by Ward Larsen
It was obvious they were dealing with some sort of military device, but unlike any they’d ever seen or been briefed on. It was similar in shape to an air-dropped munition — a five-hundred pounder, perhaps — and they all saw what looked like fin attach points at the rear. But the lack of any external fuse or guidance package seemed peculiar. The point man identified what seemed to be a serial number at the base of the cylinder, and technicians outside fed these numbers, along with a physical description of the weapon, into a laptop computer. The computer cross-checked through its substantial database of weaponry, but found nothing to match.
The officer in charge was vexed. He recalled his specialist, not wanting to risk anything more until he knew what they were dealing with. It was one of his subordinates who suggested they use their new machines from the States, Ranger and Alex. Both were made by a small, highly specialized American company. Ranger’s function was to detect the slightest signature of certain radioactive isotopes, while Alex was used to identify a wide range of metals with potential nuclear uses. The machines had been unpacked only weeks earlier, but long enough for the curious engineers of the 58th to decipher their operation. Both were quickly brought forward to bear analysis on the enigma that lay below Lorraine II’s stern deck.
The results were immediate, conclusive, and stirred a convulsion of anxiety in the control room. The soldiers there, among the steadiest in the British armed forces, fought to maintain their professional equilibrium.
There were two immediate options. Evacuate the entire city, or tow the Bertram out to sea. Since the first option would necessitate revealing the need for the evacuation, a technique sure to incite panic, the second was selected. Arrangements were made to commandeer a small tug while the whole matter was sent up the chain of command. Far, far up.
It took twelve minutes to reach Nathan Chatham. He was already grim, having received word earlier of the triple homicide in Eastbourne. The assailant, seen by police, was almost certainly their man. That on his mind, he was called unexpectedly up to Shearer’s office, where the Assistant Commissioner filled him in on the latest bad news.
“We don’t know where it’s come from,” Shearer said, “but our technical people are working on it. This is a military device, not something slapped together in the IRA’s basement. Perhaps stolen from Russia. We’ve been worrying about that kind of thing for years.”
“Or Israeli,” a somber Nathan Chatham said, thinking out loud.
“What was that?”
“I said Israeli. It’s either their weapon, or perhaps one that’s been got-ten hold of by their enemies. That’s all that makes sense.”
Shearer tried to follow. “What makes you so sure?”
“We’ve been able to identify one of the bodies from that boat. He’s Israeli.”
“Mossad again,” Shearer offered.
“We don’t know much about him, but I can’t imagine otherwise.”
“And the fellow who got away?”
“It’s him,” Chatham fumed, wringing his hands together. His frustration was boiling over into anger. “Eastbourne?” he rumbled. “What in the devil would he be doing down there?”
“Yes,” Shearer agreed, “I thought that odd. As far as we can tell, this thing is not armed, and with Eastbourne not a politically significant target, I think we can assume it was headed elsewhere.”
“But it doesn’t make sense to leave something like that sitting at a dock. How long did you say the boat has been there?”
Shearer reviewed the message on his desk. “Two days. And there’s no evidence they were about to move.”
“Two days,” Chatham huffed. “You might make port for fuel, but then you’d be on your way, wouldn’t you?” He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and began pacing, his head bent low.
“I’m told the fuel tanks were nearly empty. And they hadn’t made any request to put into the fueling dock.”
“Wasn’t there any kind of inspection? Customs?”
Shearer shrugged, “Seems they slipped through somehow.”
Chatham scowled. “There’s a reason for everything here. I’m just not seeing it yet.”
“Needless to say, this has gone straight up. The Prime Minister has scheduled a meeting in an hour. I’d like you to be there. It’s at Number 10,” Shearer added, referring to the address on Downing Street.
Chatham looked at his watch. “Good,” he said forcefully, “I’ve got a few things I’d like to discuss with the Prime Minister.”
“Oh, and there is one other thing,” Shearer added far too casually.
“What?”
“This weapon, it seems, is resting on some type of wooden cradle. There also happens to be a second cradle next to it.”
Chatham cringed, “And the second cradle is …”
“Quite empty.”
The first press release came at 4:10 p.m., London time. Thin on details, it insisted that the situation was under control. The yacht and its cargo were now almost a hundred miles out to sea, and firmly surrounded by a flotilla of Royal Navy warships that essentially blockaded the area.
By nightfall, no less than four thousand people had surrounded the harbor in Eastbourne, all wanting to see where the doomsday boat had been docked that morning. A far greater number had taken flight, leaving the city by car, train, and even bicycle, oblivious to the fact that the weapon was far out to sea.
Over the course of the evening there were no fewer than seven briefings by various government agencies. A weather expert from the Met Office gave assurances that, even if the weapon should go off in its present position, the upper level winds would drive any harmful effects southward, out to open sea. The man stood in front of a large map which displayed (those with true knowledge might say exaggerated) the distance of the threat offshore. The Prime Minister himself even made a plea for calm, just in time for the evening news broadcast. All repeated two main themes — the situation was well in hand, and those responsible would be held to account. None mentioned the possibility of a second weapon.
