The Perfect Assassin

Chapter Eight

“Ian!”

The bellowing summons had come from the adjacent room, the Scotland Yard office of Inspector Nathan Chatham. Ian Dark answered the call, entering Chatham’s office to find his boss parked at his desk with a confounded look on his face. The object of his consternation was in hand, a small beeper that had activated.

“This!” Chatham roared, holding the offending device over his head. “What on earth does all this mean?”

Dark calmly took the device. The message line read:

“I suppose it all means something?” Chatham fussed.

Dark read the electronic shorthand, “The Assistant Commissioner Specialist Operations wishes to see you as soon as possible. You are to bring the daily situation report. He’s also seen it necessary to cancel your holiday, which was to start tomorrow. You’re to confirm receipt of the message by pressing this button.”

Chatham waved his hand to indicate that Dark should go ahead and do it. He did. Dark had been working with Chatham for six months now, and he noticed more and more things happening that way.

Chatham got up from his chair, not bothering to straighten the papers that lay strewn in front of him on the desk. He was a tall, gaunt man, his face long and narrow, with a ski slope of a nose presiding over a broad, bushy mustache. Brown hair had given way to gray at the sides, all of it decidedly unkempt. His sage appearance was a constant counterpoint to Dark, whose own slight build, fair skin, and rosy cheeks gave no end of trouble when ordering a pint, even though he’d been of age for ten years.

“Assistant Commissioner, you say?” Chatham mumbled.

“Yes, the new man. Would you like me to come along?”

“No, no. I shouldn’t think so. Probably just another silly staff meeting, that sort of thing.” Chatham gave a crooked grin. “You stay here and fight the battle, eh?”

When he’d first started working with Chatham, Ian Dark had to keep from snickering at his boss. The endless military analogies, the technological ineptness. He kept picturing his boss in turn-of-the-century India wearing a pith helmet and shorts. It was an image, Dark later learned, that might well have come to be had Chatham been born a hundred years earlier. His grandfather had been a major in the Northumberland Fusiliers, serving in the Somme during the Great War. His father had battled Rommel in North Africa with the 1st Royal Dragoons. Only a ruptured eardrum had kept Nathan Chatham from continuing the family military tradition. It forced him to redirect his talents.

“They would not allow me to shoot the enemy,” he’d explained to Dark one evening over a Guinness, “so I thought I should spend my time outthinking him.” He had done exactly that.

Chatham had been at the Yard for over twenty years, and his reputation was second to none. Not only had he outthought the criminal enemy, but he often managed to better his superiors as well, a tactic that had more than once gotten him into hot water. It had also brought offers of promotion beyond his current rank of Inspector, offers that Chatham had repeatedly refused. He swore he could never be content “engaging the foe with pen and paper from a soft bottom chair.” But if Nathan Chatham was troublesome to his overseers, he was even more notorious to those he investigated, at least ones who turned out to be guilty. A relentless pursuer and meticulous investigator. That was all Chatham ever cared to be, and something, by virtue of results, those above him would never be able to change. Like it or not.

Chatham went to the coatrack and wrestled an ill-fitting jacket onto his long arms. He left the room, then reappeared moments later.

“The new Assistant Commissioner,” queried the man who had outstayed the previous six, “what was his name?”

“Shearer, sir.”

Chatham nodded, then disappeared down the hall. Ian Dark chuckled. There was no job in the building he’d rather have.

Ten minutes later and two floors up, Nathan Chatham gave a cursory pat to his rumpled hair before being ushered into the office of the Assistant Commissioner Specialist Operations. The office was full of dark, weighty furniture that conveyed an aura of importance. Chatham was at least pleased to see that the new man had not redecorated the suite. The last one had made that his first order of business. He also lasted less than a year before moving on to a cushy private sector job. Chatham had berated the Commissioner himself over that appointment. “An abysmal choice. Nothing to the man. No substance!” he’d admonished. The Commissioner admitted it had all been about branch politics, and he promised to work against that kind of thing in the future.

Now Chatham was greeted by a well-groomed, genial man, probably in his early fifties. The new lord and master of Special Branch rose from his desk.

“Inspector Chatham, good to meet you. Graham Shearer.” The tone was crisp, but friendly. Chatham shook hands, cocked his head slightly, then finally made the connection. The name hadn’t rung a bell because he’d never known it. The face and voice were another story.

