The Perfect Assassin (42 page)

Slaton hadn’t known this morning exactly what he was looking for, but now he suspected he might have found it. The plan grew quickly, details fell into place. He swung the door open and closed a few times. It was stiff, yet seemed sturdy enough. Of course, it would be a tight fit. Still …

Voices from below forced his thoughts to accelerate. He knew the end point, and from that critical reference he worked backward, devising a way to put everything in place. He got down off the ladder and hurried to the bedroom where he unlocked the rear window. He then went back and climbed to the attic door. Inside the attic, nails protruded from the ceiling. He hooked the sleeve of his jacket on one and pulled, ripping a small tear in the cuff. Next, he took off his wristwatch and placed it in his pocket. He waited.

Elizabeth Merrill and Shrivaras Dhalal were climbing the stairs, he with a half dozen ledgers under one arm. The property agent was running commission numbers in her head when she heard a loud thump and a shout from above. She quickened her pace, Dhalal right behind. Arriving at the top floor, she found their potential buyer sprawled on the floor next to the ladder.

“Damn!” he cursed, in obvious pain.

“Mr. Linstrom, what happened?” she cried.

“You are all right?” Dhalal chimed in as they both went to help.

Elizabeth Merrill watched Linstrom grimace as he struggled to a sitting position. He grabbed a shoulder and moved it in a rolling motion. “
Ah,
stupid of me! I was having a look up there,” he said, pointing to the attic. “My jacket caught on something and I lost my balance.”

“Should we call for help?” she asked guardedly.

“No, no,” he insisted. “Just a knock.” He started to stand and Dhalal put a hand under his elbow to help.

“You really should not do that,” the merchant chided with a finger pointing upward. “Very dangerous.”

Elizabeth Merrill knew he’d fret over liability issues. Linstrom held up an arm, displaying a tear in the cuff of his jacket. To everyone’s relief, though, he seemed to recover quickly.

“I’m fine, really. No harm done. Let’s go look at those books, eh?”

The trio went downstairs, Dhalal keeping a close eye on his accident-prone suitor. Safely on the first floor, Dhalal brewed tea and the three spent nearly an hour going over the books. Linstrom asked questions that went straight to the bottom line, and while his comments were sometimes critical, all in all he seemed content with the numbers. He eventually made his pitch while Dhalal was assisting a customer.

“I’m going to have a word with my banker this evening,” he announced.

Elizabeth Merrill’s lack of reaction was well practiced.

“Today is Friday,” he continued. “I can probably have something for you on Monday. Can we meet … say around ten in the morning?”

“That would be fine. Where shall we meet?”

He paused. “We’d better make it here. Sometimes my banker has specific questions about a property, things he wants me to check on. Of course we’d be contracting for a proper inspection should we reach an agreement.”

“Of course,” she said. Then it dawned on her. “Monday. You know, things will be busy around here that morning. There’s going to be a big ceremony in the park.”

“Oh yes, all that commotion outside.”

“Huge crowds,” she said pointedly, suggesting heavy traffic for the shop. “You might come a bit early, but I don’t see why there should be any difficulty in our meeting here.”

“Good, because I’ve got a flight to Hamburg that afternoon. If we don’t meet Monday, it might get pushed back a couple of weeks, until I’m in town again.”

Elizabeth Merrill smiled. The two shook hands, exchanged best wishes for the weekend, and went their respective ways. Ecstatic that she might finally unload Dhalal’s stagnant listing, the property agent bustled off to her car.

The kidon took up a more casual pace.

He loitered briefly at a crosswalk, then a newsstand. He absorbed every detail while meandering back to Greenwich Station. There was still much to be done, but one thing was now certain. Barring sudden death or severe injury, he was absolutely convinced that Elizabeth Merrill would be in the shop come nine forty-five Monday morning.

Chapter Twenty-One

Slaton got back to his room at six-thirty that evening. The Forest Arms Hotel in Loughton had been a compromise. More respectable than the Benton Hill Inn, but not above taking cash up front for a short stay. The lies had come fluently. Having lost his wallet, the fastener salesman from Antwerp had been forwarded enough cash to get him through the weekend. A bored desk clerk had surrendered a room key with distinct lack of interest. Slaton had been alert, watching the young woman for any shred of doubt, any momentary glint of recognition which would tell him he’d been spotted. There was nothing.

