by Ward Larsen
“Yes. I suppose.”
“Still,” Chatham reasoned, “we’ve got to cover everything. You meet with those Army lads and tell me what they say.”
“Right, sir.”
“Oh, and anything yet on that boat Bloch told us about, the Broadbill?”
“No. I think we’ve gone over every harbor and slip in the country. Nothing.”
With a thumb and forefinger, Chatham slowly groomed his moustache, brushing away the accumulated droplets of rain. It might not be in England, he thought, but it was out there.
Most of the East End shops were closed on Sunday, so Slaton phoned the hotel concierge. Once he’d explained his needs, the sprightly young woman efficiently directed him to a shopping area a mile north of the hotel. She then offered to call a cab, but he politely declined the transportation. The streets were quiet on Sundays. He would walk.
The concierge was right about the shopping complex. Slaton quickly found what he needed. He made his first purchase in a clothing shop, then two in an electronics store. Avoiding crowded areas, he paid cash and kept his contact with the sales assistants to a minimum. On his way back to the hotel, he considered stopping at a restaurant for one last good meal. As tempting as it was, there was no point in taking chances. Not when he was so close.
He stopped at a small grocer he’d spotted a few blocks from the hotel, picked out a baguette, some sliced ham, and a container of orange juice. He took a spot in line to be rung up by a disinterested young woman who was chewing gum like a cow might chew a mouthful of grass. She mumbled an obligatory greeting of some sort, then summed up Slaton’s purchase. He proffered a ten-pound note and she plopped a few coins in his hand in return, dropping the food in a plastic sack. She mumbled again, this time probably “Thank you,” with little more than a glance at her customer. Slaton left the store pleased that his groundwork was complete.
The customer who had been standing behind Slaton, a well-dressed elderly man, shoved his tea and fudge in front of Prudence Bloom. She ran it through the scanner, distracted as she did so. After ringing the man up, she stood staring at the rack behind him, forgetting to give him his total.
The customer patiently leaned forward, trying to see the display on the cash register. “Four pounds, six?” he queried. “Is that right?”
The question broke her trance. “What? Oh, yeah. That’s right.”
He pulled a handful of change from his pocket.
“Did you see that bloke in front of you,” she asked, “the one that just left?”
“Yes, I suppose. Why do you ask?”
“It was him,” she said with certainty.
“Who?”
“Him!” Prudence pointed to a rack of newspapers behind her customer.
Every front page blazed with pictures of the terrorist fellow the police had been after. The man looked, then turned to Prudence, his skepticism evident.
“You saw him better than I did, but …” he ran a hand obviously over his own thin crown, “he had less up here than I do.” He pointed to the photograph, “This fellow’s got a full head. And he doesn’t wear glasses.”
Doubt settled in as Prudence studied the face in the newspapers. Obviously wanting to move things along, the man grabbed one and handed it to her. She studied it up close.
The customer had clearly had enough. He squirreled together the exact change, dropped it on the counter, and put the tea and fudge in a bag himself. He bid her, “Good day, miss,” with mock politeness.
“Good day,” she said, not looking up. Fortunately there were no other customers in line.
Prudence spotted a phone number at the bottom of the article, one to call in order to give information. She bit her bottom lip. Anybody could put on a pair of glasses, she reasoned. He was right about the bald spot, though. Nothing was mentioned about a reward. But still, if she could be the one to nab a killer like this! What a story to tell her boyfriend Angus and his mates. She picked up the phone next to the cash register and dialed.
“Crime Line,” said a young man.
“Yes,” she said excitedly, “I’ve seen the man you’re looking for!”
“Which man is that, ma’am?”
“The killer, that terrorist bloke! He’s in all the papers, he is!”
“Right. And your name is?”
“Prudence. Prudence Bloom. I run the till at Hartson’s Grocery in Loughton. I just saw him, right here in front o’ me!”
“Can you describe him?”
“Well, he looked just like the picture here in the paper.”
“How tall?”
She thought hard. “Six-foot, I suppose. More or less. But it was him! I’m lookin’ at the picture right now. Add the glasses, and take some hair off the top.”
“Sorry?”
“He had glasses. And there was some hair gone on top, not like in the picture. But it was him all right.”
Fortunately for Prudence Bloom, she couldn’t see the expression on the man’s face. The hotline operator took down information for five minutes. When he was done, he promised that someone would drop by to investigate.
“I hope it’ll be soon,” she said, looking suspiciously toward the street. “He could still be right outside.”
The operator tossed Prudence Bloom’s report into a stack of seven others he’d taken in the last hour. And there were nine men and women filtering calls behind him. “As soon as we can, ma’am.”
“As soon as we can” turned into two hours. The officer in charge of the hotline operation was handed the most promising prospects immediately. If he concurred that they were worth checking, an investigative unit was instantly dispatched to gather more information. Once the priority tips were handled, he waded through the other ninety-five percent. He read Prudence Bloom’s information and yawned. The fact that the suspect was now balding didn’t even register a chuckle. So far today, the suspect had been seen with a red Mohawk, two hundred extra pounds, and in one case had somehow transformed himself into a black woman.
