by Ward Larsen
“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?
Chapter Nine
Inspector Chatham arrived at the Penzance station at eight that morning. His first sight on entering the building was the burly Chief of Penzance Police ushering a young woman with a tape recorder out of an office and toward the door. The man’s tone was brusque, Chatham thought, fully commensurate with his appearance.
“That’s all I can say now, miss,” Bickerstaff barked.
The woman offered a few well-practiced words of protest and indignation, only to have them cut off when the door shut in her face.
Bickerstaff sighed and leaned his bulk against the door, as if expecting the irksome woman to try shoving her way back in. He addressed the sergeant at the main desk, “No more of those, Patrick, or I’ll ’ave those stripes.”
The sergeant behind the desk waved his hand dismissively.
The police chief finally noticed Chatham. “Well, hello. You must be the Inspector from Scotland Yard I’ve been hearin’ about.”
“Does it show that badly?”
“You’re the only one come to see me this morning that didn’t have a camera in one hand and a notepad in the other.”
Chatham took the Chief’s outstretched hand and, not unexpectedly, endured a bonecrushing grip. “Inspector Nathan Chatham, Special Branch. Good to meet you. I arrived late last night.”
“You could have called me right off, Inspector. I’d have filled you in.”
“That’s quite all right. I suspect that finding this fellow may take some time. Rest can be our ally. We’ll march on steady and with a clear mind, while the enemy grows tired from maneuver. Let him make the mistakes, eh?”
Bickerstaff seemed to chew on that, then jabbed a blunt thumb to the door where he’d just evicted the young reporter. “I’ve already made one mistake today by letting her in. Pesky lot, they are.”
“The media? I suppose, but they have their uses.”
Bickerstaff smiled and gestured for Chatham to join him in his office. The place was a mess. Papers and files were strewn across all furniture that was not regularly attended, and the lone bookshelf was bursting with odd, unmatched volumes stuffed in at all angles. Chatham was encouraged. This was a place where work was done.
Bickerstaff sifted through the pile on his desk, found the paper he was after, and handed it to Chatham. “Here’s the preliminary report, Inspector. Let me tell you what I know so far.”
Chatham browsed the report while Bickerstaff talked. He decided that, in spite of his brutish texture, the chief was a reasonably proficient investigator. He also didn’t seem concerned about turf — some local police got bothered when Special Branch came waltzing onto their stage. It took Bickerstaff five minutes to hit the highlights, and, in the end, he was apologetic for letting things go as long as they had. “I really thought there was nothing to this at first, but now I see I should have called for help right away.”
Chatham nodded and put down the written report. “Perhaps, but let’s not worry about that. Far too much to be done.” He steepled his hands under his chin. “This man, the attacker, no one got a good look at him?”
“The Israeli chap who survived. He’s in the hospital. Took a nasty bump on the head, he did. Claims he can’t remember a thing.” Bicker-staff scrunched his considerable brow. “Do you think it’s a diversionar
ial tactic, Inspector?”
Chatham tried not to cringe at the chief’s recreational grammar. “It is our job to distinguish evidence from coincidence.”
Bickerstaff nodded and a look of stern concentration fell across his mug. Chatham had the impression he was mentally recording the phrase for future use.
Bickerstaff continued, “The motel manager saw our suspect, but he was awfully far away. We know the bloke’s a bit on the tall side, thin, light colored hair, and a scruffy beard. That’s all he could tell us, basically the same description Dr. Palmer gave me the day before.”
“Doctor Palmer?”
“Right, the woman who’s disappeared. She’s a physician, American. Just finished her schooling. I made some calls to the States to verify that part. Everything she told me about herself checked, which was why by yesterday morning I was starting to believe her story after all. Certainly nothing to suggest she’d be tied up with Israeli spies and all.”
“Spies, you say?”
“Well,” Bickerstaff retreated, “they were Israelis I know, and I heard they worked at the embassy. I just assumed …”
Chatham stood and began walking slowly back and forth. “Forensics. What have we got so far?”