Slaton drove fast, pressing well over the speed limit in the rattletrap little Ford. Christine was unnerved. He was taking chances like never before. Even worse was his demeanor. Something had changed back in East-bourne. Earlier this morning he’d been calm and chatty, almost casual. Then he’d gone to look for Wysinski. When she picked him up at the designated spot three hours ago, he was a different person, restrained and alert, clearly on edge. And this time she had collected him soaking wet, with a few new contusions and a gash on one arm. From the rendezvous, they’d driven north, keeping to back roads, and he’d hardly said a word.
“Are you going to tell me what happened?” Her request met silence. “Where are we going?”
Slaton’s eyes were riveted to the winding road ahead, probably a good thing given the speed at which they were traveling. She leaned forward to be sure she was in his field of view and stared at him.
“Circumstances have changed,” he said abruptly.
“How?”
“I don’t think you’re in danger any longer.”
“The way you’re driving, I am!”
He ignored her critique. “I’m convinced the reason they went after you was because you might have blown their whole operation. You knew where you picked me up, and so you might have known where to look for Polaris Venture.”
“That makes sense, I guess, but now you’re saying I’m no longer in danger. What’s different? Polaris Venture hasn’t gone anywhere.”
“No. But her cargo has.”
“The weapons?”
Slaton nodded.
“How do you know that?”
“Because I saw one of them this morning. It was on a big cruiser, in the harbor at Eastbourne.”
Christine jerked back in her seat. “You’re telling me there’s a nuclear weapon sitting on a boat back there? In the middle of a good sized city? Could … could it …”
“Detonate? Wouldn’t make sense to me,” he said d
oubtfully. “East-bourne’s not much of a target. But I really have no idea what it’s doing there.”
“What about the other one?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. They might only have salvaged one. But the point is that one of the weapons is there. The salvage has taken place, so you’re off the hook.”
Christine supposed he was trying to offer relief, but instead she felt bleak and hollow. The cat and mouse game they’d been playing was now much more encompassing, no longer simply the two of them scurrying from a few madmen. The lives of thousands could be at stake.
“So why are we in such a hurry?” she asked.
“Because along with the weapon there were three men on that boat. At least two are dead, and the police got a good look at me.”
Christine didn’t even flinch. A mild numbness set in and she wondered if she could be getting used to such things. Perhaps this was how he always stayed so calm — a series of psychological jolts that gradually, indelibly wore you down until there was nothing left. How much must David have seen in so many years of undeclared warfare? How much could he take? How much could anyone take?
She watched him concentrating on the road ahead and behind, summing up all the sights, sounds, and smells; categorizing everything as friend, foe, or neutral. Last night he had been a warm, caring man. Now he was altogether different. She saw a volatile fury seething within him that she didn’t understand. Even more, for the first time since she’d pulled him from the ocean, she was frightened. Not for her own well being, but for his. Something was terribly wrong.
“David, are you all right?”
The softness of her voice captured his attention. At last, the man she had known last night reappeared. He eased off the accelerator and put a hand to her cheek. “We’re going to get you safe now.”
“How?”
Slaton told her. When he finished, she thought about the plan. It made sense and she could hardly argue against it.
“What about you? What are you going to do?” she asked.
The car accelerated and Slaton was again lost to the task at hand. He never answered, and Christine was left wishing she had never asked.
Anton Bloch shifted uncomfortably in his seat outside Prime Minister Jacobs’ office. He’d been there for nearly an hour, waiting patiently while shouts reverberated behind the two thick wooden doors. He looked at Moira who was, as always, implacable. She sat typing on her computer, as if unaware that the future of their country was being decided in the next room. Bloch had tried to catch her eye once or twice, but her professionalism was unyielding, and she kept tied to her task.
The news about one of the weapons turning up in England had hit three hours ago. The Brits tried to make the communiqué as diplomatic as possible, but the magnitude of the event transcended what little conciliatory language the Foreign Office could include. Great Britain strongly suspected Israeli involvement in the matter of a nuclear weapon turning up on their doorstep, and they demanded an explanation. The fact that the weapon had been dragged out to sea, and was no immediate danger to anyone, save the sailors who watched over it, carried little comfort. A multimedia feeding frenzy had begun. The world wanted answers.
In Tel Aviv, the news hit particularly hard among those who knew the details of the “Polaris Venture fiasco.” For those in power the story ran wild, a fire driven by hurricane winds and jumping the feeble breaks that were security clearances and chains of command. Now the true elite, the Knesset leaders and coalition makers, all knew the facts, and they realized it was only a matter of time before the whole thing would land with a crunch at Israel’s diplomatic feet. A political bloodletting of the highest order was under way in Jacobs’ office, and Anton Bloch sat quietly, impotently on the sidelines, knowing he was as much to blame as anyone.
Bloch tried to imagine what was happening in England. Slaton and Wysinski had gone to South Africa together to load the weapons, then they had split up. Now both of them, and one of the weapons, turn up in a quiet English harbor. Viktor Wysinski and two other Mossad men, dead. David Slaton the killer. Again. And God only knew where the other nuke was. It all made Bloch reel.
