The Perfect Assassin (22 page)

He pointed back to a sidestreet they’d just passed. “There was a pharmacy down that street. Turn around.”

Christine breathed a sigh of relief and wheeled the car around. She looked at his wounded arm. He seemed completely unbothered by it. She remembered all the other scars she’d seen across his battered body. How could anyone live such a life? And now she was being pulled into it. Again she tried to imagine some way out.

Christine said, “If we went to the police and told them everything right away, wouldn’t that give you enough insurance?”

“Everything on my side is speculation. They can tie me to one dead man, maybe more. They’ll think I’m a lunatic, and before they figure out otherwise — well, like I said, there are a lot of people who would be very concerned if I were sitting in a jail cell answering questions.”

She tried a new tack. “What about the newspapers? Go tell them everything. Once it’s made public, no one could come after you.”

“Do you really think anyone would print something like this? Who would believe it?”

Christine found a parking space directly in front of the pharmacy. Who would believe it? she thought. Why do I believe it? The question pounded in her mind. She had always thought herself to be an intelligent, reasonable woman. A person of science and logic. But she did believe him. He had kidnapped her. Twice. She had seen him kill a man, yet for some damned reason she sensed that everything he told her was true.

She felt him watching her. It made her uncomfortable and she forced herself to a new line of thought. Christine leaned toward him.

“Hold still,” she said in her best professional voice. She pulled the jacket carefully from his wounded arm, then unbuttoned his shirt cuff and eased it back to get a better look at the wound. It would be impossible to tell without an X-ray whether any part of the bullet remained in his body, but she could clearly make out an entry wound on the anterior forearm, and an exit wound in back.

“We need to clean and dress this. Then we should get an X-ray to check for any damage we can’t see.”

“Hospitals are out for now, so let’s just clean it and be done.”

Christine frowned. She was mentally logging what she’d need from the pharmacy when she suddenly noticed their closeness. She felt his breath on her neck and her gaze shifted. With their faces only inches apart, the two locked eyes. He looked at her openly, for the first time without calculation, without the cold alertness that had permeated his every action. And then there was more. His expression seemed to hold familiarity, as if he was looking at someone else, someone he knew far more intimately. In the silence, Christine felt awkward. She pulled away.

“All right,” she said, collecting herself. “I’ll go get what we need to repair you. Something to cleanse the wound, gauze, tape. Maybe an over-the-counter pain medication. Anything else?”

“Yeah, get me a razor and some shaving cream.”

“Okay.”

As she grabbed the door handle, he reached out gently and held her by the wrist.

“Christine … I’m sorry about that. You reminded me of someone.” She nodded thoughtfully, then smiled. It was the first time he’d ever called her by her first name. “Well, I can honestly say that you don’t remind me of anyone I’ve ever known.”

He produced a thin smile of his own, but then, in a moment, it disappeared. He returned to his duty of evaluating all activity on the streets and sidewalks. The kidon was back as quickly as he’d gone.

“I don’t like it,” Chatham declared. Back in his Scotland Yard office after the midday train ride from Penzance, he held a copy of the police accident report on the death of one Yosef Meier.

“I must say, sir, I really didn’t see anything suspicious in it myself,” Ian Dark offered.

“No, nothing suspicious. Nothing at all! This wasn’t an investigation. It was someone filling an administrative square.” Chatham jabbed a finger at the bottom of one page, “See, only one eyewitness interviewed. One!” Chatham tossed it aside.

“It’s been less than a week. Perhaps we should look into it ourselves.”

Chatham shook his head. “I wish we could, but we can’t deploy our forces too thinly. Right now it’s only us and Mrs. Smythe. Which reminds me, has she reported in yet?”

“She had Chief Bickerstaff call in. Seems this entire affair has raised quite a row in Penzance. No less than a dozen locals have gone in to see Bickerstaff this morning, all of them claiming to have witnessed some part of what went on yesterday. One woman actually identified the BMW, but she saw it leaving the motel. Nothing we didn’t already know. As for the transfer car, a number of people are certain they spotted it.”

“And?”

“Could be anything from a black Lamborghini to a Tripley Bread van.”

Chatham sighed. “What about Smythe?”

