

Meier approached the front gate, fishing for the expired embassy ID card in his pocket. It sported an uncomplimentary mug shot of Yassir Arafat, a gag he used to run with the old crew at security. Back then they all recognized him anyway, so nobody ever checked his ID. He’d brought it along on this trip intending to keep the ruse running, but one look at the unfamiliar, serious faces that were now standing at the embassy gate forced him to reconsider. Somehow the idea had lost its appeal. Meier presented his headquarters ID, took a hard stare from the sentries, and signed into the building. He just wanted to see David Slaton and get this over with.

Meier went to the receptionist’s table and finally found a familiar face.

“Hello, Emma.”

“Yosy!”

Emma Schroeder got up and moved around her table with arms spread wide. She was a heavy, bosomy woman whose penchant for large, shapeless dresses did nothing to minimize her presence. Yosy took a crushing hug, something Emma reserved for those few embassy staffers who were able to stay out of her personal debit column. Meier smiled through it all.

“Emma, you’re the one thing that will never change around here.”

She gave a throaty laugh. “Of course I change. I get bigger all the time. And smarter too,” she added in a devious whisper.

“Are you still going to write that book?”

She chortled again but didn’t answer, leaving the mischievous question open. Emma was a career civil servant and had been on the first floor desk in London longer than anyone could remember. She had a mental library of facts, rumors, and gossip about the place that was unsurpassed, and for years she’d threatened to write a tell-all book and retire on the proceeds. Meier sometimes wondered whether she actually might do it.

“So what brings you here from headquarters? Nobody told me you were coming.” She was obviously concerned that her networks might have failed.

“Don’t worry Emma, nobody snuck anything by you. I’m on holiday. I came to see David Slaton. He and I were going to do some hunting out at the lodge.”

She looked doubtful. “David’s not here. He got slammed four days ago. I don’t even know where he is.”

Meier felt his stomach tighten. “Four days ago?” He did the math. He had talked to Slaton on Sunday, six days ago. It was a casual conversation, and he’d learned in a roundabout way that Slaton had no intention of leaving soon. Then, it had taken nearly a week for Meier to arrange his leave and get here without arousing suspicion. In that time, Slaton had been slammed, Mossad slang for an immediate assignment — don’t pack, don’t kiss the wife, just grab your passport and get to the airport.

“Have you heard from him since then?”

She shook her head. “No. And I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

Meier’s mind raced as he considered what to do.

His look of concentration wasn’t lost on Emma Schroeder. “What was it you’d be hunting for?”

It was a loaded question that Meier ignored. He suddenly wished he’d called first. “All right Emma, thanks anyway. If you hear from David, tell him I’ve been looking for him.”

“Where are you staying?”

“I’m not sure yet,” he sidestepped, “but I’ll let you know.”

Meier left with Emma eyeing him suspiciously. He walked slowly to his cab, still lost in thought. When he got in, the driver asked, “Where to next, guv?”

“I’m going to rent a car. There’s an Avis agency over in Whitechapel.”

The driver tried to be helpful, no doubt in light of the generous tip Meier had already provided, “There’s an Avis just up the road ’ere. Save you twenty pounds from goin’ all across town.”

“No,” Meier lied, “I have a certain car reserved there, thanks.”

“As you like,” the driver said, pulling out into traffic.

It took half an hour to get there. The BMW was still in trail.

Meier was particular in renting a car, selecting a small red Fiat — slow and easy to see. He fell in with the heavy traffic and headed west, all the way back across town. His pursuers picked him up right away and they negotiated the traffic well, having no trouble keeping up in the powerful German sedan.

Twenty miles later, Meier was on the M3, leaving behind the western outskirts of London. The traffic thinned and he saw his trailer was still there, farther back now, a dot in the rearview mirror. They were doing a respectable job of keeping back and masking behind other cars, but they never lost visual. This told him two things. First, there were no other vehicles involved. If that had been the case, the BMW would have backed out of sight occasionally for a tag team. Second, there were no other means of reconnaissance involved. No aircraft, satellites, or tracking devices. He was being followed the old-fashioned way, by a couple of guys who had to keep him in sight while trying not to be seen themselves. This made his tactical problem easier, but it also confirmed his fears about who might be in the car.

