by Ward Larsen
“And if you’re still not there?”
“Drive away and ditch the car. Take the tube to another part of town and pay cash for a hotel room. In the morning go to Scotland Yard. Talk to Inspector McKnight. I worked with him once and he seemed like a competent fellow. Tell him everything.”
Christine looked at him, realizing what he was saying. His eyes were still empty. No fear, no trepidation, just alertness. Scanning, always scanning the traffic ahead and behind. Every car, every face on the sidewalk scrutinized for an instant. Slaton pulled the car into a parking spot and left it running.
When he reached for the door handle, Christine grabbed his arm. “But you said the police wouldn’t be able to protect me.”
“It’s your best chance if we get split up,” he said smoothly. “Remember, you’d have to convince them everything I’ve told you is true.”
Christine sighed, “That might be tough, since I’m not even convinced myself.” Then she added, “So please show up.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He got out and mixed in with the crowds on the sidewalk. In no time, he disappeared.
Hiram Varkal sat impatiently at a booth in his favorite Chinese restaurant in Knightsbridge. It was dimly lit, like Chinese restaurants all over the world, but that didn’t bother him. What bothered him was the crowds. The place was incredibly busy today and his order was taking forever. To a lesser extent, he was also troubled that the booths at Lo Fan’s seemed to be getting smaller. Either that, or … he looked down at his stomach. Varkal was a huge man in every proportion. When younger, he’d actually been trim and athletic, but the curse of time brought a slowing metabolism that, augmented by an unabashed love of culinary excess, had taken him to his present state. Varkal sported a rolling girth that was unending, unfit, and, around Mossad’s London station, unmistakable. Still, for all his mass, Varkal harbored no regrets. Good food, good drink, good cigars — there was the stuff of a good life and he embraced every calorie.
Varkal pushed the table away slightly as he spotted Wu Chin coming his way. He was delighted to see an extra large helping of sweet and sour pork. The waiter gave a slight bow as he slid the heavy plate in front of his regular.
“So sorry for waiting, Mr. Varkal. Cook very busy today.”
Varkal took a hand and idly combed a few strands of hair from one side of his head, over the bald spot, to the other. He couldn’t be upset after seeing the huge portion Wu had brought, no doubt to make up for the delay. The waiter rushed off and Varkal tucked in his napkin, calculating how much time remained for the pleasure of savoring his meal before the afternoon staff meeting.
He had just shoveled the first big helping of pork between his jowls when someone slid into the booth’s opposing seat. Looking up, his eyes became huge circles. Varkal choked and coughed spasmodically, spewing the food back onto his plate.
“Jesus!” he sputtered.
“Hardly.”
David Slaton pushed a glass of water toward the huge man.
Varkal took a messy drink from the glass. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked in a harsh whisper.
“Get your hands on the table.”
It took Varkal a moment to decipher the implications of that directive, then a look of worry glazed over his face as he realized that Slaton’s hands were out of sight underneath the table. Varkal plopped his fat fingers across the hardwood as if he were expecting a manicure.
Slaton was confident the man would be unarmed. Varkal had never been a field agent. He was a politician, a bureaucrat who had worked his way up. But having seen him in action, Slaton knew to be careful. What ever the man lacked in tactical experience and polish was more than compensated for by a shrewd nature and an outstanding intellect. Varkal had excelled in a cutthroat organization, and he was near the pinnacle — he headed up Mossad’s London station, a vital post that wasn’t handed out lightly. Slaton would have to work hard to keep the man off balance.
“What do you want?” Varkal asked.
“I want to submit my resignation.”
“What?”
“I quit. I resign my position, effective immediately.”
Varkal’s eyes narrowed. “Your position? I don’t even know what your position is. You don’t work for me.”
“Not really, I guess. But you could pass it on for me. I’m sure you know the right people.”
Varkal frowned.
“I also need to find out a few things. I thought you might be able to help.”
“Such as?”
“Such as who killed Yosy Meier.”