“She’s still trying to identify the car our man switched to, using those tire imprints you pointed out. Bickerstaff was curious as to what drew you to those particular tracks. He says there were tire marks all over the place, a lot of them closer to the abandoned BMW.”

Chatham shrugged, “A bit of logic, but mostly guesswork. All we have at the moment, I’m afraid. Smythe can probably identify the type of tire, but even then, they’re all so common nowadays. If we find the right car we’ll be able to match irregularities and prove where it’s been.”

“But first we have to find it,” Dark said, realizing they weren’t much beyond square one.

The telephone rang and Chatham wagged his long index finger in the air as he walked to pick it up. “This is what we need, I think.” He picked up the handset, “Chatham here.”

The conversation was a very one-sided affair. Chatham’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened as he listened. At the end, he dispensed a few pleasantries and set the phone gingerly back on its cradle, silently ordering his thoughts.

“What’s happened?” Dark asked.

The question broke Chatham’s trance. “It was the Assistant Commissioner, about the meeting we were supposed to have this afternoon with the Israelis. A few hours ago he arranged it with a fellow named Hiram Varkal.”

“Varkal? Who’s he?”

“It’s an ill-kept secret that he’s Mossad’s Chief of Station here in London. Or, at least he
was
. Just after noon he was killed in a shootout. It happened at a restaurant in Knightsbridge, a few blocks from the embassy. One other Israeli was killed and a third wounded.”

“Good Lord! They’re dropping faster than we can count.”

“Yes, and that’s not all. It seems today’s killer matches the description of our man quite nicely.”

“The media will go wild.”

“I think those were the Assistant Commissioner’s very words. This business has become the Yard’s top priority. The Commissioner himself has seen fit to name me as being in command of what is now a highly public investigation. I’ve authority to use any assets necessary to apprehend this fellow.”

The phone rang again, and Chatham motioned for Dark to pick it up. He did, and after exchanging a few words he held the phone to his chest.

“It’s Security down in the lobby. They say there’s a throng of reporters outside looking for you. It seems the word is out that you’ve been put in charge of a big investigation and they want a statement. Apparently they’re quite agitated.”

Chatham checked the time. “Of course they are. The deadline is fast approaching to get something onto the evening news. Tell them we’ll have a briefing in fifteen minutes.”

Dark relayed the message.

Chatham went to the rack and retrieved his great coat. “Our man-power problem has gone, Ian. Let’s call in the reserves. Get through to Inspector Grant, Homicide Division. He and his best five men will reopen the investigation of Yosef Meier’s death. Call Shearer back and tell him to find out who’s running Mossad affairs at the embassy now. I must see that person, tonight if possible. Get a half dozen people out to Penzance to help Smythe with anything she needs. Have forensics send …” Chatham snapped his fingers in the air, trying to remember the name, “Moore, yes, that’s it. Sharp lad. Have him meet me right away at the Lo Fan Restaurant in Knightsbridge. That’s where I’ll be if you need me.” Chatham strode to the door.

“But sir! You just scheduled a press briefing in fifteen minutes.”

“Right,” Chatham called over his shoulder. “And I’m sure you’ll do a cracking good job.”

They arrived in Southampton at 4:30, Slaton at the wheel as they made their way through City Centre. Ten minutes earlier he had pointed out a hotel called The Excelsior, but the car didn’t stop. They traveled two blocks away from the hotel, toward the waterfront, a blatantly mercantile trap anointed the Town Quay. From there, he circled back to The Excelsior, and eventually repeated the exercise from three different directions.

“Do we have to be that careful?” Christine asked as he finally pulled into a parking spot a block from the hotel.

“Just doing a little reconnaissance. It’s quicker than walking.” He shut off the engine, but left the keys in the ignition. “I’m going to see about a room. I’d like you to stay here. I’ll explain when I get back.”

She eyed him, “You’d better.”

Slaton checked in as Henrik Edmunson, the name taken from his Danish passport and the associated credit card. He requested, in poor English, a room facing the front street, explaining that he and his wife had stayed in a similar room at The Excelsior years ago while on their honeymoon. The clerk seemed troubled by the request, explaining that availability was minimal, but he eventually found an acceptable room at a ruinous price. Slaton made a show of flinching at the cost, but took the room anyway, a dutiful husband determined to show his wife that there was still some romance left in the old boy. Once registered, he went to the room, spent fifteen minutes inside, then headed back to the car.

