The Perfect Assassin

by Ward Larsen

  “His name,” she began, “is David Slaton …”

  Christine released Chatham after exactly two hours of captivity in his own living room. He made a lengthy phone call and, before the end of it, a large sedan pulled up directly in front of the house. When Chatham finally finished his call, he and Christine got into the car.

  The inspector said nothing to the two men in front, but within minutes the driver had whisked them to a back gate at Scotland Yard. Through security checkpoints and a labyrinth of passages, the car deposited Christine and Chatham at an entrance, which posted no signs to guide the unfamiliar. There was simply a door, more security, and an unmarked elevator. They got on the elevator and, to Christine’s surprise, went down, mocking the huge multi-story structure that towered above them.

  All the while, they kept in tow the two quiet, solidly built men who had been in the car. Christine found herself watching the bodyguards, studying them. Alert and expressionless, they never once seemed to look at her or Chatham. They were simply fixtures — silent, watchful and ever-present — and she realized that they reminded her of David. At any rate, Christine decided Chatham was keeping his word. The security men made her feel safe, notwithstanding the fact that she was now tucked away in the headquarters of one of the world’s preeminent police organizations.

  Christine was ushered into a small, utilitarian room and told to wait. She tried to get comfortable, figuring it could be a long night.

  By coincidence, the press releases were issued almost simultaneously. From Scotland Yard came word that a suspect had been identified in connection with the nuclear weapon in Eastbourne, indeed the same man who had been sought concerning shootings in Penzance and a West End restaurant. The American woman who had purportedly been abducted by that same man was now in police custody, and being questioned about her involvement. An excellent drawing of the man, courtesy of Nathan Chatham’s memory and the Yard’s best computer-aided sketch man, was issued with a request for the widest possible dissemination.

  From Tel Aviv came a communiqué admitting that the weapon found in England was of South African origin, and had been hijacked while under transport to Israel for safekeeping. Three cleverly worded paragraphs managed to avoid placing any blame on the state of Israel. It also dodged, just as the British had, any mention of a second weapon. Both governments wanted to sidestep whatever panic that announcement might incur.

  In a brief speech half an hour later, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Jacobs announced his resignation, citing tragic security lapses that had taken place under his watch. The failures had irretrievably undermined the support of his governing coalition. Ehud Zak was named as acting Prime Minister, until elections were held in two month’s time. Zak vowed to cooperate completely with the United Kingdom and all other nations to bring those “guilty persons or organizations” to justice.

  CNN could barely keep up.

  Chatham had allowed her to phone her mother. The call was brief, and the Inspector himself had listened to every word. In roughly a minute, Christine assured her mother that she was safe, and would be home soon. That conversation should have provided final relief for Christine, a confirmation that, for the first time in weeks, her own personal safety was not at question. Instead, she still felt uneasy and the reason was clear. David remained very much in danger. He was being hunted down by the world’s top police forces, not to mention a shadowy band of killers.

  Nearing midnight, Christine was comfortably seated in the anteroom to Chatham’s office. At the hallway entrance she saw two big, familiar shoulders, one on each side of the door frame. Across the room, Chatham was barking instructions to a harried staff.

  “Heathrow in particular, but don’t forget Gatwick, Stansted, and City. He’s got a head start, but not a big one. Containment! That’s the thing. Take those men off the tube and put them on National Rail, all the big stations. And the car. He’ll have to ditch that ridiculously conspicuous car. Check all the rental agencies, particularly the smaller ones. We must know about anyone trying to deal in cash …”

  On and on Chatham went, and after a final verbal boot to their collective bottoms, a half dozen men and women scurried out of the office and dispersed down the halls. The inspector appeared and beckoned Christine into his office.

  “Dr. Palmer, if you please.”

