Since his keys were in a bag on a ship at the bottom of the ocean, Slaton again made use of the lock-picking tools he’d pilfered from Wind-som’s toolbox. As he worked the tumbler, he realized that the few bits of normalcy he’d been able to acquire in his life were now completely gone. He was a dead man breaking into his own home.
The lock on the door handle was old and stiff, but soon gave way. There was another, more solid lock, but it was of the type that could only be engaged from inside the dwelling. Good for personal safety while you were home, but useless for protecting your things while you were out. Yosy had always insisted it to be of communist design.
Once inside, Slaton saw the flat largely unchanged. The appearance was decidedly spartan. A few basic pieces of furniture, a couple of cheap paintings on one wall. All of it had come with the lease. There were no photographs or travel trinkets. A small bookshelf offered a generic selection of classics and some well-worn popular novels of various themes. These too had come with the flat.
He looked around and concluded that things were more or less as he’d left them. The place had been searched, but not torn apart. He walked quickly to the bedroom, wanting to make it fast. A few clothes went into a canvas backpack, and he was happy to find four ten-pound notes stashed amongst his socks. Slaton looked for his Israeli passport, but was not surprised to find it gone, along with his British driver’s license.
He headed back to the living room. There, he went straight to the bookshelf and selected an aged, leather-bound edition of Treasure Island. He ran his hand along the spine and, content, stuffed it into the backpack with the clothing. At the telephone stand he noted that his personal register of addresses and telephone numbers was missing. Again, no surprise. He looked at the answering machine and saw a steady light. No messages.
He took a last look around the room — more to inventory than reminisce — then started to leave. Slaton paused halfway to the door. He turned and looked again at the answering machine. The little red light held steady. Steady. No new messages. His pals from the embassy would surely have listened to the tape. Anything noteworthy and they would have taken it. Empty, the machine’s green light would flash, so they had either taken the original and put in a blank tape, or decided that any messages on the existing tape were harmless. Slaton went back to the machine and hit the play button. It whirred, clicked and finally produced a voice he recognized as Ismael, an administrative clerk from the embassy.
“Mr. Slaton,” the voice said officiously, “Ismael Pellman. You haven’t filed a travel voucher for your trip to Paris on August three through five. Please do so, or call me to straighten it out before this Tuesday.” Then a beep, followed by a thickly accented voice. “Hello. This is Rangish Malwev at Rangal’s Fine Clothing. The leather jacket you have given us to repair is done. The charge is seventy-seven pounds, three. You may pick it up at your leisure.”
That one would have gotten the boys moving, Slaton thought. Of course all they’d find was that he really had sent in an old jacket to be repaired. For seventy-seven pounds he could have gotten a new one, but he was partial to the one he had. Or used to have.
Another beep and a dial tone.
A fourth beep and another message, the caller strangely familiar, but he didn’t recognize her right away. “David. Oh, David. I’m sorry but I didn’t know who else to call. They’ve been here all day but … I can’t believe what they tell me.” It was Ingrid Meier, Yosy’s wife. He’d known her for twelve years, yet Slaton barely recognized the quavering, broken voice that crackled from the recorder. Ingrid was one of the most rock-solid people he’d ever known, but here she sounded a shattered, babbling mess. Slaton’s blood went cold. “What happened, David? What happened?” She was crying. “Please call. I don’t know these people who came to see me today. They took his papers, his things. I want to hear it from you. He was coming to see you, to go hunting. Were you with him? What happened to my Yosy … please David …” She broke down, sobbing, and then a dial tone.
Slaton stared blankly at the machine as it stopped and then spun in the methodical process of rewinding. What happened? What happened to Yosy? Slaton felt ill. He could think of only one thing that would put Ingrid Meier in a state like that. His thoughts accelerated. He was coming to see you … London? Yosy had called with a warning, then tried to come see him. To explain the danger in person? But then what?
He checked the clock in the kitchen. 1:15 in the morning. How could he find out anything now? If something had happened to Yosy in England, anyone at the embassy could explain. But who could he trust? No one. Not now. Slaton picked up the phone, planning as he dialed. He had to know. The number he chose was not listed in any directory. It was low priority and non-secure, but unless someone had tinkered with it lately, this particular line would not be recorded or traced.
A tired woman answered, “Israeli Embassy.”
Fortunately, Slaton didn’t recognize the duty officer’s voice. A newby must have been socked with the late shift.“
Good morning,” Slaton said, gaining an octave. “This is Irving Weisen at Headquarters Personnel.”
“It’s morning here, but not by much,” the woman answered, yawning.“
Oh, of course.” Slaton said awkwardly. “We’re having a records inspection here, and I’m missing one of my files. I thought you might be able to help.”
The duty officer didn’t try to hide her disdain for the headquarters paper-pusher. “Look, this is the London station. We don’t keep hard copies of personnel records.”
“I realize that, but whoever checked it out was sloppy. Very sloppy. The only part of the checkout slip I can read has something scribbled on it about the London station. It might be one of your people, and if it is, perhaps we can figure out who would have wanted the folder here at headquarters — something like that.”
“Okay, okay. What’s the name?”
“Yosef Meier.”
“Shit!” the duty officer spat indignantly. “Don’t you guys have any idea what’s going on out here in the real world? Put a window in that building. Yosy Meier was killed in an accident here in London last week.”
The woman in the London embassy communications room heard nothing at the other end of the line. “Does that solve your mystery?” she finally asked with annoyance.“
Yes, I’m sorry. How did it happen?”
“He was hit by a bus, or a truck or something. Ask somebody at the Western Europe Desk. They ought to have a clue.”
Quietly, Slaton finished what he started. “All right. I know where that file would be. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” He heard the click as the embassy woman hung up.
Slaton stood motionless. His best friend was dead. An accident, the woman had said. For Slaton there could no longer be any doubt. Someone had tried to kill him. Someone had sunk Polaris Venture with her entire crew. His body tensed. They were on him again, the feelings he had faced for so long. The horror he’d battled until there was nothing at all — only numbness. Now, in a moment, that pain returned. Or maybe it had never really gone. He wondered what Yosy could have known. If he’d only come to London a few days sooner, Slaton would have been around to find out. And maybe Yosy would be home now, and his wife wouldn’t be a basket case, and his children — God, his children —