“Hello,” she said breathlessly.
“Hello, beautiful.”
She stood straight and lost her grip on the bag, which fell to the couch, a half dozen oranges spilling out and thudding to the floor. There was no mistaking the voice or the greeting.
“Where the hell are you, David?”
“I’ll bet that’s the million dollar question around the office, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be cute, dammit.” Recovering, Emma saw the door was still wide open. “Hold on a minute.” She went over and closed it, then picked back up. “Do you know what’s going on?”
“No, Emma. You’re the source. I called to find out.”
“They’re saying you killed Varkal … and Freidlund and Streissan. Itzaak Simon’s still in the hospital.” Emma waited for a response, but only got silence. “David, tell me you didn’t do these things.”
“I didn’t kill Varkal,” he said flatly.
“And the rest?”
“The rest I did, but only in self-defense. I had no choice, Emma. There is a group of traitors inside. I don’t know how many, but they’re on the verge of something really terrible.”
“I saw an ops order today that was really terrible. Basically, it instructed the entire station to drop everything and look for you. They want to bring you in, David, one way … or the other. I’ve seen a lot of orders, but I’ve never seen one like that.”
“I have,” Slaton replied. “But they’re pretty unusual. And this one’s a mistake.”
“You mean it’s a bogus message?”
“No, darling, it’s a legitimate message. But the reasons behind it are all skewed. I don’t have time to explain now, but I can tell you that the people behind it are the same ones who killed Yosy.”
Emma was dumbstruck. “Killed Yosy? You mean as in murdered him? It was an accident, David.”
“Trust me. I know about things like that. It wasn’t an accident.” He paused, as if letting it sink in. “Emma, I need your help. I know I’m putting you in a bad spot, but I’m asking you to trust me and not—”
“What do you need?”
“Emma, understand, I could get you in trouble here.”
“I expect trouble from you, you scoundrel. Now what do you need?”
“We have to be quick,” Slaton said.
Emma realized what he was suggesting — that her phone might be recorded, or even live-monitored. “Go on.”
“See if you can find out where a guy named Viktor Wysinski is. You’ve probably never heard the name, he’s a headquarters puke. But I really need to find him. I’ll call you back tomorrow at—”
“Eastbourne.”
“What?”
“He’s in Eastbourne, at the Harbor Hotel.”
“Dear, you’ve always been a model of efficiency, but how on earth could you know that?”
“Alpha roster. One went across the acting Chief of Station’s desk yesterday and I got a peek at it. I guess he wanted to find out exactly who we had in country, probably so they could all go out and look for you.”
“Wonderful.”
Emma explained, “This guy Wysinski was the only one listed as being in the U.K., but not checked in here at the embassy. I remember things like that.”
“You always amaze me.”
“That’s why you love me so, you and …” Emma felt tears well up in her eyes. “Do you really think somebody did that to Yosef?”
“I’m afraid so, Emma. Listen, I’m sorry to mix you up in this. I’d better go now.”
“All right. Be careful.”
“You do the same.”
“And call me if you need anything else. You know how good I am.”
“You’re the best, beautiful. The best.”
It had been frustrating to wait all day for Emma to get home from the office, but Slaton had seen no other way. Calling her at the embassy would have been far too risky. Since then, things had gone well. He and Christine made good time from Devon, pulling into Eastbourne shortly after midnight. With little chance of spotting Wysinski at that hour, they found a secluded spot to park and struggled for some shut-eye. The previous night at the beach already seemed like a lifetime ago.
Slaton was always cautious, but his instincts told him to be particularly aware now. An hour before sunrise, he sent Christine off with instructions. She’d run a few errands when the shops opened, then, much as they’d done at Belgrave Square in London, she would drive the car periodically by a designated rendezvous point.
It began perfectly. Slaton spotted Wysinski soon after setting up watch, headed toward Dunn’s Harbor Hotel from the direction of the harbor. He granted the stocky ex-commando a wide berth. Slaton would rather lose sight and pick him up later than be spotted. Wysinski turned into the lobby of the hotel and disappeared into an elevator. He seemed both casual and alone, characteristics that Slaton found troubling.
Slaton set up camp at a café down the street, well clear of the hotel entrance, but near enough to monitor the traffic going in and out. It was two hours before he picked up Wysinski again, this time leaving the hotel and heading back to the waterfront. Having already settled his check, Slaton waited for Wysinski to pass, then took up pursuit.
The sun had made intermittent appearances over the course of the morning, but dark skies to the north made for an easy forecast. Wysinski marched at a brisk pace into the ocean breeze, his thick legs churning near double-time. Minutes later he reached the waterfront and trundled down one of the five long piers that jutted into the harbor.
Slaton turned aside, wandering the path that arced along the harbor’s perimeter, all the time keeping an eye on his quarry. Wysinski stopped at a slip halfway down the pier, boarded a big motor yacht, and disappeared into its cabin. Since he wasn’t carrying any baggage, Slaton doubted the man was going anywhere. Wysinski had also ignored the use of tradecraft on his walk to the harbor — no double-backs, quick turns, or slowdowns. Just a casual stroll that Slaton disliked.
The harbor was quiet. It was the wrong time of year to begin with, and the impending dismal weather acted as a final blow to curtail the waterfront’s more casual pursuits. The small rental sailboats were chained together. The trinket vendor’s carts were all shoved aside in a line and locked down. A few boat owners scrubbed and fiddled with their prize possessions, and a handful of the scrappier merchants were open for business, probably more out of habit than anything else.
Slaton scouted for a position that would give an unobstructed view of Wysinski’s boat. He selected an empty bench, adjacent to a kiosk whose optimistic owner hoped to sell T-shirts with pictures of waterbirds on them. Slaton unfurled the newspaper he’d been carrying all morning and settled in. Patience was demanding, but more so now as Slaton remembered the last time he’d seen Wysinski, on Pier Three in Cape Town. He had given Slaton a “see-you-later” nod as Polaris Venture pulled away from the dock — with full knowledge that the ship and her crew were doomed by the explosives he had so meticulously planted. Very simply, the man had tried to kill him. And Slaton knew Wysinski was associated with whoever had killed Yosy. He felt anger and hatred, just as he had for so many years, only now the source was different. Yet as strong as these feelings might be, Slaton knew how to push them aside. The kidon remained calm, for there was much to be done.
He looked across the harbor, registering all pertinent details. The roads that led to and from the waterfront, the maze of buildings and structures that sheltered people and channeled traffic. He checked lines of sight and noted those vantage points that would have a clear view of Wysinski’s boat. Slaton studied the few people who were out, recording where they were and what they were doing. One man had a dismantled rudder up on a dock, applying a coat of red bottom paint. Another was installing some kind of antenna on a cruiser. A bored waiter at an empty café stood folding napkins, probably hoping for a break in the weather that might draw out a healthy crowd for lunch. Then he saw a young girl, probably no more than seventeen or eighteen. She was smiling as she tended the row of flower boxes that fronted the café. There was an open, genuine look of content about her, and Slaton imagined that, by innocence of youth, she was enamored with what her work would bring. In time, the boxes would explode with color, contributing to spats ended, weddings enhanced, or — best of all — the simple, romantic beauty of a lone magnificent flower, a gift from one lover to another. Seventeen, the kidon thought. Seventeen years old.