Slaton sat transfixed. It didn’t happen instantly, but was instead a slow, simmering path to recognition. He relived the past weeks and put everything in a new light, trying in vain to disprove the sick idea that was making more and more sense with every moment. Each old piece fell perfectly into the new mold, all along so obvious, yet so insane. He’d had it all wrong. For twenty years. The man who had Yosef killed … the shooter in Netanya … he will lead us there … he is leading us there!
Slaton finally understood. For twenty years he had been fighting the wrong enemy, exorcising the wrong demons. There were so many implications. The second weapon would be used, but how and where? Slaton couldn’t think about it. All he could do now was stare at the television until Zak’s picture finally disappeared. The newscaster began talking again, and over her shoulder was a photograph of the National Observatory at Greenwich. Through all the emotions, the hatred and confusion, one thing became clear. Crystal clear. Slaton battled to regain control as the waitress strolled up and took his empty plate.
“Anything else, luv?”
“No, nuttin’,” he managed.
The waitress left a check on the table. When she returned five minutes later, the man in the corner booth was gone and his mug finally empty. She found enough money on the table to cover the tab, and an extra pound for her own troubles. The usual.
“We’ve found the car, Inspector,” Ian Dark said, rushing into the Scotland Yard cafeteria.
Chatham immediately put down the knife and fork he’d been using to saw through a particularly tough steak, then ran a napkin across his mouth and bushy mustache. “Where?”
“The Barcomb Insurance building. It’s …” Dark hesitated as Chatham closed his eyes dejectedly.
“Straight across the street from this building,” Chatham finished. “How long ago?”
“Twenty minutes. One of our special teams found it. They were going through the big parking garages, just as you instructed.”
Chatham shoved aside the daily special with few regrets. “Tube, rail, car,” he murmured rhetorically, “how will you move now my friend?”
“Shall I concentrate our forces?” Dark suggested.
Chatham frowned, “I’m worried this might be a diversion, but yes, there’s really nothing else to do. Keep up surveillance of the major transportation centers, but get everyone else over here. Start with a two-mile radius, then work outward. Talk to every cab and bus driver who’s been through for the past …” he glanced at the wall clock, “four hours. Question the ticket agents at all the nearby tube stations. And car hire agencies, check them all. Also, see if there were any security cameras in that parking garage.”
Chatham set off briskly toward the elevator. “The Israelis promised us a photograph. See if it’s come in yet. That drawing is good, but nothing like a current photo.”
As they waited for the elevator, Dark pulled out his cell phone and began punching buttons. By the time the elevator call light had extinguished, Chatham had his answer.
“The picture came in ten minutes ago. They’re reproducing as we speak, and it should be out to the field within an hour.”
“Capital,” Chatham said distractedly. He looked at the little device in Dark’s hand, grudgingly accepting its utility. “Perhaps I should learn to use one of those after all.”
Dark smiled at the small victory. “Really nothing to them, Inspector,” he said, holding it up. “Anyone can learn how.”
Chatham eyed it with suspicion as he reached out and punched a button on the elevator. The moment was ruined by the elevator’s fire alarm bell. Scotland Yard’s top detective glared furiously at the illuminated red button on the control panel, the one he had just pushed.
“Blast!”
Slaton stood at a bus stop where no bus was due to arrive for over an hour. Earlier, a kindly old passerby had brought the matter to his attention, but Slaton simply thanked the man, explaining that he didn’t mind having to wait on such a lovely morning. The old man had looked up at a solid overcast, shrugged, and gone on his way.
In fact, Slaton had seen two buses come and go. The reason for his loitering had nothing to do with them. Adjacent to the bus stop, behind a chain link fence, lay his true objective — the loading dock for the New Covent Garden Market, the biggest and busiest produce market in London. Slaton had spent the morning watching the operation. Big lorries brought in huge loads from the ships in port. There were bananas from Panama, oranges from Spain, and Haitian sugar. Intermixed with the big trucks were smaller versions that came from across England, and a few from the continent. These brought their own cargo, moderate in quantity and even more limited in range — beets, potatoes, broad beans, and onions — the narrow range of tubers, leeks, and vegetables that comprised the bulk of agricultural production in Northern Europe.
Slaton had already culled his search to these smaller trucks, which were mostly from family farms, engaged in bringing the fall harvest to market. Conveniently, the sidewalls and doors of these vehicles were often stenciled with the names and locations of the farms they serviced.
He’d been watching for nearly three hours when his patience was finally rewarded. An ideal prospect rumbled into the yard, a boxy red contraption that advertised Smitherton Farms and Dairy, Thrapston, Northamptonshire. It was the first to meet all his requirements. Not just an open air crate, this truck’s bed was completely enclosed with a roof and rear cargo door. The driver was alone, a wiry, older man. And no doubt a Smitherton, judging by the care he exercised in unloading the forty or so boxes of turnips that made up his load. Most important was the address in Thrapston. It wasn’t the exact place he was looking for, but Slaton doubted he’d get much closer.
The old farmer set his last box onto the loading dock and stood waiting for a foreman to come round. That was the important part, the paperwork which would eventually route a deposit into the likely modest coffers of Smitherton Farms and Dairy. As Slaton watched, the dock foreman shouted something to the old man and spun a finger in the air. The old man raised his hand in acknowledgment, walked over to his truck and got in.
Slaton worried for a moment that his first choice was about to drive off. He saw the old diesel chug to life and maneuver away from the loading dock. Then he understood. The old man parked his rig toward the back of the lot and another truck, much bigger, took the now vacant slot at the busy loading pier.
The driver walked back to the platform to patiently wait his due. Slaton grabbed his backpack and began to move.
Anton Bloch was cleaning out his desk. He’d been informed of his ouster only hours ago, yet Zak wanted him out immediately. Bloch’s ties to the “Polaris Venture debacle,” as it was now internally known, were inescapable, and his downfall a fait accompli. Still, he was surprised at how quickly the end had come. In two hours, the new Director of Mossad would be quietly sworn in.
Bloch fished through the drawers of his desk. There were few personal effects to deal with, a result of his efforts to compartmentalize his life. The office was for work, and private mementos could only distract. One wall was accented with a few obligatory family photos, poor ones his wife hadn’t minded parting with. Bloch had brought them in at the suggestion of one of his staff, a woman who’d dryly noted that the only preexisting decoration, a large framed Code of Ethics, did little to soften the room’s tone. (The Code was a vestige of the previous Director, who had thought it marvelously funny given that Mossad’s chartered mission was to lie, cheat, and steal.)