The Perfect Assassin (3 page)

“I can’t imagine,” Jacobs deadpanned.

“We can put them on the roof. Lift them up with a crane, or maybe a helicopter.”

The Prime Minister’s eyes closed, visualizing the spectacle, and a tortured look fell across his naturally photogenic, politician’s face.

Lowens pressed on. “I realize it might look silly getting them up there, but if we do it at night … well, once they’re in place no one will be able to see them. We can hide them between the stairwell and the air conditioning equipment. That would be optimal. For appearances.”

Jacobs remained silent at the pause.

“Ms. Weiss thought I should run it by you before we did anything,”

Lowens finally added, an obvious disclaimer from a career civil service man. Betty Weiss was Jacobs’ Chief of Staff.

“Put the toilets on the roof, Mr. Lowens,” Jacobs said, exasperated. “Anything else I should know about?”

“No, Mr. Prime Minister.” On that, Lowens, having spent twelve years serving politicians at various levels, clearly recognized the chance to retreat. “I’ll keep you informed,” he promised. The staffer got up and left the room with exemplary decorum, no doubt hoping he’d done nothing to endanger his prospects.

Jacobs mumbled to himself, “Keep me informed. Please.”

His secretary knocked once on the open door.

“Yes, Moira?”

“It’s Anton Bloch, sir. He says it’s quite important.”

Jacobs considered a quip about the importance of his last meeting, but held his tongue. “Send him in.”

Anton Bloch was Director of Mossad, Israel’s vaunted foreign intelligence arm. When he entered the room the look on his face was grim. But then it always was. He was a solid man whose large, square mug gave a decidedly blunt appearance. His hair was cut high and tight on the sides. On top it was gone.

Without waiting for an invitation, Bloch took the seat Lowens had just vacated.

“
Polaris Venture,
” he said.

The name got Jacobs’ attention, and the Prime Minister braced him-self as Bloch shuffled through a stack of papers in his lap.

“We’ve lost her.”

Jacobs spoke slowly, wanting to be clear, “You mean you don’t know where she is? Or has she sunk?”

“Definitely the first, maybe both … we think.”

Jacobs deflated in his chair as Bloch found the paper he wanted and began inflicting details.

“The ship had two satellite systems, a main and a backup. They were supposed to transmit encoded coordinates hourly. Late yesterday we stopped getting the signal. She was off the west coast of Africa the last time we heard from her.”

“And you don’t think it’s a technical problem?”

“That’s what we hoped, at first. We spent all last night trying to raise her, but no luck. The communications links are independent, with batteries to back up their power supplies. The odds of everything failing are slim, but if that’s what happened, our man on board had instructions to use the ship’s normal radio gear to send a message — in the clear if necessary.” Bloch descended into grim certainty, “No, I have a feeling there’s more to this than communications problems.”

The Prime Minister put his elbows on the desk and buried his face in his hands. He took a deep breath as he recalled the previous week’s meeting. “Anton, when we debated this mission we came up with a worst case scenario. Is that where we are?”

“It’s going to take some time to find out, but yes, she may have sunk. Or been hijacked.”

The Prime Minister slouched lower. His political instincts had told him this was a risky venture. But Bloch and the rest had made it sound so easy. Of course, in the end, the decision had been his.

“How many of our people were on board?”

“Only one, from my section. And a crew of fifteen, all South African Navy.”

“What about a rescue? If she sank there would be survivors, right?”

“There’s a good chance. The British and French have aircraft, and of course they’d be willing to help. Morocco is closer, but I doubt it has much capability for search and rescue that far out. The problem is—”

Jacobs waved him off with both hands, “I know what the problem is. If we ask for help, a lot of questions will come up. What kind of ship? Where was it going? What was on board? Everything could come out.” The thought made Jacobs’ stomach lurch. “What would
our
capabilities be?”

“For a search? I’d have to ask Defense to be sure, but we’re awfully far away. It’s not the kind of thing our Navy and Air Force are built to do. We probably have a half-dozen airplanes that could get out that far. And our ships, the few real ocean-going ones we have, are all here. It would take days to get them to the Atlantic.”

“How do we find out what’s happened?”