“We’ve already met.”

The Assistant Commissioner looked surprised. “Have we?”

“Manchester. You were on the force. Inspector, I think. I was there to give evidence in the trial of a drug smuggler who had killed a rival here in London. Threw him out a tenth floor window as I recall. Nasty business that.”

“Manchester, was it? That would be … thirteen years ago?”

“Fourteen. You were addressing the defendant’s solicitor as I was waiting to give my deposition. You said, ‘Your scoundrel is guilty and I have the evidence to prove it and if you don’t like it you can bugger off!’”

The Assistant Commissioner’s face stretched in thought and then the smooth veneer cracked as he broke out laughing. “Your memory is painfully precise, Inspector. I have calmed a bit since then.” The Assistant Commissioner waved his arm toward a plush leather chair and retreated back behind his desk. “Please have a seat.”

Chatham did so, encouraged that the Commissioner had taken his advice to fill the number two spot with a true policeman. As he parked his lanky frame in the chair, his eyes locked onto a box of chocolates on the Assistant Commissioner’s desk. He was obvious enough and Shearer held it out.

“Please, Inspector. My wife gave them to me as an anniversary gift. I suppose I should find it encouraging that after twenty-two years she doesn’t mind my being a couple of stone heavier.”

The explanation was lost on Chatham who was engrossed in the most important decision he’d had on the day. He momentarily considered whether it would be improper to take two, but decided against it for the time being. Chatham plucked out a coconut crème and wasted no time.

“I’ve got a meeting at the top of the hour, so I’ll get right to it,” Shearer said. “We’ve had a bit of trouble down in Penzance. This morning two chaps from the Israeli Embassy were involved in some kind of row with a third man. One of the Israelis ended up dead and the other is in the hospital. The assailant disappeared, along with a woman he managed to drag off at gunpoint. She’s another story altogether. The Israeli involvement has got Home Office in an uproar. They’ve asked me to assign someone to get to the bottom of it all.”

Chatham’s eyes closed and a near orgasmic expression set across his face. “Exquisite,” he declared. “You say these two were from the embassy. Were they Mossad?”

“Ah, yes, one we’re quite sure about, the other probably.”

“What do we know about the attacker?”

“Nothing really, although forensics hasn’t had a go at it yet. The motel manager got a look at him, but he was rather far off.”

Chatham made a mental note of the brand name on the box of chocolates. The coconut crème had been quite nice.

“As I said, the woman is a story all her own. She was at this motel by courtesy of the local authorities. Yesterday she sailed into Penzance in a small boat that looked like it had just made its way through a typhoon. Seems she was on her way to the States when she found a man floating about in the middle of the ocean. She claims to have rescued the chap who, in turn, commandeered her boat and forced her to sail to England. When they arrived, near Land’s End, he disabled the boat and left her stranded while he went ashore in a rowboat. Something like that.”

Chatham looked up idly at the ceiling, “That would mean this woman has now been abducted twice in a matter of days. How unfortunate. Did the police take a description of this man she claimed to have rescued?”

“Yes, but I haven’t seen it yet. Do you suppose the same chap has taken her again? Right after letting her go?”

“I don’t think he took her the first time. It seems he took her boat and she went along for the ride. But to answer your question, I see three possibilities. First, that the same man did come back. Second, that someone else came looking for her because she’d rescued this man. Or third, that her story is not truthful, and she herself is involved in some sort of mischief.”

Shearer pondered. “Or perhaps a combination of those things.”

Chatham smiled at his new boss.

The Assistant Commissioner looked pointedly at his watch and stood up. “Well, the facts are a bit thin right now. I think it’s gone beyond the sort of thing the local boys in Penzance are accustomed to handling.”

“This woman, do you happen to know her nationality?”

“I believe she’s American.”

“Ah,” Chatham said.

“I’ll have to press on now, Inspector. As I said, Home Office is all revved over this one. Call me daily and let me know how things are progressing. Chief Bickerstaff is the man to talk to in Penzance. Glad I had the chance to meet you — again.”

“I’ll get right out to Penzance this evening.” Chatham shook hands in parting and walked to the door, happy that the new Assistant Commissioner Specialist Operations was not nearly as big a twit as the last.

