The Perfect Assassin

Chapter Seven

Christine sat quietly on the couch, stunned. Her stomach was knotted, her muscles rigid. Harding sat next to her, a gun in his far hand. She wanted to cry out, to scream for help, but they’d warned her against it. That warning was reinforced by the ominously calm expressions of her new captors. It had happened again. Ever since she’d pulled that miserable, half-dead wretch from the ocean, her life had gone mad, a nightmare with no end.

They had spent the last few minutes asking questions, many of the same ones they’d already asked her. She could see them mentally compare her answers to the previous ones. The two men exchanged looks and nods as she talked. Christine couldn’t imagine what they wanted from her.

Bennett performed the questioning, “And what were the actual coordinates where you found this man?”

Christine tried, but it was hopeless. “I told you, I don’t remember the exact latitude and longitude. I marked the spot and recorded the coordinates on a chart, but I didn’t memorize them. I do remember plotting it to be 280 miles on a zero-five-zero bearing from the Madeiras.”

More looks. Harding got up, and the two men retreated out of earshot for a hushed conversation. Christine didn’t like it. They were standing right by the big window at the rear of the room. The only other way out was the front door, but she’d never make it if they were serious about using that gun, and she suspected they were. For some reason, these two scared her even more than the other madman.

Bennett and Harding, or whoever they were, broke their huddle. Harding’s gun was gone, but she figured he could make it reappear fast.

“You’ll need to come with us.”

“I’m not going anywhere. All I did was pull some poor soul out of the ocean, and ever since people are pushing me around. I’d like to know why!”

“The man you found is very dangerous. We’re trying to find him.”

“Well, that still doesn’t tell me who you are. You’re certainly not the police.”

There was no reply to that. Bennett went to the front door. He opened it, looked in both directions, then left while Harding closed the door and stood in front of it, a guard with his eyes locked on a prisoner. Christine heard a car pull up outside, and moments later, a single knock on the door.

“Time to go,” Harding said.

Christine stood fast.

“No harm will come to you.” His accent was hard on the consonants. He put a hand obviously into his jacket without showing the gun. “Now!”

Christine knew she had to find a way out, and find it now. She walked slowly to the door and Harding reached out, obviously intending to lock an arm around her before going outside. Christine was passing the small alcove that served as the closet when she saw what she needed, up on the shelf above her clothes. When Harding turned his head to find the door handle, Christine lunged up for the clothes iron on the shelf.

Harding, alerted by her quick movement, reached into his jacket for the gun. He arced it up toward Christine, but before he could level, she smacked the iron down onto his arm. Harding screamed in pain as he lost his grip on the weapon. The gun hit the floor along with the iron. Christine went for the gun, as she thought he would. But Harding surprised her by lowering his shoulder and charging, using his bulk to drive her crashing into the wall. The blow stunned Christine and she collapsed, gasping for breath, her vision blurred.

When she finally looked up, she saw Harding holding his gun gingerly with the arm she’d just whacked, a thoroughly angry look on his face. He grabbed Christine and yanked her violently to her feet. She stumbled, still woozy from the blow she’d taken. Her head, her shoulder — everything hurt. Harding propped her up, opened the door, and was about to shove her outside when they both froze at the sight. Bennett was lying face down in a planter, groaning weakly.

Harding never had time to react as a hand swung around from the right and caught him in the throat. The big man fell back into the room, pulling a stumbling Christine with him until she fell to the side. Harding recovered his balance but had no time to raise the gun before another strong blow, this one a heel kick, crashed into his face just below the nose. It snapped his head violently up and back, the motion ending with an audible crack. Harding crumbled heavily to the floor and lay motionless, his head twisted at an impossible angle.

“Damn!” she heard her rescuer say. It was a voice she knew. Christine looked up in disbelief.

“You!”

David Slaton ignored the girl and charged the other man who was stumbling toward the open driver’s door of a big BMW. He collared him and threw him headlong into the car’s fender. The man groaned and rolled onto his side. Slaton picked him up roughly and sat him against the front tire. He didn’t bother searching for a weapon — if there had been one, he’d have already used it.

“Who is Savior, Itzaak?” Slaton demanded.

The man gave no response.

“How many are in the group?”

No response again. Slaton looked to his left and saw someone scurrying in the window of the motel office. There wasn’t much time. The girl was still sitting beside the dead man. Slaton moved toward her.