Bloch was out ahead for once. “We have to send a reconnaissance aircraft, our EC-130. I’ll get right with Defense and have it sent to the area. My team arrived in South Africa the day before
Polaris Venture
sailed. They installed, among other things, two emergency beacons. If the beacons come into contact with salt water, or are turned on manually, they’ll emit a signal once every hour on a certain frequency. Our EC-130 is instrumented to pinpoint these kinds of beacons. It’ll take a day or so to get the airplane overhead, but if the ship is there we can get a good fix and find out exactly where she went down.”

“And if she’s not there?”

“Then she’s been taken. And we’ll find her.”

Bloch spoke with a certainty the Prime Minister knew was optimistic.

“All right, call Defense and have them send out everything they can for a search. I’ll convene the Cabinet in two hours,” Jacobs said with a look at his watch.

Bloch scribbled notes onto the mess of papers in his lap, then strode to the door, a locomotive gathering steam. Jacobs yelled for Moira and she appeared almost instantly.

“Cancel the rest of my day. The Cabinet will meet in two hours.”

“The French Foreign Minister just arrived downstairs,” she warned. “He’ll be here any minute.”

Jacobs sighed. He noticed that nasty smell again. One of his security detail had tried to clean Jacobs’ shoes after the sorry affair earlier in the men’s room, but the stench was hanging tight.

“All right. Stall him for a few minutes. And get Lowens back up here right away,” he added.

“Lowens, sir?”

“Yes, he’s about my size, and a sharp dresser. Tell him I want his shoes.”

A blue BMW. It had only taken a matter of minutes for Yosef Meier to distinguish the tail behind his taxi as they snaked their way through heavy traffic in London’s West End. Meier felt good about spotting it. He was no longer a field operative, having taken a headquarters job back in Tel Aviv, so that he might finally get to know his two young children. Evie was seven and Max eight. After missing the greater part of their first five years, he’d put in for the transfer. Now, in spite of two years on the sidelines, Meier was glad to see he hadn’t lost his touch.

The initial satisfaction of spotting his pursuer faded briskly as Meier considered why anyone would be following him to begin with. Try as he might, he always came back to the same, unsettling answer.

Meier saw the familiar facade of the Israeli Embassy just ahead. Behind, in the distance, he caught glimpses of the brooding structure that was Kensington Palace. He half-turned to see the BMW a few cars back, as it had been all the way from Heathrow. The cab stopped directly in front of the embassy and Meier gave the driver a healthy tip, asking him to wait. He avoided an urge to look again for his escort. It was around somewhere.

Meier approached the front gate, fishing for the expired embassy ID card in his pocket. It sported an uncomplimentary mug shot of Yassir Arafat, a gag he used to run with the old crew at security. Back then they all recognized him anyway, so nobody ever checked his ID. He’d brought it along on this trip intending to keep the ruse running, but one look at the unfamiliar, serious faces that were now standing at the embassy gate forced him to reconsider. Somehow the idea had lost its appeal. Meier presented his headquarters ID, took a hard stare from the sentries, and signed into the building. He just wanted to see David Slaton and get this over with.

Meier went to the receptionist’s table and finally found a familiar face.

“Hello, Emma.”

“Yosy!”

Emma Schroeder got up and moved around her table with arms spread wide. She was a heavy, bosomy woman whose penchant for large, shapeless dresses did nothing to minimize her presence. Yosy took a crushing hug, something Emma reserved for those few embassy staffers who were able to stay out of her personal debit column. Meier smiled through it all.

“Emma, you’re the one thing that will never change around here.”

She gave a throaty laugh. “Of course I change. I get bigger all the time. And smarter too,” she added in a devious whisper.

“Are you still going to write that book?”

She chortled again but didn’t answer, leaving the mischievous question open. Emma was a career civil servant and had been on the first floor desk in London longer than anyone could remember. She had a mental library of facts, rumors, and gossip about the place that was unsurpassed, and for years she’d threatened to write a tell-all book and retire on the proceeds. Meier sometimes wondered whether she actually might do it.

“So what brings you here from headquarters? Nobody told me you were coming.” She was obviously concerned that her networks might have failed.

