The Perfect Assassin (30 page)

Slaton stopped dead in his tracks. “What?”

“And the man who ordered Yosef killed. He’s the reason you are here today.”

“Netanya? That was the Palestinians, Anand’s group.”

“Rubbish! We never identified anyone, did we, kidon? We only rounded up the usual suspects. You of all people must know — no one was ever held responsible.”

“You? You and your sick friends? Working with the Arabs?”

“No. Don’t you see? It’s exactly the opposite.”

Slaton’s head spun. Wysinski was only trying to save himself. Nothing more. “No, not Netanya,” he said hoarsely. “No Israeli could do that. What would it accomplish?”

“Yes, what have we accomplished?”

Slaton took a step away, and slowly, agonizingly, he tried to comprehend the incomprehensible. A world he always controlled seemed to be spinning now, and he was at the vortex.

“And wait until you see what we accomplish this time. The policies of compromise for our country will be over. We will be strong once again and he will lead us there. He
is
leading us there.”

The words swirled in Slaton’s mind and one thought, one image overrode everything else. He was waiting outside the room, the nurse standing squarely in his way.
Let me in! I have to get in! Do something — anything!”

The burly soldier charged Slaton, knocking him off balance, then ran. Slaton stumbled backwards as Wysinski clambered up to the dock.

“Who did it? Who?” Slaton stammered. He saw Wysinski racing away and realized the answers would soon be gone. All at once, the fog lifted. Slaton riveted on the man who knew, the one who could slay his nightmare once and for all.

Slaton bolted, immune to his pain, immune to feeling anything. He lunged across to the dock and caught Wysinski in ten strides, twisting an arm behind his back. Wysinski leaned ahead, clearly expecting Slaton to try and stop him. Instead, Slaton propelled him forward and the heavier man completely lost his balance. With all the force he could muster, Slaton slammed the stocky soldier head first into a concrete dock piling. Wysinski’s body crumpled to the dock and lay motionless.

Slaton dropped next to him and put his hands around a throat that would never again carry a breath. “
Who?
” he screamed. “
Who did it?
”

“Don’t move!” a voice commanded from somewhere up the pier.

Slaton was oblivious as he strangled the limp corpse.

Another shout, “You!”

This time he looked up. Three policemen were twenty feet away, approaching very, very slowly. Slaton looked down to see the lifeless eyes of Viktor Wysinski. It was the first time he had ever killed a man without planning, without premeditation. He had simply killed due to rage. The kidon had lost control. But now he had to regain it, because there was still someone else out there. Someone even more dangerous. And more deserving. Slaton stood slowly.

The policemen were an experienced contingent and they stopped five paces away, seeing no surrender in their suspect’s posture. What they saw in his eyes was closer to madness.

“Here now,” the one in front said, “let’s do this the easy way.”

It happened without warning. Their man dove to his right and disappeared with a splash into the inky water of the harbor.

“Bloody hell!” one of the bobbies said as they all ran to where the man had been. Two searched the water in vain while a third checked Wysinski, which didn’t take long. “He’s done,” the policeman said with certainty.

Another policeman came running up the dock and more were in the distance. All converged on the pier. They searched the adjacent boats, not finding any trace of their quarry. Then, at the very end of the pier, an outboard motor churned to life. The two who were closest ran out and spotted a small inflatable boat, thirty yards off and speeding toward the harbor entrance. The driver was hiding under some kind of blanket or tarpaulin.

“He’s makin’ for open sea!” one of them yelled. The constable in charge barked orders to the nearest man. “Get to the harbormaster and commandeer a boat. Something fast!” He pulled out his radio and put in an emergency request for a helicopter from the Royal Navy in Portsmouth. They watched the Zodiac as it headed out through the channel. At one point it crashed into a seawall, before bouncing crazily back to open water.

“He’s stark mad,” one of the bobbies said.

Another nodded. “Did you see the look in his eyes? And the way he killed that poor sod?”

“I don’t know about you, but it doesn’t bother me one bit that some one else will have to wrap him up now.”

