“So where did you find this beauty?” she asked with a glance up at the ripped headliner. “Is it hot?”
He laughed, “You mean stolen? No, I bought her fair and square. Nine hundred pounds sterling.”
“The seller won. Who was he?”
“A young kid. Heroin addict, I think. Wanted to sell the car fast, probably for a quick fix. Once I offered cash, he signed it right over. I made a copy of the papers, then sent off the registration, but I neglected to sign at the bottom. Some clerk will see the mistake in a couple of days and send it back to an address that doesn’t exist. It will all take time, and for a few days we’ll have a beat-up car that’s been legitimately signed over to us.”
“Whose name is it in?”
“Yours.”
“Mine?” she exclaimed.
“Well, Carla Fluck’s.”
Christine smiled, and then from somewhere deep within a laugh emerged, followed by another and another. It was contagious and he succumbed until both were laughing uncontrollably. It felt good, and Christine realized that even through all their troubles, all the death and deception, there could still be laughter. There could still be life.
She sized him up.
“What?” he asked, clearly wondering what was on her mind.
“Oh, I’ve just never seen you laugh like that. I suppose I thought a person like you would always be … serious or something.”
“A person like me?” he said, his voice harsh. “A killer, you mean. That kind of person.”
“No, I didn’t mean—”
“Oh, yes, we’re serious. One has to be when all you do is go around killing people all day. But we do all the rest. We laugh, cry, feel pain, a whole spectrum of emotions.”
Christine fixed her gaze on the road ahead, not sure what to say. The ensuing silence was stifling.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I don’t know where that came from.”
“You don’t have to explain. I know how much pressure I feel like I’ve been under. I never stopped to think that you might—”
“Get ready to turn off!” he interrupted.
“What?” She noticed he was concentrating on the side mirror. Christine looked back and saw a pair of headlights in the distance behind them. A chill spiked down her back and her grip on the wheel tightened.
“Is someone following us?”
“Probably not.” The little Ford went around a curve and the head lights behind disappeared temporarily. “Turn! Turn there!” he said, pointing to a small gravel side road.
Christine braked quickly and swerved onto the road.
“Take it in another fifty feet, up next to those bushes. Kill the lights and put it in park.” Christine did as he instructed. “Make sure your foot’s off the brake pedal or else the brake lights will stay on.”
Christine moved her foot as far away as she could and they both sat in silence. A long ten seconds later the car whipped by behind them, showing no signs of slowing.
“Okay, turn us around and be ready to go.”
Christine extracted the car from the side road, did a three point turn, and backed into their hiding spot. They sat silently for nearly ten minutes, the little Ford’s feeble engine idling.
“All right,” he finally said, “we’re safe. Let’s press on.”
Christine let out a deep breath. “You haven’t told me where we’re going.”
“We’re going to put some distance between ourselves and The Excelsior. We still need to get lost for a day or two, and I think I know just the place.
Prime Minister Jacobs’ morning staff meeting ended at 10:00. He had tried to show interest in the daily crises briefed by his various Cabinet members and their underlings. More Katyusha rockets flinging in from the Lebanese border, a severe influenza outbreak in the primary schools, and the Americans again. This time their Senate had tied up an international aid bill, threatening the start of the new Hadera desalination project. In spite of his efforts, Jacobs’ distraction was evident to all. When the meeting finally dragged to a close, the staffers were asked to leave, while Cabinet Ministers remained. General Gabriel and Ehud Zak looked worried. Sonya Franks and Ariel Steiner eyed one another contemptuously.
Jacobs got things going. “What’s the latest, Anton?”
The creases in Bloch’s brow seemed to have attained a permanent etch. “We found the ELTs. But not Polaris Venture.”
“What does that mean?” Steiner pounced.
“The ELTs were exactly where we expected to find them. Only they weren’t in the wrecked hull of a ship. They were simply lying next to each other on the ocean floor.”
It was a result no one had predicted, and silence prevailed as the group digested the information.
General Gabriel said, “So the ship might have been hijacked, and whoever did it threw these things into the ocean to throw us off?”
“Maybe,” Bloch said. “All we can say for sure is that somebody’s trying to confuse us. The question is, why?”
Jacobs forced hope into his voice, “Polaris Venture is a big ship, Anton. Surely if she’s still sailing around somebody will spot her soon.”
“Yes, I’ve already sent out a message to watch for her. And our satellite people are going to give all the Arab ports a good look over the next few days.”
“A few days might be too late,” Steiner suggested.
Franks said, “I have to agree. Isn’t there something else we can do?”
Jacobs was stung by the rebuke from one of his closest allies. He sensed the political sands shifting.
“There’s more,” Bloch said. “I sent a flash message yesterday, about our London Chief of Station being killed in a gun battle.”
“I know Anton, I saw it. It’s an awful thing. We’ll do what we can to solve that when the time comes, but for now we have to concentrate on Polaris Venture.”
“This is about Polaris Venture. This morning I talked to London. It seems our people got a good look at the assailant.”
“You don’t mean —” General Gabriel started.
“I’m afraid so. It was David Slaton.”
Jacobs felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. “God Almighty,” he said.
“What’s going on, Anton?” Zak demanded. “One of your people sabotages our most delicate operation in years, then runs off and starts killing his co-workers?”
Bloch said, “We don’t know that he was responsible for hijacking or sinking Polaris Venture. And we don’t know why he’s been on a tear through England.”
Zak showed a rare glimpse of impatience, “You can’t justify what he’s done now, Anton. This man is a menace.”
Franks said, “I agree. He’s turned against us, for whatever reason. We don’t know what happened to that ship, but we know he was involved somehow. And there seems to be no doubt he’s responsible for decimating our London station.”
The room fell quiet. Political allies exchanged knowing glances, adversaries glared at one another. All waited for Jacobs to speak.
The Prime Minister stared at the table in front of him. Bloch had explained the tragedy in Netanya. Had Slaton gone off the deep end? Jacobs decided it didn’t matter. Not now.
“Anton,” he said, “is there anything you can tell me in Slaton’s defense?”
Bloch’s pause was brief. “No.”
An ocean of grim faces descended on Jacobs.
“Then you know what has to be done.”
“I’ll issue the order,” Bloch said.
By noon, Nathan Chatham’s patience was running thin. He had spent the entire night in his office, and though he’d directed two cots to be set up in a side room, so far his own was unused. The room was abuzz with people scurrying in and out, most of them leaving a paper or two on Chatham’s desk. He quickly scanned each and directed it to one of two places — a growing manila folder on his desk, or the trash can on the floor next to it.