Meier sped up to seventy miles an hour. The little Fiat’s engine whined at a high pitch. He took out the detailed map he’d purchased at the car hire agency and set it on the passenger seat. Yosy Meier looked at his watch.

It took another two and a half hours. Meier saw the BMW fall back and take an exit. He looked at his own gas gauge and saw slightly over a quarter tank. After all the stop and go city driving, followed by hours on the M3 and A303, the big car had to be on fumes. Meier had also seen the gas station just off the exit ramp, and he suspected it might be where they’d take their chance. He pushed the Fiat’s accelerator to the floor. It hit eighty-eight miles an hour and stuck, the little engine revved to a screaming pace. He didn’t bother to look at the map yet. Right now he needed one thing — to get out of sight. He reached the next exit in five minutes. Meier took it, then made a quick series of turns onto smaller roads. Finally satisfied, he eased off the accelerator and referenced the map. There was no one behind him now.

Christine was at the stove, tending to a pot of chicken soup, when she glanced over to find her patient awake.

“Well, hello,” she said cheerily. “Glad you’re back. I thought you might sleep all the way to Portugal.”

The man seemed bewildered. Christine sat next to him on the bunk, showing both a smile and an interest that were completely genuine. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

He propped himself on his elbows, grimacing at the slow, tentative effort.

“Easy.” She held out a hand and introduced herself, “Christine.”

He took her hand and responded in a raspy voice, “Nils.”

“Nils? Swedish?”

He nodded, “Ja, Svensk.”

Christine gestured toward herself and said, “American.” Christine was surprised that he apparently spoke no English. The few Scandinavians she’d met before had all had a working grasp on her own language. As he eased himself into a sitting position on the bunk, she went to the galley and drew a glass of water.

“You’ll need a lot of this,” she said, holding it out.

He took it and emptied the glass in a matter of seconds. Christine quickly offered a refill as she studied her patient. There were a lot of questions to ask, but she had no idea how to go about it.

“I’m a doctor,” she offered.

He showed no trace of understanding. She slowly pulled back the sheet that covered his chest. “Doctor,” she said again.

He seemed unbothered as she began her examination. First she checked the wound on his ribcage. It looked no worse, but a new dressing was in order. Christine found herself talking out loud in her best hospital voice. “Lie still.” He might not understand English, but all the world’s health professionals spoke with the same antiseptic, no-nonsense tone. That much he’d recognize.

“It doesn’t look infected, which is good because this hospital’s pharmacy is not very well stocked.”

Christine removed the old tape and gauze, and replaced it with new, wishing she had better supplies. She wondered how he’d gotten such a nasty cut. After changing the dressing, she looked at the blistered skin on his arms and face. She wanted to clean the worst areas, but without the right sterile conditions she might do more harm than good. Christine tried to imagine how painful it must have been — salt water constantly washing over wounds like that. His face was shadowed by a few day’s growth of beard, but shaving would be out of the question for some time. Aside from the exposure, he still presented pale and drawn.

As she studied him, Christine couldn’t help noticing his eyes. They were a stark blue-gray, and something about them broke her concentration. They held a strength, an intensity that was not at all consistent with his physical condition. Christine found herself locked to his gaze and was suddenly unnerved. She turned away abruptly, trying to think of something to say to this strange person with whom she shared no common language.

“All in all, I think you’ll be in good shape after a couple weeks of R and R.”

He handed her the empty glass and Christine decided to wait fifteen minutes before the next refill. She went to the galley, poured a short cup of chicken soup from the pot on the stove, and gave it to him. He took a cautious sip, smiled gratefully, then went at it with relish. The doctor was encouraged. Recuperation was under way. The only thing to temper her satisfaction was the nagging possibility that he might not have been alone. She decided to try again.

“Any others on Polaris Venture?”

He gave her a quizzical look and tried to mimic the words, “Polars Venure?”

