The Perfect Assassin

Chapter Five

He dragged the dinghy up a steep pathway, thankful it wasn’t any heavier. Slaton’s bare feet slipped now and again on loose stones, and he had to grab at the bases of the sturdier shrubs for leverage as he lugged his load uphill. The path rose from a tiny patch of sand and pebbles — what must have passed for a beach along this rugged stretch of coastline — which had fortunately been accessible during the low tide. If he had arrived six hours later he might still be rowing up the coast, looking for a place to put in. Even better, the footpath eventually led to the very house that had piqued his interest. Slaton had already been up the path once to do his reconnaissance. The house was vacant, as he’d hoped.

Finally reaching the top with the dinghy in tow, he stopped for a moment to catch his breath. The house lay in front of him. It was a boxy, two-story structure with a small shed off to one side, the type of quaint summer residence common to the area, and probably used only a few months of the year.

He grabbed the dinghy again and dragged it to the shed. There, he tipped it up on one side and leaned it against the wooden building. No better place to hide something than right out in the open. Slaton went around to the front of the shed and swung open its squeaky door. The padlock had been a problem, but then his lock-picking tools were less than professional grade. The tensioner was a tiny, flat-bladed screwdriver, the rake a thin metal rod, both scavenged from the sailboat’s toolbox. Old and rusted, the lock on the shed had taken five minutes. Fortunately, the back door of the main house had been far more accommodating, giving up in a matter of seconds.

The shed was dark inside, light only coming by way of the open door and a few cracks that had evolved between the old wooden wall planks. There was a single bulb mounted up on the ceiling with a pull-cord, but it would be no use since the power had been disconnected for the season. Slaton’s eyes gradually adjusted. He could make out an old lawn mower that looked like it hadn’t been used in years, a scattered assortment of gardening tools, a tireless rim from a bicycle wheel, and an old rusted wheelbarrow. The place had an oily, musty odor. Some gnarled driftwood lay in a pile in one corner, and Slaton heard an animal scratching and scurrying underneath.

He spotted a bulky tarp covering something large in one corner. Slaton maneuvered through the junk and yanked the tarp away, revealing an ancient Brough motorcycle. He shoved aside a rake and a few old boards to get a closer look. There was a helmet, the tires were up, and he saw no obvious parts missing. It was a relic, but might be serviceable. He shoved more junk aside and eventually made a path wide enough to walk the machine outside. There, the first thing he noticed was a current license plate. That was a good sign — probably a toy of the owner’s. He checked for fuel and found less than half a tank. Slaton got on and began to kick the starter, still not hoping for much. After ten tries, the machine coughed, spit, and eventually held a tenuous grip on idle power. Slaton added some throttle and it clunked to a stop.

He got off, put his hands on his hips, and sized up the tired old contraption. Other than walking, it was his only mode of transportation at the moment. Slaton cast a glance up the coastline. Earlier, from the top floor of the house, he’d seen that the nearest neighbors were a half-mile away on either side. The house to the west looked vacant, though he couldn’t say for sure. The house to the east was definitely occupied — there were lights on, and a thin wisp of smoke emanated from the chimney.

He considered how much time he might have. The neighbors were far enough away that they wouldn’t notice him anytime soon. More pressing was the good Dr. Palmer. She was a capable sailor. He had no doubt she’d have some kind of sail rigged up by now. Even so, it would be at least nightfall before she could make any port. What worried him more was the chance she might flag down another boat. If she could contact the authorities by radio, things would go a lot faster. Sometime in the next twenty-four hours the police would start searching this stretch of coastline for a man — six-foot-one, sandy hair, and recovering from a nasty sunburn. They’d start by looking for the boat he’d come ashore in, the one that was now tucked neatly against the woodshed.

Gasoline dripped slowly off the bottom of the Brough’s engine. Slaton scratched his chin and decided he’d give it an hour. There were a few rudimentary tools strewn about the shed. If he couldn’t get it up and running by then, he’d move by some other means. Jump into a truck, steal a bicycle, or walk if necessary. He had to distance himself from this place in order to get safe. Only then could he begin the real work that lay ahead.

It took forty minutes. A loose clamp on the fuel hose and a badly adjusted carburetor were the main problems. Slaton had also cleaned the spark plugs and found some oil to add. That done, the thing ran. It would never be the cutting-edge racing machine it had been sixty years before, but he figured it would hold together long enough to get him out of Cornwall.

Slaton went into the house and climbed to the second floor. The lone room there was arranged as a library or den of sorts. He edged up to a window, keeping his own profile in the shadows, and looked out across the treeless, heathered landscape.

