by Ward Larsen
Under other circumstances he might have watched for a few more hours, but he knew he had to move. Chatham would be widening his efforts soon, and the head start Slaton had earned would quickly evaporate.
He clawed up some dirt and rubbed it over his face and hands, an exercise of redundancy since he was already filthy from head to toe with the mud from three English counties. Hygiene aside, it made for excellent camouflage. The backpack he’d been toting contained his worldly possessions. One spare change of clothing, British identification documents, cash, map, penlight, an empty water bottle, and the bolt cutters. He didn’t want to take the bag since it might prove cumbersome. On the other hand, he couldn’t leave it here. If anything went awry, he might not have time to retrieve it. Slaton settled on a middle ground. He took the identification papers, along with his remaining British pounds, and stuffed them into a filthy pocket. The papers were probably compromised, as the Danish documents had proven to be at The Excelsior. They were, however, all he had left, and might buy a few minutes in an emergency. Slaton extracted the bolt cutters, then zipped up the backpack and slid it under a prominent bush beside the gravel road.
The cutting tool in hand, Slaton made one last survey of his target. With no one in sight, his gaze settled on the motor pool, and a particularly wicked idea came to mind. He moved off low and fast toward the fence.
Chapter Nineteen
Chatham was asleep on one of the back room cots when Ian Dark gently rattled his shoulder.
“Inspector,” Dark said.
Chatham’s eyes opened and he gathered his bearings.
“Something you should hear, sir.”
Chatham looked at his watch and saw it was nearly noon. “What is it?”
Dark motioned for him to follow. Chatham made an effort to smooth the wrinkles from his clothes and ran his bony fingers once through the matted tangle of hair atop his head.
A man in uniform was waiting in his office. Dark introduced Chatham to Colonel Edward Binder, the Defense Ministry Liaison to Scotland Yard. Colonel Binder repeated what he’d told Dark five minutes earlier, and any cobwebs remaining from Chatham’s slumber were swept away.
“Are you telling me our suspect has broken into a military facility and taken weapons?” Chatham stood rigid.
A contrite Binder replied, “We don’t know who it was, Inspector. No one got a look at this person.”
Chatham fumed, having no doubt whatsoever. “What exactly did he take?”
“We’re not completely sure yet, but an inventory is under way. We do know he’s taken two L96A1s.”
“Two what?”
“L96A1s. They’re rifles. He’s also taken a handgun, some ammunition, a vest and … there was one other thing.”
“A main battle tank, perhaps?” Chatham ripped.
“Actually it was a Land Rover, the military version.”
Chatham exploded, “One of the most wanted men of all time has walked onto a post and taken guns, ammunition, and a truck? Without anyone even seeing him?”
Dark came to Binder’s defense, “Inspector, Colonel Binder is only the messenger.”
Binder went ramrod straight as he returned fire. “Security was lacking because nearly the entire post was thirty miles off, hiking around the countryside looking for this man! If anyone’s to blame, they’ll be right here in this room!”
Chatham stood to full height and the men glared at one another. Dark moved physically between them, but the intervention proved unnecessary. Chatham turned away, realizing he did have to share the blame.
“All right, all right,” he said, banging a fist into his palm, “we’ve no time for this. At least we know where he was this morning. What have you done to find this truck?”
Binder stood down and said, “The local constabulary are on alert.”
“How did they know it was stolen,” Dark asked, “and not just taken in a mix-up among the troops?”
“The theft was obvious,” Binder said. “The motor pool is at the rear of the facility and the gate there was locked tight. He got out by cutting a rather large hole in the perimeter fence and then driving through it.”
Chatham flinched, but held fast. He strode to the map on the wall and removed the pin that was stuck on Smitherton’s daughter’s house. After a brief search, he jabbed it on Uppingham.
Dark said to Binder, “Can you say when the truck was last seen in the motor pool?”
“No, but I’ll look into it.”
“You see,” Dark explained, “if we know the earliest possible time he might have taken it, then we know how far away he might have driven.”