She sighed. She had assumed that was the name of his ship — it was stenciled on the cooler he’d been hanging onto. But wouldn’t he recognize the name, in any language? Christine threw a frustrated glance at her communications panel. Right now it didn’t matter what the ship’s name was, since there was no way of reporting it. She needed a radio, but with one glass of water he’d shorted out half the rack. Incredible. The two-way was dead, so no talking on the ship-to-ship bands. The sat-com was out. The only radio that worked was the little battery-operated weather receiver. She wasn’t great with electronics, but tonight she’d make an effort to get one of the transceivers operational. It crossed her mind that his ship might have put out a distress signal itself before going down. Christine had seen no evidence of a search, though. No boats, no planes. They were out here by themselves.

He finished his soup and handed her the cup. She considered offering more, but before she knew it he’d fallen back and closed his eyes. Christine poured a bowl for herself and studied her patient. Within a few minutes he was motionless, his breathing rhythmic. Over the course of the day she had checked on him hourly. He’d been in serious shape when he first came aboard, and Christine was worried he might take a turn for the worse. Now she had him eating and taking in liquids. The blisters on his face and arms still looked raw and painful, but, all in all, he seemed to be doing remarkably well. Christine pulled the blanket up over his chest. He seemed peaceful now, but she remembered the look that had been in his eyes only minutes ago. What had been so strange about it?

You’re a curious one, she thought. The most curious man I’ve ever plucked out of the ocean.

The hastily convened session of Israel’s Cabinet brought twenty people into place around a big mahogany meeting table. They were a keen mix of the Prime Minister’s staunchest political allies and enemies. Most were members of the Knesset who had been elevated, by way of partisan jousting, to Ministerial status. The only person not to have a regular seat at the table was the Director of Mossad. Anton Bloch sat in the chair of the absent Minister of Communications, who was in Argentina and completely irretrievable. There was also a stranger seated against the back wall, flanked by two empty chairs, which served to emphasize his isolation.

When Benjamin Jacobs came into the room, they all remained seated. His predecessor would have expected everyone to rise, but this Prime Minister wasn’t one for formalities. He took a seat between Sonja Franks, the Foreign Minister, and Ehud Zak, the Minister of Finance.

“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen,” Jacobs said, his tone implying otherwise. He spoke in English. Customarily such meetings were conducted in Hebrew, but English was understood all around the table, and most guessed, correctly, that it was chosen for the benefit of their guest. Jacobs decided with a quiet survey that about half of those present had not been here for the previous meeting on the day’s subject. The Prime Minister knew he’d have hell to pay for that, but he was ready.

“I’m sure you’ve all recognized one stranger to this Cabinet,” Jacobs said, gesturing toward the man against the far wall who wore an unfamiliar military uniform.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present General Wilm Van Ruut of the South African National Defense Force.”

The South African stood to attention and nodded formally. He was a tall, gaunt man with bony features and a handlebar mustache. Van Ruut sat back down without speaking.

Jacobs pressed ahead, “I recognize the irregularity of having someone like General Van Ruut at a Cabinet meeting, but I think the reasons for his being here will soon be clear. One week ago, the Director of Mossad approached me for the approval of a mission, an irregular operation, to say the least, and one that had a brief window of opportunity. There was risk involved. However, in my opinion, inaction carried even greater risk. I called an immediate Cabinet meeting and, after some discussion, the mission was given a green light. Since a number of you were not here that day, I’ll let Anton fill you in.”

The burly Director of Mossad went to the opposite end of the table and everyone rotated their attention. Anton Bloch, having always been an operational type, bore a healthy dislike of politicians. He looked like a man headed to the dentist’s chair.

“As you know, South Africa is in extreme turmoil right now, and the standing government may not survive. General Van Ruut contacted us last week. He told us that military command and control was disintegrating and, in particular, he expressed doubts about the security of his country’s nuclear capability.” Around the room there were a mixture of reactions, disinterest not among them.

“I thought South Africa had disarmed,” Sonya Franks remarked.

Bloch explained, “The South African government began a very public project to dismantle its nuclear arsenal about ten years ago. Six weapons, all of a moderate tactical yield, were involved. Under international supervision, the critical components were destroyed, and the fissionable materials placed under care of the International Atomic Energy Agency. There were, however, two … exceptions.”