A thin column of smoke still wafted up from the chimney of the house to the east. Slaton studied the meandering road that loosely connected the properties along the coast. So far, there had been no traffic. He surveyed the lay of the land and tried to recall the coastal features he’d seen from his approach to shore earlier; that in mind, he guessed the quickest way to a main road would be east.

Downstairs were two bedrooms and he started with the smaller. He found linens and boxes of needlepoint, but nothing of use. Slaton wasn’t particularly careful about fingerprints. That would only slow things down and he didn’t have the time. Eventually the authorities would match some of the prints around the house to some of those on the sloop Wind-som. It didn’t matter. His prints were not on file. Not with Scotland Yard, not with Interpol. It would be another dead end.

He moved to the other bedroom and was quickly rewarded. A small wooden box on the dresser held three twenty-pound notes and another five or so in loose change. In the closet he found what he really needed — clothing. The rags he had on were disintegrating fast, except for the U CONN sweatshirt he’d stolen. More importantly, tomorrow all of it would be included in the police description of a man on the loose, a mad kidnapper who’d been plucked from the ocean. This quiet little hamlet would be in an uproar by midday. Fortunately, the house seemed to have at least one seasonal occupant who was roughly Slaton’s height. Unfortunately, he was also about fifty pounds heavier. It would have to do.

He chose a pair of dark work pants and a cotton pullover shirt. A belt from the dresser, cinched to its smallest circumference, kept the pants in the vicinity of his waistline. He found two sweaters and put both on, the heavier, a wool pullover, on the outside. The brisk temperatures outside would turn downright bone-chilling in a seventy mile an hour breeze, or whatever the old machine could muster. Slaton went back to the closet and rummaged further. The selection of shoes was limited, but happened to be a good fit, and he chose a newer pair of leather hiking boots. Finally, Slaton took a few more items of clothing and stuffed them into an old canvas backpack.

Dressed and packed, he positioned himself in front of a full-length mirror and evaluated the effect. The thick, bulky clothing made him look stockier. He was still dirty and greasy from working on the motorcycle. Slaton wiped his filthy hands on the trousers, then, for good measure, smudged the sleeve of his sweater. It was good. The scraggly, half-grown beard helped, and the blisters on his face, not completely healed, gave his complexion a ruddy appearance. It was quite good. A working man. Just finished an honest day’s work and on his way home, or maybe to the pub for a pint.

Satisfied, he pocketed the money he’d found and went outside. Slaton closed the door to the shed and looked around to see if anything else was obviously out of place. Other than a new boat leaning against the shed, the exterior was just as he’d found it.

He climbed on the Brough and kicked it to life. The thing spewed heavy blue smoke before chugging itself into a rhythm. He gave the throttle a turn and the old bike scampered up the dirt and gravel driveway, churning a cloud of dust along the way. Slaton hit the road at speed and turned east.

A surly Anton Bloch was putting on his coat to head home when Paul Mordechai came bounding energetically into his office. One hand held a piece of paper, which he shook wildly over his head, the other a can of Coke, the sugar and caffeine elixir that Bloch suspected was partly responsible for the engineer’s constant state of motion.

“We’ve found an ROV in France. It’s owned by a non-profit environmental group and they want to sell it so they can upgrade to a deeper model. This one will work just fine for us, though. I even talked them down to a great price.”

Bloch couldn’t have cared less. “When can we get it?”

“As soon as we transfer the funds. It’s in Marseille right now.”

“Which ship have you decided to use?”

“Of those we have enroute, I think Hanit is the best choice.”

Bloch put his coat back on the rack. “All right. I’ll have her diverted to Marseille.”

“Don’t you want to know how much?” Mordechai asked cheerily.

Bloch ignored him, picked up the phone and arranged for a secure line to Defense. Waiting for the connection to be run, he was naked to Mordechai’s stare. “All right, give me the account information and I’ll arrange payment,” he said impatiently.

Mordechai grabbed a notepad from Bloch’s desk and scribbled the account numbers from memory, talking at the same time, “Six hundred and fifty thousand. It’s a steal! I’ll bet they paid one-three, maybe one-five last year. We got the controller, cables, displays, and all the spares.”

Bloch glowered. “Go pack your bags. You’re going to Marseille. I’ll have a jet waiting for you at Palmachim within the hour.”

The engineer smiled, clearly pleased he’d be able to play with his new toy.

“You’d better hurry,” Bloch said pointedly.

