“And?”
“Could be anything from a black Lamborghini to a Tripley Bread van.”
Chatham sighed. “What about Smythe?”
“She’s still trying to identify the car our man switched to, using those tire imprints you pointed out. Bickerstaff was curious as to what drew you to those particular tracks. He says there were tire marks all over the place, a lot of them closer to the abandoned BMW.”
Chatham shrugged, “A bit of logic, but mostly guesswork. All we have at the moment, I’m afraid. Smythe can probably identify the type of tire, but even then, they’re all so common nowadays. If we find the right car we’ll be able to match irregularities and prove where it’s been.”
“But first we have to find it,” Dark said, realizing they weren’t much beyond square one.
The telephone rang and Chatham wagged his long index finger in the air as he walked to pick it up. “This is what we need, I think.” He picked up the handset, “Chatham here.”
The conversation was a very one-sided affair. Chatham’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened as he listened. At the end, he dispensed a few pleasantries and set the phone gingerly back on its cradle, silently ordering his thoughts.
“What’s happened?” Dark asked.
The question broke Chatham’s trance. “It was the Assistant Commissioner, about the meeting we were supposed to have this afternoon with the Israelis. A few hours ago he arranged it with a fellow named Hiram Varkal.”
“Varkal? Who’s he?”
“It’s an ill-kept secret that he’s Mossad’s Chief of Station here in London. Or, at least he was. Just after noon he was killed in a shootout. It happened at a restaurant in Knightsbridge, a few blocks from the embassy. One other Israeli was killed and a third wounded.”
“Good Lord! They’re dropping faster than we can count.”
“Yes, and that’s not all. It seems today’s killer matches the description of our man quite nicely.”
“The media will go wild.”
“I think those were the Assistant Commissioner’s very words. This business has become the Yard’s top priority. The Commissioner himself has seen fit to name me as being in command of what is now a highly public investigation. I’ve authority to use any assets necessary to apprehend this fellow.”
The phone rang again, and Chatham motioned for Dark to pick it up. He did, and after exchanging a few words he held the phone to his chest.
“It’s Security down in the lobby. They say there’s a throng of reporters outside looking for you. It seems the word is out that you’ve been put in charge of a big investigation and they want a statement. Apparently they’re quite agitated.”
Chatham checked the time. “Of course they are. The deadline is fast approaching to get something onto the evening news. Tell them we’ll have a briefing in fifteen minutes.”
Dark relayed the message.
Chatham went to the rack and retrieved his great coat. “Our man-power problem has gone, Ian. Let’s call in the reserves. Get through to Inspector Grant, Homicide Division. He and his best five men will reopen the investigation of Yosef Meier’s death. Call Shearer back and tell him to find out who’s running Mossad affairs at the embassy now. I must see that person, tonight if possible. Get a half dozen people out to Penzance to help Smythe with anything she needs. Have forensics send …” Chatham snapped his fingers in the air, trying to remember the name, “Moore, yes, that’s it. Sharp lad. Have him meet me right away at the Lo Fan Restaurant in Knightsbridge. That’s where I’ll be if you need me.” Chatham strode to the door.
“But sir! You just scheduled a press briefing in fifteen minutes.”
“Right,” Chatham called over his shoulder. “And I’m sure you’ll do a cracking good job.”
They arrived in Southampton at 4:30, Slaton at the wheel as they made their way through City Centre. Ten minutes earlier he had pointed out a hotel called The Excelsior, but the car didn’t stop. They traveled two blocks away from the hotel, toward the waterfront, a blatantly mercantile trap anointed the Town Quay. From there, he circled back to The Excelsior, and eventually repeated the exercise from three different directions.
“Do we have to be that careful?” Christine asked as he finally pulled into a parking spot a block from the hotel.
“Just doing a little reconnaissance. It’s quicker than walking.” He shut off the engine, but left the keys in the ignition. “I’m going to see about a room. I’d like you to stay here. I’ll explain when I get back.”
She eyed him, “You’d better.”
Slaton checked in as Henrik Edmunson, the name taken from his Danish passport and the associated credit card. He requested, in poor English, a room facing the front street, explaining that he and his wife had stayed in a similar room at The Excelsior years ago while on their honeymoon. The clerk seemed troubled by the request, explaining that availability was minimal, but he eventually found an acceptable room at a ruinous price. Slaton made a show of flinching at the cost, but took the room anyway, a dutiful husband determined to show his wife that there was still some romance left in the old boy. Once registered, he went to the room, spent fifteen minutes inside, then headed back to the car.
Christine realized she was acquiring a number of disturbing new habits. She found herself watching men and women, even children on the sidewalks, trying to decide who might be paying her too much attention. She resisted an urge to move to the driver’s seat, not wanting to succumb to paranoia. She spotted David instantly as he rounded the corner. He climbed into the driver’s seat.
“All right,” he said, “there are two reasons for our being here. First, we need to let the world quietly pass us by for a day or two. We’ll read newspapers and watch the BBC to see just how much trouble we’re in.”
Christine moaned, never having been in trouble before on a national, newsworthy scale.
“Second, I can’t get to the bottom of all this without freedom of movement. I’ve got to be able to travel. The documents I’m using now were issued by Mossad. In theory, there were no records kept, so they shouldn’t be traceable to me.”
“But you think that’s not the case?”
“I think we need to find out. The people after me know I’m running. They know I need documentation and they’ll try to uncover it. Until now, the only thing I’ve used this identity for is the car. Knowing about it would help them, but only so far. It’s a moving target. Now I’ve used the credit card to check into a hotel.”
“So they might be able to find us here.”
“They won’t find us because we won’t be at The Excelsior.” He pulled out a wad of twenty-pounds notes and peeled off a dozen. “Here. There’s another hotel right across the street from The Excelsior. It’s called Humphrey Hall. Go there and get a room. It has to face The Excelsior and be on the second or third floor.”
“I can’t use my own name, can I?”
“No, just pick one you’ll remember, a friend’s name. Something you’ll recognize if a clerk calls as you’re passing by. You won’t have ID, but if they do ask, be reluctant, tell them you’ll have to go back to your car and get it. If they persist, tell them you’re going to get it, come straight back here and we’ll leave.”
Christine sighed. She felt like a student taking Espionage 101.
He continued, “Honestly, I don’t think ID will be a problem. I suspect it’s the kind of place that won’t ask much as long as you’re paying cash up front. It’s just best to think these things out ahead of time.”