The Perfect Assassin (35 page)

“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. During 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.

Slaton reached in his backpack for the bottle of rum he’d bought earlier. It was half empty now, after he’d discreetly spilled much of it into a dumpster. With the bottle in hand, he waited, squinting into the driver’s cab. The old man was waving to someone through the front window, and as he slid out of the cab, Slaton heard the voices of children.

“Grandfather! Grandfather!” they squealed gleefully.

“Hello, lads,” the old man said.

A high-pitched voice pleaded, “Can we play in the truck? Can we? I want to be the chicken!”

Another howled exception, “You were the chicken last time! You’re the pig now!”

“No, I
won’t
be the pig!”

“Easy now,” the old man broke in. “Tell me, has your mum saved me some supper?”

Slaton then heard a different voice, this one an adult female in the distance. He couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was universal.

“Oh, mum,” the children whined in unison.

“Come on then,” the old man said, “let’s have our supper. Then I’ll have a word with her.” He added in a stage whisper, “And remember at the end to tell her how delicious the pudding is.”

Slaton heard their footsteps fade off and then a door banged shut. The cargo compartment was almost completely dark now, virtually no light creeping in through the two openings. He felt for his bag and stuffed the rum back inside. Had the old man gone to open the rear door, Slaton would have splashed the liquor around and sprawled to the floor, simulating a drunk who’d sought some shelter and passed out. He’d done it before, convincingly, but it wouldn’t be necessary this time.

He went blindly to the back of the compartment and his hands searched until they found the thin strand of rope, which went under the door to disable the latch on the outside. He untied the knot that held the arrangement in place, then raised the door a few inches to get a look outside. The only structure he could make out was a barn fifty feet away. A fence bordered an open field in the distance. As far as he could tell, there were no people. And better yet, no dogs.

He opened the door high enough to slide out, then quietly rolled it back closed, noting that it did so without the trace of a squeak. The equipment might be dated, but old Smitherton cared for it well. Slaton considered spending the night in the barn, but decided against it. If he were discovered, the connection to Smitherton’s truck and the London market would be all too easy. He reckoned there were probably a lot of other barns around, maybe even something more comfortable. The question of how far off course he’d gotten would have to wait. Tonight he needed a place to rest. His body required it, and he suspected the opportunity might not come again for some time. Slaton ran low to the barn, planning to use it for cover as he distanced himself from the house. Ten yards away, the barn door creaked and swung open.

Slaton froze, caught helplessly in the open. A dim shaft of light cast from the entrance, and a little girl, probably no more than six or seven, backed out through the door. She held a bucket with both hands and was clearly struggling with its weight. She closed the door, turned and then stopped, her eyes wide as she saw the unfamiliar man standing straight in her path.

Slaton smiled quickly and assumed an Irish brogue, “And hello there. You must be Charlotte.”

The little girl was clearly put off by the stranger’s presence, but she didn’t seem afraid. “No, I’m Jane.”

Slaton raised a brow. He pulled out his wallet, opened it sideways and squinted, as if struggling to read a very small book. “Jane … Jane … no.” He flipped through the cards in the wallet, then held one up. “Oh, Mary above! I’ve got the wrong week.”

“Wrong week for what?” she asked cautiously.

Slaton smiled again and looked over his shoulder at the farmhouse. He could hear the faint sound of voices inside. He bent down on one knee. “To deliver the surprise.”

Jane put down her bucket. “Surprise?” She eyed his backpack hopefully.

He spoke in a whisper. “It’s in me truck, up at the top of the drive. I just come down here to make sure I knew where it was going before I tackled that road.”

“What is it?” she asked, curiosity overriding caution.

Slaton wagged a finger for her to come closer. The girl left her bucket and closed the gap, still stopping a few feet away.

“Well now, I don’t think I should really be telling ye that.”

Her eyes lit. It was clearly the answer she wanted. “Is it for me?”

“Ahh, Miss Jane, I canno’ speak of it. But listen,” he said, holding up his now closed wallet, “I’m not supposed to deliver this until next week. If my boss finds out I’ve messed up another delivery, I think he’ll sack me.”

The girl wore a look of forced concern.

“I’ll be back this same time next week to deliver it. But I need you to help me out of this jam,” he said seriously. “Don’t tell anyone I’ve been here. Not your parents or your friends. Nobody. That should keep me out of trouble,
and
it’ll keep my delivery schedule on time next week.”

“It’s a Christmas present, isn’t it?”

He winked and the little girl squealed. Slaton put a finger to his lips, but it was too late. The front door of the house creaked open.

“Janie?” a voice called out.

“Yes, mum?” The girl looked to the house. Jane could be seen from the porch, but Slaton was behind the truck, still out of sight.

“Janie, who are you talking to?”

“Oh, no one, mum.” Jane lied with that complete lack of conviction reserved for children. She went back for the bucket. Struggling to lift it, she sloshed some of the fresh milk onto her dress.

“Do be careful!”

“Yes, mum.” The girl shuffled her feet under the load and made her way to the house. As she passed Slaton, who was still in the shadow of her grandfather’s truck, she looked directly at him. Slaton put an index finger to his lips again, which only made her giggle.

“Jane?”

Slaton heard footsteps, hollow across the wooden porch, then crunching over the gravel and dirt driveway. He eased into a shadow and saw Jane approach her mother, the girl’s head-low posture a model of contrition. The woman stood with her hands on her hips. After watching her daughter pass, she walked down the drive to where the girl had been standing. With a quick look around, she shook her head.