Mordechai shrugged, took the last swig of his Coke, then wheeled around and launched the empty can basketball style at a trash bin across the room. Missing badly, he scurried over, scooped up the rebound and performed an exceptionally awkward slam-dunk. The engineer then zoomed out of the room, completely oblivious to the Director’s seething expression, a look that would have shriveled any other employee in the building.

“If he wasn’t a goddamn genius …” Bloch muttered through clenched teeth.

Clive Batty had been around the docks in Penzance for all his sixty years but he’d never seen anything like it. The harbormaster stared at the little sloop that had just crawled in out of the mist. It was propelled by a few strips of loosely sewn canvas and what looked like a flower-print bed sheet. The boat eased closer to where he stood on the dock and a young woman moved to the bow with a coiled rope. She tossed the line and it fell across the planks right next to him. Batty secured it to a cleat and she threw him another line, this one attached to the stern of the crippled little boat. Together they pulled and pushed Windsom alongside the dock and tied her on.

“Must’ve been a bad blow you went through there, missy. We had some of it ’ere, but it didn’t hit us hard.” Batty kept looking up at the rigging. Damnedest thing he’d ever seen. Broken lines everywhere. A bunch of spaghetti, like you’d expect if the mast had gone down — only the mast was up.

The woman jumped onto the dock and her gait turned wobbly. Batty knew sea legs when he saw them. He thought she looked tired, too.

“Been out for a while, ’ave ye?”

She walked up and offered a hand. “Christine Palmer.”

“Clive Batty. They just call me Bats.” He scratched the gray stubble of whiskers on his chin. “Looks like you’ll be in the market for a good sailmaker. Me cousin Colin just happens to run a shop up the street. He does quality work and charges a lot for it.” Batty leaned toward Christine and whispered conspiratorially, “But I think you could get a more reasonable deal than most. He’s got a soft spot for the ladies, he does.”

Christine laughed. “Now I know I’m back in the real world.”

The harbormaster was puzzled.

“I’m sure your cousin is a terrific sail-maker and an honest man. I’ll be sure to see him.”

Batty grinned amiably, but the young lady’s features tightened.

“Before I can talk to him, though, I’ll need to see the police.”

He stood back and eyed her curiously. “Police, is it? And what might you be needin’ them for?”

“It’s a long story, I’m afraid. But I should talk to them right away.”

“Aye, then.” He pointed ashore. “Up that street and take the second right. Hester Street. Number 6.”

“Thanks.” She pointed toward her boat. “Can you look after her for now?”

“Like a child o’ me own.”

Christine smiled. “Thank you, Bats.”

He nodded. “Good luck, missy.” Batty watched her walk up the dock and then took another look at the ripped apart sailboat in front of him. He wondered what a nice young lass like that might have gotten into.

It took Slaton three hours to reach Exeter on the Brough. The machine was running rough by then and seemed to be overheating. He left it among a group of motorcycles parked together in a hospital parking lot, a few blocks from the train station. He walked the remaining distance and arrived, by the station clock, at 4:21. Slaton had been without a timepiece since Polaris Venture had gone down, but he estimated it had been roughly five hours since he’d left Windsom. He wondered if Dr. Palmer had gotten her boat to Penzance yet. Probably not, he decided, but it shouldn’t matter now. He had put a lot of distance between himself and West Cornwall, and the next step would take him even farther out of reach.

He’d hoped to acquire his ticket from an automated machine, but the only one he could find was out of service. With two sales booths to choose from, Slaton studied the respective clerks. One was an officious older woman, the other a young man, not much more than a teenager, with spiked hair and a bored, lethargic manner. An easy choice, even though the young man’s line was a little longer. Slaton purchased his ticket with cash, the agent barely looking up at the scruffy bloke who wanted a one-way for the 4:50 to Reading, with a connection to Oxford.

Slaton went to the men’s restroom. He cleaned up his face and hands in a washbasin while another man stood at a urinal, humming while he went about his business. When the hummer finally left, Slaton was alone. He moved into a toilet stall and shut the door. Five minutes later, he emerged in a pair of jeans, a collared knit shirt, and a red windbreaker. All of it fit badly and the beard still promoted a rough texture, yet it was an altogether different impression versus the ruffian who had gone into the loo — still working class, but a few rungs higher up the ladder. Slaton spotted a London Times in the trash can. He pulled it out, gave one neat fold to display the sports section, and slid it into the pocket of his canvas backpack, a picture of footballer David Beckham protruding obviously.

