by Ward Larsen
“Blast!”
Slaton stood at a bus stop where no bus was due to arrive for over an hour. Earlier, a kindly old passerby had brought the matter to his attention, but Slaton simply thanked the man, explaining that he didn’t mind having to wait on such a lovely morning. The old man had looked up at a solid overcast, shrugged, and gone on his way.
In fact, Slaton had seen two buses come and go. The reason for his loitering had nothing to do with them. Adjacent to the bus stop, behind a chain link fence, lay his true objective — the loading dock for the New Covent Garden Market, the biggest and busiest produce market in London. Slaton had spent the morning watching the operation. Big lorries brought in huge loads from the ships in port. There were bananas from Panama, oranges from Spain, and Haitian sugar. Intermixed with the big trucks were smaller versions that came from across England, and a few from the continent. These brought their own cargo, moderate in quantity and even more limited in range — beets, potatoes, broad beans, and onions — the narrow range of tubers, leeks, and vegetables that comprised the bulk of agricultural production in Northern Europe.
Slaton had already culled his search to these smaller trucks, which were mostly from family farms, engaged in bringing the fall harvest to market. Conveniently, the sidewalls and doors of these vehicles were often stenciled with the names and locations of the farms they serviced.
He’d been watching for nearly three hours when his patience was finally rewarded. An ideal prospect rumbled into the yard, a boxy red contraption that advertised Smitherton Farms and Dairy, Thrapston, Northamptonshire. It was the first to meet all his requirements. Not just an open air crate, this truck’s bed was completely enclosed with a roof and rear cargo door. The driver was alone, a wiry, older man. And no doubt a Smitherton, judging by the care he exercised in unloading the forty or so boxes of turnips that made up his load. Most important was the address in Thrapston. It wasn’t the exact place he was looking for, but Slaton doubted he’d get much closer.
The old farmer set his last box onto the loading dock and stood waiting for a foreman to come round. That was the important part, the paperwork which would eventually route a deposit into the likely modest coffers of Smitherton Farms and Dairy. As Slaton watched, the dock foreman shouted something to the old man and spun a finger in the air. The old man raised his hand in acknowledgment, walked over to his truck and got in.
Slaton worried for a moment that his first choice was about to drive off. He saw the old diesel chug to life and maneuver away from the loading dock. Then he understood. The old man parked his rig toward the back of the lot and another truck, much bigger, took the now vacant slot at the busy loading pier.
The driver walked back to the platform to patiently wait his due. Slaton grabbed his backpack and began to move.
Anton Bloch was cleaning out his desk. He’d been informed of his ouster only hours ago, yet Zak wanted him out immediately. Bloch’s ties to the “Polaris Venture debacle,” as it was now internally known, were inescapable, and his downfall a fait accompli. Still, he was surprised at how quickly the end had come. In two hours, the new Director of Mossad would be quietly sworn in.
Bloch fished through the drawers of his desk. There were few personal effects to deal with, a result of his efforts to compartmentalize his life. The office was for work, and private mementos could only distract. One wall was accented with a few obligatory family photos, poor ones his wife hadn’t minded parting with. Bloch had brought them in at the suggestion of one of his staff, a woman who’d dryly noted that the only preexisting decoration, a large framed Code of Ethics, did little to soften the room’s tone. (The Code was a vestige of the previous Director, who had thought it marvelously funny given that Mossad’s chartered mission was to lie, cheat, and steal.)
Then there was the sword mounted by the door, a relic from Bloch’s days at the military academy. It was inscribed with one of those cryptic Latin phrases, the meaning of which he’d forgotten over the years. Bloch had nailed the thing up on the wall of his office because that was about all you could do with something like that.
