The Perfect Assassin (49 page)

Chatham and Dark stood inside the tent. They were the only regular law enforcement types present, the rest being politicians, diplomats, and their respective state security details. Chatham noted how they had all dispersed to the four corners of the place. The Arab and the Israeli delegations were separated diagonally, giving the most distance between the two. Their security men eyed one another continuously and with great suspicion. In another corner were the British, acting as hosts and chief negotiators. The British Prime Minister, today’s key speaker, was presently surrounded by Foreign Office lackeys who were no doubt pressing in for face time. The fourth corner was station to the largest group, made up of diplomats from all the other countries. Some had aided in the negotiations, while others were simply self-important enough to have sent an “emissary” or “special counsel.” They all chatted and mingled casually, as though it were cocktail hour at a state dinner, and a few sipped nonalcoholic refreshments, a prohibition driven more by the time of day than the soberness of the occasion.

Chatham paid particular attention to the Israeli delegation. Zak was in the center, intermittently visible amongst an encirclement of bodyguards and aids. He seemed casual enough.

“Do you think Slaton’s right about him?” Dark asked in a hushed voice.

Chatham was having the same thoughts. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

Someone called out, “Three minutes!”

“What did the Assistant Commissioner say when you told him Slaton’s version of this mess?”

“Shearer? What makes you think I told him?”

Dark looked mortified until Chatham winked and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “He thought I was stark mad.”

Chatham took Dark in tow. They left the tent to take up their position, a small platform at the back of the stage, off to one side. It had been placed specifically on Chatham’s instructions. High enough to take in the crowd and surrounding grounds, yet far enough off center to not draw attention. It would also be out of view from any of the three camera angles to be broadcast.

Dark said, “Oh, I think we found out where Slaton purchased that window blind. It was a home improvement store near the hotel where he was staying. He also bought a couple of screwdrivers and some hardware.”

“Hardware?”

“Nuts and bolts, that sort of thing. Their records weren’t the best, so we’re still working on it.”

Chatham frowned and scanned the crowd from his perch. Thankfully, it wasn’t the kind of event to attract a huge gathering. People everywhere were interested in peace, but they weren’t going to stand out in the cold to watch it happen. The skies had been a dull gray all morning and there was rain in the afternoon forecast. A steady wind swept in from the northwest and Chatham found himself wondering what effect it would have on the ballistics of an L96A1, 7.62mm sniper’s rifle.

The crowd was an interesting mix. Probably half consisted of diplomatic staff who’d been ordered to attend and applaud enthusiastically at the right times. There were some business types, who apparently thought it smart to be seen at a function like this, and the inevitable smattering of activists. They were students, mostly, here to see the realization of their efforts. Pro-peace, human rights, anti-globalization — they all imagined a degree of victory. Then there were simply the curious, the socially conscientious and, finally, the passers-by with nothing better to do.

Chatham knew there were over a hundred police milling about the area, many of them plainclothes. In retrospect, he regretted it. There was no way they could all recognize one another, which might lead to more harm than good.

Cued by a blast of martial music, the cast began filing onto the stage.

“Inspector!” someone called from below. “Message for you from Headquarters. It’s marked urgent.”

Chatham recognized the man from the mobile command post that was tucked away on a nearby sidestreet. He took the paper. Ignoring the gibberish on top, he read the clear text message.

A NUCLEAR DETONATION HAS BEEN CONFIRMED IN LIBYA. POSITION COINCIDES WITH LIBYAN WEAPONS DEVELOPMENT FACILITY. LOOKS LIKE YOUR FRIEND SLATON HAS GOT IT RIGHT, NATHAN. RAPID RESPONSE TEAM IS ON AIRBORNE STANDBY. HEADS UP. SHEARER

Chatham showed the message to Dark, then crumpled it and shoved it in his pocket. They watched as Zak came into view, stepping with smooth decorum alongside the head of the Palestinian Council. They took their respective seats behind the podium at center stage.

“He’s not going to sign it,” Dark remarked. “But he doesn’t look worried, does he?”

“No,” Chatham agreed.