Christine realized she was acquiring a number of disturbing new habits. She found herself watching men and women, even children on the sidewalks, trying to decide who might be paying her too much attention. She resisted an urge to move to the driver’s seat, not wanting to succumb to paranoia. She spotted David instantly as he rounded the corner. He climbed into the driver’s seat.

“All right,” he said, “there are two reasons for our being here. First, we need to let the world quietly pass us by for a day or two. We’ll read newspapers and watch the BBC to see just how much trouble we’re in.”

Christine moaned, never having been in trouble before on a national, newsworthy scale.

“Second, I can’t get to the bottom of all this without freedom of movement. I’ve got to be able to travel. The documents I’m using now were issued by Mossad. In theory, there were no records kept, so they shouldn’t be traceable to me.”

“But you think that’s not the case?”

“I think we need to find out. The people after me know I’m running. They know I need documentation and they’ll try to uncover it. Until now, the only thing I’ve used this identity for is the car. Knowing about it would help them, but only so far. It’s a moving target. Now I’ve used the credit card to check into a hotel.”

“So they might be able to find us here.”

“They won’t find us because we won’t be at The Excelsior.” He pulled out a wad of twenty-pounds notes and peeled off a dozen. “Here. There’s another hotel right across the street from The Excelsior. It’s called Humphrey Hall. Go there and get a room. It has to face The Excelsior and be on the second or third floor.”

“I can’t use my own name, can I?”

“No, just pick one you’ll remember, a friend’s name. Something you’ll recognize if a clerk calls as you’re passing by. You won’t have ID, but if they do ask, be reluctant, tell them you’ll have to go back to your car and get it. If they persist, tell them you’re going to get it, come straight back here and we’ll leave.”

Christine sighed. She felt like a student taking Espionage 101.

He continued, “Honestly, I don’t think ID will be a problem. I suspect it’s the kind of place that won’t ask much as long as you’re paying cash up front. It’s just best to think these things out ahead of time.”

“Of course.”

“Once you get the room, go straight to it. Open the window halfway and draw the curtains half closed. That way I’ll know what room you’re in. I won’t come up right away, I’ve got some things to do. It should take a couple of hours.”

Christine grew anxious, remembering the last time he went off on his own.

“Don’t worry. I’ve just got to do something with this car.”

“And what’s the secret knock for me to let you in?” she queried, trying to lighten the mood.

His reply was humorless, “I’ll just knock and tell you it’s me. The people we’re worried about wouldn’t bother knocking at all.”

David had been right about getting the room at Humphrey Hall. Once the clerk had cash in hand, he produced a key and a simple registration card on which Christine hastily scribbled the pseudonym Carla Fluck. Carla had been one of her best high school friends, a girl who married badly soon after graduation, some thought simply to escape so many years of adolescent suffering under the weight of her unfortunate maiden name.

The stairs to the second floor creaked as Christine made her way up. It was the kind of place that would be granted “character” or “old-world charm” by the more generous tourist guides. The room turned out to be old and damp, like the rest of the building, but reasonably clean. It was a suite, one main room facing the street, and a separate bedroom and bath to one side. She arranged the window and drapes in the main room to the proper configuration, then looked down to the street. Christine knew David was out there somewhere. She couldn’t see him, but he was there, perhaps watching right now. It was oddly comforting.

She decided to take a shower, knowing he’d be gone for a while. She closed the bathroom door and was about to lock it when she remembered what had happened on
Windsom
— the look on his face when he had burst in and seen her naked. He had stared for just a moment, a shocked, confused look on his face until he finally turned away. He’d expected to find her up to no good, brandishing some newfound weapon or a radio. Instead, he had miscalculated, his surprise compounded by Christine’s indecent state and his own obvious lack of trust. Christine thought about that. Things had certainly changed. Through all the madness she was sure of one thing about David Slaton — he trusted her now. He had left her alone in the car. Right now she could be sitting in this very room with a police contingent, awaiting the arrival of a thoroughly dangerous man. But he trusted her. And so much of what he had told her seemed to make sense.