The Perfect Assassin (41 page)

The kidon strolled casually through Greenwich Park. The business suit was an expensive make, but rather ill-fitting, since he’d purchased it at a second-hand store. The proprietor had offered to make alterations, however the process would have taken three days. Slaton had graciously declined before paying the man in cash.

The day was uncharacteristically sunny, the temperature nearing fifty degrees. Still, he carried an overcoat folded across one arm — a frequent visitor from abroad whose past experience had given broad confidence in England’s meteorological inconsistencies. In his other hand was a thin leather attaché, which contained today’s
Financial Times
and a sampling of tourist brochures regarding the local area.

The tremendous expanse of Greenwich Park had been authored by Le Notre, Louis XIV’s celebrated landscape architect. On commission from Charles II, Le Notre transformed a featureless riverside tract into a vast Royal playground. Acre upon acre of green grass lay divided and bordered by wide, tree-lined walking paths. Over the years the Park had matured and been gradually encircled by the stoically urban City of Green-wich. Its character, however, remained intact, and as monarchs gave way, the Park reverted to a more public domain, granting the masses a chance to stroll like kings.

Centuries old beech, oak and chestnut trees loomed over Slaton as he meandered the trails. There were more people out than usual this day. Throngs of tourists made their way to the Royal Naval Observatory at the top of the hill, and a smattering of locals strolled and exercised their dogs in the grassy clearings. In the center of a western knoll, workmen were busy constructing the stage, which three days from now would be the center of world attention. Today it was Slaton’s focal point.

He’d probably walked fifteen miles since arriving in the early afternoon. Starting from Greenwich Station, Slaton had circled the huge park, committing the surrounding roads and buildings to memory. He knew the location of every tube, bus, and ferry stop within a two mile radius, and Slaton had already purchased an unrestricted day pass for each system. If he needed to leave in a hurry, he didn’t want to be scrambling for change or banging his fist on a broken vending machine.

He had spent the last hour in the park itself, watching from a distance, considering different angles and elevations. The stage was a simple enough structure. Large wooden planks formed the base, about four feet above ground level. Behind the stage was a tall plywood backdrop, and the entire framework would no doubt soon be festooned with all the trappings and regalia always required of such sideshows — flags, curtains, ribbons, and probably a big banner depicting two hands clasped in friendship, perhaps an olive branch above. It was all very predictable, which made Slaton’s job that much easier.

There was no heavy security yet, perhaps a few more bobbies than usual. Slaton surmised that Inspector Chatham had not yet deduced his intentions. That could change at any time and, in any event, things would get much tighter in the days to come. Slaton had been on the other end before, arranging security for just this sort of event. He knew how hard it was. With three days to go, preparations were being made, details assigned. Each day would bring more severe measures and eventually there would be spotters with binoculars and sharpshooters on the rooftops, helicopters circling at a discreet distance, and roving plainclothes types checking IDs randomly in the crowd. Sunday would be very different, indeed. But by then it would be too late.

Slaton walked up the pathway that led nearest the stage for his first and only close pass. Most of what he needed to know he could ascertain from afar, yet he wanted one good look. The carpenters were nearing completion of the wooden structure, and next would be electricians to rig for light and sound. The asphalt path took him within twenty feet of the stage. A few people had stopped along the path to watch the project unfold. Slaton kept moving — his disguise was good, but not infallible — and he expressed the same idle curiosity that a hundred passers-by had shown in the last hour.

At a glance, he gauged the height of the stage at standing level and its dimensions. The width was roughly seventy feet, the depth half that. To each side, in back, were stairs that led down and behind the structure. This was where the participants would amass, concealed by a temporary arrangement of tents, blinds, and men with dark glasses. They would arrive on a schedule drawn in proportion to their importance, lesser dignitaries forced to mill about for up to an hour, the most vital appearing only minutes in advance. Then, in a carefully choreographed scene, all would make their way to the stage, again segregated. Peons to the left, leaders to the right. Or perhaps the other way around. The poor security chiefs had to grasp straws of unpredictability wherever they could find them. Slaton passed the stage and looked back once over his shoulder, knowing he would not get this close again. He saw nothing to alter his plan.

