by Ward Larsen
He reached the brownstone row where he’d made his home for the last twenty-one years. His particular dwelling was over two hundred years old, built for a sea captain, or so the property agent had told him. It was solid and well-maintained, two stories squeezed narrowly into a row of similar homes that ran the length of the street. Lately the address had become fashionable and, one by one, widows and pensioners were giving way to the nouveau riche, young advertising and financial princes who parked Italian cars in the street and spruced their housefronts in the most god-awful colors. Chatham didn’t mind much. They were loud at times, but the walls between the homes were a full one meter thick and he had no trouble getting his sleep. (Neighborhood legend had it that even Hitler’s V-2s had gotten no satisfaction here, one having bounced off the backside of a house to make a large crater in a resident’s backyard. Old timers swore the defiant owner had filled the gaping hole with water and used it for many years thereafter as a duck pond, though Chatham had never seen evidence of it.) His only complaint was on Sundays, the day he liked to work in his garden. Occasionally the parties at nearby properties got out of hand, disturbing Chatham’s cherished day of peace and reconstitution. It was during these instances that the Chief Inspector from Scot-land Yard had no hesitation in putting his rank and position to good use.
He spent a few minutes chatting up Mrs. Nesbit, who was sweeping her porch two doors down. A great hater of the “bloody tele,” she was probably the only person on the block who hadn’t seen the evening news, and thus had no idea what Chatham had been up against all day. He found it a pleasant diversion to hear the neighborhood gossip — Number 20 at the end of the street had been sold to a speculator, and Mr. Wooley’s gall bladder operation had ended favorably.
Chatham bid goodnight to Mrs. Nesbit and went to his door. He fumbled through his keyring, found the correct one and went inside, right away noticing the familiar, cool dampness that came from leaving the furnace off all day. When he closed the door, it struck him that the room seemed darker than usual, no illumination from the streetlights filtering in from the front window. Chatham tried to remember if he had closed the drapes for some reason. Then something else seemed off, though he wasn’t sure just what. A moment later his instincts were proven correct. A light came on. When his eyes adjusted, he saw two people sitting comfortably in the matching armchairs of his living room, a man and a woman he’d never met. He recognized them instantly.
“Good evening, Inspector,” Slaton said.
Chatham paused to regard his intruders. The man looked casual and relaxed, a manner at odds with the handgun lying obtrusively in his lap. The woman, rigid and nervous, was the far less worrisome of the two.
“Is it?” Chatham replied. He casually removed his topcoat, noticing the man’s hand tense almost imperceptibly over the gun. “At ease, sir. I don’t carry a weapon. And I might add, it is illegal to do so in this country.” He calmly walked to the thermostat and turned on the furnace. “It will take a few minutes to warm. Can I offer you some tea?”
Slaton grinned. “No, thank you.”
“Well that settles it then, you’re not an Englishman. At least I had that much right. Are you Israeli?”
“I am.”
Chatham was pleased. “Good, good. I was headed in the right direction, then. Let’s see … Mossad?”
Slaton nodded, still allowing Chatham to lead, “I was. But I’m not sure if it still applies.”
Chatham beamed and turned his attention to Christine, “And you, dear. I must say I have been vexed about how you fit into this.”
“So have I, Inspector.”
“We’ll get to all that,” Slaton said.
“Good,” said Chatham, “although with that weapon so clearly in view I suppose you’ve not come here to surrender.”
“No,” Slaton replied.
“I have,” Christine chimed in.
Chatham considered that. “I must say miss, from what I know, you’re not the one who’s committed the crimes here. It’s your associate who’s left a trail of bodies across this country. In all honesty, I wouldn’t have been surprised if we had eventually found you in a shallow grave in the moors.”
“You’re wrong about that,” she retorted. “David is the only reason I’m still here. Yes, he’s killed and hurt people, but it was only in self-defense. We’re being chased, Inspector. And it all has to do with those two nuclear weapons.”
Chatham raised an eyebrow. His voice softened. “I see.”
Slaton said, “Inspector, have a seat. I’d like to tell you a story.”
Chapter Fifteen
Chatham listened as Slaton covered everything. How Polaris Venture had gone down, how Christine had rescued him and unwittingly gotten involved. The Israeli explained Penzance; that he had gone back guessing Itzaak Simon and his friend, or someone like them, would show up. Then he made a convincing case that he’d felt obligated to take Christine with him, to protect her from the danger he’d put her in. Chatham didn’t interrupt once, but mentally filed away questions for later. Once the facts were laid out, the Israeli got to why they were here.
“When these people discovered that Christine had rescued me, she instantly became a problem. I don’t think they’d been able to salvage the weapons yet, and she knew roughly where Polaris Venture was. That’s why they went after her. I convinced Christine to not go to the police right away because they wouldn’t protect her.”
“We do that sort of thing quite well,” Chatham disagreed.
“I didn’t say you wouldn’t be able to protect her. I said you wouldn’t. Last week there was nothing concrete to support what I’ve just told you. I doubt anyone would have believed her.”
“And now?”
Slaton nodded toward Christine, “This morning we figured it out. I think we know exactly where Polaris Venture is.”
