The Perfect Assassin (12 page)

Two miles, I guess. Plus or minus a half mile.”

Chief Walter Bickerstaff nodded. He was a broad-chested man whose round face was fronted by a broad, flattened nose that looked like it might have been broken any number of times. Presently, his jowls were darkened by the shadow of a coarse beard — the type that would yield to nothing but the sharpest of razors — and his brow set furrowed in deep concentration.“

So let’s see,” Bickerstaff said, thinking aloud, “if a man can row at three … let’s give him four miles an hour, he might have been ashore in half an hour. And you said he left at roughly noon today. That would put him ashore just before one o’clock this afternoon. Of course that’s if he went straight in. He might have had a time finding a place to land along the coast. Pretty rocky in those parts.”

Christine tried to look interested in Bickerstaff’s thoughts, but she was tired. She’d been rehashing the facts for three hours. Once for Constable Edwards, and now twice for the chief. Bickerstaff had gauged her closely the first time, in the way one might size up a person thought to have stayed out a pint too long. The second time through, her answers got terse, enough to make him realize that she was serious and not the least bit inebriated. Still, Christine couldn’t really blame the man for being skeptical. It was a pretty incredible story.

Bickerstaff tapped a pencil on the table. “You said you thought this man had been on a ship named
Polaris Venture
. Is that what he told you?”

“No. He never used that name. I saw it stenciled on the cooler, the one he was hanging onto when I found him.”

Bickerstaff was about to ask something else when the phone rang. As far as Christine could see it was the only one in the station. Bickerstaff picked it up and began nodding as the caller went on about something. Eventually, Bickerstaff responded with a few quiet remarks that were out of earshot for Christine, then hung up.“

That was Edwards. He’s been looking out along the shoreline at Mounts Bay. Nothing yet, but it’s getting dark now. I’ll have him press on in the morning.”

“In the morning?” Christine shot back. “This man could be long gone by then. Chief, I tell you, he’s a menace. You’ve got to find him. Have you sent this up to higher authorities?”

Bickerstaff responded sharply to her accusative tone, “Now see here, miss. Everything that can be done is being done. We’ll investigate this as I see fit. There’s no need getting emotional about these things—”

“I am emotional about it!” Christine snapped. “He hijacked my boat! He threatened me! By now he could be halfway to France!”

Bickerstaff’s beefy figure bristled and he sucked in a full chest of air, as if ready to lash back. But then he deflated, got up, and paced around the room. After a few moments his manner softened. “I think that’s about all we can do this evening, Miss Palmer. Do you have a place to stay?”

She sighed. “Yes, my boat.”

“No, I’m sorry. There may be evidence aboard and we haven’t had time for a proper search. There’s a good hotel right up the coast road, near enough that you can walk. Chessman’s. I’ll call to make sure they give you a good, quiet room. You must be exhausted after your ordeal.”

Christine had to agree there. She could never remember having been so tired. “Can I at least go back to
Windsom
and get a fresh change of clothes?”

“Yes, of course. Get what you need. Just try not to disturb things any more than necessary. We’ll go over it first thing in the morning. I trust you plan on staying for a few days while we sort through all this?”

The question took Christine by surprise. For the first time since she’d pulled that man out of the sea, she could plan ahead. She could think about the next day, the next week.“

I suppose I’ll be here long enough to get
Windsom
back in shape. That’ll probably take a couple of weeks.” She felt like she could sleep at least that long.

Bickerstaff made the call to Chessman’s. He raised an obvious fuss about reserving the best room in the place, not letting on that his uncle Sid was the owner, or that this time of year she’d likely be Sid’s only guest. That done, he showed her to the door.“

Come by ’round ten tomorrow morning, Miss Palmer. From here we can go down to your boat. I’d like you to show me around.”

“All right.”

He walked her out to the street. She paused for a moment as if unsure of which way to go, then turned downhill toward the docks.

Bickerstaff went back inside, sat down at the station’s lone computer terminal, and began pecking slowly with two index fingers. It was a laborious process, but in time he got what he expected. Police data, naval reports, news articles — nothing anywhere about a ship having gone down off the coast of Africa. The only maritime accident he could spot over the last ten days was a helicopter that had crashed into a North Sea oil rig.