He continued out of the park and walked north along Crooms Hill Road, the street that bordered its western edge. He turned a few times to gauge his distance from the stage, and also to check the trees. A single row of huge beeches, their branches void of foliage for the winter, stood encircling the park, arboreal guardians whose presence delineated the preserve from its harsher urban surroundings. There were occasional breaks in the treeline to accommodate pathways and service roads. Slaton lingered at two of these gaps and reckoned the angles and distance to the stage. One was roughly fifty meters closer, but either would work.

Across Crooms Hill Road were rows of shops at street level, and above those the second and third floors seemed to be residential, some likely occupied by the shopowners, others rented out as apartments. Slaton had so far spotted two buildings with to let signs in the window. He immediately discarded the idea of attempting to rent, or even view either of them. It would be one of the first things Chatham checked, and any vacant rooms would be searched and monitored.

He continued walking down the street, counting his steps. A middle-aged woman swept the sidewalk in front of a pub. A slight young man parked a bicycle near an alleyway and disappeared into a side entrance. At five hundred yards he stopped. Anything more would be ludicrous. He looked back along the far side of Crooms Hill Road. It had to be done here. Somewhere.

Slaton crossed the street and covered the same ground in the opposite direction. The busiest place was a restaurant, the Block and Cleaver, which drew a steady stream of customers. Next to it was a souvenir store, then a small tobacco shop with a for sale sign in the window. Slaton was three steps past it when he paused. He turned and looked at the small shop, then up above. Strolling back, he stopped at the for sale sign and turned to see the stage in the distance. He had a partial line of sight, with one tree close-in on the right. Slaton judged it to be a hundred and ninety yards, perhaps a bit more.

He looked again at the advertisement in the window and read a brief description of the property, noting that it encompassed not only the shop, but two individual flats on the upper floors. He committed this information to memory, along with the asking price, and the name and number of the property agency, then again crossed the street. Slaton surveyed the front of the building, checking windows and the angle of the roof. He saw furniture on the second floor, however curtains were drawn on the window of the top flat and he couldn’t tell what was inside.

He took a seat on a bench and pulled out the
Times
. For twenty minutes he alternated between the paper and the building. He watched the comings and goings at the tobacco shop, and decided the place was meager from an entrepreneurial standpoint. On further study of the facade, Slaton saw three windows on the upper levels, two on the second floor and one on the third. He also took note of a small, slatted vent at the apex of the roof. He thought of what might go wrong, and a dozen fatal scenarios came to mind. They were, however, the same disasters that would likely apply to any spot along this street next Monday morning.

Slaton got up and walked south to the first intersection. There, he turned away from the park and quickly found the alley that ran behind the Crooms Hill Road shops. He spotted the back of the smoke shop and studied it for a moment. Satisfied, he went back to the side street and walked west, away from the park. Two blocks later he found a pay telephone and rang up E. Merrill at Burnston and Hammel Associates. The E., as it turned out, stood for Elizabeth.

“With what might I help you, sir?” queried a stridently proper, if rather high-pitched voice.

“Yes,” Slaton replied, inserting a pointedly continental hue to his speech, “I’d like to enquire about a property on Crooms Hill Road in Greenwich.”

“Which would that be?” E. Merrill quizzed, as though she held agency on the entire block.

“It’s a smoke shop, across from the park.”

“Oh, yes. An excellent location and a good customer base. I think it does something on the order of two hundred thousand a year, gross.”

“To tell you the truth, I probably wouldn’t keep it the same. That is, I wouldn’t be interested in the inventory. Do you think the owner might consider that kind of arrangement?”

“Well, the owner is retiring. But I’m sure something can be done,” E. Merrill said accommodatingly. Slaton had a vision of the woman sitting in a cubicle halfway across town with a forged smile on her face.

“Tell me about the upstairs units. Are they sublet?”

