“How old was he when you recruited him?”
“We began actively screening when he was nineteen, in university. Two years later we approached him with the offer of a “government position.” It usually takes six months of interviews, background checks, and psychological evaluations before the recruits get an idea of the kind of work they’re being sized up for. We watch closely for a reaction.”
“And what is the usual reaction when a person realizes they’re being chosen to work in the world’s most elite intelligence agency?”
“Mild surprise, perhaps. We hope for as little reaction as possible. These people are used to being the best and brightest in their class. But to say they’ve been chosen is premature. Most don’t pass the screening, and of those, less than half complete the entire training process.”
“Ramon Slaton’s son made it through.”
“He was at the top of his group, both academically and physically. We also discovered that his success against the Syrians was no fluke. As a boy, he apparently did a lot of hunting. Rabbits, quail, that kind of thing. By the time he got to us, his marksmanship was uncanny. He outshot every instructor at the range on his first day. Slaton was clearly something special, so in view of his performance and his family history, we elected to train him as a kidon.”
“And what does that education consist of?”
“There’s no set curriculum. Contrary to popular belief, there aren’t legions of them roaming the world. We only train a handful, and they’re rarely deployed.”
Deployed, Jacobs thought. Like an artillery piece.
“We trained to his strengths. He was sent to the IDF Sniper Course. As a former officer, you know what that school is like.”
“Yes, I know. Marksmanship is the least of it. They teach weapons, tactics, and stalking. All with consideration for the sniper’s most demanding trait — patience.”
Bloch nodded. “His scores on the tactical range were off the scale. Altogether, Slaton spent three years being shaped into what he is today.”
“And the rest is in here?” Jacobs queried, looking at the file. The Director’s reply didn’t come right away and Jacobs sensed a red flag. “Anton? You know what’s at stake here. I want to know everything. Is there something that’s not in here?”
Bloch sighed, clearly not liking where he had to go. “There is one thing. It involved a girl. As far as we know, the only serious relationship he’s ever had. The two had known each other from the kibbutz, and they married during his second year at university. We researched her background and found her history unremarkable. They had been married a year when she gave birth to a baby girl. It’s all in the file.”
Jacobs dug through the folder to the appropriate section and his eye was caught by a photograph of a strikingly beautiful raven-haired girl. The photo had been taken at a café, probably candidly since she seemed unaware. Her face was alight with an infectious, somewhat mischievous smile. She was sitting at a table that held two coffee cups, and a single red rose lying atop an envelope. The photograph was not wide enough in angle to show the companion with whom she was sharing her humor, but Jacobs had no doubt.
“Two months before completing his final term at the university, right when we were considering him as a recruit, there was a tragedy. Slaton’s wife and daughter, who was not quite two years old at the time … they were both killed.”
“What happened?”
Bloch told him and the Prime Minister shook his head. “What a miserable, terrible waste,” he said, leafing idly through the file. Looking up, he sensed discomfort in the usually unflappable Anton Bloch. “What is it? What else?” the Prime Minister demanded.
“There’s one thing that’s not in the file.” Bloch took a deep breath, then finished the story.
The Prime Minister considered the implications. “It could mean nothing. Or it could explain everything.” Jacobs interlaced his fingers and brought them under his chin as the weight of the day began to settle. There were so many tangents. “You said this is not in the file. I can understand why, but how many people know about it?”
Bloch shrugged, “Very few, and … well, it’s been many years.”
“Yet it’s possible he knows.”
“Slaton? Yes, but a lot of things are possible.”
A light blinked obviously on Jacobs’ phone. The Prime Minister wished he could put all the world’s events on hold so easily. He jabbed a thumb toward the file. “You seem to know a great deal about this man, Anton.”
“I’ve seen him work,” Block said matter-of-factly. “He’s our best.”
Jacobs considered that, wondering if it was a good thing or bad. He sensed Bloch was finished. “All right, have London find out what the hell’s going on. Send in more people if you need to. Cabinet meeting at noon.” The Director of Mossad walked to the door and, as he did so, Jacobs noted for the first time that he moved with a slightly uneven gait.
“Anton …”
Bloch turned.
“Where were you during the Yom Kippur War?”
The stone face of Anton Bloch cracked into a rare grin. “I was an idiot Captain in the Signals Intelligence Division.”
Jacobs couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter, but as Bloch disappeared the Prime Minister of Israel sobered, focusing on the dossier that lay before him. He turned back to the front cover, to the photograph of David Slaton. He then began to read.
Poring through the record, Jacobs recalled from his infantry days the IDF sniper course, known informally by its contorted alias — Finishing School. The training regimen was brutal, but only later did the real test come. No one was a true graduate until they had made their first kill. To look through a gunsight at an unsuspecting human and have the coldness to pull the trigger. This was the true commencement of Finishing School. The more Jacobs read, the more he realized that David Slaton was indeed among the best. A pure killer, vacant any trace of hesitation or remorse. My God, he thought, can we really create such a person?
Chapter Nine
Inspector Chatham arrived at the Penzance station at eight that morning. His first sight on entering the building was the burly Chief of Penzance Police ushering a young woman with a tape recorder out of an office and toward the door. The man’s tone was brusque, Chatham thought, fully commensurate with his appearance.
“That’s all I can say now, miss,” Bickerstaff barked.
The woman offered a few well-practiced words of protest and indignation, only to have them cut off when the door shut in her face.
Bickerstaff sighed and leaned his bulk against the door, as if expecting the irksome woman to try shoving her way back in. He addressed the sergeant at the main desk, “No more of those, Patrick, or I’ll ’ave those stripes.”
The sergeant behind the desk waved his hand dismissively.
The police chief finally noticed Chatham. “Well, hello. You must be the Inspector from Scotland Yard I’ve been hearin’ about.”
“Does it show that badly?”
“You’re the only one come to see me this morning that didn’t have a camera in one hand and a notepad in the other.”
Chatham took the Chief’s outstretched hand and, not unexpectedly, endured a bonecrushing grip. “Inspector Nathan Chatham, Special Branch. Good to meet you. I arrived late last night.”
“You could have called me right off, Inspector. I’d have filled you in.”
“That’s quite all right. I suspect that finding this fellow may take some time. Rest can be our ally. We’ll march on steady and with a clear mind, while the enemy grows tired from maneuver. Let him make the mistakes, eh?”