The Perfect Assassin

Chapter Four

It was called the War Room, the name an obvious choice for a place designed with exactly that in mind. The Israeli government had seen more than its share, and after the invasion of Lebanon in 1982, it commissioned the nation’s best and brightest structural engineers to design a complex that would harbor the country’s leadership through whatever dark days might lay ahead.

The engineers took to the task with relish and quickly identified an ideal site for the fortress, one which at the time, unfortunately, was occupied by the Ministry of Agriculture and Rural Development. The engineers made a compelling case for the location, based on geological stability, advantages of the existing structure and, most importantly, proximity to the Knesset. So it was announced, with great public fanfare, that a new headquarters would be built for the Ministry of Agriculture. The Ministry’s employees cheered the announcement, although some thought it suspicious since the old building had been renovated at great expense only a year earlier.

These doubts were quickly erased by way of a spreading rumor that the real reason for the move involved the original building’s foundation — it was suspect, and might collapse at any time. An engineering report surfaced, confirming that the rickety structure was indeed doomed to ruin. The place was boarded up and notices of condemnation were posted all around at street level. Ministry employees were given notice to clear out their personal possessions, and an entire department of government was temporarily relocated to a rented building on the outskirts of town.

Another engineering survey soon declared that the original structure was perhaps salvageable, but not without extensive modifications. Heavy equipment began to appear, ushering in a period of constant activity. Endless trains of vehicles passed through the lone construction entrance and disappeared into what used to be the basement parking garage. Huge earthmoving and digging machines crawled down into the bowels of the structure. Cement was brought in, dirt hauled out. It was nearly two years before the heavy equipment gave way to a procession of smaller vans and trucks. Contractors of all sorts set to work on plumbing, electrical, and ventilation jobs.

If anyone had been keeping track, a number of things would have been strangely obvious from the start — such as the fact that the volume of dirt hauled out could have filled a stadium. Or that more concrete was used in the “shore-up” than had been used to construct the entire building in the first place. Employees of the adjacent buildings were among the first to note these discrepancies. Six months into the project, at least one office, the claims department for a large insurance company whose third floor suite had a bird’s-eye view of the proceedings, had begun a pool to guess what was going on across the street. Among the speculative answers to the mystery were an underground military base, a bomb shelter, a gold mine, and a secret archaeological dig. An official winner of the pool was never declared, a fair result really, since all those answers held a fraction of the truth.

The War Room was on the lowest level of the refuge. Situated under a full two hundred feet of dirt and reinforced concrete, it could withstand any burrowing conventional weapon ever designed, and at least one direct hit from an air or ground burst nuclear device. Six independent air intakes were filtered for chemical, biological, and radiological contaminants. Three wells drew water directly from deep aquifers. Electrical power was taken from the grid above, backed up by two 1,750 kilowatt diesel generators. Fully staffed and provisioned, the fortress could be sealed off to operate independently for over a month.

Presently, the Prime Minister sat at the head of the War Room’s long meeting table. Directly behind him, a large Israeli flag sagged from its staff. It was 6:00 in the morning, and the thick smell of coffee permeated the air. Most of the men and women around the table looked sleep deprived, with the exception of Paul Mordechai who was trying to balance a pencil on his finger, and probably calculating the physical forces involved.

“We’ve found her,” Anton Bloch said.

He fiddled with a remote control until the large map of West Africa and the adjacent Atlantic Ocean was projected onto the wall behind him. It was the same map the Cabinet had been presented yesterday, only now the course lines were gone, replaced by a bold black X to mark Polaris Venture’s final resting place, a convention that made Jacobs feel as if he was looking at a pirate’s treasure map.

“We found her late yesterday. The EC-130 made four passes to confirm the location. It’s accurate to within a hundred meters.”

“Just how far off the coast is that?” General Gabriel asked.

“Two hundred and thirty miles west of Gibraltar.”

“That’s good at least,” Gabriel said. “Some of those crazies in North Africa think they can claim sovereignty all the way out to two hundred.”

Bloch continued, “The other good news is that she’s in over ten thousand feet of water. Unsalvageable, as we said yesterday, to all but a few major countries. And they’d have no interest.”

Zak asked, “What about survivors?”

