“Then why not let him go and look for the real criminals?”
Chatham sighed with exasperation. “Quite simply, because I have no idea who they are.”
“Well they’re Israeli … traitors or something. That’s what David thinks and it makes sense.”
“Does it? Dr. Palmer, I know most of the people he’s gotten mixed up with were Mossad. We figured that much out days ago. But my government has asked Israel for an explanation of all this weapons business — at the highest levels, I might add. Do you know what we were told?”
“What?”
“That your Mr. Slaton is responsible for everything.”
“You don’t believe that,” Christine implored.
“No, I don’t. Which leads me to one of two possibilities. Either the government of Israel is lying about it, or they don’t know what’s going on any more than we do. Given the amount of heat they’re taking over this whole affair, I’d say the latter is the case. They’re as stumped as we are. And with the Greenwich Accord next week, I think they’ll do anything to finish this embarrassment as quickly as possible.”
“What do you mean by anything?” she asked guardedly.
Chatham leaned closer and tilted his head to one side, his long face awash in seriousness. “I’m looking for David Slaton because he’s the best lead I have. But I must add that I think he’d be safer in our hands than roaming across the world with a bull’s-eye on his back.”
Christine cringed, though Chatham was only reaffirming what she already suspected. She took a deep breath, held it, then let out a long sigh. “I can’t wait to get back to medicine. It’s so much easier.”
“And I don’t want to risk losing my Tuesday tarts this summer.”
“What?”
“If I don’t tend to my roses soon, Mrs. Nesbit will have nothing for her centerpiece come Easter Sunday. She’s very unforgiving about these sorts of things.”
Christine smiled and Chatham put a hand on her shoulder.
“Help me find him,” he pleaded. “The sooner we do that, the sooner we can all get back to our boring old lives.”
Chapter Sixteen
Slaton sat quietly in a dark corner of a subdued pub shortly after midnight. The mood in the place had been more raucous an hour ago, but England’s rugby team had lost a close one, to France no less. As soon as the match had ended, someone changed the channel on the television, and the bartender got busy pouring a round of consolation.
Slaton had chosen the pub simply to be lost in a crowd while he took a meal. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and wasn’t sure when another opportunity might arise. He wore a cap with a wide brim that largely concealed his face, and aside from two requisite visits from the waitress, he’d been largely ignored. The plate in front of him was empty now, the pint of beer half gone. He’d ordered the beer only because he otherwise would have been the only person in the place without one. Along the same lines, he felt obliged to drink it, taking no pleasure in the taste, nor the knowledge that his senses would be ever so slightly degraded. He took another swallow but stopped before finding the mug’s bottom, lest the barmaid have ideas about swinging by with a replacement.
Slaton found himself awash in thought. He was convinced that Christine was safe now, in part because he felt Chatham was competent and would keep his word. But Slaton was also increasingly sure that his reasoning was correct. Christine had become a target only because she might have compromised Polaris Venture’s location. Now that didn’t matter because the weapons had been salvaged. He still didn’t understand the rest, though. Wysinski’s words ricocheted through his mind again and again. The second weapon would shape the future of our country. What could that mean? And who was behind it all? There had been truth in Wysinski’s taunting. The shooter in Netanya … the man who killed Yosef … he will lead us there … he is leading us there.
But who? Had someone high in the Mossad sold out, or been blackmailed? Yet there were too many involved. Too many ex-soldiers who had bled for their country, too many well-screened Mossad officers. It didn’t add up.
“Here, turn that up mate,” someone barked.
Slaton watched the bartender raise the volume on the TV as a BBC late night newscast came on. Everyone knew what the top story would be. The crowd eased their grousing enough to listen. The bartender looked surprised. “Haven’t seen it like this since that Falklands business,” he grumbled, casting an eye at the screen himself.
Distant aerial footage showed the harbor in Eastbourne, while the anchorwoman danced around the news that there was no news. She reiterated the few known facts before the video gave way to Slaton’s own image. Actually there were two. Police sketches, far better than what had been in circulation. One showed him as he was, with a thickening beard, the other an estimate of what he’d look like without it. Inspector Chatham wasn’t wasting any time. Slaton imagined that a dozen sets of eyes at the bar should be going back and forth between the television and his table, but, in fact, no one even glanced his way. He heard a few mumblings about “bloody terrorists” this, and “IRA” that. Slaton suspected they might even get a picture soon, courtesy of his government. And his life would get that much harder.
Eventually the newscast moved on to a related story, that of the succession of government in Israel, a country that was, for the moment, on everyone’s shit list. The newly installed Israeli Prime Minister was speaking to a frantic gathering of the media. A man of medium height, Zak’s heavyset frame was masked behind a podium, and his nearly bald head shone under bright camera lights. Slaton had never met the man. Like most other Israelis, he’d only regarded Zak as a background fixture, standing behind Benjamin Jacobs’ right shoulder, smiling and nodding at all the appropriate times. Slaton knew the man was an ex-IDF officer himself — the public would never support a candidate who hadn’t done his service. Zak’s demeanor now began to reflect that past. There was a no-nonsense, almost imperious expression, and he seemed cool and at ease fielding the verbal grenades being hurled his way.
“Did Israel steal this weapon from the South Africans?” some imbecile asked.
“No!” Zak retorted.
“Will Israel ask for the device, now that it’s been dismantled?”
“We are presently consulting with the British government as to what would be the safest, most responsible disposition of the weapon.”
“Some suggest that the weapon was hijacked by an Arab country,” a female reporter said. “Do you think it might have been intended for use against Israel?”
“I cannot speculate. As you know, we are cooperating with the British authorities and Interpol to apprehend an Israeli citizen who we think is involved. We don’t know if he acted alone or in concert with others. But there is no evidence to suggest involvement by any of our Arab neighbors.”
The same female voice, “Will the Greenwich Accord still go forward Monday?”
Here, Zak took his time. “Peace has been a long time coming. After years, we have finally agreed with our adversaries to co-exist, to stop the insanity of violence that has plagued us for so long. The Greenwich Accord has been negotiated and ratified by our government. As long as our Arab neighbors continue along this same path of peace, I see no reason for us to not do the same. I will be in Greenwich next Monday to sign the Accord.”
Slaton felt a chill shoot down his spine. Something Zak had said. Something. He watched without listening. Zak’s thick forehead was gleaming, his blunt finger raised to make a point. As long as our Arab neighbors continue along this path—