The Perfect Assassin

by Ward Larsen

  “Where are you staying?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Nils? Swedish?”

  He nodded, “Ja, Svensk.”

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

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

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

  “I’m a doctor,” she offered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Any others on Polaris Venture?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Van Ruut bristled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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