He bolted the door and dropped his most recent acquisitions on the rectangular coffee table — a box containing a four-foot long window blind, a set of eight adjustable metal brackets with woodscrews, a small battery-operated screwdriver, a standard screwdriver, a pair of pliers, and a sturdy pocketknife. The ensemble of hardware coalesced nicely for a man who was going to install a window cover.

From the closet, he pulled out a half dozen small blocks of wood he’d scavenged earlier from a construction site, and then one of the weapons. The rifle’s steel barrel was cold, its solid weight familiar in Slaton’s hands. He set it down across the arms of a chair, taking care not to disturb the sight he had calibrated the day before. He took a wood block, actually a small section of four-by-four, and held it against the butt of the rifle, tracing an outline with a pencil. He then sat down with the pocketknife and began to carve. It was a laborious process, even though the wood was relatively soft. Power tools would have made the job much easier, but the noise would have been impossible to explain if any of his neighbors were to lodge a complaint. After twenty minutes he evaluated his progress. Deciding he’d gone too wide, he started over with a different piece of wood.

The first block took forty minutes to complete. The second was quicker, being a more simple design. Next he drilled guideholes, eight in each block of wood. The electric screwdriver was quiet enough that it wouldn’t be heard outside the room.

Slaton then went to the long box containing a retractable window blind. The box was held together with two plastic packing straps and a few staples on each end. He removed the staples one at a time with the screwdriver and pliers, inflicting minimal damage on the cardboard carton. He then carefully worked the plastic straps over the ends and opened the box. Taking out the wood blind, he set the cardboard container aside. The blind had a cord for actuating the contraption, and at the bottom was a small pulley designed to anchor the cord to the side of a window frame. He removed the pulley, then cut the cord into three segments, each roughly four feet in length. Having purchased an expensive brand, the cord was good quality.

He then gathered the bulk of the blind and the unused blocks of wood. These, he shoved to the back of the upper shelf in the closet. The shelf was probably seven feet up, and stepping back, he decided no maid less than six-foot-six could have any chance of spotting it. Even if it should be noticed, there was nothing particularly alarming involved.

He laid the box on the couch and began packing. The rifle went in first. He used the carved wood blocks, the bubble plastic that had come with the blind, and a few towels from the bathroom to cradle the weapon, again taking care not to disturb the sight. Then he fit the hardware and tools around the weapon and closed up the box, reworking the staples and plastic straps neatly back into place.

As a final touch, he slid the paper receipt underneath one of the straps, giving the complete impression of one freshly purchased window covering. The appearance was right, the weight was right. Slaton only hoped the more serious security precautions hadn’t yet begun. Sunday afternoon or Monday morning was out of the question. There would be overt and covert security at every turn, and he’d never get within a mile of the stage with a package like this. But tonight the watch would be thin, England’s security forces still scattered across the country hunting a nuclear terrorist. At least he hoped that was the case.

Shortly after nine o’clock that evening, Switchboard Two at Scotland Yard took a call from a man wishing to speak to someone in Nathan Chatham’s office. It was routed to an assistant, who was busy typing on her computer.

“You want to talk to who?” she asked.

“Christine Palmer,” the man repeated.

“Whoever she is, she doesn’t work in this section,” the operator said, clearly hoping that would be that.

“No, no. She doesn’t actually work there. Look, could you ask around darlin’?”

The assistant stopped typing and frowned. “Say,” she said over her shoulder, “has anyone heard of a Christine Palmer?”

Most of the room shot her a blank look, but there was one reply. “Who wants to know?”

The woman recognized the voice of the boss’s right-hand man and her attention ratcheted up a few notches. “Some doctor from the States.”

Ian Dark took the handset.

“Hello. To whom am I speaking?”

“Howdy. This is Dr. Upton Downey. I run the residency program at the Maine Medical Center. I’m trying to locate Dr. Christine Palmer.”