The Cabinet members who had not been present at the first briefing stiffened in their chairs.

“At the last moment, orders were given to keep two weapons intact. General Van Ruut knows nothing about the reasoning for this, but it goes without saying that it became a closely held national secret.”

Van Ruut gave a distinct nod and said, “A small cadre of special troops has been guarding these things for over a decade. They are a legacy, and our politicians can’t decide whether to keep them, destroy them, or … well, lately there has been talk of using them.”

General Gabriel, Chief of Staff of the Israeli Defense Forces, broke in. “Weapons like that wouldn’t have any impact on such a widespread civil war. We’re not talking about battling tank armies here, were talking about a half-dozen rebellious factions, some of them armed with nothing more than spears and machetes. Setting off a nuclear device would only give the opposition a cause to unite behind.”

Van Ruut said, “I agree sir, from a tactical standpoint. But our leadership is fracturing. They might not act in a militarily rational way if things truly collapse.”

Someone else asked, “So you think these weapons are a danger?”

“Yes,” Van Ruut said. “I originally wanted to find some way to dismantle them, but the assets to do that weren’t under my control. I discussed the problem with some of my closest peers in the military command structure, and they all agreed that these two weapons were a serious threat. Then, ten days ago, the answer fell into my lap. I was ordered to move them from a storage facility in the Kalahari to a weapons complex outside Cape Town. It occurred to me that we could give them to another country, a neutral third party, to be held. The only country that made sense was Israel.”

Jacobs watched the varied reactions around the table. Some appeared to relax, intrigued but no longer concerned. Others squirmed, sensing more to come.

Bloch said, “Nine days ago, General Van Ruut contacted us, explained the situation, and asked for our help. He did this at great personal risk, I should add, and knowing that his career in the South African Defense Forces would be at an end. Time was of the essence. This was put to us the day before the weapons were to be moved. We had a matter of hours to decide. The Prime Minister called an emergency session of this Cabinet, and the decision was made to go ahead.”

Ariel Steiner, leader of Jacobs’ archrival Labor party, interrupted and volleyed his comments straight at the Prime Minister. “I’d like to see the minutes of that meeting, since I was out of the country.”

Jacobs was ready. He slid a copy of the minutes over to Steiner who eyed it suspiciously. “Read it later,” Jacobs said. “We’ll go over the highlights now so that everyone has the picture.”

Not put off, Steiner tried a different tack. “With respect to the General here, how do we know he’s not just working to disarm the South African government in favor of the rebel forces?”

“You don’t,” Van Ruut said, glaring at the politician but maintaining his bearing.

General Gabriel intervened. “Mr. Steiner, I’ve known General Van Ruut for nearly twenty years. He is an honorable officer with genuine concern for his country.”

“Seems to me he’s stabbing his country in the back. If the rebels win this thing he’ll be a hero to them. They’ll probably make him Chief of Staff of the new military!”

Van Ruut bristled.

Ehud Zak, Jacobs’ right-hand man who often became a buffer at such meetings, pleaded, “Gentlemen, please!”

Jacobs had heard enough. “We weighed these issues last week and decided he was on the level. Some people in positions of power can put aside self-interest.” The remark was leveled squarely at Steiner, and Jacobs let it hang in the air for a moment. “In any event, there was a more compelling reason for us to get involved.”

Bloch said, “You’ve all heard of Project Majik. It brought us our own nuclear capabilities, back in the 1960s. Some details of that project are still closely held, and they are relevant to this discussion. Mordechai should explain.”

Bloch relinquished the head of the table to Paul Mordechai, officially the Special Assistant to the Minister of Energy. He was a thin, be spectacled man who, at thirty-one, was fifteen years junior to anyone else in the room. His curly hair was much longer than it should have been and he exuded a gleeful energy. Wearing khaki pants, a striped button-down shirt, and a miserably knotted tie, he could have been a graduate student about to lecture a university class, which had indeed been the case ten years earlier. Mordechai stood and bounced a bit at the head of the table, then grinned at an impressively somber collection of faces. His less than professional appearance annoyed some, but everyone knew Mordechai’s level of job security was likely higher than that of anyone else in the room. He had an uncanny knack for connecting the technical to the practical, an attribute that would make him a fixture in many Cabinets to come.