Half an hour later, a Royal Navy helicopter, a Westland Sea King, intercepted the Zodiac. The little craft was two miles offshore, still at full throttle and making large, lazy circles on the choppy seas. The Westland’s crew moved in for a closer look and immediately noted three things. First was a tarp that was flapping along loosely behind the craft, slapping in and out of its wake. Second was a rope, tied from beam to beam, and in the middle secured to the little outboard’s steering arm. Of course the third, and most relevant observation was that there was no one in the boat.

Chapter Fourteen

The police in Eastbourne searched the Bertram and had no trouble discovering two more bodies in the suite below deck. Word was quickly sent to Scotland Yard that the man they were after, seen by three officers, was likely responsible. They also made note of a large, polished steel, cylindrical object on a stand near one of the bodies. The officer in command, understandably on edge as a result of the carnage around him, elected to assume the worst and ordered the entire dock evacuated. He called in the bomb disposal unit from London’s Metropolitan Police.

The technicians from London arrived an hour later. The man in charge had considerable experience defusing all sorts of small, homemade explosive contraptions; credit that to the IRA. He took one look at the sleek, well-machined device on board the yacht and quickly decided he might let someone else have a crack. Whatever it was, it looked military, and the Army lads up at Wimbish would do better with it. In the meantime, he suggested that the evacuation perimeter be expanded. The few operating businesses on the waterfront were ordered closed, and a handful of year-round residents were rousted from their homes. By one o’clock that afternoon, only those with official purpose were allowed within a block of the harbor.

The 58th Field Squadron had existed, under various banners, for over a century. As one of the few Royal Engineers units to specialize in explosive ordnance disposal, the 58th managed a brisk business in places like Northern Ireland, Bosnia, and Kosovo. More recently, its charter had been expanded to conduct “search operations in confined and environmentally harmful situations,” a euphemism for tangling with the occasional weapon of mass destruction.

Based in Wimbish, the soldiers of the 58th took nearly two hours to arrive. By then, crowds had begun to gather outside the cleared area, concentrated at those points that held a good view of the harbor. Reporters prowled the access points, peppering anyone in any sort of uniform with questions about what was going on. Aside from acknowledging that three bodies had been removed from the scene, little was said.

The 58th brought their best men and equipment, and got right to work. A robot might normally have performed the initial work, however their preferred unit was designed for streets, buildings, and warehouses. Its tracked wheels where wholly incompatible with stairs and, anyway, the contraption was far too big for clambering around such tight spaces. That being the case, the scene reverted to one not much different from what it had been back in World War I — one volunteer, in the best protective gear available, would go below deck on
Lorraine II
and deal with the weapon. Yet while the concept was reminiscent of another era, the technology was not. A small camera on the soldier’s headgear transmitted real-time pictures to a mobile command center outside, where the officer in charge watched every move.

It was obvious they were dealing with some sort of military device, but unlike any they’d ever seen or been briefed on. It was similar in shape to an air-dropped munition — a five-hundred pounder, perhaps — and they all saw what looked like fin attach points at the rear. But the lack of any external fuse or guidance package seemed peculiar. The point man identified what seemed to be a serial number at the base of the cylinder, and technicians outside fed these numbers, along with a physical description of the weapon, into a laptop computer. The computer cross-checked through its substantial database of weaponry, but found nothing to match.

The officer in charge was vexed. He recalled his specialist, not wanting to risk anything more until he knew what they were dealing with. It was one of his subordinates who suggested they use their new machines from the States, Ranger and Alex. Both were made by a small, highly specialized American company. Ranger’s function was to detect the slightest signature of certain radioactive isotopes, while Alex was used to identify a wide range of metals with potential nuclear uses. The machines had been unpacked only weeks earlier, but long enough for the curious engineers of the 58th to decipher their operation. Both were quickly brought forward to bear analysis on the enigma that lay below
Lorraine II
’s stern deck.

The results were immediate, conclusive, and stirred a convulsion of anxiety in the control room. The soldiers there, among the steadiest in the British armed forces, fought to maintain their professional equilibrium.

There were two immediate options. Evacuate the entire city, or tow the Bertram out to sea. Since the first option would necessitate revealing the need for the evacuation, a technique sure to incite panic, the second was selected. Arrangements were made to commandeer a small tug while the whole matter was sent up the chain of command. Far, far up.

