Christine laughed. “Spies? Israeli spies? What in the world would they want with me?”
“They’d want to find out how much you know about two things. Polaris Venture and me.” Slaton saw by her expression he’d scored a hit. “That’s what they asked you about, right?”
She nodded, “So you sank that ship and they’re after you? You’re with one of the Arab countries?”
He grinned. “No. I’m an Israeli too. And I didn’t sink the ship. I think they did.”
Christine sighed. “This isn’t getting any easier.” Her eyes narrowed as she studied him in the faint light of an overcast-shrouded midday sun. “You don’t look Israeli. You’re fair skinned.”
“We come in all colors, shapes, and sizes. I have a lot of Scandinavian blood, but I was born in Israel.”
“And you? You’re a spy too? Why would Israeli spies be sinking ships, and killing one another in quiet English villages?”
“A very good question. I didn’t know myself until yesterday. Then I got a letter from a friend of mine who had uncovered some information, and things began to make sense. I think there’s a group of traitors within the Mossad. They’re sabotaging operations, even targeting our own country and people.”
She sounded suspicious. “You mean they’re working with your enemies?”
“It looks that way, but I don’t know much about them yet. It’s an organization that’s been around for a long time. Lately they’ve been less active, but more desperate.”
“You say your friend told you all this in a letter?”
“He made a pretty convincing case.”
“And does he know who these people are?”
“Some of them. Some he hadn’t identified yet. In time he would have found them.”
“Would have?”
“Yosy was Mossad. He worked at headquarters, outside Tel Aviv. Last week he came here to tell me all this in person. I was gone on Polaris Venture, so he left a letter where he knew I’d find it. He was killed before he could get back home, hit by a bus in Knightsbridge. It was ruled an accident.”
Christine listened intently. Slaton went on for twenty minutes, telling her everything that had been in Yosy’s report. He explained who Leon Uriste had been, and that he, too, had recently met a suspicious end. Slaton described a traitorous organization within the Mossad, a group who were bombing synagogues and shooting soldiers. He had no idea how many people were involved, but it seemed to include someone near the top.
Christine tried to make heads or tails of the information. And perhaps more importantly, of the psyche of this man who was talking to her. The weight of what he told her was numbing on a moral scale, but always logical and consistent. She also noted his physical appearance. It kept changing in subtle ways, as if he were a portrait whose artist was never quite satisfied, always insisting on one more stroke of the brush. The blisters on his face had largely healed and his beard, light in color, was getting denser. If it hadn’t been for the eyes, she might not have recognized him at the motel. The intense blue-gray eyes that were always moving, scanning, processing all surroundings.
The few facts she could recall supported what he was telling her, and she suspected at least some of it had to be true. He finally finished with the sinking of Polaris Venture. Christine decided she knew the rest, and it left her with one particularly bothersome question.
“I still don’t understand what these men wanted with me.”
“They probably got word that you had rescued someone from a ship named Polaris Venture. They would want to know who you’d found. And they’d be curious as to what you knew about the ship.”
His attention shot forward as a truck came around the bend. She saw it as well.
“This could be your ride,” he offered. “You can go to the police and tell them everything. They won’t be able to protect you, though. Those two men were going to kill you. You and I are threats to their organization. Probably the only ones, now that Uriste and Yosy are dead. They’ll come after you, and a bobby standing guard at the door of a hotel room won’t stop them. That’s the best protection you’re likely to get from the police. If they believe your story. Stay with me and I’ll do what I can to look after you. I know how they think, how they work. It’s your best chance.”
Christine saw the slow-moving truck closing in. Best chance? She didn’t know what to do, but there were only moments to decide. She opened the door and swung a leg out of the car. He made no attempt to stop her. There was time for one last question.
“Why is this all so important?” she asked. “What could I know about you or the ship that’s worth killing people over?”
“You might know where Polaris Venture went down,” he said. “Or you might know that she was carrying two tactical nuclear weapons.”
Hanit lay moored just outside the harbor of Marseille. She was a Sa’ar V class corvette and, at over a thousand tons, a regular and formidable presence in the regional waters off Israel and Lebanon. Here, however, in one of the busiest ports of the Mediterranean, she was nothing special. Huge freighters, tankers, and warships plied a constant stream among the swarm of smaller tenders and pilot boats. The Port Authority had not been pleased to have a foreign-flagged warship show up unannounced, and so Hanit’s captain gave little argument at having been banished to anchor in the outer mooring field. They wouldn’t be here long, he reasoned, and they were under orders to be as unobtrusive as possible.
The captain stood with his executive officer on the wing platform, to the port side of the bridge. The two men eyed a small tender as it approached. It carried a crew of two seamen and a French port official, who would no doubt be grumpy and have a plethora of forms for them to complete. It also carried Paul Mordechai and two large crates.
Neither of the officers had ever met Mordechai, but they’d gotten the scuttlebutt. As the small boat pulled alongside, there was no mistaking their guest. He wore a bright print shirt adorned with flags of various nautical meanings. There were hurricane and gale warnings, along with a prominent SOS on the back. Mordechai spotted the two officers, came to attention, and offered a ridiculously snappy salute.
The exec rolled his eyes.
“All right,” the captain said, “the orders are clear. We get rid of this Port Authority quack as fast as we can, haul aboard Mordechai and the crates, then get out of here.”
“Aye,” the exec nodded. He started to go below to supervise the detail.
“Oh, and Dani …”
The exec paused.
“Mind the crates.”
Chapter Eight
“Ian!”
The bellowing summons had come from the adjacent room, the Scotland Yard office of Inspector Nathan Chatham. Ian Dark answered the call, entering Chatham’s office to find his boss parked at his desk with a confounded look on his face. The object of his consternation was in hand, a small beeper that had activated.
“This!” Chatham roared, holding the offending device over his head. “What on earth does all this mean?”
Dark calmly took the device. The message line read:
SEE ACSO ASAP W/DSR CNX LV 12/1-12/8 REP CONF
“I suppose it all means something?” Chatham fussed.
Dark read the electronic shorthand, “The Assistant Commissioner Specialist Operations wishes to see you as soon as possible. You are to bring the daily situation report. He’s also seen it necessary to cancel your holiday, which was to start tomorrow. You’re to confirm receipt of the message by pressing this button.”