He began the lesson. “A great many things are necessary in order to develop nuclear weapons. Some of those things we had in 1960. We had the theoretical and scientific know-how. We had the engineering capacity. There was, however, one crucial element we lacked, that being a large supply of high quality uranium ore.” The engineer scanned for any reaction, but his pun had fallen flat on the dour group. He forged ahead. “During this time, South Africa was also after the bomb. She had a strong base of theoretical scientists and plenty of uranium ore, but was struggling with the engineering. In particular, the design and construction of a reprocessing plant.”

Steiner blurted, “So they gave us ore and we built them a reprocessing plant.”

Mordechai was clearly intrigued by this rushed display of flawed logic. He looked curiously at Steiner, as a botanist might study a four-leafed clover.

“No. This came at a time of high tension for Israel. We were consistently at war with our Arab neighbors, and we knew the first time we lost would be the last. Building a plant in South Africa would have taken time. The solution was simply this — they sent us the ore, and we sent back a percentage of what we processed.”

The Minister of Public Works weighed in, “This is all interesting, but are you saying these things that happened over forty years ago affected your decision to take these weapons?” A Labor man, he emphasized the word “your” while looking at Jacobs.

Mordechai answered, coming nicely into form. “Absolutely, so try to follow. At the time, many countries were working on the bomb. The established nuclear powers put a lot of effort into finding out what everyone was up to. Reprocessing uranium is not a sterile business. Various radioactive isotopes are inevitably released into the environment. They can be found in soil samples taken from around the facility, and also in upper atmospheric air samples downwind of the plant. At the time, we were in a hurry, and not concerned with the environment or who knew what we were up to.”

Zak said, “I’ll bet we made it intentionally dirty, just to scare the crap out of the Arabs.”

“Perhaps. The Arabs themselves did not have the technology to detect this sort of thing. But the Russians did, and of course they were aligned with our Arab enemies.”

“Who else would have known what we were doing?” General Gabriel inquired.

“The Americans of course, maybe Great Britain or France. But there is one other salient point to be made. These nuclear residues provide a unique signature for any given batch. Essentially this means that any U-232 we’ve ever processed can be traced to us.” The Special Assistant to the Minister of Energy let that one sink in.

“Even after it … blows up?” Steiner asked.

“Fission would not deny identification.”

The group went silent and Jacobs stepped in. “Thank you, Mr. Mordechai.”

Mordechai smiled and loped casually back to his chair, the weight of matters seeming to have no effect. The rest of the room churned in widely angled thought.

“So, ladies and gentlemen,” the Prime Minister said, “these two particular weapons were part of this legacy. They could theoretically be linked to us. Of course, if they were used in South Africa, we could tell this whole story about how they got there. Our enemies would call it a lie and accuse us of selling weapons of mass destruction. Most of the world would probably believe our version, but we’d be admitting violation of every nuclear non-proliferation agreement ever known. For these reasons, I decided the prudent thing would be to take the weapons back, to safeguard them until things have stabilized in the region.”

Steiner added, “And we’ll have a big bargaining chip with whoever comes out on top.”

Jacobs fixed a seething glare on the Labor clod. “I gave my word to General Van Ruut that the weapons would be returned with no strings attached. This is simply a security issue, for both our countries.”

Steiner sat back, humbled for the moment, and the Prime Minister addressed the others. “Now that you all understand the background of this matter … Anton?”

Bloch stood next to a video screen that was built into the wall. “Five days ago a cargo ship named Polaris Venture left Cape Town with the weapons. The crew was South African Navy, and one of my people was on board to help with security. After three days at sea, somewhere off the coast of western Africa, Polaris Venture disappeared.”

A map came into view on the screen. Mostly blue, it depicted the Atlantic Ocean and the northwest coast of Africa. A red course line came up from the bottom of the map, paralleling the coast well offshore. Halfway to the Straits of Gibraltar, it changed from a solid to a dashed line, and a large red box was drawn around the transition point.