He boarded the train twenty minutes later, selecting an open seat next to a nicely dressed older woman. She had an expensive, well-tended appearance, and sported a tremendous diamond wedding ring. Like a good snob, she avoided eye contact with Slaton, no doubt put off by his pointedly proletariat showing. He doubted she’d find a word for him the entire way to Reading.

With doors sealed, the train started off, slowly picking up speed. Slaton settled back and closed his eyes. He’d be in Oxford in five hours. Five hours to get some rest, and to concentrate on his next step.

The Penzance police station, a remote outpost of the Devon and Corn-wall Constabulary, was a small affair. Nothing more had been necessary when it was built two hundred years ago. After the First World War, one of the original stone walls had been taken down to allow for the construction of three holding cells adjacent to the main room. The police chief at the time had been an ambitious man, but aside from the occasional brawl at the Three Sisters pub, the cells went largely vacant and had evolved over the years. One remained a holding cell, one was redone as the chief’s office, and the last had taken plumbing to become a water closet — at least that was what the sign on the door said. Virtually all business was undertaken in the main room, where a hodgepodge of desks and chairs served as foundation for a hodgepodge of books and papers. Altogether, it afforded the station a compact, yet very busy appearance, decidedly at odds with the sleepy hamlet outside.

Christine sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair, her clenched hands resting on a rickety folding table. She had just finished her story for the third time and the man across the table was methodically going back over the details.“

And when he tore apart your boat and took the dinghy … how far from shore did you say you were?” the man asked.“

Two miles, I guess. Plus or minus a half mile.”

Chief Walter Bickerstaff nodded. He was a broad-chested man whose round face was fronted by a broad, flattened nose that looked like it might have been broken any number of times. Presently, his jowls were darkened by the shadow of a coarse beard — the type that would yield to nothing but the sharpest of razors — and his brow set furrowed in deep concentration.“

So let’s see,” Bickerstaff said, thinking aloud, “if a man can row at three … let’s give him four miles an hour, he might have been ashore in half an hour. And you said he left at roughly noon today. That would put him ashore just before one o’clock this afternoon. Of course that’s if he went straight in. He might have had a time finding a place to land along the coast. Pretty rocky in those parts.”

Christine tried to look interested in Bickerstaff’s thoughts, but she was tired. She’d been rehashing the facts for three hours. Once for Constable Edwards, and now twice for the chief. Bickerstaff had gauged her closely the first time, in the way one might size up a person thought to have stayed out a pint too long. The second time through, her answers got terse, enough to make him realize that she was serious and not the least bit inebriated. Still, Christine couldn’t really blame the man for being skeptical. It was a pretty incredible story.

Bickerstaff tapped a pencil on the table. “You said you thought this man had been on a ship named Polaris Venture. Is that what he told you?”

“No. He never used that name. I saw it stenciled on the cooler, the one he was hanging onto when I found him.”

Bickerstaff was about to ask something else when the phone rang. As far as Christine could see it was the only one in the station. Bickerstaff picked it up and began nodding as the caller went on about something. Eventually, Bickerstaff responded with a few quiet remarks that were out of earshot for Christine, then hung up.“

That was Edwards. He’s been looking out along the shoreline at Mounts Bay. Nothing yet, but it’s getting dark now. I’ll have him press on in the morning.”

“In the morning?” Christine shot back. “This man could be long gone by then. Chief, I tell you, he’s a menace. You’ve got to find him. Have you sent this up to higher authorities?”

Bickerstaff responded sharply to her accusative tone, “Now see here, miss. Everything that can be done is being done. We’ll investigate this as I see fit. There’s no need getting emotional about these things—”

“I am emotional about it!” Christine snapped. “He hijacked my boat! He threatened me! By now he could be halfway to France!”

Bickerstaff’s beefy figure bristled and he sucked in a full chest of air, as if ready to lash back. But then he deflated, got up, and paced around the room. After a few moments his manner softened. “I think that’s about all we can do this evening, Miss Palmer. Do you have a place to stay?”

She sighed. “Yes, my boat.”

“No, I’m sorry. There may be evidence aboard and we haven’t had time for a proper search. There’s a good hotel right up the coast road, near enough that you can walk. Chessman’s. I’ll call to make sure they give you a good, quiet room. You must be exhausted after your ordeal.”

Christine had to agree there. She could never remember having been so tired. “Can I at least go back to Windsom and get a fresh change of clothes?”

“Yes, of course. Get what you need. Just try not to disturb things any more than necessary. We’ll go over it first thing in the morning. I trust you plan on staying for a few days while we sort through all this?”