The supervisor wasn’t particularly excited by what he read, but the standing orders were to check out everything. He also had the advantage of manpower. Virtually every policeman in the city was working this weekend, like it or not. He put the report in a queue, and eventually a copy was faxed to the local division.
When Constable Vickers walked into Hartson’s Grocery, Prudence Bloom was getting ready to go home. She was upset it had taken so long, but the cashier told her story all the same. She’d seen someone who matched the pictures in the paper, albeit with a few adjustments. Beyond that, the patrolman garnered only one other useful scrap — when the man had gone out, he’d turned right. As Vickers departed, a frustrated Prudence Bloom was explaining everything to her manager and asking for the next day off.
Vickers had nothing more to do, so he turned right as well. He spoke to a few of the merchants down the street and showed them a picture, but nobody remembered the man. He was ready to give up when he came upon the Forest Arms Hotel. He went in and made his pitch at the front desk, with no luck, then moved to the bell stand.
He held up the picture to the man on duty.
“Seen this fellow? Maybe missing some hair on top and with a set of thick brown-framed eyeglasses?”
The bellman thought. “Well, like that … I s’pose it looks a bit like the chap up in 37. He came in a couple of hours ago.”
“Was he carrying anything?”
“Two shopping bags, I think.”
Vickers smiled. He’d found his suspect. That would make his sergeant happy. It always made them look on the ball when they could call back to headquarters and tell them to strike one off the list. He took the lift to the third floor, found Number 37 and knocked loudly. There was no answer. He frowned and went back down to the front desk, wondering if they’d let him have a look without a warrant.
“Who’s in Number 37?” he asked.
The desk clerk looked at her log. “That would be Mr. Forger, the Belgian. Is there a pro
blem?” The clerk looked nervous. She had obviously made the connection as to who Vickers was asking about.
“When did he get here?”
“Two days ago. I checked him in. He paid cash in advance, through the weekend. I—”
A shrill, pulsating screech cut off all normal conversation.
“What’s that?” Vickers yelled.
“The fire alarm!”
A hysterical maid came running down the stairs. “Fire!” she screamed. “Number 36! There’s smoke coming from under the door!”
The clerk called the fire department.
“Bloody hell!” Vickers stammered. He drew out his two-way and called the station.
Benjamin Jacobs was at home. It felt strange after spending so many years on the move, traveling abroad, dashing from a speech here to a committee meeting there. His days and nights running the country had been spent mostly at the Prime Minister’s Residence in Jerusalem, with occasional forays to Tel Aviv. And twice a year Jacobs would stray to the requisite oxymoron of a “working vacation,” typically a resort with magnificent views, wide-ranging recreation opportunities, and no chance to enjoy any of it. On the few occasions when Jacobs had tried to sneak back to his own house, it was invariably surrounded by the media. They clicked and clamored, hoping for a sound bite or a picture — some snippet that could be turned into either a meaningful diplomatic signal or an awkward personal gaffe. The latter usually got better ratings. Jacobs swore he didn’t miss any of it.
His resignation had been effective last Wednesday night. What surprised him was that by the next evening he’d fallen off the face of the earth, professionally speaking. Jacobs fully expected to spend a month or two debriefing, tying up the administrative and procedural loose ends of an executive administration that had lasted almost two years. Instead, his calls to Zak’s office had gone unanswered, and even his old staff seemed to be avoiding him. Lowens’ phone extension suddenly changed. Moira had been transferred to a different office, but nobody seemed to know where. The Deputy Assistant to the Minister of Transportation had hung up on him. Jacobs tried not to take it to heart. They were all in the career survival mode. A simple case of out with the old and in with the new.
So it was, when Jacobs’ green secure phone rang in its familiar, piercing tone, he picked it up expecting someone from the Ministry of Communications to be on the other end. No doubt to remind the sacked PM that he had to return the phone so it could be used by someone who was still important.
He lifted the handset and growled, “What is it?”
There was a pause before Anton Bloch’s distinct voice rumbled, “Ah, it’s me, Mr. Prime … or …”
Jacobs had to laugh, “Benjamin will do, Anton. How are you?”
“Fine,” Bloch said quickly, no real regard given to the question. “I’ve been busy.”
“At least one of us is. I feel like a leper.”
Bloch didn’t laugh, his usual humorless self. “I’ve got something I’d like to talk to you about.”
“Old business?” Jacobs guessed.
“Yes, in a way.”
“Come over tomorrow afternoon. Our housekeeper, if we still have one, makes a terrific seafood pasta dish.”
“Actually, I was thinking of something sooner.”
“My wife and I have plans to go out tonight, Anton. It’s been some time since we’ve been able to do that kind of thing.” Silence was the reply and Jacobs became uncomfortable. “Of course, if it’s important—”
Eight minutes later, the doorbell rang. Anton Bloch was there, looking impatient and flanked by two of Jacobs’ security men.
Irene Jacobs, the former First Lady of Israel, had answered the chime as well. Her husband reintroduced her to the old Director of Mossad, the two having met once before. She was practiced and proper as she greeted their guest, the years of social diplomacy still fresh. The men then retired to the study, closing the doors discreetly behind. When they emerged minutes later, Benjamin Jacobs addressed his wife.