Christine, taking her cue, produced the atlas and opened it to the appropriate page. She moved next to Chatham and pointed out the seamount. “By our calculations, she went down here, in roughly 130 feet of water.”
“Easily salvageable,” Slaton added. “You wouldn’t even need any fancy equipment.”
Chatham eyed the book critically and tried to remember the description of the weapon found in Eastbourne. “How heavy are these devices?”
“A little over 400 pounds. Getting into Polaris Venture and dragging them clear would have been the hard part. Then you just attach a couple of inflatable salvage buoys. At the surface you could easily lift them out with a small winch. With good conditions, and if Polaris Venture settled favorably, it wouldn’t take more than half a day. It looks like that salvage has already taken place.” Slaton gestured to Christine, “And if that’s the case, Christine is no longer a threat to these people.”
“What about you?” Chatham queried.
“I’m very much a threat to them.”
Chatham frowned. “So who are these Mossad villains you keep referring to? Pro-Arab Israelis? Are they being bought off? How could there be so many of them? And here in England, no less?”
Slaton hesitated, “That part I don’t understand. We’ve had our share of spies and turncoats like any country, but I could never have imagined something on this scale.”
Chatham wondered if Slaton was truly as mystified as he appeared. “Sounds rather fantastic, if you ask me.”
“Any more fantastic than if I’d told you yesterday that you’d find a nuclear weapon on a pleasure boat in Eastbourne?”
Chatham tried to change tack. “So you’re going to leave Dr. Palmer in my custody?”
Christine shifted restlessly, “I don’t like the word custody. David—”
Slaton cut her off by raising his hand with a violent slashing motion. A moment later there was a knock on the door. A sharp, rapid-fire knock. Nathan Chatham knew precisely who it was.
From behind the heavy wood door a sing-song voice called out, “Yoo-hoo, Inspector. I’ve got something for you.”
“It’s Mrs. N
esbit,” Chatham said at a whisper. “She makes tarts every Tuesday. Always brings one over.”
Slaton shook his head and put a finger to his lips. Another knock, then silence. Slaton waited a full minute before speaking again.
“Will she come back?”
“Probably not,” Chatham said. “She’ll just keep it until tomorrow.” Chatham watched as Slaton weighed that response, deconstructing it to uncover any deception, deciding if Mrs. Nesbit might cause complications. Apparently satisfied, the Mossad man went on.
“Inspector, I know you’ll evaluate everything we’re telling you. I know you’ll dig and cross-check, but the facts you find will reinforce that we’re on the level. Christine is guilty of nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She will cooperate fully,” he shot her a pointed look, “and answer any questions you have. Before I leave, though, I want your assurances on a few things.”
Chatham took a stab at the first. “You wish for her to have immunity from prosecution.”
The two fugitives exchanged a glance. “Yes,” Slaton said.
“I can’t guarantee anything, but if your story holds true I can’t imagine she’d be guilty of much more than aiding and abetting you, sir. As long as she cooperates, I’ll do everything in my power to see that no charges are brought forward.”
“Fair enough,” Slaton said.
“What else?”
“There’s another weapon out there somewhere. I want your military to start monitoring the area we’ve identified. Right away, in case the salvage hasn’t been completed.”
“Those forces are not under my command, of course, but I can probably convince the right people that this bears looking into. Anything else?”
“Yes. I want your word that you’ll give Christine protection, just in case I’ve gotten it all wrong. Tight protection. Not just a hotel room or a cell in some minimum security area.”
“I’ll see to it. You have my word.”
“Good. That’s it then.” Slaton went over to the modest dining area and grabbed a wooden chair from the table.
Chatham tried to guess what he was up to, figuring it out when he saw the Israeli pull out a big roll of duct tape. “Is that really—”
“Necessary? Well, let’s see. If I asked you to sit still after I leave and not call in my whereabouts for two hours, would you?”
“No.”
“Then it’s necessary.”
Slaton shoved the chair back against a banister at the bottom of the narrow staircase. He gestured for Chatham take the seat, and he did so reluctantly.
The thought of trying to overpower the Israeli entered Chatham’s mind. But it exited just as quickly. He had watched the man closely. For the most part he’d been pleasant and businesslike. But to the trained eye there was more. The way he moved, so efficient, with no wasted motion. The way his eyes registered every movement. And when Mrs. Nesbit had come to the door. He knew she was there before anyone, even before she’d knocked. No, Chatham thought, there was a fine line between bravery and foolishness, and he knew of at least a half dozen men in the last week who had made the wrong choice with this one.
Slaton secured him to the chair with duct tape. Then, for good measure, he connected the chair to the heavy wooden banister.
“I’m not going to worry that you might shout. I don’t think your neighbors could hear you through these walls anyway, but if you do try, I’ve instructed Christine to tune your stereo to the most annoying heavy-metal radio station available and then set the volume on maximum.”
“That,” Chatham deadpanned, “could lead to criminal charges for her after all.”
Christine watched tensely as Slaton secured the Scotland Yard man. She realized that in minutes they’d be parting ways for the second time in a week. The last time, he’d been rowing himself ashore, and Christine had hoped to never see him again. This time it was very different. The thought stuck stubbornly in her mind.
