The Perfect Assassin (39 page)

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 information. 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.”

Christine sighed, “Yes. Not the kind of stuff I’m used to.”

“Me either, to tell you the truth. In fact, I think David has even found some new ground.”

“I think so.”

“David probably told you I run Mossad.”

Christine nodded.

“That was true up until yesterday. Unfortunately, I’ve been booted out, along with much of the Israeli government.”

“I’m sorry,” she offered, not really sure if that was the right thing to say in such circumstances.

He waved his hand dismissively, “Bah! A good job to be rid of.”

Christine found the answer less than convincing.

He looked at her, his eyes narrow with curiosity. “How well have you gotten to know David?”

She almost laughed at the loaded question. For the head of one of the world’s top spy organizations, this guy didn’t have much guile. “Well enough,” she said with a shrug. “He saved my life. More than once.”

“And you his.”

“I was in the right place at the right time. Anyone would have done what I did. I only wish I could help him now.”

“So do I,” Bloch concurred. “But to do that, I’ll need your help. Can you tell me the story?”

Christine sighed. She’d been over the whole thing so many times. But this was the man David had wanted to talk to all along, the one who really might be able to help, so she went through it once more. The Israeli listened carefully. When she finished, he had a few of the usual questions, and Christine tried to offer accurate answers. That done, he grew more circumspect.

“You know, David was lucky to have been found out there in such a big ocean. And luckier still that it was someone like yourself.”

She had the feeling he meant it. “Have you known David long?”

“Since he began with Mossad. I recruited him, so I suppose you could say I got him into this mess.”

“Did you ever know his wife and daughter?”

Bloch shifted in his chair as the witness turned the table. “I was never introduced, but I know a little about them. Did he tell you what happened?”

“He told me they were murdered, by an Arab group. And I know he still has nightmares about it.” Bloch listened closely, but showed no surprise until the next question. “Who was responsible for their death, Mr. Bloch. Do you know?”

“Specific names? No, we never found out who attacked that bus. I don’t think we’ll ever know. And now, it’s so long ago …”

“He knows,” she said quietly.

“What?”

Christine stared off into space, verbalizing what she’d known since his last words to her yesterday. “David knows. After all these years, he’s figured it out. And that’s where he’s going. To find that person.”

“What makes you think that?”

“It happened yesterday in Eastbourne. He found something out from a man named Wysinski, one of the men he …” Christine couldn’t bring herself to say it. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
David, you’ll never get what you’re looking for. Not that way.

“Wysinski knew who attacked that bus twenty years ago? Who?”

Christine regrouped. “David didn’t say. But he knows, I’m sure of it.”

Bloch studied his hands for some time before asking, “Did David say anything at all regarding this nuclear weapon, the one that’s still out there?”

“No, but I think it’s tied to the rest. Find who killed his family, and you’ll find that weapon.”

They both sat silently, lost in their respective thoughts. It was Anton Bloch who brought things to an awkward close. “Dr. Palmer, I’d like to talk some more, but I have a lot to do.”

“I understand. Will you tell me if you hear anything about David?”

“I will,” he promised.

“You know, David trusts you. So I will too.”

“Good.”

Bloch left the room and asked the guard where he could find Ian Dark. As he wound his way through Scotland Yard’s byzantine corridors, he thought back to the tragedy. Twenty years ago the Mossad and Shin Bet, Israel’s internal security service, had done a quick rundown of a murderous attack in Netanya, basically relying on the police report. It was rare to find the actual culprits in such an attack. The killers would hit, then disperse, disappearing into homes, markets, and mosques within seconds. Is-rael had taken to a policy of retribution versus legal justice. No need to find out who pulled the trigger. Just keep a list of the combatants and commanders. For every Israeli killed, take out two of the enemy. It was a campaign of numbers. A simple, logarithmic, escalation in-kind. The policy was shaped by continuous, small-scale violence, and limited resources. But it gave little solace to victims’ families on either side. And now, perhaps, it was coming back to haunt them.

