The Perfect Assassin (21 page)

“How?” Slaton said impatiently.

“What do you mean
how
?”

“Were you supposed to contact her? Question her?”

“No, the order was very specific. Just watch from a distance. No contact.”

“All right. I’m sure you’ve talked to Itzaak by now. How did he describe what happened in Penzance?”

Slaton saw suspicion in Varkal’s face. The uncertainty and fear were wearing off.

“He said that he and his partner, Freidlund, had set up surveillance. They spotted some guy trying to get into this woman’s room and decided to approach him. Itzaak recognized you and asked what was going on. That’s when you went off and attacked the two of them. They weren’t ready for it and you got the better of them.”

“Simple enough. Now let me give you my version.” Slaton allotted one minute to explain what had happened. It wouldn’t be long before security at the embassy figured out his ruse. When he finished, Varkal was skeptical.

“You’re telling me Itzaak and his partner were going to bury this woman? Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know exactly, but I’ve got a feeling it has to do with
Polaris Venture.
That ship had a very unusual cargo, the kind of stuff people
get
killed over. Tell me, how did Itzaak’s team get assigned this specific detail? Did you send them out?”

Varkal looked skyward, as if rewinding his mental gears. “When I got the message, I went straight to the duty swine. He told me Itzaak and Freidlund were already on the way.”

“Isn’t that kind of strange?”

“At the time I didn’t like it, but I wasn’t worried. It was Priority Two. When I got to my desk that morning, it had been there for at least an hour. Somebody saw the message and acted on it.”

“Or maybe Itzaak and his buddy knew it was coming.”

Slaton watched it sink in, then saw something else register.

“Itzaak …” Varkal said thoughtfully.

“What about him?”

“I told you we looked into Yosy’s accident. Well, Itzaak was in charge of the investigation.”

“Who gave him that job?”

“He volunteered for it. Said he was a friend of Yosy’s and wanted to do it for personal reasons. I didn’t see anything wrong with that — figured he’d be motivated to do a good, thorough job.”

Slaton watched Varkal closely and could see the facts sinking in. The man was no longer concerned about his immediate, personal well-being. Slaton had been able to plant the seeds of a more insidious, familiar danger, and the station chief was reacting predictably. If it was all true, if there really was a threat from within, then there was also a golden opportunity. Varkal would want to break it open in such a way as to reflect maximum credit upon himself.

“You see the pattern. And the more you look, the more you’ll find.”

“That’s what you want from me? You want me to investigate this?”

“I want you to pass what I’ve told you on to Anton Bloch. Tell him that’s why I’m running around England killing his people. Tell him I haven’t turned against Mossad. It’s turned on itself.”

“But if what you’re saying is true, how can you know who to trust?”

“You mean how can
we
know.”

Varkal frowned, then his eyes went to the window at the front of the restaurant. Slaton checked his watch. “They’re back a little soon.”

“Yes,” Varkal said quietly.

“Well, it’s that time. In the next ten seconds you have to decide whether I’m full of crap or not.”

Varkal’s hands began to fidget on the table. He made no move to signal anyone. Slaton couldn’t see the front entrance directly, but he’d been keeping an eye on the mirror behind the bar. If anyone came within twenty feet of their table, he’d know it. Slaton heard the door open, and at the same time, Varkal made his decision. He smiled. Trying to look casual, Varkal waved away whoever it was.

“It’s Streissan. He heads my detail,” Varkal said under his breath. “I tried to wave him off, but he’s coming over anyway. Probably wants to tell me about the false alarm. If he gets one look at you …”

Slaton wasn’t listening. He was about to lose the advantage of surprise. He spotted Streissan in the mirror, twenty feet over his shoulder and closing fast. Worse yet, the man had realized someone was at the table with Varkal.

Slaton’s hand went into his jacket and gripped the Berretta. In one motion, he swung out of his seat and leveled the weapon at Streissan’s head. To his credit, the Mossad officer froze, realizing it was his only chance.

A customer at the bar saw the commotion and yelled drunkenly, “’ere now!” Only when one of the barmaids screamed did the whole room go quiet. All attention in the establishment went to the man with the gun.