“How did you get this number?” Dark asked.

“Her mother gave it to me. Say, is this really Scotland Yard?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Well, Christine’s mom wouldn’t tell me much, except that she’s probably going to miss her next rotation. I can’t imagine Chrissi bein’ in trouble over all this stuff.”

“No, I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”

“That’s good. I can rework her turn in radiology, but after that things get a little sticky.”

Dark hesitated, then said, “Perhaps you should speak to her directly, Dr. Downey. Hold on for a moment.”

Christine was reading a newspaper when the rap came on her door. She smiled on seeing who it was. She couldn’t help but like Chatham’s calm, amiable counterpart who’d gone out of his way to make her feel less a prisoner and more a guest.

“Hello, Ian.”

“Hello,” Dark said, returning the smile. “Tell me something. Is there a doctor back in the States who acts as your supervisor or mentor, that sort of thing?”

“I have a resident advisor, yes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Upper Downey. Or Upton, if it’s official.”

Dark looked puzzled by the silly name. “Is he a Texan?”

“Even worse. An Aggie.”

That clearly went past the Englishman. “Yes, he’s a Texan,” she said.

Dark wagged his finger for her to follow, “He’s on the phone out here. Why don’t you come talk to him.”

Christine followed Dark down the hall, Big Red in trail as always. The thought of talking to Upper seemed strange. She’d been in his office for an interim evaluation only two months ago. The hospital, her career. It all seemed like a previous life. But Upper would be the one who’d smooth things over when she got back.

Ian Dark quietly admonished her to not say anything about the ongoing investigation, then handed over the phone and disappeared.

“Upper? Are you there?”

“Hello, darlin’.”

Christine froze. The accent was right, but the voice was distinctly not. To her credit, she avoided blurting out “David!”

Slaton held quiet while she recovered.

“How are you?” Christine asked, managing to avoid the instinctive and far more delicate
where
question.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly. “How are you? Are they keeping you safe?”

Christine hesitated, wondering if she should try to keep some kind of verbal ruse going.

He read her thoughts. “Don’t worry. They’re probably monitoring this conversation, so let’s not bother talking in circles. I want you to pass some information on to Chatham.”

Christine didn’t want to pass information. She wanted to talk to David, she wanted to convince him to turn himself in so they could be together in the fortress that was Scotland Yard.

“David—”

“Darling,” he cut her off, “we have less than a minute. I need your help.”

Christine bit her lip. “You always know just what to say. All right, go ahead.”

“I think I’ve figured this out, or part of it anyway. There is a group in Israel, very high up in the government, who are committing terrorist acts themselves that can be blamed on others. They’ve been doing it for years, and now they’ve stolen these weapons. They’re going to use the second one this weekend, or possibly Monday morning.”

“
What?
”

“Don’t you see? They don’t want the Greenwich Accord. If a nuke goes off at the right place and the right time, the deal would be dead.”

“Lots of people could end up dead. Where would it happen?”

“That’s the part I don’t know. In the past they’ve attacked inside Israel, but they can’t do that now. Not without destroying — well, you can imagine.”

“Yes,” she said breathlessly.

“But they’ll use it in some way that creates a clear threat to Israel.”

“Who are these people?”

“You’ve already met some of them.”

Christine remembered Harding and Bennett and the black-clad figures at The Excelsior.

“There’s someone named Pytor Roth. I think he may know where that second weapon is. And there’s one person who runs it all.” Slaton told her who.

“Dear God, David! If you’re right—” she stopped, realizing what else it meant. “David, no! You can’t mean he’s the one responsible for—”

“Time’s almost up.”

Christine finally understood what he was going to do. Why he was still out there. She felt ill, but nothing she could say in the next few seconds would change his mind.

“Tell Chatham everything,” he said.

“What about Anton Bloch?”

“Anton?”

“He was here. I met him yesterday.”

This time she’d surprised him, but he answered right away. “Yes. Chatham and Bloch, but nobody else. They’ll know what to do.”

“All right David, I’ll do it if it will help you.”