“The man from the lab in Exeter has been here. He’s found a few partial fingerprints that might be from our man. They came off the BMW. The door handle, the steering wheel, and shifter.”
Chatham was not encouraged. He had a feeling that whoever this man was, his prints might not be on record. At least not anyplace Chatham had access.
“All right,” he said, “let’s set the order of battle. We have a young lady in our lab who’s very good at this sort of thing. I’ll bring her over to have a look. We’ll try to match those prints from the car to any on the sailboat, then eliminate those that are Doctor Palmer’s. By doing so, we can erase any doubt that the same man is responsible for both abductions. Since you’ve already started verifying this woman’s story, I’d like you to press on with it. Find out if she’s spent much time abroad. Go back, let’s say five years. What countries has she been to? How long? That sort of thing. I’ll have Ian Dark help you with it. He’s my assistant back in London. Good man.”
Bickerstaff began scribbling notes on a yellow pad.
“We’ll have to go over this house he broke into after coming ashore. And we’ll need a precise description of the motorcycle he’s taken. If we can find it, we’ll know where he’s been, and perhaps get an idea of where he’s headed.”
“You don’t think he’s still around here?”
“Not likely,” Chatham replied distractedly, his thoughts already having moved on. “The Israeli in the hospital, is he well enough for a few questions?”
“I don’t see why not. He took a few knocks in all the argy-bargy, but they tell me he’ll be fine.”
“Good. That’s where I’m headed then.”
“Do you think he can tell us who this fellow is?”
“Can he? Almost certainly. I just hope that he will.”
“All right, Inspector. I’ll have Edwards here run you over to the hospital.”
Bickerstaff summoned Edwards and issued the assignment. As Chatham was about to leave, the chief added awkwardly, “I’ll do whatever I can to help. I feel badly about this, Inspector. The woman, Dr. Palmer, she seemed a nice lady, she did.”
“We’ll just have to find her then, won’t we? Carry on, Chief.”
Two hours later, Chatham left the hospital no better off than when he’d gone in. Itzaak Simon, the Israeli who’d survived yesterday’s scrum, was recovering nicely. He was alert, lucid, and not about to say anything of use. Chatham wished he’d arrived sooner, before the man’s pain medication had worn off.
The supervising nurse confirmed that Itzaak Simon had taken no visitors other than the police. He had, however, spent a good amount of time on the telephone earlier in the morning, and Chatham was sure he knew who was on the other end. The questioning process had gone badly. After conceding a few basic, obvious facts, Simon claimed to not remember anything else, a convenient excuse given the bump on the crown of his head. Chatham had pressed, asking why the Assistant Attaché for Cultural Affairs had been so far away from his desk at the embassy, in the company of another embassy employee who was carrying a gun. From that point, things were openly hostile, and when the Israeli eventually used his trump card of diplomatic immunity, Chatham stopped wasting his time. He was sure Itzaak Simon knew the identity of the killer, but he recognized a dead end when he saw it.
Exiting the hospital, Chatham stopped at the first telephone kiosk he could find and dialed his office. Ian Dark answered on the first ring.
“Hello, Ian.”
“There you are, Inspector. I tried to ring your cell phone about an hour ago, but I couldn’t get through. Have you lost another one?”
Chatham hated the infernal thing. It always seemed to interrupt at the worst possible time. Right now it was crammed into the glove box of his seldom used car, along with that blasted beeper that was always blinking and vibrating — like having some huge, angry bug in your pocket. He ignored Dark’s question. “I’m getting nowhere here. Our witness is maintaining a very professional silence. I’m also quite sure that the man we’re looking for is no longer anywhere near this place. Tell me, what have you found?”
“Well, Bickerstaff was right on one count. There were no ships lost in the Atlantic last week. Nothing at all. Of course it might have been a small vessel, something that might go unreported.”