When he was done, he handed her a pair of scissors. “Two hours, no less.”
She nodded. “I need to talk to you, David.”
He looked up, scouted the room, and pointed to the kitchen. They retreated beyond Chatham’s watchful eyes.
“What is it?” he asked in a hushed tone.
“You don’t know?”
He looked at her directly, something he had seemed to avoid since they’d left Eastbourne. Christine felt a glimmer of hope.
“Look,” he said, “I know what you’re thinking. But things can’t happen that way.”
“What way?”
“The way they were yesterday, and …”
“And that night?” she said. “Why not? What was so wrong with it?” She could see him withdraw, his gaze fading to obscurity. Christine wanted to rescue him once and for all. “David, they can protect you as well as they can me. I like Inspector Chatham. I think he believes us. Stay. Get out of this life you’re so immersed in. It rules everything you do. You can’t eat, sleep, walk, or talk without worrying about who’s chasing you or who you should be chasing. You’re not even capable of love if—”
“No!” he said loudly. “I—” he lowered his tone to a harsh whisper, “I had a wife and child once, and they were ripped from my life!”
“Oh!” Christine spat back, “So you’re just going to spend the rest of your life destroying others to make up for it! That makes sense. You don’t even know who was responsible for what happened back then.”
“I can find out now!”
Christine watched him turn away and storm to the back door. There, peering out the window, he performed reconnaissance on a well-tended garden and the wall that surrounded it. That was how they’d gotten in, and that was how he’d leave.
“David, two nights ago I thought I finally knew you. I thought I saw the person you really are. But now these demons are back. Whatever it is, walk away! Stay here with me and we can both stop running!”
“You don’t understand.”
“No, you’re right. I don’t!” she yelled, not caring if Chatham heard. “I don’t understand what you’re doing, where you’re going, or what you’re thinking. For a short time I thought I did, but I was obviously wrong.”
They squared off and glared at one another, both unyielding. Slaton finally broke the stalemate. He brushed by her and went for a last check of their captive. Apparently satisfied Chatham wasn’t going anywhere, he walked right past her again and started out the back door.
She watched him, speechless, not believing he could leave it at that. But at the threshold he stopped. He spoke without looking at her, “All that I’ve brought on — I hope none of it has hurt you.”
“Only one thing,” she said quietly.
He didn’t move for a moment, as he stood staring out the half-open door. Then he was gone.
Christine folded her arms tightly and tried to hold her composure. She took a few deep breaths before returning to the adjoining room, where an inspector from Scotland Yard sat calmly taped to his dining room chair.
Chatham eyed her.
“Is it really true that you found him in the ocean? You’ve never seen him before that?”
Arms still folded, her hands clutched at her sleeves. “Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Well, the way the two of you interact. I’d suspect you might have known one another longer.”
She turned away briefly, not wanting him to gauge her reaction. When she turned back, Chatham made a show of inspecting the bindings that held him to the chair.
“I don’t suppose I could talk you into cutting me out of this predicament?”
She shook her head.
“No. No, I really didn’t think so.”
She sat gingerly on the stairs beside him.
“You look tired. Been a tough week, has it?”
She nodded.
“I can help him.”
Christine studied the inspector, “How?”
“I don’t know yet, honestly. But I’ve a great deal of manpower at
my disposal.”
“He’s just a terrorist to you. Perhaps the most dangerous one ever, if you believe what’s in the press.”
“The press,” Chatham scoffed. “I believe only what I can verify. You and that fellow say you’re the victims here. Surprisingly, I have an urge to believe you. However, I must support that urge with evidence.” Chatham softened his tone, “I will find him. Hopefully before anything more happens. But in order to do that, I must know who he is, what he’s going to do next.”
“Who he is?” Christine hunched forward, bringing her knees to her chest. “I don’t think he even knows that. What could I tell you?”
“Anything. Everything. Tell me he’s six-foot-one, a hundred eighty pounds, with a round scar on the back of his left hand, and two small moles on the back of his neck at the collar. Tell me he’s got a scruffy beard with some recent scarring underneath, probably a result of the exposure at sea. His English is good, but the accent is continental. He seems well-educated, perhaps proficient in other languages. He also favors his left arm as though it’s been injured recently.”
“You’re very observant, Inspector.”
“I’ve been at this a long time. I repeat, I will find him.”
“You might, but he’s also very good at what he does, Inspector Chatham.”
“Right, and since we have some time here, that would be a good place to start. What does he do?”
Christine thought about that. As far as she knew there was only one true answer, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it. He kills people, Inspector. He shoots them and kicks them in the face so hard that their necks break. She had to tell this policeman everything without condemning David. There had always been circumstances to support what he’d done, and she knew there was another side to him, another person within. One night she had seen that person, held him, even loved him. But there were two David Slatons, and the one that had just walked out onto the streets of London was the one she would probably never know or understand. Perhaps it was because of the ghosts, the demons that always tore into his dreams. In any event, Christine knew she had to do everything possible to help him. She would not let him fight the world alone. He’d been doing that for far too long.