The question took Christine by surprise. For the first time since she’d pulled that man out of the sea, she could plan ahead. She could think about the next day, the next week.“

I suppose I’ll be here long enough to get Windsom back in shape. That’ll probably take a couple of weeks.” She felt like she could sleep at least that long.

Bickerstaff made the call to Chessman’s. He raised an obvious fuss about reserving the best room in the place, not letting on that his uncle Sid was the owner, or that this time of year she’d likely be Sid’s only guest. That done, he showed her to the door.“

Come by ’round ten tomorrow morning, Miss Palmer. From here we can go down to your boat. I’d like you to show me around.”

“All right.”

He walked her out to the street. She paused for a moment as if unsure of which way to go, then turned downhill toward the docks.

Bickerstaff went back inside, sat down at the station’s lone computer terminal, and began pecking slowly with two index fingers. It was a laborious process, but in time he got what he expected. Police data, naval reports, news articles — nothing anywhere about a ship having gone down off the coast of Africa. The only maritime accident he could spot over the last ten days was a helicopter that had crashed into a North Sea oil rig.

Just to make sure, he made a phone call to Lloyd’s of London. They insured practically every big ship in the world, as far as he knew. If something had gone down, they’d know about it. The clerk there was quite helpful — it was police business, after all — and Bickerstaff started by asking for any information on a ship named Polaris Venture.

The clerk explained. That particular name was quite popular among big ships. In fact, at least nineteen vessels on file matched. He suggested that Bickerstaff add the owner’s name, or at least the country of registry, and things would go a lot faster. Not knowing either, Bickerstaff told the man that he could easily narrow his search to ships that had gone down in the eastern Atlantic within the last two weeks.

To that, the Lloyd’s man had an immediately knowledgeable and simple reply. In the last two weeks there had been three ships reported lost in the entire world. Two small freighters had sunk from a collision in Malaysia, and an ice breaker in Antarctica had ingloriously not lived up to its calling — the ice had won. Nothing at all in the Atlantic for over two months. It was just as Bickerstaff had suspected. He thanked the Lloyd’s man and dialed a more familiar number. A woman answered.“

Hello, luv.”

“There you are,” Margaret Bickerstaff declared. “I’ve been doing my best to keep your supper warm but if you can’t be home by nine, I’ll not be responsible.”

“Sorry, luv. We had this bird come in today, had a story to beat them all, she did. I’ll tell you about it later, over some tea. I don’t know how they think them up.”

“Touched, was she?”

“To say the least. American.”

“Ahh,” Margaret Bickerstaff replied.“

Says she’s a doctor. Shouldn’t be hard to put some holes in her story. A few calls to the states and I’ll find out where she’s escaped from.”

“That means you’ll be workin’ a bit later, then?”

“I’ll get on as fast as I can. It won’t take long.” Bickerstaff checked his watch. “The places I need to call in the states will still be open a few more hours. If I don’t get hold of them now, we’ll be into tomorrow afternoon. And I’ve got to send a quick report to the Yard.”

“Then I’ll be giving your chop to the cat,” she chided. “No sense in good food going to waste.”

“You know best, luv. I’ll be home as soon as I can.” Chief Bickerstaff frowned and rang off as Constable Edwards walked in.“

Blast!” Bickerstaff fumed.“

What’s the matter, Chief? Cat got your supper again?”

Slaton walked up St. John Street a few strokes after one in the morning. The lateness of the hour was by design. His train had arrived in Oxford hours ago and he’d stopped at a pub near the station to eat, taking his time. Slaton wanted no chance of running into any neighbors on the way up to his apartment. He was, after all, a dead man, and there was no telling who might be aware of his demise.

The building was Number 12, a block of eight flats, his on the third floor, in front and facing the street. Slaton looked over the familiar structure as he approached. There was only one light on in the building, emanating from the caretaker’s flat. That was as it should be. Mrs. Peabody was a seventy-two-year-old widow, always in bed by ten, who drew comfort from leaving a light on. Slaton figured the only tenant he might possibly run into at this hour was Paddy Cross, a retired machinist and right solid alcoholic who kept a schedule for no man. Fortunately, when Paddy did find his way home, he could usually be heard singing ribald songs in full voice long before he was seen.

Slaton moved quietly up to the third floor landing. He stopped outside his flat and took a good look at the brass number six on the door. Two things were missing, one being the top screw that was supposed to keep the number in place. Invariably, every time the door opened, it fell and hung upside-down on the bottom screw, making a number nine. Also missing was the trace of sawdust he’d placed in the crook of the six. He’d had visitors. That was also as it should be. No doubt his government had decided he was missing and probably dead. They’d have sent a team from the embassy to go over his flat, to make sure he hadn’t left anything embarrassing lying around.

