The Perfect Assassin (19 page)

Jacobs shook his head, “I’ve heard other stories,” he said, “but a child …”

Bloch nodded.

“Did the boy tell you this?”

“Eventually he filled in the blanks, but during his initial Mossad screening interviews he refused to talk about it. Most of it came to light by way of a witness, this idiot Captain who was in the Signals Intelligence Division. When the Syrians crossed the border, this fellow had to take a jeep and collect code books from a series of command bunkers that were about to be overrun. He was racing just minutes ahead of the Arab tanks when he lost control of his jeep passing through Kibbutz Gissonar. Went into a ditch and the jeep turned over on him. Broke his leg badly. The fool managed to take cover, and from there he had a bird’s-eye view of the whole thing.”

“I see,” Jacobs said, lowering his head in thought. “And is this what brought Slaton to the attention of Mossad?”

“In part. It also had to do with the fact that his father was a very influential man, one who died in service to the state.”

“What happened to the boy after the war?”

“He went back to school, eventually entering Tel Aviv University. He studied Biology and Western Languages. He had an exceptional gift for languages. Textbook speech is fine for the university or ordering dinner in a restaurant, but our section prefers those who have been immersed in a native country — regional accents and usages, slang. You can only get that kind of proficiency by living in a place, and the boy had spent time at several schools in Europe. He tested out at the highest level in three languages. We usually hope for one.”

“How old was he when you recruited him?”

“We began actively screening when he was nineteen, in university. Two years later we approached him with the offer of a “government position.” It usually takes six months of interviews, background checks, and psychological evaluations before the recruits get an idea of the kind of work they’re being sized up for. We watch closely for a reaction.”

“And what is the usual reaction when a person realizes they’re being chosen to work in the world’s most elite intelligence agency?”

“Mild surprise, perhaps. We hope for as little reaction as possible. These people are used to being the best and brightest in their class. But to say they’ve been chosen is premature. Most don’t pass the screening, and of those, less than half complete the entire training process.”

“Ramon Slaton’s son made it through.”

“He was at the top of his group, both academically and physically. We also discovered that his success against the Syrians was no fluke. As a boy, he apparently did a lot of hunting. Rabbits, quail, that kind of thing. By the time he got to us, his marksmanship was uncanny. He outshot every instructor at the range on his first day. Slaton was clearly something special, so in view of his performance and his family history, we elected to train him as a kidon.”

“And what does that education consist of?”

“There’s no set curriculum. Contrary to popular belief, there aren’t legions of them roaming the world. We only train a handful, and they’re rarely deployed.”

Deployed,
Jacobs thought. Like an artillery piece.

“We trained to his strengths. He was sent to the IDF Sniper Course. As a former officer, you know what that school is like.”

“Yes, I know. Marksmanship is the least of it. They teach weapons, tactics, and stalking. All with consideration for the sniper’s most demanding trait — patience.”

Bloch nodded. “His scores on the tactical range were off the scale. Altogether, Slaton spent three years being shaped into what he is today.”

“And the rest is in here?” Jacobs queried, looking at the file. The Director’s reply didn’t come right away and Jacobs sensed a red flag. “Anton? You know what’s at stake here. I want to know everything. Is there something that’s not in here?”

Bloch sighed, clearly not liking where he had to go. “There is one thing. It involved a girl. As far as we know, the only serious relationship he’s ever had. The two had known each other from the kibbutz, and they married during his second year at university. We researched her background and found her history unremarkable. They had been married a year when she gave birth to a baby girl. It’s all in the file.”

Jacobs dug through the folder to the appropriate section and his eye was caught by a photograph of a strikingly beautiful raven-haired girl. The photo had been taken at a café, probably candidly since she seemed unaware. Her face was alight with an infectious, somewhat mischievous smile. She was sitting at a table that held two coffee cups, and a single red rose lying atop an envelope. The photograph was not wide enough in angle to show the companion with whom she was sharing her humor, but Jacobs had no doubt.

“Two months before completing his final term at the university, right when we were considering him as a recruit, there was a tragedy. Slaton’s wife and daughter, who was not quite two years old at the time … they were both killed.”