“No. The owner lives in one, and of course he’d move out with the sale. The other unit was sublet, but it’s vacant at the moment.” Slaton gave no immediate reply and E. Merrill clearly felt the need to expand her answer. “The lease values for flats in that part of town are quite attractive.”

“I’m sure,” Slaton said, his tone strictly at odds.

“Perhaps I can arrange a viewing.”

“Well,” he hedged, “there is another property I’m very interested in … but all right. No harm in having a look.”

“Are you available this afternoon, Mr….”

“Ahh, terribly sorry. Nils Linstrom is the name. Yes, shall we say four thirty?”

“That would be fine,” Elizabeth Merrill replied.

Slaton spotted the woman who had to be E. Merrill outside the Green-wich Smoke Shop at precisely four twenty-five. She was in her fifties, he guessed, professionally dressed, and wearing a bit more make-up than she should have. He introduced himself as Nils Linstrom and the two exchanged pleasantries, then went inside to meet the owner. His name was Shrivaras Dhalal, an Indian man who was undoubtedly nearing retirement age. Dhalal didn’t say much and seemed stand-offish. Slaton suspected he’d been briefed by E. Merrill that this prospective buyer wasn’t interested in the store’s inventory, and thus any offer would certainly reflect the point. Sensing the social loggerheads, E. Merrill gave Slaton a quick tour of the shop and then led upstairs.

“These units are really quite nice. They’ve been updated in the last few years. Were you planning on taking one yourself?”

“Oh, no. I live on the continent most of the year. This would serve strictly as an investment.”

“If it’s an investment you want, this might well be the place. When it first came on the market I took a good look at it myself.”

“And when was that?” Slaton asked.

The property agent hesitated, having been cornered on a matter of record. “Well, I suppose it’s been about a year now.” Then E. Merrill added abruptly in a low tone, “Mr. Dhalal wasn’t very motivated at first, but I think he’s getting serious.”

They took a quick tour of Shrivaras Dhalal’s flat. Slaton roamed enough to get a good look out the window, then suggested they go to the third floor. The upstairs flat was a mirror of the one below — a main living room overlooked Crooms Hill Road and the park, the kitchen fell in the center, and a single bedroom and bath to the rear. The only difference here was a vaulted ceiling.

Slaton wandered around, forcing himself to spend time in the kitchen and bathroom before ending up by the front window. Someone had opened the curtains for the showing. He looked out and saw a clear line of sight to center stage, just to the left of the tree he’d been worried about. Slaton backed into the room and looked at the ceiling. It angled up in an inverted
V
, except at the very apex. There, near the front wall, was a flat section five feet across and ten feet long. He realized that the vent he’d seen from the street had to be there.

“What’s up there?” he asked.

“Oh, back when these places were built, the local architects tended to add in things like that. I suppose you could call it something of an attic. I’m sure it’s very handy.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Slaton saw that the attic ended halfway into the room by way of a small triangular wall hung from the roof, and in the center of that was an access door. Slaton strolled back to the front window and looked out, his hand to his chin as if making calculations. Which in fact he was.

“You know it’s really not all that bad. Would Mr. Dhalal permit me to see his books?”

“I imagine he would, but I didn’t think you were interested in his line of sales.”

“Business
is
business, you know. I’d like to go back a few years, of course.”

“Oh!” E. Merrill grew visibly excited and lost some of her veneer. “Yes. Ah, let me go see.”

She hurried out and Slaton heard her clatter down the stairs. He quickly went to the hallway and grabbed a short wooden ladder he’d spotted on the way up. Placing it under the attic door, he climbed up. The door to the compartment was perhaps two feet wide and slightly less in height. It took a sharp tug before it swung open, and Slaton turned his head as a cloud of dust belched out. Immediately inside the enclosure was a dusty old shoe box which he shoved to one side. With that out of the way, he could see all the way to the vent at the far end. There were rafters above on an angle to support the roof, and at the bottom were crossbeams every eighteen inches. There was also an array of dead bugs, dust, and not much in the way of light.