“Or …” Chatham prodded. There was a slight pause.
“Or a sinking that someone didn’t want reported. Smuggler, maybe, that sort of thing?”
“Right. Go on.”
“Oh, yes. There was one stroke of luck. I was cross-checking the things you mentioned through our data files and I got one hit. It seems another Israeli national was killed in London about a week ago. After some digging and a few calls to the Foreign Office, I’m quite sure this person was also a Mossad officer.”
“Hmm. A hazardous occupation. What were the circumstances?”
“It was an accident, apparently. The poor sod walked straight in front of a bus. The local division investigated but didn’t find anything suspicious.”
“You say this man was Mossad?”
“According to our Foreign Office, he was assigned to the London station a few years back. Then he went back to Israel and they lost track of him. The police investigation clearly took him to be another tourist here on holiday.”
“I see. Better have a look at it.”
“Do you think this same fellow might have been responsible?” Dark queried.
“No telling. Better protect the flank, though. Get me a copy of that accident report.”
“Right.”
“I haven’t seen Mrs. Smythe from Forensics yet. When is she due here?”
“She checked in from Bickerstaff’s office about an hour ago. Ought to be catching up with you any time now, sir.”
“Good, good. She and I will have a quick look around the crime scene here. I’ll leave her to tally things up while I take the 11:30 train back to London. Set up a conference with Shearer. Someone at the Israeli Embassy must know what this is all about. If I can go there with some official weight, it might save us all a lot of work.”
Slaton strolled out of the gift shop, got in the car, and handed Christine a small box.
“Merry Christmas.”
She opened it up to find a hideous Casio watch. It was pink and green with an ugly, thick plastic band. The price tag in the box said twenty pounds. She had a feeling he’d paid less.
“Gee, thanks. It’s the nicest thing anyone’s given me this holiday season. Of course, it is still the first week of December.”
He put the little car in gear. “Sorry. Can’t spend a lot on Christmas presents this year. Besides, you really shouldn’t expect much. I’m not even a Christian.”
Christine tried it on for size and, unfortunately,
it fit. They had spent an hour earlier in the morning buying things — or rather he had. Clothes mostly, and a few toiletries. It seemed logical at first, since neither of them had more than what was on their backs, but Christine thought his selections had been curious. If her bodyguard, as she’d come to think of him, had any sense of fashion, he kept it well hidden. Cheap jeans, expensive shirts, some brightly colored, others subdued. He made her try on a few things, while others he bought when they were obviously too big. It finally clicked when he’d picked out the reversible windbreakers and a couple of cheap hats. He was putting together disguises — all different shades, shapes and sizes — so that they might better conceal themselves. Her first urge had been to laugh, but awful memories of the previous day spoiled any humor Christine could dredge from the situation. He had rounded out the ensembles by purchasing sunglasses and some cheap, off-the-rack, clear reading glasses — cheaters, he called them.
“It’s twelve-twenty and thirty seconds,” Slaton said, glancing at a somewhat more handsome, but equally inexpensive watch on his own wrist. “I’ve already adjusted yours. It should stay synchronized to within a few seconds. That’ll be close enough.”
Christine studied her watch with a guarded expression as he went on.
“I’ve got an errand to run.”
An errand, she thought. To most people that meant going to the corner for a loaf of bread.
“You’re going to drop me two blocks from here. Can you drive a manual shift?”
Christine looked at the unfamiliar right-hand drive arrangement. “I’ll manage,” she said confidently.
“Drive around the area. Get familiar with the streets and the car.” Slaton referred to a street map that was folded carefully to show the relevant section of town. “At one fifteen do a circle around Belgrave Square — here,” he pointed. “Enter the square from Chapel Street and circle once. Work your way to the inside lane. If you don’t see me, head back the way you came, toward Buckingham Palace and the Park. Keep driving and come back every fifteen minutes. If I haven’t shown up by two-thirty, leave and come back once at nine tonight.”