“What happened?”

Bloch told him and the Prime Minister shook his head. “What a miserable, terrible waste,” he said, leafing idly through the file. Looking up, he sensed discomfort in the usually unflappable Anton Bloch. “What is it? What else?” the Prime Minister demanded.

“There’s one thing that’s not in the file.” Bloch took a deep breath, then finished the story.

The Prime Minister considered the implications. “It could mean nothing. Or it could explain everything.” Jacobs interlaced his fingers and brought them under his chin as the weight of the day began to settle. There were so many tangents. “You said this is not in the file. I can understand why, but how many people know about it?”

Bloch shrugged, “Very few, and … well, it’s been many years.”

“Yet it’s possible he knows.”

“Slaton? Yes, but a lot of things are possible.”

A light blinked obviously on Jacobs’ phone. The Prime Minister wished he could put all the world’s events on hold so easily. He jabbed a thumb toward the file. “You seem to know a great deal about this man, Anton.”

“I’ve seen him work,” Block said matter-of-factly. “He’s our best.”

Jacobs considered that, wondering if it was a good thing or bad. He sensed Bloch was finished. “All right, have London find out what the hell’s going on. Send in more people if you need to. Cabinet meeting at noon.” The Director of Mossad walked to the door and, as he did so, Jacobs noted for the first time that he moved with a slightly uneven gait.

“Anton …”

Bloch turned.

“Where were you during the Yom Kippur War?”

The stone face of Anton Bloch cracked into a rare grin. “I was an idiot Captain in the Signals Intelligence Division.”

Jacobs couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter, but as Bloch disappeared the Prime Minister of Israel sobered, focusing on the dossier that lay before him. He turned back to the front cover, to the photograph of David Slaton. He then began to read.

Poring through the record, Jacobs recalled from his infantry days the IDF sniper course, known informally by its contorted alias — Finishing School. The training regimen was brutal, but only later did the real test come. No one was a true graduate until they had made their first kill. To look through a gunsight at an unsuspecting human and have the coldness to pull the trigger. This was the true commencement of Finishing School. The more Jacobs read, the more he realized that David Slaton was indeed among the best. A pure killer, vacant any trace of hesitation or remorse. My God, he thought, can we really create such a person?

Chapter Nine

Inspector Chatham arrived at the Penzance station at eight that morning. His first sight on entering the building was the burly Chief of Penzance Police ushering a young woman with a tape recorder out of an office and toward the door. The man’s tone was brusque, Chatham thought, fully commensurate with his appearance.

“That’s all I can say now, miss,” Bickerstaff barked.

The woman offered a few well-practiced words of protest and indignation, only to have them cut off when the door shut in her face.

Bickerstaff sighed and leaned his bulk against the door, as if expecting the irksome woman to try shoving her way back in. He addressed the sergeant at the main desk, “No more of those, Patrick, or I’ll ’ave those stripes.”

The sergeant behind the desk waved his hand dismissively.

The police chief finally noticed Chatham. “Well, hello. You must be the Inspector from Scotland Yard I’ve been hearin’ about.”

“Does it show that badly?”

“You’re the only one come to see me this morning that didn’t have a camera in one hand and a notepad in the other.”

Chatham took the Chief’s outstretched hand and, not unexpectedly, endured a bonecrushing grip. “Inspector Nathan Chatham, Special Branch. Good to meet you. I arrived late last night.”

“You could have called me right off, Inspector. I’d have filled you in.”

“That’s quite all right. I suspect that finding this fellow may take some time. Rest can be our ally. We’ll march on steady and with a clear mind, while the enemy grows tired from maneuver. Let him make the mistakes, eh?”

Bickerstaff seemed to chew on that, then jabbed a blunt thumb to the door where he’d just evicted the young reporter. “I’ve already made one mistake today by letting her in. Pesky lot, they are.”

“The media? I suppose, but they have their uses.”

Bickerstaff smiled and gestured for Chatham to join him in his office. The place was a mess. Papers and files were strewn across all furniture that was not regularly attended, and the lone bookshelf was bursting with odd, unmatched volumes stuffed in at all angles. Chatham was encouraged. This was a place where work was done.