When she saw him coming, she scrambled on her hands and knees, searching frantically for the dead man’s gun. She found it under his hip, but before she could do anything more, Slaton was on her. They struggled with the weapon, grabbing and twisting, her finger near the trigger. A shot rang out and she let go reflexively as bits of plaster rained down from the ceiling above.

Slaton took the gun, a 9mm Beretta, and stood over Christine and the dead man. He looked back and addressed the man who was still leaning against the car. “Who, Itzaak?” he yelled.

“I don’t know,” came the weak reply.

Slaton pointed the gun at the man’s partner and let go a round. The girl jerked away involuntarily at the shot, and a small hole erupted in the wood floor right next to the body. Slaton walked purposefully to the man he knew as Itzaak, leveled the gun at his head and said, “That’s it for him. Last chance for you.”

The man’s eyes went wide as he recognized the fate of his comrade. He broke, his expression disintegrating into raw fear, and Slaton knew he’d get the truth.

“I don’t know! I swear I don’t know who controls. I take my instructions by phone.”

“Who are the others?”

The man babbled a half-dozen names. The two Slaton recognized had to be small fish.

“There’s more, but I don’t know who they all are.”

“How many in all?”

“I … I don’t know … fifteen, maybe twenty.”

Slaton heard a siren in the distance. It was time to go. He pointed the pistol squarely between the man’s eyes and spoke slowly. “Itzaak, tell them the kidon is going to find them. I will find them all!” Slaton safed the Beretta, dragged the man to his feet, and threw him into a neat row of shrubbery. He was about to get in the car when he remembered the girl. He looked at her directly.

It was a stare that instantly mobilized Christine. She got up and broke into a run toward the office.

Slaton bolted, taking an angle to cut her off. She slid to a stop in front of him as Slaton put his hands out, palms forward, trying to appear less threatening.

“You have to come with me,” he said.

She shook her head violently, “No!” she pleaded, “No more!”

Slaton saw she wasn’t going to go easily. “I don’t have time to negotiate here.”

He grabbed an arm and pulled her roughly over to the BMW, shoving her inside and across to the passenger seat. Slaton got in, slammed the car into gear, and flew out of the parking lot. Cocking his head to the mirror, he saw blue pulsating lights. He had half a mile to work with.

Slaton drove wildly for two blocks, took a right turn, two lefts, then stopped abruptly. He got out, pulling Christine along, and hurried ahead to the next street where the Peugeot was parked. He put her in and started driving again, this time moving quickly, but with more control. Ten minutes later, the small town of Penzance faded away behind them. Slaton eased to a normal speed and began thinking about his next step.

They drove for an hour, winding across deserted country roads. Slaton made turns without ever referencing a map. He had come up with three preplanned avenues of egress. The first ran east on the A30 — fast, but highly visible. The second took him east along a series of less traveled secondary roads. The last was a westerly route, to the isolation of Land’s End. It was something no one would expect, and definitely reserved as a last-ditch jink to get clear, since doing so would severely limit his subsequent options.

Leaving Penzance, Slaton decided the police would find the BMW quickly. But he was reasonably confident that no one had seen them switch to the rented Peugeot. They had managed an anonymous departure from the chaos, and so he’d selected the second route, hoping to avoid detection while still heading in the right direction.

Slaton eyed his passenger. She seemed to be in shock, curled up against the door with a distant, glazed expression. It was a look he’d seen before, in many different scenarios — battlefields, prisons, hospitals. All the places where trauma tore at the human mind and body. It usually didn’t bother him.

“I’m sorry about shoving you around back there,” he offered. “I didn’t have time to explain things.”

She didn’t move or speak.

“I said I’m sorry,” he repeated.

She looked at him this time. “Sorry?” she whispered. “Again, you’re sorry?” Without warning she lunged at him and started swinging, a flurry of fists that nearly caused Slaton to veer off the road. He struggled to stop the car while being beaten about the head and shoulders. Her swings were wild, but a blow landed painfully on his jaw and he recognized the salty tang of blood in his mouth. She continued to lash out as the car came to rest on the shoulder of the road. Slaton did his best to fend off the barrage but did nothing to stop her. Eventually she slowed, then finally stopped, the tantrum having run its course.

“Sorry for what?” she yelled. “For killing that man back there? Or the others you’ve killed? How many have there been?”

He said nothing.

“Why can’t you just stay away from me?” She flung out another fist that glanced off his shoulder.