“No one in the water could still be alive, it’s too cold. All the life rafts on board were equipped with radios. The EC-130 monitored 121.5 megahertz the whole time it was in the search area — that’s the international VHF distress frequency. Unfortunately, there were no contacts.” Bloch looked to General Gabriel for help.

“Moledt is on the way. She’s our fastest ship available, a Reshef class corvette,” Gabriel said. “Moledt cruises at thirty knots, so she should be on station the day after tomorrow. Hanit will be a half-day behind.” Heads around the room nodded, approving of the pointless formality. Jacobs listened grimly.

“They’ll keep a search running until we call it off,” Gabriel added in his confident, soldier’s voice.

Deputy Prime Minister Sonja Franks addressed the Director of Mossad. “Anton, what about the possibility of someone else finding survivors? Have our stations picked up anything?”

“No. But then, as we agreed, we’re not asking questions. It’s a passive order, listen only. Radio traffic, newspaper articles, gossip in the bars. It might take a few days for anything to turn up.”

Ariel Steiner picked up where he’d left off, shooting straight at the Prime Minister. “This is a fine mess. We’ve found the ship, but can’t be sure the weapons haven’t been hijacked.”

Jacobs was in no mood for it. “Ariel, you know damn well—”

“Gentlemen, please,” Zak interjected, becoming a referee between the two most powerful men in his country. Jacobs exchanged glares with the Labor Party man as he receded into his chair.

“Paul and I have given this some thought,” Bloch said. “We know the ship has gone down, so the only question is whether the weapons are still intact. We can find out.”

“I thought salvage was out of the question,” Sonja Franks remarked.

Paul Mordechai piped in, “We’re not talking about salvage. We’re talking about reconnaissance. I spent an hour with our Naval Systems people last night. What we need is a deep-water surveyor — a small robotic sub. It can go down to the wreck and determine if the weapons are still there.”

“Do we have something like that?” Steiner asked.

“No,” said Mordechai. “They’re used primarily for oceanographic research and working on oil rigs, that kind of thing. These machines aren’t cheap, but they are commercially available.”

“One of these gadgets can tell us whether the weapons have been hijacked?” Zak asked.

Bloch said, “Probably. When ships go down at the depths we’re talking about, it’s hard to say exactly what will happen. They can break apart, scatter over miles and miles of ocean floor. But if Polaris Venture was scuttled as we suspect, the charges were placed so she’d go down fast and in one piece. I think there’s a good chance we’ll find the weapons.”

“How long will this take?” Zak asked.

“Three or four days. Possibly longer if we can’t find the right equipment.”

Steiner threw his arms up in exasperation. “And in the meantime, two nukes might be on their way to our doorstep.”

“He’s right,” General Gabriel said. “If one of our enemies has taken them, could they be used right away? Aren’t there codes or something to arm them?”

Mordechai answered. “There are codes, and we have good reason to believe they’re secure. To use one of the weapons without them, the current arming and fusing system would have to be reprogrammed, or the whole device rebuilt. Either case would require highly skilled scientists. To reprogram you would also need the bomb’s technical design specifications. Without that, it would be easier to just take the thing apart and rebuild it with your own triggering device.”

“How can we be sure these codes are secure, given how things are in South Africa?” someone asked.

Mordechai grinned. “Because they’re not in South Africa. They’re on the bottom floor of this complex.”

The room was silent and nobody asked the obvious question. Bloch was compelled to explain, “As soon as Polaris Venture left Cape Town, General Van Ruut personally handed the codes over to my man, who brought them straight to us. We needed them to prepare the weapons for storage.”

The Prime Minister summed it up. “So it’s likely that these two weapons are sitting on the bottom of the ocean. If someone has taken them, but doesn’t have the codes, they’d need three or four weeks to make them usable — worst case. More likely months. We have enough time to take a look without going on high alert.”

“And if they are on the bottom of the ocean?” Deputy Prime Minister Franks asked.

“We leave them there,” Mordechai replied happily.

“Let’s get on it,” Jacobs said. He directed Paul Mordechai to quietly find an appropriate submersible, then turned to Bloch.

“Keep up the passive monitoring for any intelligence about the sinking or, God forbid, hijacking of Polaris Venture.”

The Prime Minister then reminded everyone of the extreme sensitivity of the situation. If they kept a tight lid, the whole thing would probably be a nonevent in a few weeks. The members of the Cabinet concurred.