“We were supposed to get hourly position updates by a secure satellite link.” Bloch pointed to the red box, “Somewhere in this area we lost contact.”

“You’re saying this ship has sunk?” Steiner asked in amazement.

“Or was hijacked?” General Gabriel suggested.

“Hijacked?” Steiner was incredulous. “Good God! By who? Our en-emies?”

Zak said, “Calm down, Ariel. Let’s get the facts first.” He looked at the map. “What are we doing to locate this ship?”

“Our EC-130 took off an hour ago. Polaris Venture was equipped with two locator beacons, and if she’s gone down, the EC-130 will be able to pinpoint them.”

General Gabriel prodded, “What about the crew?”

Bloch said, “Search and rescue in the middle of the Atlantic isn’t something our country is really equipped for. We could ask for help, of course. The French and British are fairly close, but if we do that—”

Steiner pounced, “If we ask for help this whole fiasco will blow up in our face!”

General Van Ruut spoke up, “Mr. Prime Minister, there are sixteen men out there. We must consider them first and foremost.”

Jacobs said, “General, I understand your position. I have been a field commander myself, and I promise that we will take all reasonable steps to find these men.”

The “all reasonable steps” clause signaled a shifting tide.

Van Ruut pleaded, “Those men could still be out there! We have to act now!”

“Mr. Prime Minister, with all due respect to General Van Ruut,” Steiner said in a manner that held none, “this is now a security issue for our government. We all appreciate his help, but I think the General should no longer be present at this Cabinet meeting.”

Jacobs sighed. Even the Prime Minister had to choose his battles, and this was not one of them. “Mr. Steiner is correct, General Van Ruut. I’ll have to ask you to leave. You have my word that we will try to find your men. One of ours is out there too.”

Van Ruut glared at Steiner, and his reply was clipped, “I understand.” Dignified in defeat, the South African stood straight and did a sharp about-face toward the door.

As soon as he was gone, Jacobs made the phone call to security. There was no point in trying to be discreet. “General Van Ruut is on level three. Please escort him to the executive lounge. Give him every courtesy, but do not let him leave the complex.”

The Prime Minister frowned and scribbled down a note to give Van Ruut the use of his personal suite. He then refocused on the task at hand. “Your thoughts?”

Sonja Franks, the ever diplomatic Foreign Minister said, “How long must we detain him?”

“At least until we find out what’s happened,” said Jacobs. “But let’s not forget, he’s on our side. Who knows what might have happened if we hadn’t taken those weapons out of South Africa.”

Zak said, “I agree. We owe him, and he seems a decent man. But it brings something else to mind. I don’t think the loss of this ship is a random maritime accident. I don’t know if it was hijacked or sunk, but security was obviously breached. Aside from Van Ruut and half the people in this room, who knew about the mission?”

Bloch said, “There were sixteen men on the ship. Another two dozen South African soldiers were involved in the transportation and loading.”

“But how many knew the nature of the cargo?” Zak wondered aloud.

“This mission was a scramble from the start, and I can’t speak for security on the South African end. According to General Van Ruut, only Polaris Venture’s captain and our two men were fully briefed, but any of the others might have figured it out.”

“Two?” General Gabriel inquired. “I thought we had just one on board, Anton.”

“I sent two to Cape Town. One oversaw the loading process and actually went along when she sailed. The second man was only there to install the communications gear and some scuttling charges.”

“Some what?” a voice asked.

Bloch finally put forward a scrap of good news. “Explosives, big charges placed below the waterline. They could be set off intentionally, to sink Polaris Venture fast. It was meant as a precaution against hijacking.”

“What would have triggered these explosives?” Zak asked.

“Who, actually,” Bloch said. “My man on board had the ability to set them off.”

Steiner asked, “What if hijackers got to him first?”

“Nothing’s impossible, but boarding a large ship that’s under way on the open ocean — it’s no easy thing. Even harder to do it and not be heard or seen by lookouts or radar. I know because we’ve tried.”

Jacobs said, “So someone might have tried to take Polaris Venture, but then our man sank her intentionally.”

Bloch agreed, “That would fit most of what we know. It’s also remotely possible that one of the scuttling charges might have gone off by accident.”