He looked at her impassively, a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you done yet?”

“No!” She shouted, tears now streaming down her cheeks.

“I came back because I realized those two men, or someone like them, would come after you.”

Christine laughed, “Oh right, you came to rescue me.”

“No. I came to find them. I knew they’d track you down, so I found out where you were staying, and then waited.”

Her eyes narrowed as she tried to understand. “What would they want with me? Who are they? Or perhaps I should say, who were they?”

“I only killed one of them,” he said distractedly, studying the rear-view mirror, “and that was an accident.”

“Oh, it was an accident that you kicked him in the face so hard you broke his neck. I suppose it’s okay then.”

“It happens.”

“Not where I live it doesn’t!”

He shot back, “And what do you suppose they had in mind for you if I hadn’t come along?”

Christine had no reply. She drew back to her corner, pressing against the door.

“This is crazy,” she finally said. “Two men I’ve never seen before in my life, asking me questions and trying to pass themselves off as police. When I figure out that they’re lying, they want to kill me. Only then I’m saved by … by yet another recurring lunatic.”

She looked at him, her eyes pleading for some simple explanation. Slaton offered nothing.

“So now you’re my hero?” she said. “Returning the favor from when I pulled you out of the Atlantic? Somehow I don’t feel like we’re even. If I hadn’t found you, I’d be a thousand miles from here, halfway to New Haven by now. My biggest worry would be whether I wanted a can of beans or a can of hash for lunch. Instead, I’ve got strangers chasing me around a foreign country, threatening me. And the local police think I’m psychotic.”

“Look, you saved my life and I am grateful. I wish you hadn’t been pulled into all this. But I can’t change it now.”

“You wish I hadn’t been pulled into it?” she asked incredulously. “You hijacked my boat! You … you killed someone and then forced me into a car at gunpoint!”

“There was no time to explain back at the hotel. I had to get you out of there. It wasn’t safe.”

“And now I’m safe?”

“No, you’re not,” he said. “At least not yet.”

He gauged her pensively, deciding how far to go.

“Look, I won’t keep you against your will. But let me explain a few things first.” He saw her eyes drop to the gun in his lap, forgotten in the fury of her assault. Slaton tucked it carefully under the seat, a show of goodwill. As he straightened, the sound of an engine announced a car approaching from behind. His eyes went to the mirror, his hands to the steering wheel and gearshift. A few moments later the car whisked by at speed. It disappeared around the curve ahead. He looked at her again. She seemed less tense.

“You could have bolted out and screamed for help from that car. You didn’t.”

“I’m glad you put that gun away,” she said with some consolation. “But you still haven’t told me who those men were. You knew them. You called one by name … Itzaak.”

“That’s very good — that you can remember details under stress. Most people can’t. Who did they say they were when you let them into your room?”

“They told me they were investigators with a branch of the British government. Maritime Investigations or something. They called themselves Bennett and Harding.”

“And they had IDs, although you didn’t look at them closely.”

She looked embarrassed. “They seemed professional enough.”

“One was Itzaak Simon. The other I don’t know by name, but I’ve seen him before. Both are assigned to the Israeli Embassy in London. Itzaak is the designated Assistant Attaché for Cultural Affairs. They’re both full-time Mossad Officers, Israeli intelligence.”

Christine laughed. “Spies? Israeli spies? What in the world would they want with me?”

“They’d want to find out how much you know about two things. Polaris Venture and me.” Slaton saw by her expression he’d scored a hit. “That’s what they asked you about, right?”

She nodded, “So you sank that ship and they’re after you? You’re with one of the Arab countries?”

He grinned. “No. I’m an Israeli too. And I didn’t sink the ship. I think they did.”

Christine sighed. “This isn’t getting any easier.” Her eyes narrowed as she studied him in the faint light of an overcast-shrouded midday sun. “You don’t look Israeli. You’re fair skinned.”

“We come in all colors, shapes, and sizes. I have a lot of Scandinavian blood, but I was born in Israel.”

“And you? You’re a spy too? Why would Israeli spies be sinking ships, and killing one another in quiet English villages?”

“A very good question. I didn’t know myself until yesterday. Then I got a letter from a friend of mine who had uncovered some information, and things began to make sense. I think there’s a group of traitors within the Mossad. They’re sabotaging operations, even targeting our own country and people.”

She sounded suspicious. “You mean they’re working with your enemies?”