Chatham shook his head vigorously. “No, no Ian. That’s not it at all. You’re not putting yourself in his place. He’s taken a vehicle that’s going to be easy to spot. And he left a gaping hole in the fence, so he really didn’t try to hide the crime. He won’t keep it for more than an hour, I’d say. He’ll make a mad dash.” Chatham looked at the map and the answer was clear. “Leicester! That’s where he’s headed. Trains, buses, taxis, even an airport we’re not watching. And he’s had all morning.” Chatham slapped his open hand over the map. “Blast! He could be anywhere by now!”
Dark echoed Chatham’s frustration. “So where do we start?”
Chatham set his jaw. “Maybe it’s not as bad as all that.” He tapped a finger on Leicester. “First we find the missing Rover. If he’s ditched it near a transportation hub, it might get us back on track. We take the picture and show it around. Remember, he’s got some oversized luggage now that must stand out.”
Colonel Binder frowned. “Inspector, the L96A1 is a very special type of weapon. Do you know what it’s used for?”
Chatham confessed he had no idea.
“Special operations equipment. It’s a sniper’s rifle.”
Dark cringed, while his superior remained impassive.
“And why two of them?” Binder added.
“Yes,” Chatham mused, “why indeed?”
The British Army Land Rover was spotted within the hour by Constable Hullsbury of the Leicester Constabulary. Hullsbury had been driving home in his personal car when he saw a Rover with the unmistakable drab green color scheme. A quick call-in on his cell phone confirmed that this was indeed the one everyone was after. An excited dispatcher at headquarters instructed him to keep the vehicle in sight at all costs, but added a warning to not get too close. The policeman didn’t bother to reply that he’d been to the briefing on this fellow — he wasn’t going anywhere near without a small army of back-ups.
Hullsbury followed from a distance, glad to be tucked discreetly into his small compact. The Rover moved erratically, speeding one minute, then slowing to a crawl. Eventually the driver turned into a large construction site, ten or twelve acres of freshly turned dirt and mud. A pair of graders and a huge payloader sat dormant, their crews nowhere to be seen, probably gone for lunch.
Constable Hullsbury watched in amazement as the most wanted criminal in Europe spun a wild circle in the loose soil. He called in an update on the suspect’s position while the Rover sped back and forth, mud flying thirty feet into the air. Within minutes, backup units began to arrive, discreetly taking station all around the construction site.
Ten minutes later, the Rover was caked in so much mud that Hulls-bury could no longer tell what color it was. It also appeared to be stuck, axle deep in a muck that even its nimble four-wheel-drive power train couldn’t overcome. The truck sat motionless, mired to the midsection, with its wheels spinning occasionally to no effect.
Then, on some unseen cue, it happened. More sirens than Hulls-bury had ever heard in his life, a veritable symphony of justice coming from all directions. A half dozen police cars sped by and three more appeared from the opposite side of the construction site, along with an armored car and two smaller camouflaged Army vehicles. He threw his little Ford into gear and followed, feeling more comfortable now with the numbers. They all careened wildly through the wet dirt and came skidding to a stop
, Hullsbury a bit too late as his car clipped the fender of a black and white. Settling roughly a hundred feet away, the authorities formed an uneven circle around the stranded Rover, which sat motionless, spewing steam from under its hood.
At least three dozen policemen and soldiers, Hullsbury included, scrambled out of their vehicles and took protection behind doors and quarterpanels. Some of the policemen had pistols, while the Army blokes were sporting automatic rifles and at least one grenade launcher. Hulls-bury had instinctive doubts about this circular strategy. If bullets started to fly he’d take good cover, happy that the bloke with the grenade launcher was right next to him and not opposite.
In the rushed conglomeration of firepower there was no clear leader, and so no one bothered to insist that the suspect should, Come out with your hands up! The omission proved immaterial, as the present show of force rendered any such suggestions superfluous.