“Oh, and Inspector …”

Chatham turned to see Shearer holding out the remainder of the box of chocolates.

“Perhaps you should have these. Never been one for sweets myself. Just don’t ever tell Mrs. Shearer.”

Chatham made no effort to conceal his pleasure. He walked over slowly and took the box as though it held the Crown Jewels. “You have my word as a gentleman,” he said reverently.

As soon as he was in the hallway, Chatham opened the box and selected another. Mint crème. Yes, he thought, this Assistant Commissioner would do nicely.

The morning air was laden in fog and a steady drizzle. Christine peered through the rain-splattered window of the Peugeot, barely able to see David at a newsstand across the street. They had spent the previous afternoon and evening driving to London, by way of a long, circuitous route. Stopping an hour short of the outskirts, Slaton had pulled off and found a quiet spot to park among a stand of trees. There, they’d gotten a few hours sleep. Christine had dozed fitfully, at least relieved that he no longer insisted on keeping an arm draped over her. At first light they were back under way, fighting the morning rush hour traffic into Kensington.

Christine yawned as she watched him jog back to the car, dodging traffic, with a pair of newspapers under one arm. When he clambered into the driver’s seat, cold droplets of rain sprayed around inside the car. He tossed one of the papers into her lap.

“See what you can find,” he said.

“Find?”

He leafed quickly through the Times, oblivious to the question. Seconds later he spotted what he was after on page six.

“Here it is.” He showed her the headline: MURDER IN PENZANCE. Slaton read silently while Christine opened up the Evening Standard and found it on page nine. A minute later, they swapped.

“They both say basically the same thing,” Christine said. “You’re wanted for murdering a man, putting another in the hospital, and possibly kidnapping me.”

“They haven’t gotten hold of a picture of you yet. That’s good.”

“You think they’ll put my picture in the paper?”

“By this time tomorrow you’ll either be a beautiful, rich heiress who’s been kidnapped, or a devilish accomplice to murder.”

“Accomplice? What are you talking about?”

“I mean the media, along with the police, are going to consider the possibility that you might be on my side in this. They know we were together on Windsom, so if someone sees us now, and you’re not screaming and trying to run away … well, it could give the wrong impression. That’s the kind of thing the press loves to get a grip on and spin as they see fit.”

Christine was dumbstruck. “On your side? I just want my life back. But according to you, there are people out there who want to kill me.”

“I know it sounds paranoid, but you saw it for yourself yesterday. Either way, this story will move up a few pages tomorrow. Especially once the papers track down some photographs and get a look at you.”

She glared at him, but he was still engrossed in the article. Christine reckoned that was probably as direct a compliment as this man ever paid a woman. Her doubts returned, and she wondered again if she’d made the right choice. Had the two men at the motel meant her harm? Or was this man beside her the threat? She tried to convince herself that if she just went to the police and told them everything, things would work out. Certainly they could protect her.

Slaton tapped an index finger on the newspaper. “There’s no reference here to the fact that Itzaak and his friend worked at the embassy. The police must know that by now, but they’re keeping it quiet. It’s either a diplomatic favor, or my government requested it.”

She fell silent and he looked up, seeming to sense her indecision.

“Still not sure about me, huh?”

“No,” she said, “not completely.”

“Can’t say that I blame you.”

The interior of the car grew quiet, the only sounds coming from out-side — people and machines, sloshing through rain on their daily routines.

“I’m a little confused myself,” he said, finally breaking the silence. He pointed out the window. Cars and trucks streamed by incessantly and scores of people scurried in all directions on the sidewalks. “You can still go if you want,” he offered. “We’re in London. It’s a big place. Lots of people, police everywhere. I wouldn’t have brought you here if I wanted to hold you prisoner. I’ve got work to do, and this is where it starts.”

“Where does it end?”

He looked away and didn’t answer, which gave Christine no comfort. Did he not want to tell her? Or did he not know?

“I feel like I should believe you,” she said. “I think you’re right. Those two men were going to kill me. But what you did to them — that scares me too.” An image came to Christine. The man she knew as Harding, his face frozen in death. As a doctor she had seen bodies before, but there had been something else yesterday. Something in the man’s last, terminal expression. Surprise. Or maybe fear.

