“You might, but he’s also very good at what he does, Inspector Chatham.”
“Right, and since we have some time here, that would be a good place to start. What does he do?”
Christine thought about that. As far as she knew there was only one true answer, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it. He kills people, Inspector. He shoots them and kicks them in the face so hard that their necks break. She had to tell this policeman everything without condemning David. There had always been circumstances to support what he’d done, and she knew there was another side to him, another person within. One night she had seen that person, held him, even loved him. But there were two David Slatons, and the one that had just walked out onto the streets of London was the one she would probably never know or understand. Perhaps it was because of the ghosts, the demons that always tore into his dreams. In any event, Christine knew she had to do everything possible to help him. She would not let him fight the world alone. He’d been doing that for far too long.
“His name,” she began, “is David Slaton …”
Christine released Chatham after exactly two hours of captivity in his own living room. He made a lengthy phone call and, before the end of it, a large sedan pulled up directly in front of the house. When Chatham finally finished his call, he and Christine got into the car.
The inspector said nothing to the two men in front, but within minutes the driver had whisked them to a back gate at Scotland Yard. Through security checkpoints and a labyrinth of passages, the car deposited Christine and Chatham at an entrance, which posted no signs to guide the unfamiliar. There was simply a door, more security, and an unmarked elevator. They got on the elevator and, to Christine’s surprise, went down, mocking the huge multi-story structure that towered above them.
All the while, they kept in tow the two quiet, solidly built men who had been in the car. Christine found herself watching the bodyguards, studying them. Alert and expressionless, they never once seemed to look at her or Chatham. They were simply fixtures — silent, watchful and ever-present — and she realized that they reminded her of David. At any rate, Christine decided Chatham was keeping his word. The security men made her feel safe, notwithstanding the fact that she was now tucked away in the headquarters of one of the world’s preeminent police organizations.
Christine was ushered into a small, utilitarian room and told to wait. She tried to get comfortable, figuring it could be a long night.
By coincidence, the press releases were issued almost simultaneously. From Scotland Yard came word that a suspect had been identified in connection with the nuclear weapon in Eastbourne, indeed the same man who had been sought concerning shootings in Penzance and a West End restaurant. The American woman who had purportedly been abducted by that same man was now in police custody, and being questioned about her involvement. An excellent drawing of the man, courtesy of Nathan Chatham’s memory and the Yard’s best computer-aided sketch man, was issued with a request for the widest possible dissemination.
From Tel Aviv came a communiqué admitting that the weapon found in England was of South African origin, and had been hijacked while under transport to Israel for safekeeping. Three cleverly worded paragraphs managed to avoid placing any blame on the state of Israel. It also dodged, just as the British had, any mention of a second weapon. Both governments wanted to sidestep whatever panic that announcement might incur.
In a brief speech half an hour later, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Jacobs announced his resignation, citing tragic security lapses that had taken place under his watch. The failures had irretrievably undermined the support of his governing coalition. Ehud Zak was named as acting Prime Minister, until elections were held in two month’s time. Zak vowed to cooperate completely with the United Kingdom and all other nations to bring those “guilty persons or organizations” to justice.
CNN could barely keep up.
Chatham had allowed her to phone her mother. The call was brief, and the Inspector himself had listened to every word. In roughly a minute, Christine assured her mother that she was safe, and would be home soon. That conversation should have provided final relief for Christine, a confirmation that, for the first time in weeks, her own personal safety was not at question. Instead, she still felt uneasy and the reason was clear. David remained very much in danger. He was being hunted down by the world’s top police forces, not to mention a shadowy band of killers.
Nearing midnight, Christine was comfortably seated in the anteroom to Chatham’s office. At the hallway entrance she saw two big, familiar shoulders, one on each side of the door frame. Across the room, Chatham was barking instructions to a harried staff.
“Heathrow in particular, but don’t forget Gatwick, Stansted, and City. He’s got a head start, but not a big one. Containment! That’s the thing. Take those men off the tube and put them on National Rail, all the big stations. And the car. He’ll have to ditch that ridiculously conspicuous car. Check all the rental agencies, particularly the smaller ones. We must know about anyone trying to deal in cash …”
On and on Chatham went, and after a final verbal boot to their collective bottoms, a half dozen men and women scurried out of the office and dispersed down the halls. The inspector appeared and beckoned Christine into his office.
“Dr. Palmer, if you please.”
Christine went into Chatham’s office. It seemed a dark, haphazard place. The appointments were tasteful, though dated, and papers and files lay strewn about the place, with a big pile stacked loosely on the floor in one corner. The furniture looked comfortable but had to be fifty years old, judging by the worn fabric and scratched wood surfaces. Christine saw scant evidence of the twentieth century, let alone the twenty-first. There was a telephone at his desk, and a television and VCR sat on a wheeled cart. The digital clock on the VCR was insistently flashing 12:00 and, given that the stroke of midnight was approaching, would soon be correct for the second time today. The rest of the room’s furnishings had likely been in place for generations.
Chatham got straight to the point. “Tell me again how he purchased the car, the last one you were driving.”
“He said he bought it from a young kid,” Christine said.
“Do you know how he found it? An advertisement of some sort?”
Christine’s patience was spent. “Inspector Chatham, I’ve gone over this. I’ve answered all your questions. I want to help you as much as possible, but so far, everything I’ve heard leads me to the conclusion that you’re putting all your efforts into finding David. If you believed what we’ve told you, you’d be searching for the people who really hijacked Polaris Venture. They’re the ones who have a nuclear weapon.”
“Dr. Palmer, I understand your frustration, but your friend Mr. Slaton remains a very dangerous man. He’s proved it time and again.”
“David is not the danger here!” she said angrily. “You’re after someone who’s on your side while the real murderers are out there, maybe plotting to kill thousands of people.” Christine glared at the Scotland Yard man, ready to jump on any reply.
Chatham’s stony face broke and his lips curled into a grin. At that, Christine’s posture relaxed as well. Chatham walked over to the door and closed it quietly.
“I’m not accustomed to being second guessed in my own office,” he mused. “But then I wish more of my staff would force a good point when they have it. Most nod their heads without thinking.”
He took a seat next to her on a worn leather couch. Chatham spoke in a hushed tone, not that anyone would hear them beyond the solid oak door. “Let me start by saying that I believe you. I think David Slaton is not our biggest problem. In fact, he might well be out there trying to find that weapon, just as we are.”