Bickerstaff sifted through the pile on his desk, found the paper he was after, and handed it to Chatham. “Here’s the preliminary report, Inspector. Let me tell you what I know so far.”

Chatham browsed the report while Bickerstaff talked. He decided that, in spite of his brutish texture, the chief was a reasonably proficient investigator. He also didn’t seem concerned about turf — some local police got bothered when Special Branch came waltzing onto their stage. It took Bickerstaff five minutes to hit the highlights, and, in the end, he was apologetic for letting things go as long as they had. “I really thought there was nothing to this at first, but now I see I should have called for help right away.”

Chatham nodded and put down the written report. “Perhaps, but let’s not worry about that. Far too much to be done.” He steepled his hands under his chin. “This man, the attacker, no one got a good look at him?”

“The Israeli chap who survived. He’s in the hospital. Took a nasty bump on the head, he did. Claims he can’t remember a thing.” Bicker-staff scrunched his considerable brow. “Do you think it’s a diversionarial tactic, Inspector?”

Chatham tried not to cringe at the chief’s recreational grammar. “It is our job to distinguish evidence from coincidence.”

Bickerstaff nodded and a look of stern concentration fell across his mug. Chatham had the impression he was mentally recording the phrase for future use.

Bickerstaff continued, “The motel manager saw our suspect, but he was awfully far away. We know the bloke’s a bit on the tall side, thin, light colored hair, and a scruffy beard. That’s all he could tell us, basically the same description Dr. Palmer gave me the day before.”

“
Doctor
Palmer?”

“Right, the woman who’s disappeared. She’s a physician, American. Just finished her schooling. I made some calls to the States to verify that part. Everything she told me about herself checked, which was why by yesterday morning I was starting to believe her story after all. Certainly nothing to suggest she’d be tied up with Israeli spies and all.”

“Spies, you say?”

“Well,” Bickerstaff retreated, “they were Israelis I know, and I heard they worked at the embassy. I just assumed …”

Chatham stood and began walking slowly back and forth. “Forensics. What have we got so far?”

“The man from the lab in Exeter has been here. He’s found a few partial fingerprints that might be from our man. They came off the BMW. The door handle, the steering wheel, and shifter.”

Chatham was not encouraged. He had a feeling that whoever this man was, his prints might not be on record. At least not anyplace Chatham had access.

“All right,” he said, “let’s set the order of battle. We have a young lady in our lab who’s very good at this sort of thing. I’ll bring her over to have a look. We’ll try to match those prints from the car to any on the sailboat, then eliminate those that are Doctor Palmer’s. By doing so, we can erase any doubt that the same man is responsible for both abductions. Since you’ve already started verifying this woman’s story, I’d like you to press on with it. Find out if she’s spent much time abroad. Go back, let’s say five years. What countries has she been to? How long? That sort of thing. I’ll have Ian Dark help you with it. He’s my assistant back in London. Good man.”

Bickerstaff began scribbling notes on a yellow pad.

“We’ll have to go over this house he broke into after coming ashore. And we’ll need a precise description of the motorcycle he’s taken. If we can find it, we’ll know where he’s been, and perhaps get an idea of where he’s headed.”

“You don’t think he’s still around here?”

“Not likely,” Chatham replied distractedly, his thoughts already having moved on. “The Israeli in the hospital, is he well enough for a few questions?”

“I don’t see why not. He took a few knocks in all the argy-bargy, but they tell me he’ll be fine.”

“Good. That’s where I’m headed then.”

“Do you think he can tell us who this fellow is?”

“Can he? Almost certainly. I just hope that he
will
.”

“All right, Inspector. I’ll have Edwards here run you over to the hospital.”

Bickerstaff summoned Edwards and issued the assignment. As Chatham was about to leave, the chief added awkwardly, “I’ll do whatever I can to help. I feel badly about this, Inspector. The woman, Dr. Palmer, she seemed a nice lady, she did.”

“We’ll just have to find her then, won’t we? Carry on, Chief.”