Hullsbury took a good look at the Rover and noticed for the first time that there were two people inside — or at least two sets of eyes, white and wide in amazement. The driver’s door opened, then the passenger’s, and two suspects emerged. The driver was skinny with orange hair and a large silver barbell pierced through one eyebrow. He was no more than nineteen years old. The other had blue hair, a large tattoo on one arm, and was even younger and skinnier than the first.
The younger boy was trembling, while the older one had enough sense to at least put his hands in the air. He smiled nervously and called across the divide, “We was just havin’ a bit of fun, we was.”
The car was a Porsche. Flashy, but the only other options had been a Maserati and a Bentley. Obey the appropriate traffic laws, Slaton reasoned, and everything would be fine. Best of all, there were no suspicious rental clerks, salespersons, or stolen vehicle reports. The car was completely untraceable, and part of the reason he’d chosen the Engineers Squadron near Uppingham.
The arrangement was similar to the one at the lodge. The Porsche was owned by another sayan, this one a middle-aged commodities broker, fabulously either good or lucky, who had retired early to the downs of east Leicestershire. The man’s parents, however, were not blessed with like fortune. Orthodox Jews of modest means, they were settled tenuously in the tumult that was Gaza. No doubt guilty about his copious wealth, the financier had proven an easy recruit for Yosy. His home and vehicles were always available to the cause, a minimal sacrifice since the sayan was often abroad, as had been the case this morning. Slaton needed only to disable the garage alarm (the code being 1–9–4–8, the year of statehood for Israel), then simply select a set of keys off the rack. On the empty hook went the Star of David medallion, which hung on a nearby nail. There would be no questions. At least, not for a very long time.
Slaton had selected a circuitous route back to London. First he would travel southwest, through Coventry and Swindon, before turning direct. He made his one stop after sixty miles, in the Cotswolds. It was a remote section of the district, and aside from a few villages, sparsely populated. The terrain held a gentle contour of easy hills, where pastures blended into random outcroppings of hardwood forest.
Slaton followed a meandering series of gravel side roads, scouting back and forth until he found what he wanted. Exiting a stand of trees, he came upon a relatively flat area, a long, open meadow of grass that sloped softly downward for a few hundred yards, ending in another group of beeches and oaks. He parked the car at the far end, where a clear brook rambled quietly over a timeless bed of stones and pebbles.
Slaton got out of the car and stripped naked. With a towel he’d pilfered from the sayan’s garage, he walked to the stream and stepped in. The water ran over his feet like ice as he waded toward the center, scouting out the deepest spot. Drawing a quick breath, he dropped into the frigid water. The stinging cold seized his body like a glacial vice, giving strong encouragement to expedite the task. He scrubbed hard and vigorously to loosen a thick accumulation of dirt, grime, and sweat.
Finished, he went back to the car and toweled off, the sun aiding by way of a brief appearance. Slaton donned his last set of fresh clothes — a pair of Levis that nearly fit, and a long-sleeve, cotton button-down shirt that felt remarkably warm. Next he opened the trunk, which was at the front of the little sports car. The rifles had fit, but barely. He took one and inspected it for the first time, checking the breech, barrel, and testing its action. It was well-oiled and clean, credit that to the meticulous Royal Engineers. Slaton checked the other, then plucked out a sturdy piece of cardboard and some duct tape he’d also taken from the sayan’s garage, along with a box of ammunition. Back at the garage he had trimmed the cardboard to an egg shape, roughly ten inches in height and eight in width, and drawn a black reference circle, the size of a one-pound coin, in the center.
He hauled his collection to the line of trees at the end of the meadow and found a medium-sized beech, whose trunk was in full sun. He taped the cardboard securely to the tree at shoulder height, then walked up the slight rise, counting paces to estimate distance. At one hundred meters, he stopped and loaded the weapon. Slaton had never used the British version of the rifle, but it had a good reputation. The telescopic sight was another story. He was intimately familiar with the tight, reliable Schmidt & Bender 6x.