Since his keys were in a bag on a ship at the bottom of the ocean, Slaton again made use of the lock-picking tools he’d pilfered from Wind-som’s toolbox. As he worked the tumbler, he realized that the few bits of normalcy he’d been able to acquire in his life were now completely gone. He was a dead man breaking into his own home.

The lock on the door handle was old and stiff, but soon gave way. There was another, more solid lock, but it was of the type that could only be engaged from inside the dwelling. Good for personal safety while you were home, but useless for protecting your things while you were out. Yosy had always insisted it to be of communist design.

Once inside, Slaton saw the flat largely unchanged. The appearance was decidedly spartan. A few basic pieces of furniture, a couple of cheap paintings on one wall. All of it had come with the lease. There were no photographs or travel trinkets. A small bookshelf offered a generic selection of classics and some well-worn popular novels of various themes. These too had come with the flat.

He looked around and concluded that things were more or less as he’d left them. The place had been searched, but not torn apart. He walked quickly to the bedroom, wanting to make it fast. A few clothes went into a canvas backpack, and he was happy to find four ten-pound notes stashed amongst his socks. Slaton looked for his Israeli passport, but was not surprised to find it gone, along with his British driver’s license.

He headed back to the living room. There, he went straight to the bookshelf and selected an aged, leather-bound edition of Treasure Island. He ran his hand along the spine and, content, stuffed it into the backpack with the clothing. At the telephone stand he noted that his personal register of addresses and telephone numbers was missing. Again, no surprise. He looked at the answering machine and saw a steady light. No messages.

He took a last look around the room — more to inventory than reminisce — then started to leave. Slaton paused halfway to the door. He turned and looked again at the answering machine. The little red light held steady. Steady. No new messages. His pals from the embassy would surely have listened to the tape. Anything noteworthy and they would have taken it. Empty, the machine’s green light would flash, so they had either taken the original and put in a blank tape, or decided that any messages on the existing tape were harmless. Slaton went back to the machine and hit the play button. It whirred, clicked and finally produced a voice he recognized as Ismael, an administrative clerk from the embassy.

“Mr. Slaton,” the voice said officiously, “Ismael Pellman. You haven’t filed a travel voucher for your trip to Paris on August three through five. Please do so, or call me to straighten it out before this Tuesday.” Then a beep, followed by a thickly accented voice. “Hello. This is Rangish Malwev at Rangal’s Fine Clothing. The leather jacket you have given us to repair is done. The charge is seventy-seven pounds, three. You may pick it up at your leisure.”

That one would have gotten the boys moving, Slaton thought. Of course all they’d find was that he really had sent in an old jacket to be repaired. For seventy-seven pounds he could have gotten a new one, but he was partial to the one he had. Or used to have.

Another beep and a dial tone.

A fourth beep and another message, the caller strangely familiar, but he didn’t recognize her right away. “David. Oh, David. I’m sorry but I didn’t know who else to call. They’ve been here all day but … I can’t believe what they tell me.” It was Ingrid Meier, Yosy’s wife. He’d known her for twelve years, yet Slaton barely recognized the quavering, broken voice that crackled from the recorder. Ingrid was one of the most rock-solid people he’d ever known, but here she sounded a shattered, babbling mess. Slaton’s blood went cold. “What happened, David? What happened?” She was crying. “Please call. I don’t know these people who came to see me today. They took his papers, his things. I want to hear it from you. He was coming to see you, to go hunting. Were you with him? What happened to my Yosy … please David …” She broke down, sobbing, and then a dial tone.

Slaton stared blankly at the machine as it stopped and then spun in the methodical process of rewinding. What happened? What happened to Yosy? Slaton felt ill. He could think of only one thing that would put Ingrid Meier in a state like that. His thoughts accelerated. He was coming to see you … London? Yosy had called with a warning, then tried to come see him. To explain the danger in person? But then what?

He checked the clock in the kitchen. 1:15 in the morning. How could he find out anything now? If something had happened to Yosy in England, anyone at the embassy could explain. But who could he trust? No one. Not now. Slaton picked up the phone, planning as he dialed. He had to know. The number he chose was not listed in any directory. It was low priority and non-secure, but unless someone had tinkered with it lately, this particular line would not be recorded or traced.

A tired woman answered, “Israeli Embassy.”