Jacobs inquired about any other business. General Gabriel said there had been a grenade attack on a troop convoy near the Lebanese border. He also reported that the Syrians had launched an SA-6 surface-to-air missile the previous night. There were no Israeli aircraft in the area and the missile seemed unguided, so it was likely a technical glitch. “One less they have to fire at us,” he reasoned. Anton Bloch said a headquarters Mossad man had been killed while on vacation in London, but that it appeared to be an accident. All in all, a quiet day aside from Polaris Venture. The Cabinet adjourned and its members filed out of the War Room.

After all had left, the Prime Minister sat alone and directed a circumspect gaze at the map with a big black X on the far wall. A “nonevent,” he’d said. To everyone except those sixteen people who’d been on board. And their families. Jacobs knew why he had lost his temper with Steiner. One of his own men was out there. Bloch had told him the name — David Slaton. A man gone off to do his duty. No one had expected it to be a dangerous mission, but those were the ones that always stung you. Jacobs had commanded an IDF infantry company in the ’73 war. His unit took thirty percent casualties, but he was proud that he’d never left any dead or wounded behind. Looking at a map full of ocean he knew General Van Ruut must be having similar thoughts. Van Ruut had fifteen men out there.

Jacobs got up, walked to Bloch’s seat and picked up the remote control. He’d never met David Slaton. Hadn’t selected him for the mission. All the same, as Slaton’s commander, he’d made the final decision to leave him out in the ocean, with no real attempt made at a rescue. At the time, there seemed to be sound, practical reasons for doing so. But now they escaped the Prime Minister. Jacobs pressed the button that turned off the projector and the screen went blank.

Windsom crashed along at eight knots. The sky was dark, and strong southwesterly winds drove a following sea. Christine looked to port and saw the Isles of Scilly passing ten miles abeam. The craggy islands of rock jutted up defiantly, sentries locked in a perpetual battle against the crashing swells. It was the same sight that had been seen for centuries, ever since sailors began venturing into the open ocean southwest of England. To see it on the return voyage was traditionally a good thing, a transitional signal that the hardships of sea were behind and the comforts of port ahead. Christine saw nothing hopeful in it.

She watched her tormentor at the bow. He had just changed out the jib, going with a smaller, heavier canvas in the strengthening wind. Now he was stowing the bigger sail into the forward hatch. His movement was sure and confident, no relation to the broken creature she’d dragged aboard four days ago. She was quite sure he’d never done any serious sailing before, yet Christine was amazed at how fast he picked it all up. The new sail was up, the old one stowed, and now he was on his way back, no doubt to ask what he should do next.

The last days had been a strange, awkward experience. At times they were a crew, tending to chores on the boat, taking meals together. Then uncertainty would prevail over the sleeping arrangements or a clipped conversation. When they did talk it was always about her, never giving Christine insight to the man or his intentions.

Christine looked again at the sky. A line of clouds, almost black, was immediately to the west and bearing down fast. The weather forecast, taken from the one radio he allowed her to use, had been right. It was going to be a serious blow.

She had wanted to outrun it, hoping to make a case for ducking into the first port, which happened to be Penzance. But now it was clear they were going to get caught, and maybe that was for the better. Christine still didn’t know where he planned to pull in, or what he would do with her. She had tried to obliquely broach the subject a number of times, but neither his answers nor his expressions gave anything away. In the distance, Christine could just make out Land’s End.

England. Freedom. It seemed so very far away.

The gust hit suddenly twenty minutes later. Windsom heeled over so far that her side cabin windows went under for a moment. Christine stayed at the tiller and reefed in the main, leaving out just enough sail to keep up steerage. She decided to roll in the jib, but the line wouldn’t move when she pulled it. The seas were still following, and Windsom surfed ahead awkwardly on huge twelve-foot swells. Sheets of cold rain lashed across the ocean, making undulating patterns on a crazy, uneven surface. Christine had to get more sail in. She gave a few sharp tugs on the line that controlled the mechanism at the base of the sail. Nothing. It was jammed.

“Great,” she fretted. Christine looked below and saw him at the charts. His legs bent in concert with the boat’s wild gyrations, and he showed no interest whatsoever in nature’s display above deck.

