by Ward Larsen
“No!” he shouted. “No!” He moved forward and tried to squeeze by the old woman but she wouldn’t budge. He noticed for the first time that the room behind her was darker than the rest of the place. He couldn’t see anything inside. “I’ve come so far,” he pleaded. “I have to see her!” He tried to push the frail woman aside, but again she wouldn’t move. He wedged himself against her with all his strength and tried to break through her blockade, but somehow he was thrown back into the hall. The diminutive woman simply stood there, the nurse’s hat on her head cocked compassionately to one side. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
He was overcome by pain. It sliced into every fiber of his flesh, and he fell to his knees and looked skyward.
David Slaton screamed, and then woke.
He got out of bed quickly, forcing away the familiar demons. As usual, the sleep had eased his physical fatigue, but nothing more. It was noon.
Slaton went to the bathroom, turned on the faucet at the sink, and splashed cold water onto his face. He was particularly thirsty and, not seeing any drinking glasses, he twisted his head down into the basin to drink from the tap. Standing straight, he stretched, noting a few new sore spots from his trials of the last few days. He took the bandages off the wounds on his arm — one from a gunshot, one from a knife. They were still painful, but seemed to be healing. Next, Slaton turned on the shower, letting it run a full ten minutes before succumbing to the fact that there was little, if any, hot water at the Benton Hill Inn. For the second time in as many days he braced himself for a frigid immersion. The icy shards hit like a shot of electricity, and the last numb tendrils of sleep disappeared. This time having a bar of soap as an associate, he scrubbed to remove the dirt and scents that had escaped yesterday’s dip into a tributary of the Avon River. Once finished, he was at least grateful to find a clean, dry towel. It was time to get to work.
Slaton stood in front of the mirror over the washbasin, made a mental picture of what he saw, then went to his backpack and brought it to the bathroom. The first thing he tackled was the two-week-old beard, which no longer served any purpose. Chatham had seen him this way, and if the inspector circulated composites there would certainly be versions that included facial hair. He shaved it all off, leaving conservative sideburns. Next came the hair dye. It was a simple process, ending with a dark brown hue. Anything more severe might have turned an unnatural appearance, but as it was, the hair held a legitimate color, many shades removed from its beginning. He kept a portion of dye in reserve, calculating that one touch-up might eventually be required.
The color change complete, he went to work using a pair of scissors and a hand mirror, cutting away the bulk of his hair to roughly an inch in length all around. Next, he used a set of electric clippers, giving an even shorter, uniform cut. He then took a copy of Men’s Fitness magazine from his pack, turned to a page near the end and propped it against the wall at the back of the washbasin. He studied the picture in the advertisement carefully, wanting to match it as closely as possible. With a good quality razor he began shaving the hair just above his forehead. He worked from the center, then outward slightly and back, all the time referring to the picture. At times he had to use the hand mirror along with the wall mirror to track his progress.
The process slowed as he neared the end, but after a careful thirty minutes it was done. Slaton stepped back to get a good look, using the mirror to see different angles, and comparing the appearance to that of the man in the magazine. It was good, but there was more to be done. He’d anticipated a conspicuous difference in skin tone, the top of his head having seen less sun than the forehead. Fortunately, the exposure from his days floating in the Atlantic had caused his face to blister and peel. Now healed, this new skin was relatively light in complexion, a state not undone by the sunless British winter. With another recent purchase, a small jar of make-up, he judiciously touched up the tan lines, masking and blending until there were no remnants of the natural demarcation. Satisfied, Slaton pulled a pair of thick-framed reading glasses from his bag and applied them to his face. Finally, he compared the image in the mirror to the one he’d seen when he started.
Slaton was pleasantly surprised at the magnitude of the change. He now had a severely receding hairline and was quite bald on top. Short, dark hair on the sides further distinguished this new image, and the glasses served to interrupt his facial features. He wondered for a moment if even Christine would recognize him, but then Slaton quashed the thought. Of course she would. And it didn’t matter anyway.