Fortunately, Slaton didn’t recognize the duty officer’s voice. A newby must have been socked with the late shift.“

Good morning,” Slaton said, gaining an octave. “This is Irving Weisen at Headquarters Personnel.”

“It’s morning here, but not by much,” the woman answered, yawning.“

Oh, of course.” Slaton said awkwardly. “We’re having a records inspection here, and I’m missing one of my files. I thought you might be able to help.”

The duty officer didn’t try to hide her disdain for the headquarters paper-pusher. “Look, this is the London station. We don’t keep hard copies of personnel records.”

“I realize that, but whoever checked it out was sloppy. Very sloppy. The only part of the checkout slip I can read has something scribbled on it about the London station. It might be one of your people, and if it is, perhaps we can figure out who would have wanted the folder here at headquarters — something like that.”

“Okay, okay. What’s the name?”

“Yosef Meier.”

“Shit!” the duty officer spat indignantly. “Don’t you guys have any idea what’s going on out here in the real world? Put a window in that building. Yosy Meier was killed in an accident here in London last week.”

The woman in the London embassy communications room heard nothing at the other end of the line. “Does that solve your mystery?” she finally asked with annoyance.“

Yes, I’m sorry. How did it happen?”

“He was hit by a bus, or a truck or something. Ask somebody at the Western Europe Desk. They ought to have a clue.”

Quietly, Slaton finished what he started. “All right. I know where that file would be. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” He heard the click as the embassy woman hung up.

Slaton stood motionless. His best friend was dead. An accident, the woman had said. For Slaton there could no longer be any doubt. Someone had tried to kill him. Someone had sunk Polaris Venture with her entire crew. His body tensed. They were on him again, the feelings he had faced for so long. The horror he’d battled until there was nothing at all — only numbness. Now, in a moment, that pain returned. Or maybe it had never really gone. He wondered what Yosy could have known. If he’d only come to London a few days sooner, Slaton would have been around to find out. And maybe Yosy would be home now, and his wife wouldn’t be a basket case, and his children — God, his children —

There was an audible crack and Slaton looked down. The plastic telephone receiver, still in his grip, had fractured. Small shards of white plastic lay on the floor at his feet. He looked at his hand for a moment as if it were not part of him, not under his control, while his heart continued to pound. Then Slaton saw his reflection in a mirror on the far wall. There was a sudden urge to throw the phone, or something, anything, at the image. He remembered how much he hated what he saw. Slaton closed his eyes.

It took a full two minutes. He stood without moving. Slowly, his breathing came under control, his hold on the broken phone eased. Slaton opened his eyes and carefully, almost delicately, placed the shattered receiver next to its cradle. He pulled the phone jack from the wall, then picked up his canvas backpack and went to the front door, not making a sound. At the door he stopped and listened patiently. The only sound to register, a car engine off in the distance. He opened the door a crack and saw the hall was empty.

Slaton left the building quickly and quietly. He made no attempt to right the upside-down six.

Thirty minutes later Slaton was on the outskirts of Oxford, one of the more industrial quarters that generally escaped the paths of most tourists. The city’s blue collar underpinnings ran deep, however the situation was played down for most intents and purposes. Car parks, walking paths, and public transportation were arranged to emphasize a more marketable image — that of a city of universities, an everlasting academic nirvana where the world’s best and brightest, strolling around in caps, gowns and white bow ties, designed solutions for a troubled planet. The big Rover car factory, vital as it might be to local dinner tables, was not an “image enhancer.”

Slaton stood across the street from a storage facility, an open-air design with a small office at the front, then four narrow rows of storage sheds surrounded by a three-meter metal fence. The only way in was through an electronic gate next to the office, where access was granted at all hours, seven days a week.

The place was owned by a chubby, nearly bald, pink-skinned fellow whom Slaton had met when renting his unit. The man lived in a flat above the office, allowing him to advertise “24-hour on-premises security and surveillance.” Of course, he probably slept for eight to ten of those twenty-four hours. Then, and on his days off, a single camera at the entrance supposedly recorded all activity to and from the rows of storage sheds, thereby rendering the advertisement correct in its most literal sense.

Slaton watched for ten minutes. No one else approached the place, and the proprietor’s flat over the office was still dark. He crossed the street and went straight to the gate. There, he entered the dubious access code — 1–2–3–4. The lock on the wire gate made a click, and he was in.

Slaton had rented the smallest compartment offered, 10-foot by 5, and those units happened to be right up front. The lock was his own, a simple key padlock, and distinctly less hefty than those on many of the other sheds — sure to emphasize the insignificance of what lay inside. He took out the key he’d retrieved from the spine of Treasure Island — the boys from the embassy had been sloppy — and opened the roll-up metal door.