“I need your help!” she shouted over the static noise of wind-driven rain slapping against the fiberglass deck.

He poked his head out. “What?”

“The reefing mechanism on the bow is jammed,” she said, holding up the offending slack line. “I need you to go up front and take a look.”

He looked at the sky, the unpleasantness of which was momentarily accentuated by a close-in bolt of lightning and the associated crack! He frowned.

“Either that or come steer and I’ll go up. The autopilot doesn’t work well in seas like this.”

“All right, all right. I’ll go,” he shouted. “Have you got another rain coat?”

She shook her head. “Sorry.” Christine had already donned the only set of foul weather gear.

He took off the sweatshirt he was wearing, an oversized one that said U CONN on front. Being the only thing on board that fit, he’d had no reservations about commandeering it. Underneath were the same clothes he’d been wearing for probably a week.

He bolted up and began winding a path through rigging toward the bow pulpit. Christine suddenly realized he wasn’t wearing a lifeline, but again, there was only one — it was, after all, supposed to be a solo voyage. He reached the bow, bent down over the reefing mechanism and had it free in a matter of seconds. She pulled the line and took in the sail.

“That’s good,” she yelled, adding a thumbs-up in case he couldn’t hear over the wind and rain.

As he started back aft, a big wave hit Windsom awkwardly and she lurched hard. He lost his balance for a moment before grabbing a stanchion to steady himself. Christine suddenly looked at the main sheet, the line that held the boom in place. If she released it, the boom would swing free. In this wind it would waylay anything in its path — and in a matter of seconds he would be in that path. This was the chance she’d been hoping for! She needed time to think, but there wasn’t any. Another big wave crashed into Windsom, sending a sheet of spray over everything.

Christine reached for the rope and undid the hitch that held it secure. Now one turn around the cleat and her hand were the only things holding it in place. She could see his legs as he moved behind the sail. One more step …

Her hand seemed to act on its own. Christine let go. It only took a second for the free line to rip through a series of pulleys as Windsom’s big metal boom flew outward. It struck him squarely in the chest. There was a sickening thud and she heard a guttural sound as air expelled from his lungs. He flipped clear over the side, the sound of his splash lost in a storm-driven sea.

Christine jumped up and looked over the side. He surfaced just behind the boat and instinctively made a grasping lunge for the stern, but at the speed Windsom was traveling there was no chance. After a few moments of stunned inaction, Christine turned the boat hard to port and into the wind. Windsom’s momentum slowed and she came to a gradual stop, her loose sail snapping wildly in the heavy squall. Christine saw him clearly a hundred feet back, a picture strikingly similar to the one she’d seen four days ago. It seemed like a lifetime.

He made no attempt to swim to the boat, no wave or shout, and so he already knew it had been no accident. He just sat there treading water in a freezing ocean. Rain continued to sweep down and they stared at one another in a surreal standoff, the victor and the vanquished.

Christine could hardly believe it. She had done it! Her captor was in the water and she was free, having beaten the thug at his own game. With one pull on a rope, Windsom would be under way, and he would never threaten anyone again.

Then her moment of elation ebbed. The water here was so cold that no one could last more than an hour or two. And the coast was at least ten miles off — he could never swim it, even if he knew which way to go. No, she thought, pull the sheet on the mainsail and I’d be killing him, as surely as putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger. Christine had acted instinctively, when there was no time to think about consequences. But now there was time, and she knew what she had to do.

She went aft and unlashed a yellow horseshoe life ring. It was stenciled with Windsom’s name in an arc of big black letters. She attached the life ring to a line and heaved it out to him.

“Can’t say I don’t take care of my patients,” Christine mumbled in frustration. “Hypocrites, I hope you’re proud.”

He swam slowly to the ring and pulled himself in, taking more than one breaking wave in the face as he made his way back. She kicked the boarding ladder down into the water, but made no attempt to help him up as Windsom’s stern rose and fell severely on the big waves. She knew he’d make it. This guy was indestructible.

True to form, after being thrown off the ladder twice, he managed to boost himself up. Slowly, like a mountaineer at the summit, he reached the top and clambered over the transom to face her.

He said nothing. His lips were already blue, his breathing rapid from the exertion of getting back aboard. He simply stood in a driving rain and stared at her with an odd, quizzical look, as if he was completely confounded by what she’d just done.