“It looks that way, but I don’t know much about them yet. It’s an organization that’s been around for a long time. Lately they’ve been less active, but more desperate.”

“You say your friend told you all this in a letter?”

“He made a pretty convincing case.”

“And does he know who these people are?”

“Some of them. Some he hadn’t identified yet. In time he would have found them.”

“Would have?”

“Yosy was Mossad. He worked at headquarters, outside Tel Aviv. Last week he came here to tell me all this in person. I was gone on Polaris Venture, so he left a letter where he knew I’d find it. He was killed before he could get back home, hit by a bus in Knightsbridge. It was ruled an accident.”

Christine listened intently. Slaton went on for twenty minutes, telling her everything that had been in Yosy’s report. He explained who Leon Uriste had been, and that he, too, had recently met a suspicious end. Slaton described a traitorous organization within the Mossad, a group who were bombing synagogues and shooting soldiers. He had no idea how many people were involved, but it seemed to include someone near the top.

Christine tried to make heads or tails of the information. And perhaps more importantly, of the psyche of this man who was talking to her. The weight of what he told her was numbing on a moral scale, but always logical and consistent. She also noted his physical appearance. It kept changing in subtle ways, as if he were a portrait whose artist was never quite satisfied, always insisting on one more stroke of the brush. The blisters on his face had largely healed and his beard, light in color, was getting denser. If it hadn’t been for the eyes, she might not have recognized him at the motel. The intense blue-gray eyes that were always moving, scanning, processing all surroundings.

The few facts she could recall supported what he was telling her, and she suspected at least some of it had to be true. He finally finished with the sinking of Polaris Venture. Christine decided she knew the rest, and it left her with one particularly bothersome question.

“I still don’t understand what these men wanted with me.”

“They probably got word that you had rescued someone from a ship named Polaris Venture. They would want to know who you’d found. And they’d be curious as to what you knew about the ship.”

His attention shot forward as a truck came around the bend. She saw it as well.

“This could be your ride,” he offered. “You can go to the police and tell them everything. They won’t be able to protect you, though. Those two men were going to kill you. You and I are threats to their organization. Probably the only ones, now that Uriste and Yosy are dead. They’ll come after you, and a bobby standing guard at the door of a hotel room won’t stop them. That’s the best protection you’re likely to get from the police. If they believe your story. Stay with me and I’ll do what I can to look after you. I know how they think, how they work. It’s your best chance.”

Christine saw the slow-moving truck closing in. Best chance? She didn’t know what to do, but there were only moments to decide. She opened the door and swung a leg out of the car. He made no attempt to stop her. There was time for one last question.

“Why is this all so important?” she asked. “What could I know about you or the ship that’s worth killing people over?”

“You might know where Polaris Venture went down,” he said. “Or you might know that she was carrying two tactical nuclear weapons.”

Hanit lay moored just outside the harbor of Marseille. She was a Sa’ar V class corvette and, at over a thousand tons, a regular and formidable presence in the regional waters off Israel and Lebanon. Here, however, in one of the busiest ports of the Mediterranean, she was nothing special. Huge freighters, tankers, and warships plied a constant stream among the swarm of smaller tenders and pilot boats. The Port Authority had not been pleased to have a foreign-flagged warship show up unannounced, and so Hanit’s captain gave little argument at having been banished to anchor in the outer mooring field. They wouldn’t be here long, he reasoned, and they were under orders to be as unobtrusive as possible.

The captain stood with his executive officer on the wing platform, to the port side of the bridge. The two men eyed a small tender as it approached. It carried a crew of two seamen and a French port official, who would no doubt be grumpy and have a plethora of forms for them to complete. It also carried Paul Mordechai and two large crates.

Neither of the officers had ever met Mordechai, but they’d gotten the scuttlebutt. As the small boat pulled alongside, there was no mistaking their guest. He wore a bright print shirt adorned with flags of various nautical meanings. There were hurricane and gale warnings, along with a prominent SOS on the back. Mordechai spotted the two officers, came to attention, and offered a ridiculously snappy salute.

The exec rolled his eyes.

“All right,” the captain said, “the orders are clear. We get rid of this Port Authority quack as fast as we can, haul aboard Mordechai and the crates, then get out of here.”

“Aye,” the exec nodded. He started to go below to supervise the detail.

“Oh, and Dani …”

The exec paused.

“Mind the crates.”