Happily, everything was as he’d left it. There were a couple of beat-up old chairs, an apparently virgin stereo receiver (which actually hadn’t worked for years), and a few boxes containing books, magazines, and some old clothing. There was also a small, skewed table, and next to it, on the floor, an old television. The television’s picture screen had a severe diagonal crack and its plastic case was damaged on two corners. It looked for all the world like it had probably fallen off the crooked table, an effect Slaton had only been able to manufacture by dropping it to the concrete floor three times. Anyone raiding the cubicle would have immediately written off the television as junk and settled for the stereo. The rest was sure to disappoint all but the most desperate of thieves.

Slaton checked outside to make sure he was still alone, then went to work. He dug out a screwdriver from the bottom of a box of clothing and picked up the battered television, setting it on the table that, in spite of its asymmetrical appearance, was in fact quite sturdy. Slaton worked the back panel, pulling screws until the plastic cover that concealed the picture tube came loose. He removed the panel, revealing the usual array of circuit boards and wires, along with a small black pouch.

The pouch, that type of “fanny pack” often worn by tourists, was encased in a large zip-lock plastic bag. Slaton removed the plastic bag, opened the nylon carrier and quickly took inventory. There were five thousand British pounds and three thousand U.S. dollars, all in various small and medium denominations. Two Mossad-produced identification packages provided passports, driver’s licenses, and other associated documents, one even including a valid credit card. Of the identities, one was Danish and one British, chosen, quite simply, because those were his two most proficient languages. There was also a time-worn wallet.

This was Slaton’s get-well kit. He had set it up many years ago, mainly to recover if he ever became compromised as an “illegal.” Certain missions could have no ties to Israel. If he had to run in such a case, Slaton would be on his own to get safe, with no help from the embassies and their more legitimate staff. Because of this, he had built the kit and was meticulous about keeping it current and available. In the beginning, he’d used bank safe-deposit boxes, but the advent of self-storage enterprises provided a much more anonymous opportunity to squirrel his things away. Few cameras, fewer signatures and, best of all, no nosy bank officials.

There was one problem. The kit was missing the thing he needed most — a weapon. He’d taken the Glock semi-automatic to his flat for some upkeep. Earlier, he found it had been taken from his room, no doubt removed by the embassy cleaning crew.

He studied the two sets of identification. Every time he passed through Tel Aviv, Slaton would stop in Documents Section and switch out at least one of the packages. His special status in Mossad came with the label autonomous — all records of the identities he chose were expunged, and no one in Mossad was supposed to keep track of them. He now wondered if that was truly the case.

Slaton opened the wallet and began stuffing it with documents that presented him as Henrik Edmundsen, along with some cash. The old leather wallet was one he hadn’t used in years, and had been with the kit as long as he could remember.

As he came to the small plastic pockets where he was going to put the driver’s license, he found an old photograph, one he had mistakenly left inside. Slaton stopped and stared at the picture, not able to help himself. The confluence of emotions immediately swept in and churned, like a half-dozen rivers meeting in one spot, but with nowhere to go. Abruptly, Slaton shoved the picture back behind a leather sleeve in the wallet where it couldn’t be seen. He cursed himself for his carelessness. It had been carelessness. He snatched up the remainder of his documents and cash, shoving everything back inside the nylon pack, all except the wallet, which he pocketed.

He closed up the shed and locked it for the last time. It was paid for through the end of the month. A month or two after that, the owner would rip the lock from the past due shed and toss out Slaton’s little collection of junk. Leaving the facility, he dropped the key down a storm drain and walked east toward the train station. On the way he passed a cab, two bus stops, and a car rental agency. The storage shed had been a good choice.

Slaton suppressed the urge to check six. No one would be following him. Not yet. The world thought he was dead. Everyone except a young American doctor, who was probably in a police station in Penzance. And she had no idea who he was. All the same, he stayed alert.

The first train to Reading left at four in the morning. He boarded a nearly empty car at the far end of the platform and took a seat. Slaton closed his eyes as the train lurched ahead. He knew where he had to start. Ingrid Meier had told him, the anguished voice echoing in his head. What happened, David? He was coming to see you, to go hunting. There was such pain in her voice. The kind of pain that would never go away. Not without answers.

Slaton vowed to find out what happened to Yosy. When he did, he would go to Ingrid and tell her everything. Then, perhaps she could heal. Perhaps she could recover as he never had.