Christine wondered what amazed him so. That she had put him over the side? Or that she had let him back aboard? Not sure what to expect, she simply held her ground and stared back, defiant in the victory. It was as though the tables were turned from that other day, when he had burst in as she was changing clothes; this time she was seeing him naked, seeing something human behind the cloak that always obscured his thoughts and feelings. He searched her eyes, desperate for some explanation. Christine wasn’t going to offer any. She turned away and began tending to the boat.

“Go below and get dried off,” she said.

Without a word, he did.

Viktor Wysinski sat in a lounge chair and squinted against the bright tropical sun. Morocco’s white sand and water were merciless in their reflective properties, and the stocky ex-commando put a hand over his eyes to shield them as the young girl approached. Her long brown legs carried her effortlessly through loose sand. She carried two tall, tropical drinks, one of which she handed to him before sprawling her lithe figure onto the lounge next to his.

“No salt, Veektor,” she said with a thick French accent and a smile.

Wysinski said nothing as he took the drink. He was a short, thickly built barrel of a man. His meaty face was topped by a standard flattop haircut, the same “style” he’d been sporting for twenty years with the Israeli Defense Forces.

He had retired two years ago with the rank of captain, much farther down the ladder than he’d once hoped for. Those traits that had served him well early in his career had eventually stunted his advancement. Wysinski’s manner was as brutish as his appearance — fine qualities for a lieutenant, but not field-grade material. He had never understood how his peers, the ones who took desk jobs and went to all the goddamn commander’s cocktail receptions, had managed to get promoted over a warrior like himself. In his book, soldiers killed the enemy. But it was the rear echelon pussies who made full-bird colonel while they sat on their fat arses in command centers writing “mission statements” and “contingency plans.” If nothing else, Wysinski was proud of the fact that he’d spent his entire career in the field, always in the fight. Even in retirement.

He picked up his newspaper and shook off the sand. The Moroccan dailies were all in French, and a two-day old New York Times, discarded on a table in the hotel’s lobby, had been the only thing he could find that wouldn’t require an interpreter. He scanned for a few minutes, found nothing, and wondered if that was good or bad. Who cares? he decided.

Wysinski crumpled the paper and looked out at the beach. The sun was at its equatorial apex. Behind him, in the dusty maze of alleys and low sandstone buildings that made up Rabat, the natives had enough sense to huddle in whatever shade they could find. But here, along that narrow strip where cool water met land, it was the opposite. People were everywhere. People from other places. The young and beautiful frolicking, the old and rich watching from the shade of umbrellas. Wysinski eyed them all contemptuously. He had never been the first, but—

“Sweem?”

The thin voice shattered his concentration.

“Sweem?” the girl repeated, gesturing hopefully toward the water.

“No,” he waved her off. “No, later.”

The girl pouted and flipped onto her stomach, a well-designed act that not only expressed dissatisfaction, but also added an element of symmetry to her vulcanizing process. She was a beautiful thing, and spirited. But very young — sixteen, seventeen perhaps. Of all the girls available at the bar last night, she had been the prize. Her worthless brother had negotiated a steep price, but she’d been worth every dirham. Now there was a bastard, Wysinski thought. If I had a sister like her I’d cut the throat of any man who looked at her the wrong way. Maybe I should do her a favor before I leave and — again, his thought process was interrupted, this time by a steward.

“Monsieur Weeseeski, non?” The man presented a shiny silver tray with a cordless telephone on it.

“Oui,” Wysinski said noncommittally. He was used to people butchering his name. Especially peons.

“Pour vous, monsieur.”

Wysinski had never been given a phone on a silver tray before and he thought it looked stupid. He grabbed it, got up, and slogged off through the hot sand. He didn’t start talking until his feet hit the water.

“Hello?”

The voice was familiar. “You were not at the primary number.”

“You found me,” Wysinski grumped.

“The timetable for your next meeting has been moved ahead.”

“To when?”

“Now.”

“What?” Wysinski shot back. They had only gotten back yesterday, after pounding through the ocean for thirty hours. “Why the hell didn’t we just stay and—”

“Stop!” the man on the phone insisted.

Wysinski backed down, “All right, all right. What’s the rush?”

“I can’t explain, but it is vital you go right away. Contact me as soon as it is done.”