Just to make sure, he made a phone call to Lloyd’s of London. They insured practically every big ship in the world, as far as he knew. If something had gone down, they’d know about it. The clerk there was quite helpful — it was police business, after all — and Bickerstaff started by asking for any information on a ship named
Polaris Venture.

The clerk explained. That particular name was quite popular among big ships. In fact, at least nineteen vessels on file matched. He suggested that Bickerstaff add the owner’s name, or at least the country of registry, and things would go a lot faster. Not knowing either, Bickerstaff told the man that he could easily narrow his search to ships that had gone down in the eastern Atlantic within the last two weeks.

To that, the Lloyd’s man had an immediately knowledgeable and simple reply. In the last two weeks there had been three ships reported lost in the entire world. Two small freighters had sunk from a collision in Malaysia, and an ice breaker in Antarctica had ingloriously not lived up to its calling — the ice had won. Nothing at all in the Atlantic for over two months. It was just as Bickerstaff had suspected. He thanked the Lloyd’s man and dialed a more familiar number. A woman answered.“

Hello, luv.”

“There you are,” Margaret Bickerstaff declared. “I’ve been doing my best to keep your supper warm but if you can’t be home by nine, I’ll not be responsible.”

“Sorry, luv. We had this bird come in today, had a story to beat them all, she did. I’ll tell you about it later, over some tea. I don’t know how they think them up.”

“Touched, was she?”

“To say the least. American.”

“Ahh,” Margaret Bickerstaff replied.“

Says she’s a doctor. Shouldn’t be hard to put some holes in her story. A few calls to the states and I’ll find out where she’s escaped from.”

“That means you’ll be workin’ a bit later, then?”

“I’ll get on as fast as I can. It won’t take long.” Bickerstaff checked his watch. “The places I need to call in the states will still be open a few more hours. If I don’t get hold of them now, we’ll be into tomorrow afternoon. And I’ve got to send a quick report to the Yard.”

“Then I’ll be giving your chop to the cat,” she chided. “No sense in good food going to waste.”

“You know best, luv. I’ll be home as soon as I can.” Chief Bickerstaff frowned and rang off as Constable Edwards walked in.“

Blast!” Bickerstaff fumed.“

What’s the matter, Chief? Cat got your supper again?”

Slaton walked up St. John Street a few strokes after one in the morning. The lateness of the hour was by design. His train had arrived in Oxford hours ago and he’d stopped at a pub near the station to eat, taking his time. Slaton wanted no chance of running into any neighbors on the way up to his apartment. He was, after all, a dead man, and there was no telling who might be aware of his demise.

The building was Number 12, a block of eight flats, his on the third floor, in front and facing the street. Slaton looked over the familiar structure as he approached. There was only one light on in the building, emanating from the caretaker’s flat. That was as it should be. Mrs. Peabody was a seventy-two-year-old widow, always in bed by ten, who drew comfort from leaving a light on. Slaton figured the only tenant he might possibly run into at this hour was Paddy Cross, a retired machinist and right solid alcoholic who kept a schedule for no man. Fortunately, when Paddy did find his way home, he could usually be heard singing ribald songs in full voice long before he was seen.

Slaton moved quietly up to the third floor landing. He stopped outside his flat and took a good look at the brass number six on the door. Two things were missing, one being the top screw that was supposed to keep the number in place. Invariably, every time the door opened, it fell and hung upside-down on the bottom screw, making a number nine. Also missing was the trace of sawdust he’d placed in the crook of the six. He’d had visitors. That was also as it should be. No doubt his government had decided he was missing and probably dead. They’d have sent a team from the embassy to go over his flat, to make sure he hadn’t left anything embarrassing lying around.

Since his keys were in a bag on a ship at the bottom of the ocean, Slaton again made use of the lock-picking tools he’d pilfered from
Wind-som
’s toolbox. As he worked the tumbler, he realized that the few bits of normalcy he’d been able to acquire in his life were now completely gone. He was a dead man breaking into his own home.