Slaton wondered whose side Streissan was on. Was he a traitor? Or just a guy on security detail doing his job? He’d like to ask some questions, but there was no time. He had to get out now. As he backed toward the rear exit, two figures appeared on the sidewalk outside. Slaton had a clear view through the big plate glass windows at the front. The men were moving quickly. Too quickly. He didn’t know either, but in an instant they recognized Slaton and their weapons were drawn. His options were gone.

Slaton shifted aim and fired, the room’s silence disintegrating into a crackling hail of gunshots and crashing glass. He let go two quick rounds at each of the moving figures outside, then leapt for cover behind the end of the bar. Halfway there he felt a stinging pain in his forearm.

A few of the restaurant’s patrons tried to run for the front door as bullets whizzed by. Most fell to the floor and turned over tables, seeking any protection they could find.

Slaton popped up from behind the bar and loosed a rapid succession of shots at someone jumping in through the shattered window. He saw another man down, writhing on the sidewalk outside. He quickly ducked back down as return fire scattered around the bar. He distinguished two guns now, one to his left, and one to the right. The one on the right had to be Streissan, with a standard issue Glock. Four rounds fired. The one on the left was different, maybe a Mauser. Five shots. His left arm blazed in pain.

Suddenly the Mauser started spraying shots wildly around the room. When the count reached nine, Slaton moved slightly right, stood full, and spotted Streissan, poorly protected behind a booth divider. He fired twice before Streissan could shift his aim and the big man sprawled back with a shout, then stopped moving. Slaton shifted his aim to where Mauser would be changing clips, but saw nothing. Whoever it was had to be holed up behind a large, particularly solid table, waiting for help. That would be the smart thing to do. There would be ten more Israelis here within two minutes — with bigger weapons. The local police would be right behind. It was time to go.

Slaton moved to the rear of the bar, took one good look to clear the area, then fired a shot in Mauser’s general direction. One second later, another. One second, a third shot, and the cover pattern was set. He dashed low to the rear exit, and was almost there when Mauser let go a single shot. Slaton looked back to take aim with the next round. He was still running low when a big drunk who’d been hiding near the rear door made a lunge for the same exit. The two met shoulder to shoulder and both went down. Slaton fell awkwardly on his injured arm and the pain seared in. But he had to keep moving. Scrambling, he made it to the passageway and out of Mauser’s line of sight. He took one last look back at the wreckage that had moments ago been a popular restaurant. The sight was vivid. Screaming people, broken glass, overturned chairs — and the massive body of Hiram Varkal splayed out on the floor, his face bloody, and his eyes wide and still in death.

Chapter Ten

Christine began her third spin around Belgrave Square. She checked her ugly watch. One forty-four and ten seconds. The first pass, half an hour ago, had been two minutes late. After that, she’d gotten a better take on the traffic and the second pass had been right on. She wondered, for what seemed like the hundredth time today, what in the world she was doing. Driving a rented Peugeot in timed circles around a quaint London landmark, searching for her … Christine didn’t even know what to call him. Her protector? Her killer? Her spy?

Whoever he was, he appeared out of nowhere halfway around the square. No waving or shouting to draw attention. He just stood in an obvious spot on the sidewalk, knowing she would spot him. Christine pulled over and he slid into the passenger seat.

“Turn left,” he ordered. “Work over to Kensington Street.”

And hello to you too, she thought. Christine edged the car back into heavy traffic while he immediately began scanning again for some unseen enemy. She noticed a small scrape on his hand.

“So, kill anybody while you were out?” She’d meant to lighten the mood, but it came out sounding crass. He gave her a hard look.

“Sorry.” Christine heard the asynchronous wail of sirens in the distance, and she felt a shudder of unease. “Where are we going now?”

“We’re going to get out of London for a day or two. Let’s head back west, on the M3. And if you see a pharmacy along the way, stop.”

Christine took another look at him. He was wearing a tweed jacket she’d never seen before. A small thing, she thought. He goes off wearing one jacket, comes back in another. There must be a harmless explanation. Then she noticed a dark stain on the sleeve. She pulled the car over.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Christine replied by reaching over and gently coaxing the fabric up to his elbow, revealing a fresh wound.