The British Prime Minister began his remarks. He was notorious as a speaker who could drone for hours, but today’s remarks had been strictly limited to three minutes. Zak would be next.

A well-dressed man appeared at the back of the stage. He walked over to Zak and bent down low, almost theatrical in his effort to be discreet. He whispered at length into Zak’s ear.

“There it is,” Chatham said.

“Can’t we just stop it? Stop the whole thing right now? If Slaton is out there, the minute Zak steps up to that podium—”

“No, Ian. I wish we could, but we can’t be sure. Speculation doesn’t give us that kind of authority.”

“No,” Dark said in frustration, “not until the first shot is fired. And I doubt there will be more than one.”

The British Prime Minister’s speech was coming in for a landing as Chatham turned and gave Dark the most peculiar look.

“What did you just say?”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Slaton watched the British Prime Minister closely, and considered what the wind would do to his shot. He couldn’t hear what the man was saying, but that wasn’t important. The important thing was the visual picture, recognizing the moment that Zak took the podium. The little battery-powered Casio television got good reception. Slaton had checked it at ground level, but here, up higher, the picture quality was even better. Finally, the British Prime Minister backed away from the podium. The view on the screen suddenly switched to a scene of the crowd applauding politely. Slaton hadn’t anticipated that. He picked up the cell phone.

Elizabeth Merrill was standing at the window on Dhalal’s third floor, watching the ceremonies in the park. She couldn’t see it very well from this far away. On the street immediately below she noticed two uniformed policeman who were not watching the proceedings, but instead staring straight at her.
How odd,
she thought, turning away uncomfortably. Mr. Dhalal told her the police had already taken a brief look through the apartment this morning, with his consent. He was clearly annoyed, but more so that the big crowds he’d anticipated had not materialized. Business was suffering.

She milled about the empty flat and looked at her watch. It was 10:06. She’d been twenty minutes early. Parking had not been a problem, but she’d gotten bogged down at a security checkpoint that restricted access onto Crooms Hill Road. She suspected that was where Mr. Linstrom was now. Her cell phone rang.

“Elizabeth Merrill,” she announced glibly.

“Good morning, Miss Merrill. This is Nils Linstrom.”

“Ah, Mr. Linstrom. Good morning. Have you been held up in all the security outside?”

“Unfortunately, no. I’m afraid I’ve had a family crisis. I apologize for not calling sooner.”

Elizabeth Merrill’s face tightened, but her voice quickly filled with concern, “Oh, dear. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“Probably not, but something I must see to. I’m at the airport right now.” Linstrom paused. “But I do have some good news. My banker was very enthusiastic about the property and my plans for it. I think we have a very attractive offer for you.”

She liked how he used the word
we
with respect to his banker. This was a big fish. “I’m sure Mr. Dhalal will be glad to hear it. When can we expect you back?”

“Well, I hadn’t planned on returning for a couple of weeks, but I might be able to get back this Thursday afternoon. Would that work?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. I’ll call tomorrow, once I get my flight information. Again, I’m sorry to have wasted your morning.”

“Oh, please don’t worry. I’ve got other business just up the street,” she added, hoping her tone was convincing.

“Ah, there is one other thing …”

Linstrom’s hesitation seemed extended. “Yes?”

“It’s rather embarrassing, but it has to do with that silly fall I took the other day.”

“You’re not hurt, are you?” Her concern was legitimate. Dhalal would be livid.

“Oh, no. Nothing like that. You see, I’ve lost my wristwatch. It’s not really valuable. More of an heirloom, I suppose. My father gave it to me. I looked around all weekend and couldn’t find it. Then it dawned on me. When I had my hand up in that small attic I must have hooked it on something. Lost my balance and fell, even ended up with a good scratch on my wrist. I suspect the watch is still up there and I’d very much like to know, one way or the other. Would it be too much to ask to have you take a look? Or perhaps Mr. Dhalal could do it.”

Elizabeth Merrill pooh-poohed the idea, “No, that’s no problem at all. Mr. Dhalal is busy in his shop, but I can do it.”

“Oh, thank you, Miss Merrill. And please be more careful than I was.”