“Yesterday when you were questioning that man, you said you would find them. You said ‘Tell them the keeden will find them.’ Something like that. What does it mean?”

He gazed at the gloom outside. His hesitation told Christine she’d hit on something, and if an answer came it would be the truth.

“Kidon,” he finally said, still looking away. “It’s a part of Mossad. There are only a few of us, and we have a very special mission.”

Christine steeled herself. “And what is that?”

“Kidon is Hebrew for bayonet. We’re assassins.”

Prime Minister Jacobs arrived at his office following a tedious working breakfast with the Foreign Minister. Anton Bloch was waiting, his bulky frame planted squarely in the center of the room. Jacobs didn’t like the brooding look on his face.

“Now what?”

“Polaris Venture again.”

Jacobs stiffened. “Good news or bad?”

“We’ve found Slaton. He was picked out of the ocean by a private boat.”

“That’s wonderful! He made it—”

Bloch waved a hand. “Yesterday, in England, he killed one of our London men and put another in the hospital.”

“What? He’s killed one of our own people?”

“I didn’t believe it at first either, but the man in the hospital is sure. It was Slaton.”

Jacobs sat down gingerly, his mind spinning through the possibilities.

“Let me tell you all of it,” Bloch started. “We got a tip from a source in Scotland Yard. It seems a small sailboat pulled into Penzance, that’s a port in southwestern England, and the skipper claimed to have rescued someone from a ship that had gone down. The name given was Polaris Venture.”

“So Slaton was on this sailboat?”

“Not when it pulled into port. The American was alone.”

“What did this fellow say happened to Slaton?”

“She said he got off hours earlier and rowed ashore in a dinghy. The situation was pretty murky, so I ordered London to send a team to find out what was going on. They were supposed to be discreet, but for some reason they approached this woman and ran into Slaton. He killed one of the men, put the other in the hospital, and ran off with the American woman in tow. I don’t know much more. We haven’t been able to talk to Itzaak yet. He’s the one that survived. The local police are keeping a close eye on him, and I’m sure Scotland Yard is involved now.”

Jacobs sank even lower in his chair. “Why would Slaton try to eliminate two of his own? And why take this woman with him?”

“I don’t know about the woman, but I can tell you without a doubt that he wasn’t trying to kill Itzaak.”

“How could you know that?”

Bloch dropped a thick file onto the Prime Minister’s desk. Absent were the usual title and security classifications. Jacobs opened it and winced at the one word emblazoned in red on the inside cover — kidon. Beneath that was the standard Mossad black and white, official glossy of David Slaton. Jacobs knew men like this existed, and he knew it was the kind of thing that could be poison to a politician. Yet it bothered him on an even more basic level.

“If this man had wanted Itzaak dead, we wouldn’t have a team headed to the hospital right now.”

Jacobs rubbed his temples. “Do you think he sabotaged Polaris Venture?”

“The American woman, a Dr. Christine Palmer, spoke to the police yesterday. Said she found Slaton nearly dead, floating around in the middle of the ocean. If that’s true, he either wasn’t the saboteur, or he mucked up his escape in a big way. Knowing Slaton, I doubt that.”

“You say, ‘If that’s true.’ Do you think this woman might be lying? Could she be involved?”

Bloch shrugged his beefy shoulders. “It’s something we’ll have to look into. None of it makes much sense right now, but I’d sure like to talk to Slaton.”

Jacobs shook his head. He’d have to call yet another Cabinet meeting. What a shouting match that would be. He looked again at the file on his desk.

“How well do you know this man, Anton? Do you still trust him?”

“I know him as well as anyone. I recruited him. His father was an officer in the Haganah. He helped design the guerrilla tactics that made us such a thorn to the British and Arabs. In the War of Independence, Ramon Slaton was the leader of the underwater demolition team that sank the Emir Farouk. Nine men destroyed the flagship of the Egyptian Navy.”

“Ramon Slaton …” Jacobs pondered, “I’ve heard that name but I don’t associate it with the War of Independence.”

“After winning the military battle we were faced with a very different set of problems. We had to start up a nation. Infrastructure, schools, health care. You couldn’t even mail a letter. It all took money and the new government had none. What it did have was a high level of support from expatriate Jewish communities. That and a world whose conscience was still haunted by the Holocaust. Ramon Slaton became an unofficial emissary, working the public and private coffers of Europe to get everything from missiles to plowshares.”