His new appearance would take some upkeep. He’d have to shave the top each morning, keep the make-up properly toned, and perhaps refresh the tint once during the weekend to be on the safe side. But overall, Slaton was assured. Confident that his new image would grant the freedom he required.
The kidon strolled casually through Greenwich Park. The business suit was an expensive make, but rather ill-fitting, since he’d purchased it at a second-hand store. The proprietor had offered to make alterations, however the process would have taken three days. Slaton had graciously declined before paying the man in cash.
The day was uncharacteristically sunny, the temperature nearing fifty degrees. Still, he carried an overcoat folded across one arm — a frequent visitor from abroad whose past experience had given broad confidence in England’s meteorological inconsistencies. In his other hand was a thin leather attaché, which contained today’s Financial Times and a sampling of tourist brochures regarding the local area.
The tremendous expanse of Greenwich Park had been authored by Le Notre, Louis XIV’s celebrated landscape architect. On commission from Charles II, Le Notre transformed a featureless riverside tract into a vast Royal playground. Acre upon acre of green grass lay divided and bordered by wide, tree-lined walking paths. Over the years the Park had matured and been gradually encircled by the stoically urban City of Green-wich. Its character, however, remained intact, and as monarchs gave way, the Park reverted to a more public domain, granting the masses a chance to stroll like kings.
Centuries old beech, oak and chestnut trees loomed over Slaton as he meandered the trails. There were more people out than usual this day. Throngs of tourists made their way to the Royal Naval Observatory at the top of the hill, and a smattering of locals strolled and exercised their dogs in the grassy clearings. In the center of a western knoll, workmen were busy constructing the stage, which three days from now would be the center of world attention. Today it was Slaton’s focal point.
He’d probably walked fifteen miles since arriving in the early afternoon. Starting from Greenwich Station, Slaton had circled the huge park, committing the surrounding roads and buildings to memory. He knew the location of every tube, bus, and ferry stop within a two mile radius, and Slaton had already purchased an unrestricted day pass for each system. If he needed to leave in a hurry, he didn’t want to be scrambling for change or banging his fist on a broken vending machine.
He had spent the last hour in the park itself, watching from a distance, considering different angles and elevations. The stage was a simple enough structure. Large wooden planks formed the base, about four feet above ground level. Behind the stage was a tall plywood backdrop, and the entire framework would no doubt soon be festooned with all the trappings and regalia always required of such sideshows — flags, curtains, ribbons, and probably a big banner depicting two hands clasped in friendship, perhaps an olive branch above. It was all very predictable, which made Slaton’s job that much easier.
There was no heavy security yet, perhaps a few more bobbies than usual. Slaton surmised that Inspector Chatham had not yet deduced his intentions. That could change at any time and, in any event, things would get much tighter in the days to come. Slaton had been on the other end before, arranging security for just this sort of event. He knew how hard it was. With three days to go, preparations were being made, details assigned. Each day would bring more severe measures and eventually there would be spotters with binoculars and sharpshoot
ers on the rooftops, helicopters circling at a discreet distance, and roving plainclothes types checking IDs randomly in the crowd. Sunday would be very different, indeed. But by then it would be too late.
Slaton walked up the pathway that led nearest the stage for his first and only close pass. Most of what he needed to know he could ascertain from afar, yet he wanted one good look. The carpenters were nearing completion of the wooden structure, and next would be electricians to rig for light and sound. The asphalt path took him within twenty feet of the stage. A few people had stopped along the path to watch the project unfold. Slaton kept moving — his disguise was good, but not infallible — and he expressed the same idle curiosity that a hundred passers-by had shown in the last hour.