Slaton surveyed the ground. He needed support for the shot, but the biggest thing here was a shin-high rock. He eased down and tried to get comfortable among the loose stones and grass. Settling his left wrist on the rock, he trained the familiar gunsight on his target and studied the picture it presented. He shifted the reticle to other points, getting used to the weight and balance of the gun, then settled back on the cardboard oval. The kidon lightly touched his finger to the trigger. The trick was not to squeeze. That involved motion. Gradual pressure … track … gradual pressure … and when the weapon actually fired it would almost be a surprise. Almost.
The shot rang loud through the heavy morning air, scattering a pair of pheasant from the underbrush. The birds were probably stocked game from the hunting club he’d seen a mile back to the south. Slaton had chosen the area for just that reason. Not only was it isolated, but the few people who did live or spend time here were used to hearing the occasional report of a shot.
He shouldered the rifle and walked through tall, dew-covered grass to the target. The bullet had struck high and right, about four inches at two o’clock. Good, but not good enough. Slaton walked back to his perch, made a minor adjustment to the sight, and issued another round. His second shot was inside two inches. He took the other rifle and repeated the process. The second troubled him, striking high three shots in a row.
He then walked all the way to the end of the meadow, again measuring paces to estimate line-of-sight distance to the target. Unfortunately, it was necessary to calibrate the rifles for a wide variance of ranges. Eight rounds later he was getting consistent with both weapons. He could still improve, but Slaton decided not to risk any more attempts for fear of drawing attention to his work. In any case, the primary was well set.
Slaton collected his gear and made one last trip to the beech at the far end of the clearing. There, he ripped the obliterated target down from a pock-marked tree trunk and tossed the remnants into the stream.
Christine’s quarters at Scotland Yard were rudimentary. The bed was comfortable enough, but the rest of the tiny room was set up as an office, no doubt its customary function.
It had not been a restful night. A large man with crew cut red hair loomed outside her door. He had seen to it that she’d been left alone, but Christine still heard the constant commotion outside. A copier whirring across the hall, footsteps passing. Occasionally someone would stomp by on a dead run and she’d wonder. Why the urgency? Had something happened to David? Chatham had originally mentioned a hotel with heavy security, which certainly would have provided fewer distractions, but Christine asked to stay at the Yard, telling the Inspector she might be able to help bring David in safely. In reality, of course, she was just desperate for in
formation. And she suspected Chatham knew it.
It was nearly noon when a hand rapped softly on her door. The knock was followed by a muffled voice, one she recognized as that of Chatham’s assistant, Ian Dark.
“Dr. Palmer?”
Christine went to the door. “Yes, what is it?” she said eagerly, surprised to find Dark backed by a beefy, dour-looking fellow who seemed to be trying to smile.
“Good morning, Dr. Palmer. I’ve brought someone who’d like a word with you. This is Anton Bloch, until a few days ago he was—”
“David’s boss,” she interrupted.
Bloch said, “Well, one of them. He’s told you about me?”
Christine remembered vividly. Anton Bloch was the person David had wanted to talk to, the one he would trust. “Yes, he spoke of you.” She wondered if she should invite them in to the sparse little cubicle she called home. Dark answered the question for her.
“There’s a meeting room down the hall.”
Dark led the way, turning into the plushest room Christine had seen at the Yard. There were leather chairs on royal blue carpet and a table that might have been solid oak, an entire suite that had somehow evaded the pragmatic misers who’d furnished the rest of the building.
Dark left them alone and closed the door, although Christine noticed that Big Red, the guard, had tagged along and was lurking just outside. She took a seat and Bloch did the same, the leather squeaking as he settled his big frame. He looked around at the walls and ceiling, frowning openly.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I’m paranoid by nature. I feel like someone’s watching us,” he grumbled.
Christine looked suspiciously at the light fixtures and picture frames.
“Ah, well. No matter,” Bloch said. “So, I understand you’ve had quite an adventure over the last two weeks.”