The line went dead and Wysinski, unable to think of anything more clever, hissed a stream of expletives under his breath. He hit the off button and stood sneering at an ocean of turquoise water. He didn’t mind getting it over with. In fact, it would drive him crazy to sit around this place, aware of the task that lay ahead. But it ticked him off to not know what was going on, to not be in on the planning. In the old days he had been a tactician, a decision maker. Now he answered a phone, and was ordered to do the bidding of his distant superior. In a fit of anger, Wysinski wound up and threw the little handset far into the Atlantic. It splashed and disappeared.

The stakes were getting higher, but Wysinski knew this would be the last time. After this there would be no more need. He and the others could do as they wished — legitimately. Wysinski turned back to the beach and trudged up to his chair. Next to it, the steward stood staring at him, a statue with an empty silver tray in its hand.

“Put it on my bill!” Wysinski barked.

The steward, void any remnants of decorum, stumbled and retreated toward the pool.

The girl had clearly noticed his fit as well. “Quelle est?” she inquired in a particularly nubile voice.

Wysinski ignored her and headed straight for his room. He would call the marina and tell Joacham to ready the boat. Trudging through deep sand, Wysinski passed the little thatched hut that was the bar. On top he saw a Moroccan flag hanging flaccidly — no wind. That was good. The sooner they got this done, the better.

Jerusalem had been at the other end of the line. There, the caller dialed a second number, the purpose to give confirmation that the words for Wysinski had been sent and received. The caller mentally reviewed a careful script. Here, there would be no discussion, no room for error. The second number was, in fact, a local call. In a plush corner of the Knesset Office Building a seldom used phone rang. It was answered immediately.

The storm had subsided, the torrential rain now a light drizzle, the wind and seas fallen calm. Christine sat at the helm, steering by his instructions. They had been close to shore for an hour, holding about three miles out, but occasionally ducking in closer. In spots, the steady drizzle transformed into mist. Dusk, still about five hours off, might bring the visibility down fast.

“Come thirty left,” he commanded from his station next to the mast.

Christine turned the tiller while he scanned the shoreline with the binoculars. She wondered what he could possibly be looking for. Penzance was still twenty miles ahead, Plymouth fifty. There were no harbors of any kind here and the coastline was rocky, unapproachable as far as Windsom was concerned.

“Hold this course,” he said.

He’d been quiet since the storm, only speaking when it came to the business of maneuvering the boat. Christine wished she knew what he was up to, but, predictably, he wasn’t letting on.

With Windsom about two miles offshore, he began shifting the binoculars sharply between points along the rocky coast. Christine looked, but saw nothing remarkable. Steep cliffs as far as she could see, with boulders dominating the tide line, then a lighter color above on the near-vertical incline, probably some kind of coarse vegetation.

“All right, that’s it,” he said suddenly. “Turn her into the wind.”

Christine complied and the sails flapped loosely as Windsom’s momentum gradually slowed. He went below, rattled a few things around, then came back on deck. Christine tensed immediately when she saw what was in his hand. It was her father’s old diving knife. Eight inches long with a serrated edge on one side, it was rusty and lethal-looking. God, where had he found that? she wondered. Still, he wore the same serious, intense expression that had been there all along, which was comforting in a strange way. This man was no berserk killer. There was purpose in everything he did, and Christine knew the knife was not intended for her. He did, however, point it casually in her direction for emphasis.

“Keep her into the wind,” he said, obviously not wanting a repeat of the day’s earlier incident.

Christine watched in amazement as he went to the mainsail. Holding the knife over his head, he jabbed viciously into it. Yanking and pulling, he ripped the canvas through its entire length. He made another cut and another, until the sail was shredded into a half-dozen loosely connected pieces. Next, he went up front and gave five minute’s treatment to the jib. Then he cut the halyards and sheets. He went all around the boat cutting and slicing.

Christine watched in silence, trying to understand. He was disabling Windsom, but why? Was he going to motor into Penzance and say, “Look at what the storm did!” How would that help him? Perhaps if he was alone? Christine forced the ideas from her mind. She’d know soon enough.

Her captor went below and for two minutes she heard metallic, banging noises. He came back up with a few critical pieces of the engine — the plugs and some wiring. He threw them over the side and they disappeared.