Varkal’s face wrinkled in confusion. “What do you mean? Yosy killed? It was an accident.”
“Said who? The London police?”
“Yes. And we did a quiet investigation ourselves. Accidents do happen, David, even to Mossad officers. Particularly here in England. Until the Brits learn to drive on the right side of the road like the rest of the world, there’ll be no end to mowing down the tourists—”
“Don’t give me that!” Slaton spat. “You knew Yosy. If there was an investigation, it didn’t go very deep.”
“All right,” Varkal admitted, “I thought it was strange. But there really wasn’t any evidence of foul play. We pressed hard on a couple of informants, but none of the Arab groups here seemed to be involved.”
Varkal was recovering. Slaton caught him glancing to the entrance. He was wondering where his security was. The chief of an important Mossad station didn’t wander around town without someone to look after him. It was time to tighten the screws.
“They’re gone.”
“Who?”
“The guy standing out front. Rosenthal, I think is his name. And some new thug in a car across the street. You know, this is a very good restaurant, but you shouldn’t be so predictable. Same time, same day every week. It makes for bad security.”
“What did you do to them?” Varkal asked guardedly.
Slaton had already decided not to overplay the answer to that question. He pulled a small radio out of his pocket and shoved it across the table. It was the size of a cigarette pack, with an earpiece and microphone, the standard issue for Mossad security work. Slaton had retrieved it from his apartment, but he wouldn’t need it again. “Somebody reported a gun in the ambassador’s wing. Your boys ran off to help. The place ought to be locked down tight by now, but it’ll take fifteen minutes to figure out there’s no intruder.”
Varkal nodded. A thin sheen of perspiration had begun to mat the strands of hair on his scalp. It was decision time for Slaton. His instincts told him to go with Plan A.
“All right, listen,” he said. “I think there’s a group within the Mossad that’s making trouble, and I have a feeling you’re not part of it.”
“What do you mean making trouble?”
“Killing Yosy, for starters. Sending a ship and fifteen crewmen to the bottom of the ocean. There’s a lot happening, but I haven’t got it all figured out yet. I only know that it comes from inside our organization. Deep inside.”
“What? You’re saying our enemies have infiltrated the service?”
“I don’t know. If that were the case, I’d expect it to be one or two people. And they’d just stay quiet, get as high as they could within the organization to pass information. From what I’ve seen there’s a lot going on, a lot of people involved.”
“Like who?”
Slaton made a quick scan of the restaurant. “Why did Itzaak Simon and his buddy go out to Penzance?”
“We got a message from Tel Aviv. It instructed us to keep an eye out for anything that had to do with a ship named Polaris Venture. We found out from a source in Scotland Yard that a woman had sailed into Penzance in a boat that was beat to hell. Said she had picked up a man in the middle of the ocean, who then turned around and commandeered her boat. Supposedly he was a survivor from a ship that had sunk, and the name she gave was Polaris Venture. We sent that much back to Tel Aviv and they replied right away, told us to monitor
the situation closely.”
“How?” Slaton said impatiently.
“What do you mean how?”
“Were you supposed to contact her? Question her?”
“No, the order was very specific. Just watch from a distance. No contact.”
“All right. I’m sure you’ve talked to Itzaak by now. How did he describe what happened in Penzance?”
Slaton saw suspicion in Varkal’s face. The uncertainty and fear were wearing off.
“He said that he and his partner, Freidlund, had set up surveillance. They spotted some guy trying to get into this woman’s room and decided to approach him. Itzaak recognized you and asked what was going on. That’s when you went off and attacked the two of them. They weren’t ready for it and you got the better of them.”
“Simple enough. Now let me give you my version.” Slaton allotted one minute to explain what had happened. It wouldn’t be long before security at the embassy figured out his ruse. When he finished, Varkal was skeptical.
“You’re telling me Itzaak and his partner were going to bury this woman? Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know exactly, but I’ve got a feeling it has to do with Polaris Venture. That ship had a very unusual cargo, the kind of stuff people get killed over. Tell me, how did Itzaak’s team get assigned this specific detail? Did you send them out?”
