Finally, Jacobs’ office grew quiet. The heavy mahogany doors flew open and a stream of the most powerful men and women in Israel filed out. Some looked at Bloch contemptuously as they exited, while others ignored him, more rushed and purposeful. The last few out simply looked defeated. Jacobs did not emerge.
Bloch got up and started into the office. He momentarily wondered if Moira would announce his entrance, but she stayed locked to her work. Passing her desk, Bloch got a good look and saw that her eyes were glistening. Moira knew what was happening, but she was doing her best to keep up a front. It was her way of dealing with it.
Jacobs was alone in the room, seated at his desk but facing away, toward the window behind. Bloch could only see the back of his head.
“Well?” he said, announcing his presence. “How did it go?”
Jacobs didn’t say anything for a moment, then slowly eased his chair around. He looked thoughtful and subdued. When he finally spoke, he did so slowly, as if making a conscious effort to shift gears from the free-for-all that had just ended. “Badly, Anton. Badly.”
Jacobs stood. He looked weary and his shoulders sagged. “We’ve sent word to the British ambassador here, admitting we lost the weapon that turned up in Eastbourne. We also admitted that there’s a second one loose. I suspect we’ll look for it together, quietly for now. But if we don’t find it soon, Anton, I’m afraid word’s going to get out.”
“We’ll find it,” Bloch said, more with hope than conviction.
“I’ll be making a speech tonight. I have to acknowledge Israel’s part in this whole affair. It will also contain my statement of resignation.”
“Resignation? You’re kidding!”
Jacobs shrugged. “There’s really no other way.”
“There has to be! Say it was a Mossad screw up. I’ll take the blame.”
The Prime Minister came around the desk and put a hand on Bloch’s shoulder. “I appreciate your loyalty Anton, but we can’t get out of this so easily. A lot of people know that I approved the mission right from the start, and some of those people don’t like me or my party.”
“Fight them!”
“I did. I fought for all I was worth, but it was no use. It all comes down to support, numbers. There were too many against me.”
“Politics,” Bloch spat.
“Politics, my friend. That’s what got me here, and that’s how it ends.” Jacobs struck a fist into his open palm. “Damn! If I only could have held it together. There were so many things in the works, things I cared about.”
“Who will take over?” Bloch asked.
Jacobs laughed. “You should have seen them. The posturing, the threats, the blatant dealmaking. I’d say Steiner, or maybe Feldman. Whoever can scheme up the right coalition. For now, Zak will run things until a special election can be arranged.”
“Zak? He was briefed on everything right from the start. Isn’t he as dirty as the rest of us?”
“Of course, but somebody has to run the country for a couple of months, Anton. Zak’s a Knesset member, and since he’s always been in my shadow, he hasn’t stepped on many toes yet. To tell the truth, I think the others see him as the least ambitious of the bunch. He agreed to not be part of the next government. And we’ll erase his name from any records that might have put him at the meetings.”
“Whose idea was that?” Bloch asked.
“It was mine. We have to insulate him.”
“What about Greenwich on Monday? Will this threaten the Accord?”
“A few of the Arab countries will raise a predictable fuss, but we’ll confess our sins carefully. At worst we’ll look careless, but there’s no new strategic ground. We’ve been nuclear capable for decades. No, the Accord will go forward. I’m sure of it.”
“That’s your peace agreement! You spent an entire year battling for it. You have every right to be the one who signs it and finishes the deal.”
“No,” Jacobs said, “this has to be done right away. Once I’ve taken responsibility for this mess, there’s nowhere for me to go but out. I can’t linger for a few days for something like that. My resignation will take effect at midnight. Zak will go to Greenwich and sign the Accord.”
Bloch had never been more frustrated in his life. Again and again he tried to figure it out. How had the weapons been taken? How did one end up in England? And above all else, why? He’d give anything to talk to David Slaton for sixty seconds.
“And Anton,” Jacobs added awkwardly, “I’m afraid you’ll be going down with me.”
Bloch nodded. “I expected as much. You’ll have my letter in the morning.”
Jacobs went to a small cabinet where a bottle of brandy was waiting, a prepositioned salve. He held out a glass, inviting Bloch to join him.
An agitated Bloch shook his head. “No. Maybe tomorrow, but not now.”
Jacobs poured a stout bracer, snapped his head back and downed it in one motion.
Bloch headed for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“There’s still one weapon out there, and I want to find it. I hate being made the fool!”
It was the kind of evening Nathan Chatham enjoyed, cool and clear. Living a mile and a half from the Yard, he generally eschewed the clunky old conglomeration of iron that passed for his automobile. He always felt that a crisp walk helped to clear his thoughts, thoughts so regularly muddled amid the daily scramble of people and information. Today had been particularly hectic, and he’d gotten no sleep the night before. Exhausted, Chatham had explained to Ian Dark that he’d be going home for dinner, a nap and, most critically, a few hours of quiet in which to think things through. He’d be back at the office by midnight.
Chatham walked at his typical brisk pace so as to take advantage of the cardiovascular benefits. No need then for a time-consuming exercise program. It also had the advantage of getting him home a few minutes sooner.
He reached the brownstone row where he’d made his home for the last twenty-one years. His particular dwelling was over two hundred years old, built for a sea captain, or so the property agent had told him. It was solid and well-maintained, two stories squeezed narrowly into a row of similar homes that ran the length of the street. Lately the address had become fashionable and, one by one, widows and pensioners were giving way to the nouveau riche, young advertising and financial princes who parked Italian cars in the street and spruced their housefronts in the most god-awful colors. Chatham didn’t mind much. They were loud at times, but the walls between the homes were a full one meter thick and he had no trouble getting his sleep. (Neighborhood legend had it that even Hitler’s V-2s had gotten no satisfaction here, one having bounced off the backside of a house to make a large crater in a resident’s backyard. Old timers swore the defiant owner had filled the gaping hole with water and used it for many years thereafter as a duck pond, though Chatham had never seen evidence of it.) His only complaint was on Sundays, the day he liked to work in his garden. Occasionally the parties at nearby properties got out of hand, disturbing Chatham’s cherished day of peace and reconstitution. It was during these instances that the Chief Inspector from Scot-land Yard had no hesitation in putting his rank and position to good use.
He spent a few minutes chatting up Mrs. Nesbit, who was sweeping her porch two doors down. A great hater of the “bloody tele,” she was probably the only person on the block who hadn’t seen the evening news, and thus had no idea what Chatham had been up against all day. He found it a pleasant diversion to hear the neighborhood gossip — Number 20 at the end of the street had been sold to a speculator, and Mr. Wooley’s gall bladder operation had ended favorably.