The Perfect Assassin (20 page)

Two hours later, Chatham left the hospital no better off than when he’d gone in. Itzaak Simon, the Israeli who’d survived yesterday’s scrum, was recovering nicely. He was alert, lucid, and not about to say anything of use. Chatham wished he’d arrived sooner, before the man’s pain medication had worn off.

The supervising nurse confirmed that Itzaak Simon had taken no visitors other than the police. He had, however, spent a good amount of time on the telephone earlier in the morning, and Chatham was sure he knew who was on the other end. The questioning process had gone badly. After conceding a few basic, obvious facts, Simon claimed to not remember anything else, a convenient excuse given the bump on the crown of his head. Chatham had pressed, asking why the Assistant Attaché for Cultural Affairs had been so far away from his desk at the embassy, in the company of another embassy employee who was carrying a gun. From that point, things were openly hostile, and when the Israeli eventually used his trump card of diplomatic immunity, Chatham stopped wasting his time. He was sure Itzaak Simon knew the identity of the killer, but he recognized a dead end when he saw it.

Exiting the hospital, Chatham stopped at the first telephone kiosk he could find and dialed his office. Ian Dark answered on the first ring.

“Hello, Ian.”

“There you are, Inspector. I tried to ring your cell phone about an hour ago, but I couldn’t get through. Have you lost another one?”

Chatham hated the infernal thing. It always seemed to interrupt at the worst possible time. Right now it was crammed into the glove box of his seldom used car, along with that blasted beeper that was always blinking and vibrating — like having some huge, angry bug in your pocket. He ignored Dark’s question. “I’m getting nowhere here. Our witness is maintaining a very professional silence. I’m also quite sure that the man we’re looking for is no longer anywhere near this place. Tell me, what have you found?”

“Well, Bickerstaff was right on one count. There were no ships lost in the Atlantic last week. Nothing at all. Of course it might have been a small vessel, something that might go unreported.”

“Or …” Chatham prodded. There was a slight pause.

“Or a sinking that someone didn’t
want
reported. Smuggler, maybe, that sort of thing?”

“Right. Go on.”

“Oh, yes. There was one stroke of luck. I was cross-checking the things you mentioned through our data files and I got one hit. It seems another Israeli national was killed in London about a week ago. After some digging and a few calls to the Foreign Office, I’m quite sure this person was also a Mossad officer.”

“Hmm. A hazardous occupation. What were the circumstances?”

“It was an accident, apparently. The poor sod walked straight in front of a bus. The local division investigated but didn’t find anything suspicious.”

“You say this man was Mossad?”

“According to our Foreign Office, he was assigned to the London station a few years back. Then he went back to Israel and they lost track of him. The police investigation clearly took him to be another tourist here on holiday.”

“I see. Better have a look at it.”

“Do you think this same fellow might have been responsible?” Dark queried.

“No telling. Better protect the flank, though. Get me a copy of that accident report.”

“Right.”

“I haven’t seen Mrs. Smythe from Forensics yet. When is she due here?”

“She checked in from Bickerstaff’s office about an hour ago. Ought to be catching up with you any time now, sir.”

“Good, good. She and I will have a quick look around the crime scene here. I’ll leave her to tally things up while I take the 11:30 train back to London. Set up a conference with Shearer. Someone at the Israeli Embassy must know what this is all about. If I can go there with some official weight, it might save us all a lot of work.”

Slaton strolled out of the gift shop, got in the car, and handed Christine a small box.

“Merry Christmas.”

She opened it up to find a hideous Casio watch. It was pink and green with an ugly, thick plastic band. The price tag in the box said twenty pounds. She had a feeling he’d paid less.

“Gee, thanks. It’s the nicest thing anyone’s given me this holiday season. Of course, it is still the first week of December.”

He put the little car in gear. “Sorry. Can’t spend a lot on Christmas presents this year. Besides, you really shouldn’t expect much. I’m not even a Christian.”

