“Oh, and there is one other thing,” Shearer added far too casually.
“What?”
“This weapon, it seems, is resting on some type of wooden cradle. There also happens to be a second cradle next to it.”
Chatham cringed, “And the second cradle is …”
“Quite empty.”
The first press release came at 4:10 p.m., London time. Thin on details, it insisted that the situation was under control. The yacht and its cargo were now almost a hundred miles out to sea, and firmly surrounded by a flotilla of Royal Navy warships that essentially blockaded the area.
By nightfall, no less than four thousand people had surrounded the harbor in Eastbourne, all wanting to see where the doomsday boat had been docked that morning. A far greater number had taken flight, leaving the city by car, train, and even bicycle, oblivious to the fact that the weapon was far out to sea.
Over the course of the evening there were no fewer than seven briefings by various government agencies. A weather expert from the Met Office gave assurances that, even if the weapon should go off in its present position, the upper level winds would drive any harmful effects southward, out to open sea. The man stood in front of a large map which displayed (those with true knowledge might say exaggerated) the distance of the threat offshore. The Prime Minister himself even made a plea for calm, just in time for the evening news broadcast. All repeated two main themes — the situation was well in hand, and those responsible would be held to account. None mentioned the possibility of a second weapon.
Slaton drove fast, pressing well over the speed limit in the rattletrap little Ford. Christine was unnerved. He was taking chances like never before. Even worse was his demeanor. Something had changed back in East-bourne. Earlier this morning he’d been calm and chatty, almost casual. Then he’d gone to look for Wysinski. When she picked him up at the designated spot three hours ago, he was a different person, restrained and alert, clearly on edge. And this time she had collected him soaking wet, with a few new contusions and a gash on one arm. From the rendezvous, they’d driven north, keeping to back roads, and he’d hardly said a word.
“Are you going to tell me what happened?” Her request met silence. “Where are we going?”
Slaton’s eyes were riveted to the winding road ahead, probably a good thing given the speed at which they were traveling. She leaned forward to be sure she was in his field of view and stared at him.
“Circumstances have changed,” he said abruptly.
“How?”
“I don’t think you’re in danger any longer.”
“The way you’re driving, I am!”
He ignored her critique. “I’m convinced the reason they went after you was because you might have blown their whole operation. You knew where you picked me up, and so you might have known where to look for Polaris Venture.”
“That makes sense, I guess, but now you’re saying I’m no longer in danger. What’s different? Polaris Venture hasn’t gone anywhere.”
“No. But her cargo has.”
“The weapons?”
Slaton nodded.
“How do you know that?”
“Because I saw one of them this morning. It was on a big cruiser, in the harbor at Eastbourne.”
Christine jerked back in her seat. “You’re telling me there’s a nuclear weapon sitting on a boat back there? In the middle of a good sized city? Could … could it …”
“Detonate? Wouldn’t make sense to me,” he said doubtfully. “East-bourne’s not much of a target. But I really have no idea what it’s doing there.”
“What about the other one?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. They might only have salvaged one. But the point is that one of the weapons is there. The salvage has taken place, so you’re off the hook.”
Christine supposed he was trying to offer relief, but instead she felt bleak and hollow. The cat and mouse game they’d been playing was now much more encompassing, no longer simply the two of them scurrying from a few madmen. The lives of thousands could be at stake.
“So why are we in such a hurry?” she asked.
“Because along with the weapon there were three men on that boat. At least two are dead, and the police got a good look at me.”
Christine didn’t even flinch. A mild numbness set in and she wondered if she could be getting used to such things. Perhaps this was how he always stayed so calm — a series of psychological jolts that gradually, indelibly wore you down until there was nothing left. How much must David have seen in so many years of undeclared warfare? How much could he take? How much could anyone take?
She watched him concentrating on the road ahead and behind, summing up all the sights, sounds, and smells; categorizing everything as friend, foe, or neutral. Last night he had been a warm, caring man. Now he was altogether different. She saw a volatile fury seething within him that she didn’t understand. Even more, for the first time since she’d pulled him from the ocean, she was frightened. Not for her own well being, but for his. Something was terribly wrong.
“David, are you all right?”
The softness of her voice captured his attention. At last, the man she had known last night reappeared. He eased off the accelerator and put a hand to her cheek. “We’re going to get you safe now.”
“How?”
Slaton told her. When he finished, she thought about the plan. It made sense and she could hardly argue against it.
“What about you? What are you going to do?” she asked.
The car accelerated and Slaton was again lost to the task at hand. He never answered, and Christine was left wishing she had never asked.
Anton Bloch shifted uncomfortably in his seat outside Prime Minister Jacobs’ office. He’d been there for nearly an hour, waiting patiently while shouts reverberated behind the two thick wooden doors. He looked at Moira who was, as always, implacable. She sat typing on her computer, as if unaware that the future of their country was being decided in the next room. Bloch had tried to catch her eye once or twice, but her professionalism was unyielding, and she kept tied to her task.
The news about one of the weapons turning up in England had hit three hours ago. The Brits tried to make the communiqué as diplomatic as possible, but the magnitude of the event transcended what little conciliatory language the Foreign Office could include. Great Britain strongly suspected Israeli involvement in the matter of a nuclear weapon turning up on their doorstep, and they demanded an explanation. The fact that the weapon had been dragged out to sea, and was no immediate danger to anyone, save the sailors who watched over it, carried little comfort. A multimedia feeding frenzy had begun. The world wanted answers.
In Tel Aviv, the news hit particularly hard among those who knew the details of the “Polaris Venture fiasco.” For those in power the story ran wild, a fire driven by hurricane winds and jumping the feeble breaks that were security clearances and chains of command. Now the true elite, the Knesset leaders and coalition makers, all knew the facts, and they realized it was only a matter of time before the whole thing would land with a crunch at Israel’s diplomatic feet. A political bloodletting of the highest order was under way in Jacobs’ office, and Anton Bloch sat quietly, impotently on the sidelines, knowing he was as much to blame as anyone.
Bloch tried to imagine what was happening in England. Slaton and Wysinski had gone to South Africa together to load the weapons, then they had split up. Now both of them, and one of the weapons, turn up in a quiet English harbor. Viktor Wysinski and two other Mossad men, dead. David Slaton the killer. Again. And God only knew where the other nuke was. It all made Bloch reel.