“Ramon Slaton — Cyprus!” Jacobs said with a burst of recognition.

“Yes, that was where it ended. He and his wife were gunned down on a street corner. A bodyguard killed the attacker, an Egyptian.” Bloch pointed to the folder on Jacobs’ desk. “The boy was nine years old at the time.”

“Where was he when it happened?”

“At school in Geneva. He was the only child, and with no other immediate family he was taken in by some friends of his parents. They lived on Kibbutz Gissonar. Later, when we screened him for recruitment, these years were given special attention. For the most part he channeled his grief constructively. He continued as a superior student and was strong athletically. But he also acquired an interest in the military. His adoptive father was a company commander in the Reserves, and he gave the boy a basic introduction to the tools of war. He spent two years at this new home, finally getting stability back into his life. Then it happened. He was home on Kibbutz Gissonar on the eve of the Yom Kippur War.”

Jacobs envisioned it. “Directly in the path of two Syrian armored divisions.”

“As a country, we were completely unprepared. The few armored units we had in the area were forced to pull back until reinforcements arrived. The people of the kibbutz used every car, truck, and bicycle to evacuate the women and children. When the Syrian tanks arrived, two dozen men and three World War II vintage rifles were all that stood between the Syrian army and the main pumping station of our National Water System. Some of the men hid. The ones who tried to fight were mostly mowed down by machine gun fire from the leading tanks and armored personnel carriers.”

“And the boy?”

“It was chaos, but he used his head. He acted alone, with nothing more than one of the old rifles and his knowledge of the area. He moved along the perimeter of the village looking for an opportunity. It came in the form of an APC with an overheated engine. The thing ground to a stop, spewing smoke. The rear door opened and soldiers began to stagger out, coughing and rubbing their eyes. The Syrians didn’t seem worried about being out in the open, probably thanks to the lack of resistance they’d seen so far. They milled around and began arguing. The boy saw his chance. He held his fire until he was sure the APC was empty. Then he let loose on the five soldiers, taking four before his gun jammed. The last one ran to the village for cover. The boy removed the bayonet from his rifle and killed the man by hand.”

Jacobs shook his head, “I’ve heard other stories,” he said, “but a child …”

Bloch nodded.

“Did the boy tell you this?”

“Eventually he filled in the blanks, but during his initial Mossad screening interviews he refused to talk about it. Most of it came to light by way of a witness, this idiot Captain who was in the Signals Intelligence Division. When the Syrians crossed the border, this fellow had to take a jeep and collect code books from a series of command bunkers that were about to be overrun. He was racing just minutes ahead of the Arab tanks when he lost control of his jeep passing through Kibbutz Gissonar. Went into a ditch and the jeep turned over on him. Broke his leg badly. The fool managed to take cover, and from there he had a bird’s-eye view of the whole thing.”

“I see,” Jacobs said, lowering his head in thought. “And is this what brought Slaton to the attention of Mossad?”

“In part. It also had to do with the fact that his father was a very influential man, one who died in service to the state.”

“What happened to the boy after the war?”

“He went back to school, eventually entering Tel Aviv University. He studied Biology and Western Languages. He had an exceptional gift for languages. Textbook speech is fine for the university or ordering dinner in a restaurant, but our section prefers those who have been immersed in a native country — regional accents and usages, slang. You can only get that kind of proficiency by living in a place, and the boy had spent time at several schools in Europe. He tested out at the highest level in three languages. We usually hope for one.”

“How old was he when you recruited him?”

“We began actively screening when he was nineteen, in university. Two years later we approached him with the offer of a “government position.” It usually takes six months of interviews, background checks, and psychological evaluations before the recruits get an idea of the kind of work they’re being sized up for. We watch closely for a reaction.”

“And what is the usual reaction when a person realizes they’re being chosen to work in the world’s most elite intelligence agency?”

“Mild surprise, perhaps. We hope for as little reaction as possible. These people are used to being the best and brightest in their class. But to say they’ve been chosen is premature. Most don’t pass the screening, and of those, less than half complete the entire training process.”

“Ramon Slaton’s son made it through.”