Finally, Jacobs’ office grew quiet. The heavy mahogany doors flew open and a stream of the most powerful men and women in Israel filed out. Some looked at Bloch contemptuously as they exited, while others ignored him, more rushed and purposeful. The last few out simply looked defeated. Jacobs did not emerge.
Bloch got up and started into the office. He momentarily wondered if Moira would announce his entrance, but she stayed locked to her work. Passing her desk, Bloch got a good look and saw that her eyes were glistening. Moira knew what was happening, but she was doing her best to keep up a front. It was her way of dealing with it.
Jacobs was alone in the room, seated at his desk but facing away, toward the window behind. Bloch could only see the back of his head.
“Well?” he said, announcing his presence. “How did it go?”
Jacobs didn’t say anything for a moment, then slowly eased his chair around. He looked thoughtful and subdued. When he finally spoke, he did so slowly, as if making a conscious effort to shift gears from the free-for-all that had just ended. “Badly, Anton. Badly.”
Jacobs stood. He looked weary and his shoulders sagged. “We’ve sent word to the British ambassador here, admitting we lost the weapon that turned up in Eastbourne. We also admitted that there’s a second one loose. I suspect we’ll look for it together, quietly for now. But if we don’t find it soon, Anton, I’m afraid word’s going to get out.”
“We’ll find it,” Bloch said, more with hope than conviction.
“I’ll be making a speech tonight. I have to acknowledge Israel’s part in this whole affair. It will also contain my statement of resignation.”
“Resignation? You’re kidding!”
Jacobs shrugged. “There’s really no other way.”
“There has to be! Say it was a Mossad screw up. I’ll take the blame.”
The Prime Minister came around the desk and put a hand on Bloch’s shoulder. “I appreciate your loyalty Anton, but we can’t get out of this so easily. A lot of people know that I approved the mission right from the start, and some of those people don’t like me or my party.”
“Fight them!”
“I did. I fought for all I was worth, but it was no use. It all comes down to support, numbers. There were too many against me.”
“Politics,” Bloch spat.
“Politics, my friend. That’s what got me here, and that’s how it ends.” Jacobs struck a fist into his open palm. “Damn! If I only could have held it together. There were so many things in the works, things I cared about.”
“Who will take over?” Bloch asked.
Jacobs laughed. “You should have seen them. The posturing, the threats, the blatant dealmaking. I’d say Steiner, or maybe Feldman. Whoever can scheme up the right coalition. For now, Zak will run things until a special election can be arranged.”
“Zak? He was briefed on everything right from the start. Isn’t he as dirty as the rest of us?”
“Of course, but somebody has to run the country for a couple of months, Anton. Zak’s a Knesset member, and since he’s always been in my shadow, he hasn’t stepped on many toes yet. To tell the truth, I think the others see him as the least ambitious of the bunch. He agreed to not be part of the next government. And we’ll erase his name from any records that might have put him at the meetings.”
“Whose idea was that?” Bloch asked.
“It was mine. We have to insulate him.”
“What about Greenwich on Monday? Will this threaten the Accord?”
“A few of the Arab countries will raise a predictable fuss, but we’ll confess our sins carefully. At worst we’ll look careless, but there’s no new strategic ground. We’ve been nuclear capable for decades. No, the Accord will go forward. I’m sure of it.”
“That’s your peace agreement! You spent an entire year battling for it. You h
ave every right to be the one who signs it and finishes the deal.”
“No,” Jacobs said, “this has to be done right away. Once I’ve taken responsibility for this mess, there’s nowhere for me to go but out. I can’t linger for a few days for something like that. My resignation will take effect at midnight. Zak will go to Greenwich and sign the Accord.”
Bloch had never been more frustrated in his life. Again and again he tried to figure it out. How had the weapons been taken? How did one end up in England? And above all else, why? He’d give anything to talk to David Slaton for sixty seconds.
“And Anton,” Jacobs added awkwardly, “I’m afraid you’ll be going down with me.”
Bloch nodded. “I expected as much. You’ll have my letter in the morning.”
Jacobs went to a small cabinet where a bottle of brandy was waiting, a prepositioned salve. He held out a glass, inviting Bloch to join him.
An agitated Bloch shook his head. “No. Maybe tomorrow, but not now.”
Jacobs poured a stout bracer, snapped his head back and downed it in one motion.
Bloch headed for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“There’s still one weapon out there, and I want to find it. I hate being made the fool!”
It was the kind of evening Nathan Chatham enjoyed, cool and clear. Living a mile and a half from the Yard, he generally eschewed the clunky old conglomeration of iron that passed for his automobile. He always felt that a crisp walk helped to clear his thoughts, thoughts so regularly muddled amid the daily scramble of people and information. Today had been particularly hectic, and he’d gotten no sleep the night before. Exhausted, Chatham had explained to Ian Dark that he’d be going home for dinner, a nap and, most critically, a few hours of quiet in which to think things through. He’d be back at the office by midnight.
Chatham walked at his typical brisk pace so as to take advantage of the cardiovascular benefits. No need then for a time-consuming exercise program. It also had the advantage of getting him home a few minutes sooner.
