“What else?”
“There’s another weapon out there somewhere. I want your military to start monitoring the area we’ve identified. Right away, in case the salvage hasn’t been completed.”
“Those forces are not under my command, of course, but I can probably convince the right people that this bears looking into. Anything else?”
“Yes. I want your word that you’ll give Christine protection, just in case I’ve gotten it all wrong. Tight protection. Not just a hotel room or a cell in some minimum security area.”
“I’ll see to it. You have my word.”
“Good. That’s it then.” Slaton went over to the modest dining area and grabbed a wooden chair from the table.
Chatham tried to guess what he was up to, figuring it out when he saw the Israeli pull out a big roll of duct tape. “Is that really—”
“Necessary? Well, let’s see. If I asked you to sit still after I leave and not call in my whereabouts for two hours, would you?”
“No.”
“Then it’s necessary.”
Slaton shoved the chair back against a banister at the bottom of the narrow staircase. He gestured for Chatham take the seat, and he did so reluctantly.
The thought of trying to overpower the Israeli entered Chatham’s mind. But it exited just as quickly. He had watched the man closely. For the most part he’d been pleasant and businesslike. But to the trained eye there was more. The way he moved, so efficient, with no wasted motion. The way his eyes registered every movement. And when Mrs. Nesbit had come to the door. He knew she was there before anyone, even before she’d knocked. No, Chatham thought, there was a fine line between bravery and foolishness, and he knew of at least a half dozen men in the last week who had made the wrong choice with this one.
Slaton secured him to the chair with duct tape. Then, for good measure, he connected the chair to the heavy wooden banister.
“I’m not going to worry that you might shout. I don’t think your neighbors could hear you through these walls anyway, but if you do try, I’ve instructed Christine to tune your stereo to the most annoying heavy-metal radio station available and then set the volume on maximum.”
“That,” Chatham deadpanned, “could lead to criminal charges for her after all.”
Christine watched tensely as Slaton secured the Scotland Yard man. She realized that in minutes they’d be parting ways for the second time in a week. The last time, he’d been rowing himself ashore, and Christine had hoped to never see him again. This time it was very different. The thought stuck stubbornly in her mind.
When he was done, he handed her a pair of scissors. “Two hours, no less.”
She nodded. “I need to talk to you, David.”
He looked up, scouted the room, and pointed to the kitchen. They retreated beyond Chatham’s watchful eyes.
“What is it?” he asked in a hushed tone.
“You don’t know?”
He looked at her directly, something he had seemed to avoid since they’d left Eastbourne. Christine felt a glimmer of hope.
“Look,” he said, “I know what you’re thinking. But things can’t happen that way.”
“What way?”
“The way they were yesterday, and …”
“And that night?” she said. “Why not? What was so wrong with it?” She could see him withdraw, his gaze fading to obscurity. Christine wanted to rescue him once and for all. “David, they can protect you as well as they can me. I like Inspector Chatham. I think he believes us. Stay. Get out of this life you’re so immersed in. It rules everything you do. You can’t eat, sleep, walk, or talk without worrying about who’s chasing you or who you should be chasing. You’re not even capable of love if—”
“No!” he said loudly. “I—” he lowered his tone to a harsh whisper, “I had a wife and child once, and they were ripped from my life!”
“Oh!” Christine spat back, “So you’re just going to spend the rest of your life destroying others to make up for it! That makes sense. You don’t even know who was responsible for what happened back then.”
“I can find out now!”
Christine watched him turn away and storm to the back door. There, peering out the window, he performed reconnaissance on a well-tended garden and the wall that surrounded it. That was how they’d gotten in, and that was how he’d leave.
“David, two nights ago I thought I finally knew you. I thought I saw the person you really are. But now these demons are back. Whatever it is, walk away! Stay here with me and we can both stop running!”
“You don’t understand.”
“No, you’re right. I don’t!” she yelled, not caring if Chatham heard. “I don’t understand what you’re doing, where you’re going, or what you’re thinking. For a short time I thought I did, but I was obviously wrong.”
They squared off and glared at one another, both unyielding. Slaton finally broke the stalemate. He brushed by her and went for a last check of their captive. Apparently satisfied Chatham wasn’t going anywhere, he walked right past her again and started out the back door.
She watched him, speechless, not believing he could leave it at that. But at the threshold he stopped. He spoke without looking at her, “All that I’ve brought on — I hope none of it has hurt you.”
“Only one thing,” she said quietly.
He didn’t move for a moment, as he stood staring out the half-open door. Then he was gone.
Christine folded her arms tightly and tried to hold her composure. She took a few deep breaths before returning to the adjoining room, where an inspector from Scotland Yard sat calmly taped to his dining room chair.
Chatham eyed her.
“Is it really true that you found him in the ocean? You’ve never seen him before that?”
Arms still folded, her hands clutched at her sleeves. “Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Well, the way the two of you interact. I’d suspect you might have known one another longer.”
She turned away briefly, not wanting him to gauge her reaction. When she turned back, Chatham made a show of inspecting the bindings that held him to the chair.
“I don’t suppose I could talk you into cutting me out of this predicament?”
She shook her head.
“No. No, I really didn’t think so.”
She sat gingerly on the stairs beside him.
“You look tired. Been a tough week, has it?”
She nodded.
“I can help him.”
Christine studied the inspector, “How?”
“I don’t know yet, honestly. But I’ve a great deal of manpower at my disposal.”
“He’s just a terrorist to you. Perhaps the most dangerous one ever, if you believe what’s in the press.”
“The press,” Chatham scoffed. “I believe only what I can verify. You and that fellow say you’re the victims here. Surprisingly, I have an urge to believe you. However, I must support that urge with evidence.” Chatham softened his tone, “I will find him. Hopefully before anything more happens. But in order to do that, I must know who he is, what he’s going to do next.”
“Who he is?” Christine hunched forward, bringing her knees to her chest. “I don’t think he even knows that. What could I tell you?”
“Anything. Everything. Tell me he’s six-foot-one, a hundred eighty pounds, with a round scar on the back of his left hand, and two small moles on the back of his neck at the collar. Tell me he’s got a scruffy beard with some recent scarring underneath, probably a result of the exposure at sea. His English is good, but the accent is continental. He seems well-educated, perhaps proficient in other languages. He also favors his left arm as though it’s been injured recently.”
“You’re very observant, Inspector.”
“I’ve been at this a long time. I repeat, I will find him.”