“He was at the top of his group, both academically and physically. We also discovered that his success against the Syrians was no fluke. As a boy, he apparently did a lot of hunting. Rabbits, quail, that kind of thing. By the time he got to us, his marksmanship was uncanny. He outshot every instructor at the range on his first day. Slaton was clearly something special, so in view of his performance and his family history, we elected to train him as a kidon.”

“And what does that education consist of?”

“There’s no set curriculum. Contrary to popular belief, there aren’t legions of them roaming the world. We only train a handful, and they’re rarely deployed.”

Deployed, Jacobs thought. Like an artillery piece.

“We trained to his strengths. He was sent to the IDF Sniper Course. As a former officer, you know what that school is like.”

“Yes, I know. Marksmanship is the least of it. They teach weapons, tactics, and stalking. All with consideration for the sniper’s most demanding trait — patience.”

Bloch nodded. “His scores on the tactical range were off the scale. Altogether, Slaton spent three years being shaped into what he is today.”

“And the rest is in here?” Jacobs queried, looking at the file. The Director’s reply didn’t come right away and Jacobs sensed a red flag. “Anton? You know what’s at stake here. I want to know everything. Is there something that’s not in here?”

Bloch sighed, clearly not liking where he had to go. “There is one thing. It involved a girl. As far as we know, the only serious relationship he’s ever had. The two had known each other from the kibbutz, and they married during his second year at university. We researched her background and found her history unremarkable. They had been married a year when she gave birth to a baby girl. It’s all in the file.”

Jacobs dug through the folder to the appropriate section and his eye was caught by a photograph of a strikingly beautiful raven-haired girl. The photo had been taken at a café, probably candidly since she seemed unaware. Her face was alight with an infectious, somewhat mischievous smile. She was sitting at a table that held two coffee cups, and a single red rose lying atop an envelope. The photograph was not wide enough in angle to show the companion with whom she was sharing her humor, but Jacobs had no doubt.

“Two months before completing his final term at the university, right when we were considering him as a recruit, there was a tragedy. Slaton’s wife and daughter, who was not quite two years old at the time … they were both killed.”

“What happened?”

Bloch told him and the Prime Minister shook his head. “What a miserable, terrible waste,” he said, leafing idly through the file. Looking up, he sensed discomfort in the usually unflappable Anton Bloch. “What is it? What else?” the Prime Minister demanded.

“There’s one thing that’s not in the file.” Bloch took a deep breath, then finished the story.

The Prime Minister considered the implications. “It could mean nothing. Or it could explain everything.” Jacobs interlaced his fingers and brought them under his chin as the weight of the day began to settle. There were so many tangents. “You said this is not in the file. I can understand why, but how many people know about it?”

Bloch shrugged, “Very few, and … well, it’s been many years.”

“Yet it’s possible he knows.”

“Slaton? Yes, but a lot of things are possible.”

A light blinked obviously on Jacobs’ phone. The Prime Minister wished he could put all the world’s events on hold so easily. He jabbed a thumb toward the file. “You seem to know a great deal about this man, Anton.”

“I’ve seen him work,” Block said matter-of-factly. “He’s our best.”

Jacobs considered that, wondering if it was a good thing or bad. He sensed Bloch was finished. “All right, have London find out what the hell’s going on. Send in more people if you need to. Cabinet meeting at noon.” The Director of Mossad walked to the door and, as he did so, Jacobs noted for the first time that he moved with a slightly uneven gait.

“Anton …”

Bloch turned.

“Where were you during the Yom Kippur War?”

The stone face of Anton Bloch cracked into a rare grin. “I was an idiot Captain in the Signals Intelligence Division.”

Jacobs couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter, but as Bloch disappeared the Prime Minister of Israel sobered, focusing on the dossier that lay before him. He turned back to the front cover, to the photograph of David Slaton. He then began to read.

Poring through the record, Jacobs recalled from his infantry days the IDF sniper course, known informally by its contorted alias — Finishing School. The training regimen was brutal, but only later did the real test come. No one was a true graduate until they had made their first kill. To look through a gunsight at an unsuspecting human and have the coldness to pull the trigger. This was the true commencement of Finishing School. The more Jacobs read, the more he realized that David Slaton was indeed among the best. A pure killer, vacant any trace of hesitation or remorse. My God, he thought, can we really create such a person?