by Ward Larsen
Cheers.
Yosef.
Slaton sat with the letter in his lap, staring blankly at the wall. He knew it was true. It was all true. Ingrid said they’d taken Yosy’s papers. The documents? It didn’t matter. Slaton didn’t need that kind of proof. Someone named Uriste was dead. Yosy was dead. And they had tried to kill him. Proof. Polaris Venture’s crew. More proof. Then there was Polaris Venture’s cargo. There was surely more to that. His mind swirled. How many others had there been? Twenty years of innocent victims. Israelis killing Israelis. How could it have gone on for so long?
Slaton snapped. He jumped up and kicked over a table, sending it flying across the room. The act broke his concentration and took him away from where he knew his questions were leading — that precipice from which he might not be able to turn back.
Slaton went to the kitchen and drew a glass of water from the faucet. It was cold and clear. He held the glass to his forehead and its coldness was a mild shock, unraveling the mental snarls. He stood still, thinking and agonizing until it suddenly came to him. For all the questions and possibilities, Slaton realized exactly where to go next. Even without knowing who they were, he knew where they would be.
The revelation gave clarity. It gave purpose. Carefully, Slaton washed and dried the glass, then placed it back in the cupboard exactly where it had been. Ten minutes later, the rest of the lodge was as he’d found it. He hurried back to his car, hoping it wasn’t already too late.
A rap on the door brought rude end to the deepest sleep Christine had managed in years. She rustled groggily in the sheets and tried to focus on the clock next to her bed. The red digital lights read 10:24. Another knock. It had to be the maid.
“I don’t need any service,” she said in the loudest voice she could muster. Christine rolled over, hoping for a few more minutes rest, but consciousness was unavoidable as the events of the last days invaded once again.
Another knock, this one louder and more insistent, rattled away her sleep-induced fog. It was hopeless. She got up slowly and stumbled to the door, vaguely trying to remember what time she had told Chief Bicker-staff she’d be in today.
“Who is it?”
“Miss Palmer,” a muffled voice called in a clipped British accent. “I’m Inspector Bennett, Maritime Investigations Branch. My partner, Inspector Harding, and I would like a word with you.”
Christine put a bleary eye to the peephole and saw two men looking expectantly at her door. They both wore suits, ties, and professional smiles. Behind them, a nearly empty parking lot basked in the mid-morning sun. She unbolted the door and opened it a crack, peering her head around the corner.
“Maritime Investigations?” she queried, squinting against the light of day.
The nearer man thrust out an identification card with his photograph on it. The other nodded politely. “Yes, Maritime Investigations, Scotland Yard. We’ve been called in to assist the local police on this matter of your abduction.”
The word “abduction” sounded peculiar, but she supposed it fit. She nearly let them in before remembering that all she had on was a T-shirt and panties.
“Can you give me a moment to dress?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. We’ll wait right here.”
Christine hadn’t expected company. She rummaged through the few clothes she’d retrieved from Windsom and found a pair of Levis to slip on. She took a quick look in the mirror, then wished she hadn’t. Her hair was a frightful mess — she’d taken a shower last night and gone straight to bed. Christine decided the policemen wouldn’t care. She let the two Scotland Yard men in.
“I am sorry,” Bennett said. “It looks as though we’ve rousted you out of a sound sleep.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” she lied. “It’s time I got up anyway.”
Christine plucked two used towels off the couch and threw them on the bed. The two men smiled amiably and took a seat.
“We won’t take much of your time. Perhaps you could tell us your story, just in a general sort of way. Then we might have a few questions. The more we find out about this devil, the better chance we’ll have of catching him.”
“So you’re searching for him now?”
“Absolutely.”
Christine was relieved. “Have you already talked to Chief Bickerstaff?”
“Oh, yes, of course. But we’d like to hear it straight from you as well.”
Christine sighed. She’d already gone over it so many times. It was becoming tedious. She started from the beginning and went over everything, or at least most of it. She omitted the parts about him crashing in while she was getting dressed, and that she had to lay with him while he slept. She didn’t want anyone jumping to the wrong conclusions. It took ten minutes. Bennett and his sidekick listened attentively. They didn’t interrupt to ask questions, but Christine could see them both mentally storing up for later. When she finished, Bennett was clearly struck to compassion.
“You’ve had quite an ordeal.”
“I came out all right. My boat’s another story, but that can be repaired.”
“Of course,” Bennett said. “Tell me, do you have an accurate position for where you came across this man?”
“Sure. I didn’t record it right away when I found him. I had a lot of other things on my mind. But I did eventually make the plot and mark it on a chart, probably good to within a mile or two. I figured somebody would need the fix to start a search.”
“Do you remember the coordinates?”
“No. But it was roughly halfway on a line between Gibraltar and the Madeiras. Chief Bickerstaff was supposed to go over to my boat this morning, so he probably has the actual numbers.”
“I’ll get the coordinates from him, then. Tell me again, what did this man look like?”
“About six feet tall, maybe a little more. Thin build, but very strong. His hair was sort of a light, sandy color, blue eyes. He looked a bit gaunt in the face, but that was probably from going without food and water for so long.”
“You say you examined him when he first came aboard?”
“Yes. He had a wound on his abdomen, a shallow cut. I cleaned and dressed it.”
“Did he have other scars? In particular, a large one right here?” Bennett pointed to a spot on his ribs exactly where the nasty scar had been on her abductor.
“Yes! You know who he is?”
Both the men nodded knowingly.
“He told me his name was David.”
The policemen exchanged a look and Bennett said, “We don’t know his name, mind you. Not his real one. He goes by any number of aliases. The man’s a terrorist of sorts, a mercenary, and every bit a killer. In all honesty, I’m surprised he’s let you off alive.”
Christine tried to comprehend. “How did he end up in the middle of the ocean?”
“No telling right now,” Bennett mused. “Perhaps he was hired to sink the ship, this Polaris Venture, and then botched up his escape.”
“He told me there were no other survivors. I thought that was odd.”
“Nothing odd about it. All his doing, I suspect. Now, you said that he made you turn your boat around and take him here, to England. Did he mention why?”
Christine considered that and was about to answer when the telephone rang. She went to the nightstand to pick it up when Harding spoke for the first time.
“Let it go, Dr. Palmer. They’ll leave a message at the front desk.”
“No,” Christine said, “I think it might be Chief Bickerstaff. I told him —” Her line of thought derailed. Something was wrong. What was it? Harding had spoken for the first time, and his voice — no his accent — it was anything but British. She turned to see both men moving toward her.
“What—”
She reached for the phone but Harding’s hand came down firmly on top of hers. When the phone stopped ringing, he reached around behind the nightstand and unplugged the wire.
Chapter Seven
Christine sat quietly on the couch, stunned. He
r 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.