“My God! What happened?”

“I took a round, but it’s okay. I think it passed right through.” He pulled his arm away.

“Well, your expert medical opinion aside, I should have a look at it.”

“Keep driving. The bleeding has stopped, it’s just sore. We’ll be fine if we can put some distance between us and …”

Christine’s stomach turned over.

“Go!” he insisted.

She pulled back onto the street. “All right. I’ll keep going,” she spat. “And maybe we can take a bullet out of that gun for you to bite down on. That’s how you macho types deal with pain, right?” Christine’s anger surged. “But while I drive, you tell me what happened back there. You go off without telling me where you’re going or what you’re doing, and then come back with a
gunshot
. If I’m being dragged into this, I want to know what’s going on! Tell me or I’m leaving!”

He didn’t say anything right away, and Christine glanced over at him. He was staring at her, concern evident through the scraggly beard that masked his face. Finally, he spoke. “You’re correct, doctor. I was wrong not to include you. Maybe I thought the less you knew, the safer you’d be. But we’re clearly past that now.”

Christine eyed the bloodstain on his jacket and wondered what the other guy must look like.

“I went to see Hiram Varkal. He heads up the Mossad station here in London. I was guessing he had no part in this organization I’ve told you about, and I wanted to find out what he knew. If Varkal seemed safe, I was going to tell him everything so he could send it right to the top, to the Director himself.”

“The last two Israelis you met up with didn’t fare too well. Wasn’t this guy a little nervous about meeting you?”

“He would have been if he’d known about it.”

Christine listened intently as he explained how he’d cornered Varkal in the restaurant. He then went over their conversation and offered a brief version of the battle that ensued. She drove on in grim silence, acknowledging events she would never have thought possible two weeks ago. When Slaton was done, she realized things had gotten deeper yet.

“So you think you killed at least one of the three?”

“Yes,” he replied evenly. “Maybe two. I had no choice. They’d drawn their guns.”

The body count rises again, she thought. “What about this guy, Varkal? If he believed you, he’ll pass on what you told him, right? And maybe he can convince the police you were acting in self-defense.”

“No.”

The reply was too simple, too quick. Then Christine understood. “You mean you killed
him
?”

Slaton shook his head, “I hit two of the security guys. But one of them took out Varkal.”

“What?” She looked at him with disbelief, “Why would his own bodyguards shoot him?”

“Simple. Because he’d been talking to me.”

Christine nearly ran a red light. She jammed on the brakes and the little car skidded just short of a crosswalk. Pedestrians moved cautiously in front of them, and an old man jabbed his cane at Christine with a disapproving stare. She held a deathgrip on the steering wheel. What else? she wondered. What more could happen?

She said, “Tomorrow this will be in every paper in England, won’t it? Your picture and mine right next to it with a big question mark underneath.”

“If my picture makes the paper, that’s a very bad sign.”

“I probably shouldn’t ask, but why?”

“Because there aren’t many photos of me,” he said evenly, “and the ones that do exist are held by a particular agency of the Israeli government. The one that trained me to be what I am.”

Christine considered that. “You mean the only official photos—”

“I mean the only pictures. No family albums, no vacation pictures, no Polaroids with my schoolmates. None of that. The ones that existed before I became a kidon were destroyed. That’s how it works.”

The light turned green and Christine drove on slowly, giving thought to what he’d just said. It all seemed so cold and cynical, even cruel in a way. It was yet another part of an existence she could never have imagined.

Slaton went on, “Granted, I’ve been a busy fellow for the last eighteen years. It’s possible our enemies might have snapped one or two candid photos. But if a mug shot shows up on the BBC evening news, it’s there courtesy of my government. It would mean the Mossad thinks I’ve turned. They’d be throwing me to the wolves and they’ll go after me themselves. Hard. Governments don’t like their disaffected assassins running around. Far too messy for — there!” he spat out, his head whipping to one side.

Her heart spiked. “What?”