“I’m so sorry darling, but I won’t be able to keep our arrangement tonight. I promise to make it up to you soon.” He kissed his wife on the cheek and she beamed, a paragon of understanding.
“That’s all right dear. Some other time.” Her stone smile told him there would be hell to pay later.
“And I may be late,” he warned, “please don’t wait up.” Jacobs collected his coat and murmured instructions to one of the security men outside the front door. Then, he and Bloch disappeared.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The firemen were walking down the stairs as Chatham was going up. All the hotel’s guests and most of the staff had been evacuated, and the only people now on the third floor were police. The forensics team Chatham had put on alert was already busy sifting, scraping, and searching. The woman in charge, Jane Grimm, met Chatham in the hall outside Number 36.
“Good afternoon, Inspector.”
Competent and thorough, Grimm was a favorite of Chatham’s. Today, however, there was no time for pleasantries.
“What have you found?”
Grimm led Chatham into Number 36.
“The patrolman thought it was another false alarm. He came up to 37 and knocked on the door figuring he could clear things up right away. Nobody answered, so he went back downstairs to talk to the manager. Clearly our friend was home after all. His room was connected to 36 by a door. It was bolted closed, but I doubt it took more than one kick.”
“There was no one in this room?” Chatham asked.
“No, it was vacant. I’m not sure how he knew.”
“That’s what he does. He knows things like that.”
Chatham could only see a thin veil of smoke in the room, but the smell, a particularly acrid variety, lingered heavily. They went to the bathroom and Grimm pointed to a pile of ashes and charred debris in the bathtub.
“He started it with a newspaper and some hotel stationery, then threw in a couple of blankets.”
“What’s that on top?” Chatham wondered, pointing to a pair of melted lumps.
“Jogging shoes. A good choice,” she admitted, “gives you a lot of thick, dark smoke, sort of like an old tire. Gets everyone’s attention.”
“Exactly what time did the alarm go off?”
“The desk clerk called the fire department within a minute of the alarm going off. The fire department dispatcher logged that call at 1:39.”
“Damn!” Chatham said in frustration. He had ordered a special watch on all transportation out of the area when he’d gotten the news, but that had been two o’clock. Still a twenty minute gap. “He’s gotten a head start again.”
They left the bathroom and walked through the shattered door frame that connected to Number 37. A man was poking around the room with a probe of some sort, connected by a wire to a machine on his back. The machine bore markings that identified it as property of the U.S. government. The man wore civilian clothes but had a short haircut, and Chatham decided he was likely a part of this American NEST team he’d been hearing about.
“There’s not much here,” Grimm said. “A few items of clothing, some food wrappings.” She presented a plastic bag that held a collection of tiny, curled scraps. “Wood shavings. We found them on the floor. Of course, no telling how long they’ve been here. Then there was this …” Grimm led to a table where a window blind sat. “We found it up on the shelf, there, pushed all the way to the back.” Chatham looked at the closet. He raised up on his toes, barely able to see the top of the now-empty shelf.
Someone called Grimm into the other room and she excused herself, leaving Chatham in silence with the American fellow. He was waving his sensor rhythmically in one corner of the room, looking like a badly dressed orchestra conductor. Chatham studied the window blind. His first train of thought was simple — the last person before Slaton to stay in the room was a decorator who had left it behind by accident. His second train of thought was ridiculous — Slaton was going to take it to Greenwich, put it up on a win
dow for cover, then at the last minute, turn it open and shoot. At least that plot was foiled. He nearly laughed out loud. If it could only be so easy.
He took a closer look. The blind seemed brand new, and the cord used to raise and lower the thing had been cut short, two loose pieces of string dangling from the casing. He stood straight with his hands on his hips, both mystified and intrigued. “What are you up to?” he whispered harshly.
Grimm came back in and Chatham said, “Have you got a … ah, a cell phone?”
Grimm pulled a phone from her pocket. “They haven’t given you one?”
Chatham frowned. He fumbled and punched at buttons until the display announced that it was ready to do his bidding. He then managed to dial his office. Moments later, Ian Dark was taking instructions.
“—Continental Visions, model number 201048. It’s forty-eight inches in length. He may also have bought some wood—”
“Spruce four-by-fours,” Grimm prompted.
“Spruce four-by-fours.”
Dark acknowledged that he was keeping up and Chatham continued, “I want you to start at this hotel and take a five-mile radius. Any store that might sell something like that, get their transaction records. Go back three, make it four days. That should cover things. We want someone who purchased one, perhaps two of these. Any more and you can toss it out. I want the full transaction record of any sale, Ian. I want to know what else he might have bought.”
“You know it is Sunday, sir. Any place likely to sell something like this will probably be closed by the time—”
“I don’t care!” Chatham yelled at a volume that might not have needed the phone’s assistance to reach the Yard. “Call in the store manager, call in the owner! If they don’t cooperate, throw them in for obstruction and find the next in line! Get it done now!”