“Give me a minute.” She put the phone on the kitchen counter. As a property agent for sixteen years she’d been asked to do a lot of strange things. This didn’t even make the top ten. She looked around and wondered aloud, “Now where was that ladder?”

Zak had almost laughed. When his aide came on stage and whispered into his ear, he’d managed a terrifically filthy joke. It was all Zak could do to hold a serious expression. He couldn’t be angry, though. They’d all have a good laugh about it on the flight home. Zak watched the British Prime Minister back away from the podium. Now it was his turn.

Normally he would have negotiated hard and fast to make the Arab go first. It was always preferable to have the last word. But on this day, Zak would go first — and still have the last word. When he was done speaking, he would turn to see a stage full of tight-lipped starched shirts whose jaws would be resting on their two hundred dollar shoes. And then he would walk away.

He moved to the podium slowly, his face a precise combination — astonishment, but well under control. His words would come in measured bursts, as if extemporaneous, and they would be steel, no doubt to be published verbatim tomorrow in all the world’s papers.

“Ladies and gentlemen … I had come here today in the name of peace. Unfortunately, information I’ve just received tells me that not everyone on this stage has the same vision …”

Elizabeth Merrill found the ladder in the hall. She got it to the middle of the room and then took off her shoes, which had a substantial heel. She climbed four rungs to reach the small attic door, hoping to find the watch by feel. She didn’t want to go any higher. The property agent pulled on the small knob that was the door’s handle, but it didn’t budge. She reasserted her balance on the ladder and gave a good, sharp tug.

The string ran from the door, through a single pulley, and terminated in a very secure knot at the trigger of the well-mounted rifle. The physical forces involved were undeniable, and could supply only one result. The rifle’s recoil caused a cloud of dust to bounce in the attic as the bullet exited the flat, quite cleanly, through a single, meticulously broken slat in the louvered vent.

The only random outcome was of no consequence — the crack of the shot startled Elizabeth Merrill. So much so, that she fell off the ladder.

The audience had no idea what had happened. The report of the rifle was distant enough to be lost in the cacophony of man-made sounds that polluted all big cities. A few did notice a tiny explosion of some kind on the backdrop — shards of debris popping out of a small hole in the curtain.

The multitude of security teams were another story. They were elite units, all having trained for years to recognize exactly such sights and sounds. Zak was tackled hard to the wooden planks. The British Prime Minister was surrounded within seconds. The Arabs and others on stage far outnumbered their protectors, so in line with the instinct of self-preservation, those who realized what was happening simply hit the deck with varying degrees of emphasis. There was shouting and chairs fell over in a wild scramble of bodies. The audience began to catch on that something had gone very wrong, particularly when they recognized that some of the men on stage were now holding weapons and pointing them outward. Slowly, the people on the grass began to react — some fell to the ground, others ran.

Within seconds, the random flailing on stage began to organize. Security men clustered around those who were deemed important and, in amoebic masses, they shuffled backstage and out of sight.

Ian Dark desperately scanned outward, trying to see where the shot had come from.

“Where do you think he is, Inspector?”

There was no answer. Dark turned to see that Chatham was gone. He looked down behind the stage. People were running in every direction, including at least a dozen men with guns drawn. Two big limousines, sporting Israeli flags on the front fenders, spun grass and mud as they fishtailed toward the asphalt. Then he spotted Chatham, running as fast as his lanky old legs would carry him.

Dark, a practiced distance runner, scrambled after him and caught up within a hundred yards. “Where are you going?” he shouted as he ran alongside his boss. “Didn’t the shot come from the front?”

Chatham strained for breath. “The helicopter!” he croaked.

The carte blanche of resources had not been squandered. There were two police boats on the river, idling at the docks, an assortment of cars, and a helicopter sat waiting in a clearing on the park’s southeast corner.

Chatham waved for Dark to go on ahead. “Tell the pilot to start the thing!”

Dark held his questions and sprinted ahead.

Three minutes later they were airborne, looking down on the remains of what had minutes ago been a world-wide focus of the hope for peace.

Chatham yelled to the pilot in short bullets, trying to get his breath. “Gatwick Airport — get word to Headquarters — the Rapid Response Team — to the airport now!”