  Christine went into Chatham’s office. It seemed a dark, haphazard place. The appointments were tasteful, though dated, and papers and files lay strewn about the place, with a big pile stacked loosely on the floor in one corner. The furniture looked comfortable but had to be fifty years old, judging by the worn fabric and scratched wood surfaces. Christine saw scant evidence of the twentieth century, let alone the twenty-first. There was a telephone at his desk, and a television and VCR sat on a wheeled cart. The digital clock on the VCR was insistently flashing 12:00 and, given that the stroke of midnight was approaching, would soon be correct for the second time today. The rest of the room’s furnishings had likely been in place for generations.

  Chatham got straight to the point. “Tell me again how he purchased the car, the last one you were driving.”

  “He said he bought it from a young kid,” Christine said.

  “Do you know how he found it? An advertisement of some sort?”

  Christine’s patience was spent. “Inspector Chatham, I’ve gone over this. I’ve answered all your questions. I want to help you as much as possible, but so far, everything I’ve heard leads me to the conclusion that you’re putting all your efforts into finding David. If you believed what we’ve told you, you’d be searching for the people who really hijacked Polaris Venture. They’re the ones who have a nuclear weapon.”

  “Dr. Palmer, I understand your frustration, but your friend Mr. Slaton remains a very dangerous man. He’s proved it time and again.”

  “David is not the danger here!” she said angrily. “You’re after someone who’s on your side while the real murderers are out there, maybe plotting to kill thousands of people.” Christine glared at the Scotland Yard man, ready to jump on any reply.

  Chatham’s stony face broke and his lips curled into a grin. At that, Christine’s posture relaxed as well. Chatham walked over to the door and closed it quietly.

  “I’m not accustomed to being second guessed in my own office,” he mused. “But then I wish more of my staff would force a good point when they have it. Most nod their heads without thinking.”

  He took a seat next to her on a worn leather couch. Chatham spoke in a hushed tone, not that anyone would hear them beyond the solid oak door. “Let me start by saying that I believe you. I think David Slaton is not our biggest problem. In fact, he might well be out there trying to find that weapon, just as we are.”

  “Then why not let him go and look for the real criminals?”

  Chatham sighed with exasperation. “Quite simply, because I have no idea who they are.”

  “Well they’re Israeli … traitors or something. That’s what David thinks and it makes sense.”

  “Does it? Dr. Palmer, I know most of the people he’s gotten mixed up with were Mossad. We figured that much out days ago. But my government has asked Israel for an explanation of all this weapons business — at the highest levels, I might add. Do you know what we were told?”

  “What?”

  “That your Mr. Slaton is responsible for everything.”

  “You don’t believe that,” Christine implored.

  “No, I don’t. Which leads me to one of two possibilities. Either the government of Israel is lying about it, or they don’t know what’s going on any more than we do. Given the amount of heat they’re taking over this whole affair, I’d say the latter is the case. They’re as stumped as we are. And with the Greenwich Accord next week, I think they’ll do anything to finish this embarrassment as quickly as possible.”

  “What do you mean by anything?” she asked guardedly.

  Chatham leaned closer and tilted his head to one side, his long face awash in seri
ousness. “I’m looking for David Slaton because he’s the best lead I have. But I must add that I think he’d be safer in our hands than roaming across the world with a bull’s-eye on his back.”

  Christine cringed, though Chatham was only reaffirming what she already suspected. She took a deep breath, held it, then let out a long sigh. “I can’t wait to get back to medicine. It’s so much easier.”

  “And I don’t want to risk losing my Tuesday tarts this summer.”

  “What?”

  “If I don’t tend to my roses soon, Mrs. Nesbit will have nothing for her centerpiece come Easter Sunday. She’s very unforgiving about these sorts of things.”

  Christine smiled and Chatham put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Help me find him,” he pleaded. “The sooner we do that, the sooner we can all get back to our boring old lives.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Slaton sat quietly in a dark corner of a subdued pub shortly after midnight. The mood in the place had been more raucous an hour ago, but England’s rugby team had lost a close one, to France no less. As soon as the match had ended, someone changed the channel on the television, and the bartender got busy pouring a round of consolation.