At a glance, he gauged the height of the stage at standing level and its dimensions. The width was roughly seventy feet, the depth half that. To each side, in back, were stairs that led down and behind the structure. This was where the participants would amass, concealed by a temporary arrangement of tents, blinds, and men with dark glasses. They would arrive on a schedule drawn in proportion to their importance, lesser dignitaries forced to mill about for up to an hour, the most vital appearing only minutes in advance. Then, in a carefully choreographed scene, all would make their way to the stage, again segregated. Peons to the left, leaders to the right. Or perhaps the other way around. The poor security chiefs had to grasp straws of unpredictability wherever they could find them. Slaton passed the stage and looked back once over his shoulder, knowing he would not get this close again. He saw nothing to alter his plan.
He continued out of the park and walked north along Crooms Hill Road, the street that bordered its western edge. He turned a few times to gauge his distance from the stage, and also to check the trees. A single row of huge beeches, their branches void of foliage for the winter, stood encircling the park, arboreal guardians whose presence delineated the preserve from its harsher urban surroundings. There were occasional breaks in the treeline to accommodate pathways and service roads. Slaton lingered at two of these gaps and reckoned the angles and distance to the stage. One was roughly fifty meters closer, but either would work.
Across Crooms Hill Road were rows of shops at street level, and above those the second and third floors seemed to be residential, some likely occupied by the shopowners, others rented out as apartments. Slaton had so far spotted two buildings with to let signs in the window. He immediately discarded the idea of attempting to rent, or even view either of them. It would be one of the first things Chatham checked, and any vacant rooms would be searched and monitored.
He continued walking down the street, counting his steps. A middle-aged woman swept the sidewalk in front of a pub. A slight young man parked a bicycle near an alleyway and disappeared into a side entrance. At five hundred yards he stopped. Anything more would be ludicrous. He looked back along the far side of Crooms Hill Road. It had to be done here. Somewhere.
Slaton crossed the street and covered the same ground in the opposite direction. The busiest place was a restaurant, the Block and Cleaver, which drew a steady stream of customers. Next to it was a souvenir store, then a small tobacco shop with a for sale sign in the window. Slaton was three steps past it when he paused. He turned and looked at the small shop, then up above. Strolling back, he stopped at the for sale sign and turned to see the stage in the distance. He had a partial line of sight, with one tree close-in on the right. Slaton judged it to be a hundred and ninety yards, perhaps a bit more.
He looked again at the advertisement in the window and read a brief description of the property, noting that it encompassed not only the shop, but two individual flats on the upper floors. He committed this information to memory, along with the asking price, and the name and number of the property agency, then again crossed the street. Slaton surveyed the front of the building, checking windows and the angle of the roof. He saw furniture on the second floor, however curtains were drawn on the window of the top flat and he couldn’t tell what was inside.
He took a seat on a bench and pulled out the Times. For twenty minutes he alternated between the paper and the building. He watched the comings and goings at the tobacco shop, and decided the place was meager from an entrepreneurial standpoint. On further study of the facade, Slaton saw three windows on the upper levels, two on the second floor and one on the third. He also took note of a small, slatted vent at the apex of the roof. He thought of what might go wrong, and a dozen fatal scenarios came to mind. They were, however, the same disasters that would likely apply to any spot along this street next Monday morning.
Slaton got up and walked south to the first intersection. There, he turned away from the park and quickly found the alley that ran behind the Crooms Hill Road shops. He spotted the back of the smoke shop and studied it for a moment. Satisfied, he went back to the side street and walked west, away from the park. Two blocks later he found a pay telephone and rang up E. Merrill at Burnston and Hammel Associates. The E., as it turned out, stood for Elizabeth.
“With what might I help you, sir?” queried a stridently proper, if rather high-pitched voice.
“Yes,” Slaton replied, inserting a pointedly continental hue to his speech, “I’d like to enquire about a property on Crooms Hill Road in Greenwich.”
“Which would that be?” E. Merrill quizzed, as though she held agency on the entire block.
“It’s a smoke shop, across from the park.”