Christine tried it on for size and, unfortunately, it fit. They had spent an hour earlier in the morning buying things — or rather he had. Clothes mostly, and a few toiletries. It seemed logical at first, since neither of them had more than what was on their backs, but Christine thought his selections had been curious. If her bodyguard, as she’d come to think of him, had any sense of fashion, he kept it well hidden. Cheap jeans, expensive shirts, some brightly colored, others subdued. He made her try on a few things, while others he bought when they were obviously too big. It finally clicked when he’d picked out the reversible windbreakers and a couple of cheap hats. He was putting together disguises — all different shades, shapes and sizes — so that they might better conceal themselves. Her first urge had been to laugh, but awful memories of the previous day spoiled any humor Christine could dredge from the situation. He had rounded out the ensembles by purchasing sunglasses and some cheap, off-the-rack, clear reading glasses — cheaters, he called them.

“It’s twelve-twenty and thirty seconds,” Slaton said, glancing at a somewhat more handsome, but equally inexpensive watch on his own wrist. “I’ve already adjusted yours. It should stay synchronized to within a few seconds. That’ll be close enough.”

Christine studied her watch with a guarded expression as he went on.

“I’ve got an errand to run.”

An errand, she thought. To most people that meant going to the corner for a loaf of bread.

“
You’re going to drop me two blocks from here. Can you drive a manual shift?”

Christine looked at the unfamiliar right-hand drive arrangement. “I’ll manage,” she said confidently.

“Drive around the area. Get familiar with the streets and the car.” Slaton referred to a street map that was folded carefully to show the relevant section of town. “At one fifteen do a circle around Belgrave Square — here,” he pointed. “Enter the square from Chapel Street and circle once. Work your way to the inside lane. If you don’t see me, head back the way you came, toward Buckingham Palace and the Park. Keep driving and come back every fifteen minutes. If I haven’t shown up by two-thirty, leave and come back once at nine tonight.”

“And if you’re still not there?”

“Drive away and ditch the car. Take the tube to another part of town and pay cash for a hotel room. In the morning go to Scotland Yard. Talk to Inspector McKnight. I worked with him once and he seemed like a competent fellow. Tell him everything.”

Christine looked at him, realizing what he was saying. His eyes were still empty. No fear, no trepidation, just alertness. Scanning, always scanning the traffic ahead and behind. Every car, every face on the sidewalk scrutinized for an instant. Slaton pulled the car into a parking spot and left it running.

When he reached for the door handle, Christine grabbed his arm. “But you said the police wouldn’t be able to protect me.”

“It’s your best chance if we get split up,” he said smoothly. “Remember, you’d have to convince them everything I’ve told you is true.”

Christine sighed, “That might be tough, since I’m not even convinced myself.” Then she added, “So please show up.”

“I’ll do my best.”

He got out and mixed in with the crowds on the sidewalk. In no time, he disappeared.

Hiram Varkal sat impatiently at a booth in his favorite Chinese restaurant in Knightsbridge. It was dimly lit, like Chinese restaurants all over the world, but that didn’t bother him. What bothered him was the crowds. The place was incredibly busy today and his order was taking forever. To a lesser extent, he was also troubled that the booths at Lo Fan’s seemed to be getting smaller. Either that, or … he looked down at his stomach. Varkal was a huge man in every proportion. When younger, he’d actually been trim and athletic, but the curse of time brought a slowing metabolism that, augmented by an unabashed love of culinary excess, had taken him to his present state. Varkal sported a rolling girth that was unending, unfit, and, around Mossad’s London station, unmistakable. Still, for all his mass, Varkal harbored no regrets. Good food, good drink, good cigars — there was the stuff of a good life and he embraced every calorie.

Varkal pushed the table away slightly as he spotted Wu Chin coming his way. He was delighted to see an extra large helping of sweet and sour pork. The waiter gave a slight bow as he slid the heavy plate in front of his regular.

“So sorry for waiting, Mr. Varkal. Cook very busy today.”

Varkal took a hand and idly combed a few strands of hair from one side of his head, over the bald spot, to the other. He couldn’t be upset after seeing the huge portion Wu had brought, no doubt to make up for the delay. The waiter rushed off and Varkal tucked in his napkin, calculating how much time remained for the pleasure of savoring his meal before the afternoon staff meeting.

He had just shoveled the first big helping of pork between his jowls when someone slid into the booth’s opposing seat. Looking up, his eyes became huge circles. Varkal choked and coughed spasmodically, spewing the food back onto his plate.

“
Jesus!
” he sputtered.

“Hardly.”

David Slaton pushed a glass of water toward the huge man.