  Slaton had chosen the pub simply to be lost in a crowd while he took a meal. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and wasn’t sure when another opportunity might arise. He wore a cap with a wide brim that largely concealed his face, and aside from two requisite visits from the waitress, he’d been largely ignored. The plate in front of him was empty now, the pint of beer half gone. He’d ordered the beer only because he otherwise would have been the only person in the place without one. Along the same lines, he felt obliged to drink it, taking no pleasure in the taste, nor the knowledge that his senses would be ever so slightly degraded. He took another swallow but stopped before finding the mug’s bottom, lest the barmaid have ideas about swinging by with a replacement.

  Slaton found himself awash in thought. He was convinced that Christine was safe now, in part because he felt Chatham was competent and would keep his word. But Slaton was also increasingly sure that his reasoning was correct. Christine had become a target only because she might have compromised Polaris Venture’s location. Now that didn’t matter because the weapons had been salvaged. He still didn’t understand the rest, though. Wysinski’s words ricocheted through his mind again and again. The second weapon would shape the future of our country. What could that mean? And who was behind it all? There had been truth in Wysinski’s taunting. The shooter in Netanya … the man who killed Yosef … he will lead us there … he is leading us there.

  But who? Had someone high in the Mossad sold out, or been blackmailed? Yet there were too many involved. Too many ex-soldiers who had bled for their country, too many well-screened Mossad officers. It didn’t add up.

  “Here, turn that up mate,” someone barked.

  Slaton watched the bartender raise the volume on the TV as a BBC late night newscast came on. Everyone knew what the top story would be. The crowd eased their grousing enough to listen. The bartender looked surprised. “Haven’t seen it like this since that Falklands business,” he grumbled, casting an eye at the screen himself.

  Distant aerial footage showed the harbor in Eastbourne, while the anchorwoman danced around the news that there was no news. She reiterated the few known facts before the video gave way to Slaton’s own image. Actually there were two. Police sketches, far better than what had been in circulation. One showed him as he was, with a thickening beard, the other an estimate of what he’d look like without it. Inspector Chatham wasn’t wasting any time. Slaton imagined that a dozen sets of eyes at the bar should be going back and forth between the television and his table, but, in fact, no one even glanced his way. He heard a few mumblings about “bloody terrorists” this, and “IRA” that. Slaton suspected they might even get a picture soon, courtesy of his government. And his life would get that much harder.

  Eventually the newscast moved on to a related story, that of the succession of government in Israel, a country that was, for the moment, on everyone’s shit list. The newly installed Israeli Prime Minister was speaking to a frantic gathering of the media. A man of medium height, Zak’s heavyset frame was masked behind a podium, and his nearly bald head shone under bright camera lights. Slaton had never met the man. Like most other Israelis, he’d only regarded Zak as a background fixture, standing behind Benjamin Jacobs’ right shoulder, smiling and nodding at all the appropriate times. Slaton knew the man was an ex-IDF officer himself — the public would never support a candidate who hadn’t done his service. Zak’s demeanor now began to reflect that past. There was a no-nonsense, almost imperious expression, and he seemed cool and at ease fielding the verbal grenades being hurled his way.

  “Did Israel steal this weapon from the South Africans?” some imbecile asked.

  “No!” Zak retorted.

  “Will Israel ask for the device, now that it’s been dismantled?”

  “We are presently consulting with the British government as to what would be the safest, most responsible disposition of the weapon.”

  “Some suggest that the weapon was hijacked by an Arab country,” a female reporter said. “Do you think it might have been intended for use against Israel?”

  “I cannot speculate. As you know, we are cooperating with the British authorities and Interpol to apprehend an Israeli citizen who we think is involved. We don’t know if he acted alone or in concert with others. But there is no evidence to suggest involvement by any of our Arab neighbors.”