Varkal looked skyward, as if rewinding his mental gears. “When I got the message, I went straight to the duty swine. He told me Itzaak and Freidlund were already on the way.”
“Isn’t that kind of strange?”
“At the time I didn’t like it, but I wasn’t worried. It was Priority Two. When I got to my desk that morning, it had been there for at least an hour. Somebody saw the message and acted on it.”
“Or maybe Itzaak and his buddy knew it was coming.”
Slaton watched it sink in, then saw something else register.
“Itzaak …” Varkal said thoughtfully.
“What about him?”
“I told you we looked into Yosy’s accident. Well, Itzaak was in charge of the investigation.”
“Who gave him that job?”
“He volunteered for it. Said he was a friend of Yosy’s and wanted to do it for personal reasons. I didn’t see anything wrong with that — figured he’d be motivated to do a good, thorough job.”
Slaton watched Varkal closely and could see the facts sinking in. The man was no longer concerned about his immediate, personal well-being. Slaton had been able to plant the seeds of a more insidious, familiar danger, and the station chief was reacting predictably. If it was all true, if there really was a threat from within, then there was also a golden opportunity. Varkal would want to break it open in such a way as to reflect maximum credit upon himself.
“You see the pattern. And the more you look, the more you’ll find.”
“That’s what you want from me? You want me to investigate this?”
“I want you to pass what I’ve told you on to Anton Bloch. Tell him that’s why I’m running around England killing his people. Tell him I haven’t turned against Mossad. It’s turned on itself.”
“But if what you’re saying is true, how can you know who to trust?”
“You mean how can we know.”
Varkal frowned, then his eyes went to the window at the front of the restaurant. Slaton checked his watch. “They’re back a little soon.”
“Yes,” Varkal said quietly.
“Well, it’s that time. In the next ten seconds you have to decide whether I’m full of crap or not.”
Varkal’s hands began to fidget on the table. He made no move to signal anyone. Slaton couldn’t see the front entrance directly, but he’d been keeping an eye on the mirror behind the bar. If anyone came within twenty feet of their table, he’d know it. Slaton heard the door open, and at the same time, Varkal made his decision. He smiled. Trying to look casual, Varkal waved away whoever it was.
“It’s Streissan. He heads my detail,” Varkal said under his breath. “I tried to wave him off, but he’s coming over anyway. Probably wants to tell me about the false alarm. If he gets one look at you …”
Slaton wasn’t listening. He was about to lose the advantage of surprise. He spotted Streissan in the mirror, twenty feet over his shoulder and closing fast. Worse yet, the man had realized someone was at the table with Varkal.
Slaton’s hand went into his jacket and gripped the Berretta. In one motion, he swung out of his seat and leveled the weapon at Streissan’s head. To his credit, the Mossad officer froze, realizing it was his only chance.
A customer at the bar saw the commotion and yelled drunkenly, “’ere now!” Only when one of the barmaids screamed did the whole room go quiet. All attention in the establishment went to the man with the gun.
Slaton wondered whose side Streissan was on. Was he a traitor? Or just a guy on security detail doing his job? He’d like to ask some questions, but there was no time. He had to get out now. As he backed toward the rear exit, two figures appeared on the sidewalk outside. Slaton had a clear view through the big plate glass windows at the front. The men were moving quickly. Too quickly. He didn’t know either, but in an instant they recognized Slaton and their weapons were drawn. His options were gone.
Slaton shifted aim and fired, the room’s silence disintegrating into a crackling hail of gunshots and crashing glass. He let go two quick rounds at each of the moving figures outside, then leapt for cover behind the end of the bar. Halfway there he felt a stinging pain in his forearm.
A few of the restaurant’s patrons tried to run for the front door as bullets whizzed by. Most fell to the floor and turned over tables, seeking any protection they could find.