All in all, there wasn’t much to give insight into the person who sat behind the Director’s desk, and scant evidence that he held a life beyond this building. At the outset, Bloch had made a reciprocal promise to himself that he wouldn’t take his work home. On that count, he’d failed abysmally. It was easy enough to not take the papers and files home. Since most of it was classified at the highest levels, it would have constituted a severe security breach to do so. However, the unconscionable nature of his position could never be left behind. Bloch’s work was a never-ending sequence of troubling events. Sometimes he even arranged them. He couldn’t remember the last night he’d gone to sleep with fading thoughts of a good dinner, his granddaughter’s laugh, or loving his wife. Maybe it would be different now.
Bloch pulled files out of his desk and stacked them to be returned for safekeeping in Documents Section. Had his departure been under more favorable circumstances, he might have browsed through and reminisced over the missions they represented. But on this day, he had neither the time nor the inclination. He was elbow deep in the bottom drawer when the secure line rang with its distinct high-pitched tone. He picked up and was rewarded with the voice of a trusted friend.
“We figured out where the Lorraine II came from, boss.”
“Casablanca. She was chartered for a fishing trip two weeks ago. The Moroccan captain and first mate have both disappeared, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out where they ended up.”
The caller sounded crestfallen. “How’d you know that?”
“The British told us this morning. They’re taking this pretty seriously. Have you got anything else?”
“Uh, no. Sorry.”
“All right,” said an exasperated Bloch. “Stay in Morocco and keep looking. And if you call me again, I want you to use a different number.” Bloch gave his home phone number, lacking any better ideas, and hung up. He sat tapping his fingers on the desk. With only a few more hours as Director, if he was going to use his authority, he’d have to do it now. There were two immediate problems — David Slaton and a ten-kiloton weapon, both of which had disappeared into thin air. To get answers, a multitude of options came to mind, but they all carried a common theme. Bloch picked up the phone and dialed. A female voice answered.
“Flight dispatch.”
“Anton Bloch,” he said authoritatively, “I want a plane ready in thirty minutes.”
“Number traveling and destination, sir?”
“One passenger. London.”
The search had gone on for six hours when Chatham called the first meeting. Four supervisors, one from each twenty-man team, assembled at the Yard with Chatham presiding. There was a painful lack of new information. The first three teams had reported six possible sightings of their quarry, all thin in detail and none that got Chatham’s hopes up. Lieutenant Barnstable was the last chance, however his solemn expression matched those who’d gone before. Just as he began, Ian Dark walked in and quietly handed Chatham a copy of the evening Times.
Barnstable stood before the large city map that dominated one wall and went over his troops’ findings. Chatham let his eyes wander across the newspaper. The headlines were still bold. NUKE DISARMED! SUSPECT IDENTIFIED! The picture of David Slaton was on the front page, in a bottom quarter. Rough and grainy in the print reproduction, it had lost a good deal of clarity. If the paper had known another weapon was unaccounted for, Chatham suspected the photo would have covered the entire front page. He scanned idly while Barnstable droned in to an approach and landing.
“Altogether, we’ve identified only one possible match,” he said. “A bus driver claimed to have seen a fellow at a bus stop who looked something like our man.”
Chatham browsed to page four.
“I interviewed him personally,” Barnstable said, in an ode to his own efficiency, “but he didn’t seem very sure. Apparently he didn’t get a good look at the blo
ke either time.”
“Either time?” Dark asked.
“Well, yes,” Barnstable explained. “It seems the same fellow was at this stop on two consecutive passes.”
Dark queried, “You’re saying this bus got around to a stop twice, and the same man was there both times? A man who bore some resemblance to our suspect?”
“Right.”
“Did he get on the bus?”
“No,” Barnstable said.
Chatham surprised everyone by jumping in. “How much time had elapsed between those two stops?”
Barnstable fished a notepad from his jacket and began searching. Finding the times, he did the math, “One hour and forty minutes, sir.”
Chatham’s attention was now complete. “Ian, get a city schedule. I want to see if there were any other buses he might have been waiting for.” He turned back to Barnstable, “Lieutenant, did this driver have anything else to say?”