“Don’t worry Emma, nobody snuck anything by you. I’m on holiday. I came to see David Slaton. He and I were going to do some hunting out at the lodge.”

She looked doubtful. “David’s not here. He got slammed four days ago.
I
don’t even know where he is.”

Meier felt his stomach tighten. “Four days ago?” He did the math. He had talked to Slaton on Sunday, six days ago. It was a casual conversation, and he’d learned in a roundabout way that Slaton had no intention of leaving soon. Then, it had taken nearly a week for Meier to arrange his leave and get here without arousing suspicion. In that time, Slaton had been slammed, Mossad slang for an immediate assignment — don’t pack, don’t kiss the wife, just grab your passport and get to the airport.

“Have you heard from him since then?”

She shook her head. “No. And I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

Meier’s mind raced as he considered what to do.

His look of concentration wasn’t lost on Emma Schroeder. “What was it you’d be hunting for?”

It was a loaded question that Meier ignored. He suddenly wished he’d called first. “All right Emma, thanks anyway. If you hear from David, tell him I’ve been looking for him.”

“Where are you staying?”

“I’m not sure yet,” he sidestepped, “but I’ll let you know.”

Meier left with Emma eyeing him suspiciously. He walked slowly to his cab, still lost in thought. When he got in, the driver asked, “Where to next, guv?”

“I’m going to rent a car. There’s an Avis agency over in Whitechapel.”

The driver tried to be helpful, no doubt in light of the generous tip Meier had already provided, “There’s an Avis just up the road ’ere. Save you twenty pounds from goin’ all across town.”

“No,” Meier lied, “I have a certain car reserved there, thanks.”

“As you like,” the driver said, pulling out into traffic.

It took half an hour to get there. The BMW was still in trail.

Meier was particular in renting a car, selecting a small red Fiat — slow and easy to see. He fell in with the heavy traffic and headed west, all the way back across town. His pursuers picked him up right away and they negotiated the traffic well, having no trouble keeping up in the powerful German sedan.

Twenty miles later, Meier was on the M3, leaving behind the western outskirts of London. The traffic thinned and he saw his trailer was still there, farther back now, a dot in the rearview mirror. They were doing a respectable job of keeping back and masking behind other cars, but they never lost visual. This told him two things. First, there were no other vehicles involved. If that had been the case, the BMW would have backed out of sight occasionally for a tag team. Second, there were no other means of reconnaissance involved. No aircraft, satellites, or tracking devices. He was being followed the old-fashioned way, by a couple of guys who had to keep him in sight while trying not to be seen themselves. This made his tactical problem easier, but it also confirmed his fears about who might be in the car.

Meier sped up to seventy miles an hour. The little Fiat’s engine whined at a high pitch. He took out the detailed map he’d purchased at the car hire agency and set it on the passenger seat. Yosy Meier looked at his watch.

It took another two and a half hours. Meier saw the BMW fall back and take an exit. He looked at his own gas gauge and saw slightly over a quarter tank. After all the stop and go city driving, followed by hours on the M3 and A303, the big car had to be on fumes. Meier had also seen the gas station just off the exit ramp, and he suspected it might be where they’d take their chance. He pushed the Fiat’s accelerator to the floor. It hit eighty-eight miles an hour and stuck, the little engine revved to a screaming pace. He didn’t bother to look at the map yet. Right now he needed one thing — to get out of sight. He reached the next exit in five minutes. Meier took it, then made a quick series of turns onto smaller roads. Finally satisfied, he eased off the accelerator and referenced the map. There was no one behind him now.

Christine was at the stove, tending to a pot of chicken soup, when she glanced over to find her patient awake.

“Well, hello,” she said cheerily. “Glad you’re back. I thought you might sleep all the way to Portugal.”

The man seemed bewildered. Christine sat next to him on the bunk, showing both a smile and an interest that were completely genuine. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

He propped himself on his elbows, grimacing at the slow, tentative effort.

“Easy.” She held out a hand and introduced herself, “Christine.”

He took her hand and responded in a raspy voice, “Nils.”

“Nils? Swedish?”

He nodded, “
Ja, Svensk
.”