The lock on the door handle was old and stiff, but soon gave way. There was another, more solid lock, but it was of the type that could only be engaged from inside the dwelling. Good for personal safety while you were home, but useless for protecting your things while you were out. Yosy had always insisted it to be of communist design.

Once inside, Slaton saw the flat largely unchanged. The appearance was decidedly spartan. A few basic pieces of furniture, a couple of cheap paintings on one wall. All of it had come with the lease. There were no photographs or travel trinkets. A small bookshelf offered a generic selection of classics and some well-worn popular novels of various themes. These too had come with the flat.

He looked around and concluded that things were more or less as he’d left them. The place had been searched, but not torn apart. He walked quickly to the bedroom, wanting to make it fast. A few clothes went into a canvas backpack, and he was happy to find four ten-pound notes stashed amongst his socks. Slaton looked for his Israeli passport, but was not surprised to find it gone, along with his British driver’s license.

He headed back to the living room. There, he went straight to the bookshelf and selected an aged, leather-bound edition of
Treasure Island
. He ran his hand along the spine and, content, stuffed it into the backpack with the clothing. At the telephone stand he noted that his personal register of addresses and telephone numbers was missing. Again, no surprise. He looked at the answering machine and saw a steady light. No messages.

He took a last look around the room — more to inventory than reminisce — then started to leave. Slaton paused halfway to the door. He turned and looked again at the answering machine. The little red light held steady.
Steady
. No
new
messages. His pals from the embassy would surely have listened to the tape. Anything noteworthy and they would have taken it. Empty, the machine’s green light would flash, so they had either taken the original and put in a blank tape, or decided that any messages on the existing tape were harmless. Slaton went back to the machine and hit the play button. It whirred, clicked and finally produced a voice he recognized as Ismael, an administrative clerk from the embassy.

“Mr. Slaton,”
the voice said officiously,
“Ismael Pellman. You haven’t filed a travel voucher for your trip to Paris on August three through five. Please do so, or call me to straighten it out before this Tuesday.”
Then a beep, followed by a thickly accented voice.
“Hello. This is Rangish Malwev at Rangal’s Fine Clothing. The leather jacket you have given us to repair is done. The charge is seventy-seven pounds, three. You may pick it up at your leisure.”

That one would have gotten the boys moving, Slaton thought. Of course all they’d find was that he really had sent in an old jacket to be repaired. For seventy-seven pounds he could have gotten a new one, but he was partial to the one he had. Or used to have.

Another beep and a dial tone.

A fourth beep and another message, the caller strangely familiar, but he didn’t recognize her right away.
“David. Oh, David. I’m sorry but I didn’t know who else to call. They’ve been here all day but … I can’t believe what they tell me.”
It was Ingrid Meier, Yosy’s wife. He’d known her for twelve years, yet Slaton barely recognized the quavering, broken voice that crackled from the recorder. Ingrid was one of the most rock-solid people he’d ever known, but here she sounded a shattered, babbling mess. Slaton’s blood went cold.
“What happened, David? What happened?”
She was crying. “
Please call. I don’t know these people who came to see me today. They took his papers, his things. I want to hear it from you. He was coming to see you, to go hunting. Were you with him? What happened to my Yosy … please David …”
She broke down, sobbing, and then a dial tone.

Slaton stared blankly at the machine as it stopped and then spun in the methodical process of rewinding.
What happened? What happened to Yosy?
Slaton felt ill. He could think of only one thing that would put Ingrid Meier in a state like that. His thoughts accelerated.
He was coming to see you …
London? Yosy had called with a warning, then tried to come see him. To explain the danger in person? But then what?

He checked the clock in the kitchen. 1:15 in the morning. How could he find out anything now? If something had happened to Yosy in England, anyone at the embassy could explain. But who could he trust? No one. Not now. Slaton picked up the phone, planning as he dialed. He had to know. The number he chose was not listed in any directory. It was low priority and non-secure, but unless someone had tinkered with it lately, this particular line would not be recorded or traced.