Sonja Franks said, “So, in either case, the ship went down, and as soon as we find it we can get to work retrieving these weapons.”

“Retrieving the weapons would not be an option,” Bloch said.

“Why not?”

Bloch turned again to the map. “We pre-programmed a course for the ship that kept her in very deep water. The area where she’s down has a minimum depth of nine thousand feet. A salvage there would be a major undertaking. Only a few countries in the world have the technology to do it, and none of them would have any interest in weapons of this type — they’re dinosaurs.”

“All right, so what now, Anton?” Jacobs asked, wanting to wrap things up.

“The EC-130 should report back tomorrow. Hopefully they will have found the ELTs and we can pinpoint where the ship is.”

“And then?” Steiner asked.

“And then nothing, if we’re lucky,” Bloch said. “We just let it sit on the bottom of the ocean and keep our secret as best we can.”

Some around the table seemed relieved, but General Gabriel looked concerned. “What about searching for survivors?”

“We can’t ask for help and expect to keep this quiet,” Steiner insisted.

“I’m afraid he’s right,” Sonja Franks agreed.

Jacobs nodded reluctantly. He looked to General Gabriel. “Let’s put everything we have into a search. Planes, ships, whatever we can do.”

“Yes sir,” Gabriel responded.

It was a feeble gesture and everyone knew it. The room was quiet until someone asked, “What if somebody else picks up survivors, or finds the wreckage floating around?”

Bloch said, “I’ve been told there are no shipping lanes where she went down. Just a lot of ocean.”

Zak concurred, “It would really be a long shot.”

“Yes …” Jacobs hedged, “but not out of the question.”

Zak said, “Anton, why don’t we send a message out to all our stations in North Africa and Europe. Let’s listen for anything on this — discreetly.” Heads nodded around the table.

“All right.”

Jacobs rose from his chair. “We’ll meet again tomorrow morning, or sooner if anything breaks. Everyone’s on a half-hour call-back until further notice.”

Yosy Meier walked out of Harrods with one of the newest Barbie dolls and a model airplane kit tucked under his arm. In the other hand he carried his small suitcase. He’d always been able to find something for Evie and Max at Harrods. In the old days, it was more an effort to ease his guilt at having been gone so much. Today he did it just to see the smiles on their faces — that and to kill some time, since his flight didn’t leave for another three hours. He had turned in the rental car at a different location from where he’d gotten it, telling the agent he was in a hurry. From here, Meier would take the tube to Heathrow, only he didn’t want to be early.

He wondered if he was getting paranoid. He hadn’t seen anything of the BMW or its occupants since ditching them yesterday. That much was good. But he still couldn’t find Slaton. He’d called the embassy twice and talked to Emma. Still nothing. Meier finally decided it was too risky to stay on, and he booked the first flight home.

Traffic ran heavy along Brompton Road in the midday rush. Meier looked at his watch and figured he had about an hour to lose before getting on the tube. He paused at the curb of a busy intersection. Businessmen, tourists, and shoppers jammed the sidewalk around him, none venturing to jaywalk as cars, taxis, and scooters shot past. Meier spotted a Thai restaurant across the street. What better place to kill an hour? he thought.

A car alarm suddenly went off somewhere behind. People turned to look. Meier was struggling with his packages when a heavy forearm shoved him in the back. It caught him completely off-guard and he pitched forward into the street. As he fell, everything seemed to revert to slow motion. He saw the Barbie falling. He saw the street, with its painted crosswalk coming toward his face. And he saw the grill of the huge red bus that was barreling straight at him. Yosy Meier realized he was about to die, and the last instant of his life was spent thinking about the family he would never see again.

The sound, a muffled thud, was what most people noticed first. Next was the screeching of brakes and an image of what looked like a big rag doll rolling into the intersection. Once they realized what had happened, the bystanders reacted, a cacophony of hysterical screams, shocked “Good Gods!” and the wailing chant of an old Indian man.

Someone yelled to call an ambulance, although everyone could see it was no use. A hundred feet back on the sidestreet, no one noticed the owner of a big blue BMW as he calmly walked to his car, disabled the alarm, and drove off.