Barnstable shuffled through his notes. “No. No, he just said the fellow was standing around. He didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the buses.”
“A man standing at a bus stop, but not waiting for a bus,” Chatham commented.
“Well, yes. I suppose,” Barnstable mumbled. He had the look of a man waiting for the boot to drop.
“Have you been to this stop, Lieutenant?”
“Not recently, but I’m familiar with it.”
“What else is nearby?”
“It’s right next to the New Covent Garden Market. Overlooks the backside, the loading docks.”
Chatham grinned knowingly at his crew. They looked back blankly, not seeing it yet. “We are assuming he’s trying to leave the city. Put yourselves in his shoes. He knows we’ll be watching all the usual means of transportation.”
Dark was the first to speak. “The lorries. They’re in and out of the market all day.”
“Empty when they leave,” Barnstable added.
“Right,” Chatham said encouragingly. “Barnstable, find that bus driver and get the exact times he saw this man. Let’s see if any other buses went by the same stop. If so, we must talk to those drivers.”
“Yes, sir,” Barnstable said. “And I’ll make sure the fellow I talked to didn’t pass by that stop later in the day. If he did, and our man wasn’t there …”
“That’s the idea,” Chatham said. Next, he pointed to Jones on the left, “Go straight to the market. They must keep some kind of log, a record of deliveries. Find out what trucks passed through at the time and where they were headed.” Then it was Cole’s turn. “Once we identify the trucks, we’ll have to track down the owners and drivers. We must find out exactly where they’ve been. Get over to Motor Division and be ready.”
The investigative team leaders had an air of urgency as they went off to their respective assignments. Chatham sat back at his desk and looked again at the Times, still open to page four.
“If we only knew what he was up to,” Dark pondered aloud.
Chatham nodded contemplatively, “When I spoke to him, I could tell there was a plan. One very clear objective. If we can guess what it is, we’ll know where to look.”
“Any ideas at all?”
Chatham raised an eyebrow and turned the newspaper around to face Dark. It was folded so that one article displayed prominently.
SECURITY TIGHTENED FOR GREENWICH ACCORD
Reuters, London
Security measures have been strengthened for the upcoming Greenwich Accord. The treaty signing ceremony will be under increased scrutiny in light of the recent discovery of a nuclear weapon on a motor yacht in Eastbourne. According to a Scot-land Yard spokesperson, “We see no relationship between the events in Eastbourne and the peace talks, but it serves to reinforce that terrorist elements take no holiday. Security arrangements for the Greenwich Accord will be intensified as we anticipate the signing of a treaty which will help bring an end to just this kind of threat.”
The article went on to describe some of the more obvious precautions being taken. Dark’s youthful face was heavy with worry. “Do you think that second weapon will turn up in Greenwich?”
Chatham leaned on a table and drummed his fingers. “I have no idea, Ian. But something tells me our man Slaton is headed there.”
Chapter Seventeen
Cold sandwiches and lukewarm tea. Supper was easily ignored as Chatham and Dark poured over information that was now coming in from all quadrants. Foremost at the moment was a status report. The American’s Nuclear Emergency Search Team, or NEST, was enroute, and scheduled to arrive early the next morning. Chatham was surprised to see how inadequately prepared his own country was to undertake such a search. Scotland Yard and the military had held a few joint maneuvers, but these had more to do with disposing of a known weapon, as had been the case in Eastbourne. The process of searching for a nuclear device hidden in a large city, or for that matter a country, was a far more daunting task. Success depended on an immensely complex network of sensors and computers, which had to be driven and flown across targeted search areas.
“The Americans are bringing their best gadgets,” Dark said.
“Well,” Chatham grumbled, “I suppose they do have a knack for this sort of thing.”
“I’m told these sensors have a limited range, though. They’re not much use if you don’t know where to begin.”
“Which is precisely why we must locate Slaton. I’m still convinced he’s our best lead.”
