There was an audible crack and Slaton looked down. The plastic telephone receiver, still in his grip, had fractured. Small shards of white plastic lay on the floor at his feet. He looked at his hand for a moment as if it were not part of him, not under his control, while his heart continued to pound. Then Slaton saw his reflection in a mirror on the far wall. There was a sudden urge to throw the phone, or something, anything, at the image. He remembered how much he hated what he saw. Slaton closed his eyes.
It took a full two minutes. He stood without moving. Slowly, his breathing came under control, his hold on the broken phone eased. Slaton opened his eyes and carefully, almost delicately, placed the shattered receiver next to its cradle. He pulled the phone jack from the wall, then picked up his canvas backpack and went to the front door, not making a sound. At the door he stopped and listened patiently. The only sound to register, a car engine off in the distance. He opened the door a crack and saw the hall was empty.
Slaton left the building quickly and quietly. He made no attempt to right the upside-down six.
Thirty minutes later Slaton was on the outskirts of Oxford, one of the more industrial quarters that generally escaped the paths of most tourists. The city’s blue collar underpinnings ran deep, however the situation was played down for most intents and purposes. Car parks, walking paths, and public transportation were arranged to emphasize a more marketable image — that of a city of universities, an everlasting academic nirvana where the world’s best and brightest, strolling around in caps, gowns and white bow ties, designed solutions for a troubled planet. The big Rover car factory, vital as it might be to local dinner tables, was not an “image enhancer.”
Slaton stood across the street from a storage facility, an open-air design with a small office at the front, then four narrow rows of storage sheds surrounded by a three-meter metal fence. The only way in was through an electronic gate next to the office, where access was granted at all hours, seven days a week.
The place was owned by a chubby, nearly bald, pink-skinned fellow whom Slaton had met when renting his unit. The man lived in a flat above the office, allowing him to advertise “24-hour on-premises security and surveillance.” Of course, he probably slept for eight to ten of those twenty-four hours. Then, and on his days off, a single camera at the entrance supposedly recorded all activity to and from the rows of storage sheds, thereby rendering the advertisement correct in its most literal sense.
Slaton watched for ten minutes. No one else approached the place, and the proprietor’s flat over the office was still dark. He crossed the street and went straight to the gate. There, he entered the dubious access code — 1–2–3–4. The lock on the wire gate made a click, and he was in.
Slaton had rented the smallest compartment offered, 10-foot by 5, and those units happened to be right up front. The lock was his own, a simple key padlock, and distinctly less hefty than those on many of the other sheds — sure to emphasize the insignificance of what lay inside. He took out the key he’d retrieved from the spine of Treasure Island — the boys from the embassy had been sloppy — and opened the roll-up metal door.
Happily, everything was as he’d left it. There were a couple of beat-up old chairs, an apparently virgin stereo receiver (which actually hadn’t worked for years), and a few boxes containing books, magazines, and some old clothing. There was also a small, skewed table, and next to it, on the floor, an old television. The television’s picture screen had a severe diagonal crack and its plastic case was damaged on two corners. It looked for all the world like it had probably fallen off the crooked table, an effect Slaton had only been able to manufacture by dropping it to the concrete floor three times. Anyone raiding the cubicle would have immediately written off the television as junk and settled for the stereo. The rest was sure to disappoint all but the most desperate of thieves.
Slaton checked outside to make sure he was still alone, then went to work. He dug out a screwdriver from the bottom of a box of clothing and picked up the battered television, setting it on the table that, in spite of its asymmetrical appearance, was in fact quite sturdy. Slaton worked the back panel, pulling screws until the plastic cover that concealed the picture tube came loose. He removed the panel, revealing the usual array of circuit boards and wires, along with a small black pouch.
The pouch, that type of “fanny pack” often worn by tourists, was encased in a large zip-lock plastic bag. Slaton removed the plastic bag, opened the nylon carrier and quickly took inventory. There were five thousand British pounds and three thousand U.S. dollars, all in various small and medium denominations. Two Mossad-produced identification packages provided passports, driver’s licenses, and other associated documents, one even including a valid credit card. Of the identities, one was Danish and one British, chosen, quite simply, because those were his two most proficient languages. There was also a time-worn wallet.
This was Slaton’s get-well kit. He had set it up many years ago, mainly to recover if he ever became compromised as an “illegal.” Certain missions could have no ties to Israel. If he had to run in such a case, Slaton would be on his own to get safe, with no help from the embassies and their more legitimate staff. Because of this, he had built the kit and was meticulous about keeping it current and available. In the beginning, he’d used bank safe-deposit boxes, but the advent of self-storage enterprises provided a much more anonymous opportunity to squirrel his things away. Few cameras, fewer signatures and, best of all, no nosy bank officials.
There was one problem. The kit was missing the thing he needed most — a weapon. He’d taken the Glock semi-automatic to his flat for some upkeep. Earlier, he found it had been taken from his room, no doubt removed by the embassy cleaning crew.
He studied the two sets of identification. Every time he passed through Tel Aviv, Slaton would stop in Documents Section and switch out at least one of the packages. His special status in Mossad came with the label autonomous — all records of the identities he chose were expunged, and no one in Mossad was supposed to keep track of them. He now wondered if that was truly the case.
Slaton opened the wallet and began stuffing it with documents that presented him as Henrik Edmundsen, along with some cash. The old leather wallet was one he hadn’t used in years, and had been with the kit as long as he could remember.
As he came to the small plastic pockets where he was going to put the driver’s license, he found an old photograph, one he had mistakenly left inside. Slaton stopped and stared at the picture, not able to help himself. The confluence of emotions immediately swept in and churned, like a half-dozen rivers meeting in one spot, but with nowhere to go. Abruptly, Slaton shoved the picture back behind a leather sleeve in the wallet where it couldn’t be seen. He cursed himself for his carelessness. It had been carelessness. He snatched up the remainder of his documents and cash, shoving everything back inside the nylon pack, all except the wallet, which he pocketed.
He closed up the shed and locked it for the last time. It was paid for through the end of the month. A month or two after that, the owner would rip the lock from the past due shed and toss out Slaton’s little collection of junk. Leaving the facility, he dropped the key down a storm drain and walked east toward the train station. On the way he passed a cab, two bus stops, and a car rental agency. The storage shed had been a good choice.