For years Slaton had tried to find out who was responsible for the massacre in Netanya, while the Mossad had shown little interest. A fearful Anton Bloch began to think it should have been precisely the other way around.

Slaton worked his way south to Swindon, then rode the M-4 back to the bustling anonymity of London. He crossed to the East End, arriving at the onset of dusk. Here, the tired warren of streets were void of the tourists who flocked to the more trendy boroughs. The people he saw were locals — born here, lived here, died here. And not many drove Porsches. Slaton knew he couldn’t do as he had this morning. Then, he’d known the Land Rover would be missed immediately, and he figured that leaving the keys in the ignition might buy an extra hour or so. The Porsche would not have been reported missing, but if it turned up wrecked from a joyride or van-dalized, Chatham might make the right connections and know where to start looking.

Slaton scouted for twenty minutes until he found what he was looking for — a bank with a public parking garage that looked like a fortress. He decided to circle the place once to make sure. On the backside, the neighborhood trended downward, a row of dilapidated brownstones. They were weather-beaten and crumbling at the edges, but clearly occupied.

Slaton slowed for a group of schoolboys playing soccer in the street ahead. They stopped their game and parted enough to let him pass. If he’d been driving a Ford the boys probably would have glared down the intruder who’d interrupted their match. Instead, they looked on Slaton, or actually the car, with a certain reverence. The sleek machine was innately the kind of thing that young men aspired to, especially when in the company of other young men. Slaton waved as he passed and wondered how old they were. Eight or ten? Maybe eleven? He really had no idea. Slaton watched as the game resumed in his rearview mirror, then turned at the next corner. The bank would have to do.

The Benton Hill Inn was a seedy establishment, even by East End standards. A well-constructed young woman sauntered across the enlarged hallway that passed for a lobby. She wore a loose-fitting top that shifted a great deal as she moved, offering intermittent and ever-changing views of her considerable cleavage. Her pants took another course altogether, tight to the point of being a second skin, notwithstanding their lime green hue. She stopped at the front desk, which was really nothing more than a well-worn counter separating the entrance from the owner’s “suite.” She slammed her hand down on a bell and its ring pierced the early morning silence. A clock on the wall confirmed that it was nearly five in the morning. Hearing no response from the room behind the counter, the woman banged on the bell a few more times. “Roy!” she shouted in a husky voice.

A bleary-eyed man finally emerged from the doorway behind the desk. He wore a rumpled T-shirt and old brown boxers. “All right! All right, Beatrice! Keep your knickers on!”

Beatrice grinned through an earthen hardpan that blurred the distinction between cosmetics and masonry.

He squinted at the clock. “Working late are ye?”

“I’ve got a bloke taking good care of me, I ’ave.”

The proprietor looked past her to see the figure of a man hunched over by the staircase. He was wearing a run-down overcoat and a brimmed cap. He was also swaying as though he were on a ship in a storm, his hands locked to the banister in a determined effort to stay upright.

The man behind the counter chuckled. “He’s been taking care of
you,
you say?”

She produced a wad of crumpled bills and handed over the usual fee. There were two fivers left over and she managed to wedge them into the back pocket of her pants.

“I want him out by noon,” he whispered loudly.

“I’ll leave a note, luv, but it might be a touch later.”

The man behind the counter shrugged, handed over a key, and disappeared into the back room.

Beatrice went to the foot of the stairs and put an arm around her newfound friend. “All right, third floor.” The man muttered something unintelligible and they started up.

Five minutes and a couple of shin bruises later, she let them into Number 36. The room was dark and musty, and looked like it hadn’t been swept in years. Beatrice was at least happy to see the bed had been made. She gave her ward a playful nuzzle and guided him to the bed.

“It ain’t the Ritz, now, but it ought to serve our purposes, eh ducks?”