“I don’t think he took her the first time. It seems he took her boat and she went along for the ride. But to answer your question, I see three possibilities. First, that the same man did come back. Second, that someone else came looking for her because she’d rescued this man. Or third, that her story is not truthful, and she herself is involved in some sort of mischief.”
Shearer pondered. “Or perhaps a combination of those things.”
Chatham smiled at his new boss.
The Assistant Commissioner looked pointedly at his watch and stood up. “Well, the facts are a bit thin right now. I think it’s gone beyond the sort of thing the local boys in Penzance are accustomed to handling.”
“This woman, do you happen to know her nationality?”
“I believe she’s American.”
“Ah,” Chatham said.
“I’ll have to press on now, Inspector. As I said, Home Office is all revved over this one. Call me daily and let me know how things are progressing. Chief Bickerstaff is the man to talk to in Penzance. Glad I had the chance to meet you — again.”
“I’ll get right out to Penzance this evening.” Chatham shook hands in parting and walked to the door, happy that the new Assistant Commissioner Specialist Operations was not nearly as big a twit as the last.
“Oh, and Inspector …”
Chatham turned to see Shearer holding out the remainder of the box of chocolates.
“Perhaps you should have these. Never been one for sweets myself. Just don’t ever tell Mrs. Shearer.”
Chatham made no effort to conceal his pleasure. He walked over slowly and took the box as though it held the Crown Jewels. “You have my word as a gentleman,” he said reverently.
As soon as he was in the hallway, Chatham opened the box and selected another. Mint crème. Yes, he thought, this Assistant Commissioner would do nicely.
The morning air was laden in fog and a steady drizzle. Christine peered through the rain-splattered window of the Peugeot, barely able to see David at a newsstand across the street. They had spent the previous afternoon and evening driving to London, by way of a long, circuitous route. Stopping an hour short of the outskirts, Slaton had pulled off and found a quiet spot to park among a stand of trees. There, they’d gotten a few hours sleep. Christine had dozed fitfully, at least relieved that he no longer insisted on keeping an arm draped over her. At first light they were back under way, fighting the morning rush hour traffic into Kensington.
Christine yawned as she watched him jog back to the car, dodging traffic, with a pair of newspapers under one arm. When he clambered into the driver’s seat, cold droplets of rain sprayed around inside the car. He tossed one of the papers into her lap.
“See what you can find,” he said.
“Find?”
He leafed quickly through the Times, oblivious to the question. Seconds later he spotted what he was after on page six.
“Here it is.” He showed her the headline: MURDER IN PENZANCE. Slaton read silently while Christine opened up the Evening Standard and found it on page nine. A minute later, they swapped.
“They both say basically the same thing,” Christine said. “You’re wanted for murdering a man, putting another in the hospital, and possibly kidnapping me.”
“They haven’t gotten hold of a picture of you yet. That’s good.”
“You think they’ll put my picture in the paper?”
“By this time tomorrow you’ll either be a beautiful, rich heiress who’s been kidnapped, or a devilish accomplice to murder.”
“Accomplice? What are you talking about?”
“I mean the media, along with the police, are going to consider the possibility that you might be on my side in this. They know we were together on Windsom, so if someone sees us now, and you’re not screaming and trying to run away … well, it could give the wrong impression. That’s the kind of thing the press loves to get a grip on and spin as they see fit.”
Christine was dumbstruck. “On your side? I just want my life back. But according to you, there are people out there who want to kill me.”
“I know it sounds paranoid, but you saw it for yourself yesterday. Either way, this story will move up a few pages tomorrow. Especially once the papers track down some photographs and get a look at you.”
She glared at him, but he was still engrossed in the article. Christine reckoned that was probably as direct a compliment as this man ever paid a woman. Her doubts returned, and she wondered again if she’d made the right choice. Had the two men at the motel meant her harm? Or was this man beside her the threat? She tried to convince herself that if she just went to the police and told them everything, things would work out. Certainly they could protect her.
Slaton tapped an index finger on the newspaper. “There’s no reference here to the fact that Itzaak and his friend worked at the embassy. The police must know that by now, but they’re keeping it quiet. It’s either a diplomatic favor, or my government requested it.”
She fell silent and he looked up, seeming to sense her indecision.
“Still not sure about me, huh?”
“No,” she said, “not completely.”
“Can’t say that I blame you.”
The interior of the car grew quiet, the only sounds coming from out-side — people and machines, sloshing through rain on their daily routines.
“I’m a little confused myself,” he said, finally breaking the silence. He pointed out the window. Cars and trucks streamed by incessantly and scores of people scurried in all directions on the sidewalks. “You can still go if you want,” he offered. “We’re in London. It’s a big place. Lots of people, police everywhere. I wouldn’t have brought you here if I wanted to hold you prisoner. I’ve got work to do, and this is where it starts.”
“Where does it end?”
He looked away and didn’t answer, which gave Christine no comfort. Did he not want to tell her? Or did he not know?
“I feel like I should believe you,” she said. “I think you’re right. Those two men were going to kill me. But what you did to them — that scares me too.” An image came to Christine. The man she knew as Harding, his face frozen in death. As a doctor she had seen bodies before, but there had been something else yesterday. Something in the man’s last, terminal expression. Surprise. Or maybe fear.
“Yesterday when you were questioning that man, you said you would find them. You said ‘Tell them the keeden will find them.’ Something like that. What does it mean?”
He gazed at the gloom outside. His hesitation told Christine she’d hit on something, and if an answer came it would be the truth.
“Kidon,” he finally said, still looking away. “It’s a part of Mossad. There are only a few of us, and we have a very special mission.”
Christine steeled herself. “And what is that?”
“Kidon is Hebrew for bayonet. We’re assassins.”
Prime Minister Jacobs arrived at his office following a tedious working breakfast with the Foreign Minister. Anton Bloch was waiting, his bulky frame planted squarely in the center of the room. Jacobs didn’t like the brooding look on his face.
“Now what?”
“Polaris Venture again.”
Jacobs stiffened. “Good news or bad?”
“We’ve found Slaton. He was picked out of the ocean by a private boat.”
“That’s wonderful! He made it—”
Bloch waved a hand. “Yesterday, in England, he killed one of our London men and put another in the hospital.”