“Oh, yes. An excellent location and a good customer base. I think it does something on the order of two hundred thousand a year, gross.”
“To tell you the truth, I probably wouldn’t keep it the same. That is, I wouldn’t be interested in the inventory. Do you think the owner might consider that kind of arrangement?”
“Well, the owner is retiring. But I’m sure something can be done,” E. Merrill said accommodatingly. Slaton had a vision of the woman sitting in a cubicle halfway across town with a forged smile on her face.
“Tell me about the upstairs units. Are they sublet?”
“No. The owner lives in one, and of course he’d move out with the sale. The other unit was sublet, but it’s vacant at the moment.” Slaton gave no immediate reply and E. Merrill clearly felt the need to expand her answer. “The lease values for flats in that part of town are quite attractive.”
“I’m sure,” Slaton said, his tone strictly at odds.
“Perhaps I can arrange a viewing.”
“Well,” he hedged, “there is another property I’m very interested in … but all right. No harm in having a look.”
“Are you available this afternoon, Mr….”
“Ahh, terribly sorry. Nils Linstrom is the name. Yes, shall we say four thirty?”
“That would be fine,” Elizabeth Merrill replied.
Slaton spotted the woman who had to be E. Merrill outside the Green-wich Smoke Shop at precisely four twenty-five. She was in her fifties, he guessed, professionally dressed, and wearing a bit more make-up than she should have. He introduced himself as Nils Linstrom and the two exchanged pleasantries, then went inside to meet the owner. His name was Shrivaras Dhalal, an Indian man who was undoubtedly nearing retirement age. Dhalal didn’t say much and seemed stand-offish. Slaton suspected he’d been briefed by E. Merrill that this prospective buyer wasn’t interested in the store’s inventory, and thus any offer would certainly reflect the point. Sensing the social loggerheads, E. Merrill gave Slaton a quick tour of the shop and then led upstairs.
“These units are really quite nice. They’ve been updated in the last few years. Were you planning on taking one yourself?”
“Oh, no. I live on the continent most of the year. This would serve strictly as an investment.”
“If it’s an investment you want, this might well be the place. When it first came on the market I took a good look at it myself.”
“And when was that?” Slaton asked.
The property agent hesitated, having been cornered on a matter of record. “Well, I
suppose it’s been about a year now.” Then E. Merrill added abruptly in a low tone, “Mr. Dhalal wasn’t very motivated at first, but I think he’s getting serious.”
They took a quick tour of Shrivaras Dhalal’s flat. Slaton roamed enough to get a good look out the window, then suggested they go to the third floor. The upstairs flat was a mirror of the one below — a main living room overlooked Crooms Hill Road and the park, the kitchen fell in the center, and a single bedroom and bath to the rear. The only difference here was a vaulted ceiling.
Slaton wandered around, forcing himself to spend time in the kitchen and bathroom before ending up by the front window. Someone had opened the curtains for the showing. He looked out and saw a clear line of sight to center stage, just to the left of the tree he’d been worried about. Slaton backed into the room and looked at the ceiling. It angled up in an inverted V, except at the very apex. There, near the front wall, was a flat section five feet across and ten feet long. He realized that the vent he’d seen from the street had to be there.
“What’s up there?” he asked.
“Oh, back when these places were built, the local architects tended to add in things like that. I suppose you could call it something of an attic. I’m sure it’s very handy.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Slaton saw that the attic ended halfway into the room by way of a small triangular wall hung from the roof, and in the center of that was an access door. Slaton strolled back to the front window and looked out, his hand to his chin as if making calculations. Which in fact he was.
“You know it’s really not all that bad. Would Mr. Dhalal permit me to see his books?”
“I imagine he would, but I didn’t think you were interested in his line of sales.”
“Business is business, you know. I’d like to go back a few years, of course.”
“Oh!” E. Merrill grew visibly excited and lost some of her veneer. “Yes. Ah, let me go see.”