With a thoughtful look around the boat, he nodded, apparently satisfied with his destruction. Again the man went below, this time emerging with a pair of oars. He went forward along the port side and began to unlash the dinghy.

The dinghy! That was it!

Christine was overwhelmed with relief. He had disabled Windsom, and now he was going to row himself ashore. In a matter of moments she’d be free!

She watched as he tied a short painter onto the little boat’s bow and slid it into the water. He bent down and held the dinghy close with one leg, then turned.

“I’m sorry,” he said evenly.

Giddy with relief, she nearly laughed out loud. Sorry? For what? she wondered, anger creeping in. For kidnapping me? For keeping me in constant fear over the last four days and nights? Or for tearing my poor father’s boat to shreds? She wanted to scream it all at the top of her lungs. But Christine held back, because more than anything else, she just wanted him to go.

He stepped into the dinghy and used one of the oars to push off. Then, locking the oars in their gimbals, he began rowing toward the shoreline. Christine scanned the rocky coast. It looked impenetrable from where she stood, two miles away, but she had no doubt he’d make it. She watched him go, rowing strongly. Again she thought about how quickly he had recovered from his injuries. Christine was thankful for that. Thankful because the strength was taking him away, stroke by stroke, out of her life for good.

“Keep going,” she said. “Keep going so that I’ll never see you again.”

A hundred yards away, David Slaton faced aft as he rowed ashore. He saw Windsom bobbing aimlessly, her torn sails and cut lines flopping uselessly in the breeze. And she was there, watching him.

He could hear the faint sound of waves breaking along the coast. The sound would gradually become a roar, but he would deal with that later. He pulled the oars hard through the cold water. Slaton felt beads of perspiration already forming on his face, and the muscles in his back and legs began to feel warm and full.

The physical labor was good. He needed the exercise. But more importantly, Slaton finally felt like he was doing something. For days he’d taken it easy, letting his body recover. He had used the time to think, to try and make sense out of what had happened to Polaris Venture. She’d been sabotaged — of that, he was sure. But by whom? And why? There had been fifteen others on that ship, good soldiers one and all. The whole operation had been tightly held, known to only a few people in South Africa and those at the highest level of his own government. Yet it had been compromised all the same.

Then there was Yosy’s phone call, right before Slaton had departed England for the mission. It had seemed harmless enough at first, but then Yosy dropped the name Sheena into the conversation, a fictitious character they’d devised years ago while working together in southern Italy. The name was a flag, their personal warning code. It had never gotten used in Italy, but last week Yosy brought up the name during an otherwise casual conversation — twice. Extreme danger. Slaton had been thrown quickly into the Polaris Venture mission, and was unable to contact Yosy by a more secure means. Once briefed on Polaris Venture, he never considered that it might be the subject of Yosy’s warning, given the level of secrecy around the project. Now he saw that was clearly a mistake.

Yosy might not have known specifically about Polaris Venture, but he’d seen a danger and tried to give warning. Slaton decided that as soon as he was safe, the first order of business would be to get in touch with Yosy. He could be trusted. Everywhere else there were doubts. Slaton had to be careful, because somewhere there was a traitor, and he had a bad feeling it was on the Israeli side of the fence. At the moment, however, he held one distinct advantage. Only one person in the world even knew he was alive, and she didn’t know who he was.

Slaton took one last look at the small sailboat. She was standing astern with an arm raised, holding onto a stanchion. At this distance her figure was nothing more than a silhouette. A strange corollary flowed into his mind as he decided she was an exceptionally attractive woman, from any distance. It was a plain beauty, simple and unadorned by cosmetics or trappings. She was average in height and build, with a distinctly athletic carriage, fluid and steady, never bothered by the movement of the boat. The hair was straight and brown, with lighter streaks from the sun, the skin clear and tan. His mind held a vivid image.

It was, however, an impression that could not be permitted to linger. It bothered him and he pushed it away. There was no place for it. There had not been for a very long time. Slaton looked again over his shoulder to evaluate the task at hand. He spied the small house atop the bluff, the one that undoubtedly commanded a breathtaking view of this craggy coastline. He had spotted it with the binoculars from Windsom. A vacation home, with any luck abandoned this time of year. That was where he was headed. David Slaton reestablished his grip on the oars and pulled hard. Now it was time to work.