  The same female voice, “Will the Greenwich Accord still go forward Monday?”

  Here, Zak took his time. “Peace has been a long time coming. After years, we have finally agreed with our adversaries to co-exist, to stop the insanity of violence that has plagued us for so long. The Greenwich Accord has been negotiated and ratified by our government. As long as our Arab neighbors continue along this same path of peace, I see no reason for us to not do the same. I will be in Greenwich next Monday to sign the Accord.”

  Slaton felt a chill shoot down his spine. Something Zak had said. Something. He watched without listening. Zak’s thick forehead was gleaming, his blunt finger raised to make a point. As long as our Arab neighbors continue along this path—

  Slaton sat transfixed. It didn’t happen instantly, but was instead a slow, simmering path to recognition. He relived the past weeks and put everything in a new light, trying in vain to disprove the sick idea that was making more and more sense with every moment. Each old piece fell perfectly into the new mold, all along so obvious, yet so insane. He’d had it all wrong. For twenty years. The man who had Yosef killed … the shooter in Netanya … he will lead us there … he is leading us there!

  Slaton finally understood. For twenty years he had been fighting the wrong enemy, exorcising the wrong demons. There were so many implications. The second weapon would be used, but how and where? Slaton couldn’t think about it. All he could do now was stare at the television until Zak’s picture finally disappeared. The newscaster began talking again, and over her shoulder was a photograph of the National Observatory at Greenwich. Through all the emotions, the hatred and confusion, one thing became clear. Crystal clear. Slaton battled to regain control as the waitress strolled up and took his empty plate.

  “Anything else, luv?”

  “No, nuttin’,” he managed.

  The waitress left a check on the table. When she returned five minutes later, the man in the corner booth was gone and his mug finally empty. She found enough money on the table to cover the tab, and an extra pound for her own troubles. The usual.

  “We’ve found the car, Inspector,” Ian Dark said, rushing into the Scotland Yard cafeteria.

  Chatham immediately put down the knife and fork he’d been using to saw through a particularly tough steak, then ran a napkin across his mouth and bushy mustache. “Where?”

  “The Barcomb Insurance building. It’s …” Dark hesitated as Chatham close
d his eyes dejectedly.

  “Straight across the street from this building,” Chatham finished. “How long ago?”

  “Twenty minutes. One of our special teams found it. They were going through the big parking garages, just as you instructed.”

  Chatham shoved aside the daily special with few regrets. “Tube, rail, car,” he murmured rhetorically, “how will you move now my friend?”

  “Shall I concentrate our forces?” Dark suggested.

  Chatham frowned, “I’m worried this might be a diversion, but yes, there’s really nothing else to do. Keep up surveillance of the major transportation centers, but get everyone else over here. Start with a two-mile radius, then work outward. Talk to every cab and bus driver who’s been through for the past …” he glanced at the wall clock, “four hours. Question the ticket agents at all the nearby tube stations. And car hire agencies, check them all. Also, see if there were any security cameras in that parking garage.”

  Chatham set off briskly toward the elevator. “The Israelis promised us a photograph. See if it’s come in yet. That drawing is good, but nothing like a current photo.”

  As they waited for the elevator, Dark pulled out his cell phone and began punching buttons. By the time the elevator call light had extinguished, Chatham had his answer.

  “The picture came in ten minutes ago. They’re reproducing as we speak, and it should be out to the field within an hour.”

  “Capital,” Chatham said distractedly. He looked at the little device in Dark’s hand, grudgingly accepting its utility. “Perhaps I should learn to use one of those after all.”

  Dark smiled at the small victory. “Really nothing to them, Inspector,” he said, holding it up. “Anyone can learn how.”

  Chatham eyed it with suspicion as he reached out and punched a button on the elevator. The moment was ruined by the elevator’s fire alarm bell. Scotland Yard’s top detective glared furiously at the illuminated red button on the control panel, the one he had just pushed.