Varkal took a messy drink from the glass. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked in a harsh whisper.

“Get your hands on the table.”

It took Varkal a moment to decipher the implications of that directive, then a look of worry glazed over his face as he realized that Slaton’s hands were out of sight underneath the table. Varkal plopped his fat fingers across the hardwood as if he were expecting a manicure.

Slaton was confident the man would be unarmed. Varkal had never been a field agent. He was a politician, a bureaucrat who had worked his way up. But having seen him in action, Slaton knew to be careful. What ever the man lacked in tactical experience and polish was more than compensated for by a shrewd nature and an outstanding intellect. Varkal had excelled in a cutthroat organization, and he was near the pinnacle — he headed up Mossad’s London station, a vital post that wasn’t handed out lightly. Slaton would have to work hard to keep the man off balance.

“What do you want?” Varkal asked.

“I want to submit my resignation.”

“What?”

“I quit. I resign my position, effective immediately.”

Varkal’s eyes narrowed. “Your position? I don’t even know what your position is. You don’t work for me.”

“Not really, I guess. But you could pass it on for me. I’m sure you know the right people.”

Varkal frowned.

“I also need to find out a few things. I thought you might be able to help.”

“Such as?”

“Such as who killed Yosy Meier.”

Varkal’s face wrinkled in confusion. “What do you mean? Yosy killed? It was an accident.”

“Said who? The London police?”

“Yes. And we did a quiet investigation ourselves. Accidents do happen, David, even to Mossad officers. Particularly here in England. Until the Brits learn to drive on the right side of the road like the rest of the world, there’ll be no end to mowing down the tourists—”

“Don’t give me that!” Slaton spat. “You knew Yosy. If there was an investigation, it didn’t go very deep.”

“All right,” Varkal admitted, “I thought it was strange. But there really wasn’t any evidence of foul play. We pressed hard on a couple of informants, but none of the Arab groups here seemed to be involved.”

Varkal was recovering. Slaton caught him glancing to the entrance. He was wondering where his security was. The chief of an important Mossad station didn’t wander around town without someone to look after him. It was time to tighten the screws.

“They’re gone.”

“Who?”

“The guy standing out front. Rosenthal, I think is his name. And some new thug in a car across the street. You know, this is a very good restaurant, but you shouldn’t be so predictable. Same time, same day every week. It makes for bad security.”

“What did you do to them?” Varkal asked guardedly.

Slaton had already decided not to overplay the answer to that question. He pulled a small radio out of his pocket and shoved it across the table. It was the size of a cigarette pack, with an earpiece and microphone, the standard issue for Mossad security work. Slaton had retrieved it from his apartment, but he wouldn’t need it again. “Somebody reported a gun in the ambassador’s wing. Your boys ran off to help. The place ought to be locked down tight by now, but it’ll take fifteen minutes to figure out there’s no intruder.”

Varkal nodded. A thin sheen of perspiration had begun to mat the strands of hair on his scalp. It was decision time for Slaton. His instincts told him to go with Plan A.

“All right, listen,” he said. “I think there’s a group within the Mossad that’s making trouble, and I have a feeling you’re not part of it.”

“What do you mean making trouble?”

“Killing Yosy, for starters. Sending a ship and fifteen crewmen to the bottom of the ocean. There’s a lot happening, but I haven’t got it all figured out yet. I only know that it comes from inside our organization. Deep inside.”

“What? You’re saying our enemies have infiltrated the service?”

“I don’t know. If that were the case, I’d expect it to be one or two people. And they’d just stay quiet, get as high as they could within the organization to pass information. From what I’ve seen there’s a lot going on, a lot of people involved.”

“Like who?”

Slaton made a quick scan of the restaurant. “Why did Itzaak Simon and his buddy go out to Penzance?”

“We got a message from Tel Aviv. It instructed us to keep an eye out for anything that had to do with a ship named
Polaris Venture.
We found out from a source in Scotland Yard that a woman had sailed into Penzance in a boat that was beat to hell. Said she had picked up a man in the middle of the ocean, who then turned around and commandeered her boat. Supposedly he was a survivor from a ship that had sunk, and the name she gave was
Polaris Venture
. We sent that much back to Tel Aviv and they replied right away, told us to monitor the situation closely.”