It took twelve minutes to reach Nathan Chatham. He was already grim, having received word earlier of the triple homicide in Eastbourne. The assailant, seen by police, was almost certainly their man. That on his mind, he was called unexpectedly up to Shearer’s office, where the Assistant Commissioner filled him in on the latest bad news.

“We don’t know where it’s come from,” Shearer said, “but our technical people are working on it. This is a military device, not something slapped together in the IRA’s basement. Perhaps stolen from Russia. We’ve been worrying about that kind of thing for years.”

“Or Israeli,” a somber Nathan Chatham said, thinking out loud.

“What was that?”

“I said Israeli. It’s either their weapon, or perhaps one that’s been got-ten hold of by their enemies. That’s all that makes sense.”

Shearer tried to follow. “What makes you so sure?”

“We’ve been able to identify one of the bodies from that boat. He’s Israeli.”

“Mossad again,” Shearer offered.

“We don’t know much about him, but I can’t imagine otherwise.”

“And the fellow who got away?”

“It’s him,” Chatham fumed, wringing his hands together. His frustration was boiling over into anger. “Eastbourne?” he rumbled. “What in the devil would he be doing down there?”

“Yes,” Shearer agreed, “I thought that odd. As far as we can tell, this thing is not armed, and with Eastbourne not a politically significant target, I think we can assume it was headed elsewhere.”

“But it doesn’t make sense to leave something like that sitting at a dock. How long did you say the boat has been there?”

Shearer reviewed the message on his desk. “Two days. And there’s no evidence they were about to move.”

“Two days,” Chatham huffed. “You might make port for fuel, but then you’d be on your way, wouldn’t you?” He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and began pacing, his head bent low.

“I’m told the fuel tanks were nearly empty. And they hadn’t made any request to put into the fueling dock.”

“Wasn’t there any kind of inspection? Customs?”

Shearer shrugged, “Seems they slipped through somehow.”

Chatham scowled. “There’s a reason for everything here. I’m just not seeing it yet.”

“Needless to say, this has gone straight up. The Prime Minister has scheduled a meeting in an hour. I’d like you to be there. It’s at Number 10,” Shearer added, referring to the address on Downing Street.

Chatham looked at his watch. “Good,” he said forcefully, “I’ve got a few things I’d like to discuss with the Prime Minister.”

“Oh, and there is one other thing,” Shearer added far too casually.

“What?”

“This weapon, it seems, is resting on some type of wooden cradle. There also happens to be a second cradle next to it.”

Chatham cringed, “And the second cradle is …”

“Quite empty.”

The first press release came at 4:10 p.m., London time. Thin on details, it insisted that the situation was under control. The yacht and its cargo were now almost a hundred miles out to sea, and firmly surrounded by a flotilla of Royal Navy warships that essentially blockaded the area.

By nightfall, no less than four thousand people had surrounded the harbor in Eastbourne, all wanting to see where the doomsday boat had been docked that morning. A far greater number had taken flight, leaving the city by car, train, and even bicycle, oblivious to the fact that the weapon was far out to sea.

Over the course of the evening there were no fewer than seven briefings by various government agencies. A weather expert from the Met Office gave assurances that, even if the weapon should go off in its present position, the upper level winds would drive any harmful effects southward, out to open sea. The man stood in front of a large map which displayed (those with true knowledge might say exaggerated) the distance of the threat offshore. The Prime Minister himself even made a plea for calm, just in time for the evening news broadcast. All repeated two main themes — the situation was well in hand, and those responsible would be held to account. None mentioned the possibility of a second weapon.

Slaton drove fast, pressing well over the speed limit in the rattletrap little Ford. Christine was unnerved. He was taking chances like never before. Even worse was his demeanor. Something had changed back in East-bourne. Earlier this morning he’d been calm and chatty, almost casual. Then he’d gone to look for Wysinski. When she picked him up at the designated spot three hours ago, he was a different person, restrained and alert, clearly on edge. And this time she had collected him soaking wet, with a few new contusions and a gash on one arm. From the rendezvous, they’d driven north, keeping to back roads, and he’d hardly said a word.