Slaton popped up from behind the bar and loosed a rapid succession of shots at someone jumping in through the shattered window. He saw another man down, writhing on the sidewalk outside. He quickly ducked back down as return fire scattered around the bar. He distinguished two guns now, one to his left, and one to the right. The one on the right had to be Streissan, with a standard issue Glock. Four rounds fired. The one on the left was different, maybe a Mauser. Five shots. His left arm blazed in pain.
Suddenly the Mauser started spraying shots wildly around the room. When the count reached nine, Slaton moved slightly right, stood full, and spotted Streissan, poorly protected behind a booth divider. He fired twice before Streissan could shift his aim and the big man sprawled back with a shout, then stopped moving. Slaton shifted his aim to where Mauser would be changing clips, but saw nothing. Whoever it was had to be holed up behind a large, particularly solid table, waiting for help. That would be the smart thing to do. There would be ten more Israelis here within two minutes — with bigger weapons. The local police would be right behind. It was time to go.
Slaton moved to the rear of the bar, took one good look to clear the area, then fired a shot in Mauser’s general direction. One second later, another. One second, a third shot, and the cover pattern was set. He dashed low to the rear exit, and was almost there when Mauser let go a single shot. Slaton looked back to take aim with the next round. He was still running low when a big drunk who’d been hiding near the rear door made a lunge for the same exit. The two met shoulder to shoulder and both went down. Slaton fell awkwardly on his injured arm and the pain seared in. But he had to keep moving. Scrambling, he made it to the passageway and out of Mauser’s line of sight. He took one last look back at the wreckage that had moments ago been a popular restaurant. The sight was vivid. Screaming people, broken glass, overturned chairs — and the massive body of Hiram Varkal splayed out on the floor, his face bloody, and his eyes wide and still in death.
Chapter Ten
Christine began her third spin around Belgrave Square. She checked her ugly watch. One forty-four and ten seconds. The first pass, half an hour ago, had been two minutes late. After that, she’d gotten a better take on the traffic and the second pass had been right on. She wondered, for what seemed like the hun
dredth time today, what in the world she was doing. Driving a rented Peugeot in timed circles around a quaint London landmark, searching for her … Christine didn’t even know what to call him. Her protector? Her killer? Her spy?
Whoever he was, he appeared out of nowhere halfway around the square. No waving or shouting to draw attention. He just stood in an obvious spot on the sidewalk, knowing she would spot him. Christine pulled over and he slid into the passenger seat.
“Turn left,” he ordered. “Work over to Kensington Street.”
And hello to you too, she thought. Christine edged the car back into heavy traffic while he immediately began scanning again for some unseen enemy. She noticed a small scrape on his hand.
“So, kill anybody while you were out?” She’d meant to lighten the mood, but it came out sounding crass. He gave her a hard look.
“Sorry.” Christine heard the asynchronous wail of sirens in the distance, and she felt a shudder of unease. “Where are we going now?”
“We’re going to get out of London for a day or two. Let’s head back west, on the M3. And if you see a pharmacy along the way, stop.”
Christine took another look at him. He was wearing a tweed jacket she’d never seen before. A small thing, she thought. He goes off wearing one jacket, comes back in another. There must be a harmless explanation. Then she noticed a dark stain on the sleeve. She pulled the car over.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Christine replied by reaching over and gently coaxing the fabric up to his elbow, revealing a fresh wound.
“My God! What happened?”
“I took a round, but it’s okay. I think it passed right through.” He pulled his arm away.
“Well, your expert medical opinion aside, I should have a look at it.”
“Keep driving. The bleeding has stopped, it’s just sore. We’ll be fine if we can put some distance between us and …”
Christine’s stomach turned over.
“Go!” he insisted.
She pulled back onto the street. “All right. I’ll keep going,” she spat. “And maybe we can take a bullet out of that gun for you to bite down on. That’s how you macho types deal with pain, right?” Christine’s anger surged. “But while I drive, you tell me what happened back there. You go off without telling me where you’re going or what you’re doing, and then come back with a gunshot. If I’m being dragged into this, I want to know what’s going on! Tell me or I’m leaving!”