“We’ve had a few more sketchy sightings, but none sound promising.” Dark held up a clipboard with a half dozen loose fax pages, “We’ve accounted for seven delivery trucks that were at the market this morning. They belong to one of the big co-operatives in Birmingham and their routes were all tracked by computer. We talked to each driver, and forensics has tracked down all but two of the trucks. So far, nothing suspicious.”
Chatham wasn’t surprised. “No, no. This fellow spent hours at that bus stop looking for something in particular. He had to get out of London, but there was a destination in mind. I think he waited for a truck that was going where he wanted to go.”
“Of course!” Dark said. “He stood at the bus stop and shopped for one that was bound for the right place. Now if we only knew where that was.”
“Give me the log.”
Dark handed over the clipboard and Chatham leafed through the pages.
“Sixty deliveries in our time frame.”
He mulled the list, then took a pencil and circled an even half dozen entries. Scooping thumbtacks from the top drawer of his desk, he went to the road map of England, which had been hastily stuck to the wall right next to the room’s only artwork, a cheap oil rendition of the Battle of Trafalgar. Chatham ran a finger over the map to find the towns he’d selected, then jabbed a red tack into each. All were conspicuously in the same general area. East Anglia and the East Midlands.
“Let’s track these down first. Talk to every driver. Find out the routes they took after leaving London, especially where they stopped to purchase fuel, eat, or use the toilet. We’ll have a look at the trucks as well.”
“Just in case he’s gone and left evidence behind?”
“Yes, it’s worth a try, although I doubt he’d make that kind of mistake. Our best hope is that someone might have seen him.” Chatham looked at the map again. “We’re not far behind, but we’ve got to spot him again soon. Otherwise, we’re sure to lose track.”
The Smitherton Farms and Dairy truck hit a big rut and Slaton was nearly thrown to the floor of the cargo compartment. He’d been trying to brace himself but there wasn’t much to grab. Aside from two empty wooden crates, the back of the truck was barren. It was also dark. They’d been going non-stop for four hours since leaving the London market, and the sun had set along the way. There were only two spots where light could enter the compartment to begin with. One was a fist-sized hole in the ceiling that had been taped over — Slaton had removed the tape — and the other a horizontal slit between two of the front end panels. Du
ring the afternoon, the gaps had allowed just enough light to see the corrugated sidewalls of his temporary quarters. But now he sat in almost complete darkness, wishing Mr. Smitherton could have afforded a new set of shocks and springs to keep the old contraption from bottoming out with a crunch on every pothole. Slaton tried to be thankful they weren’t carrying a full load.
Periodically, he looked through the thin opening in front. He could see past the rear window and into the driver’s cab. Ever present was the back of the old man’s head, his attention locked forward as the truck bounced onward, steady and true.
Slaton wished he could make out road signs to confirm they were headed in the right direction, but the angles of view and lack of light made it impossible. That being the case, he was forced to dead reckon. For this, he looked past the old man to the instruments on the dashboard. The speed had averaged forty miles an hour for the first one and three-quarters hours. Seventy miles, but then distance was the easy part. Direction was far more problematic. Initially, he’d used the sun as a reference, its reflections clear as it set to the left. They’d been headed northbound, probably on the A1.
Then the first turn had come. Fortunately, the night skies had cleared and Slaton could see up through the hole in the ceiling. He was able to identify the Little Dipper and Orion, situated to suggest a more easterly track. Not very precise, but the best he could manage under the circumstances. And significant, because he knew that Thrapston would have been a westerly turn off the A1. They were headed elsewhere.
Slaton conjured up a mental image of the East Midlands and tried to deduce where they might be headed. No clear answer came to mind. He was still mulling the possibilities when the truck suddenly braked and turned onto a road that was in noticeably worse condition. Smitherton slowed to a crawl, smashing heavily over a series of potholes, water splashing into the wheelwells with each dip. When they finally came to a stop, the old man honked the horn once before shutting off the engine.
