Then there was the sword mounted by the door, a relic from Bloch’s days at the military academy. It was inscribed with one of those cryptic Latin phrases, the meaning of which he’d forgotten over the years. Bloch had nailed the thing up on the wall of his office because that was about all you could do with something like that.
All in all, there wasn’t much to give insight into the person who sat behind the Director’s desk, and scant evidence that he held a life beyond this building. At the outset, Bloch had made a reciprocal promise to himself that he wouldn’t take his work home. On that count, he’d failed abysmally. It was easy enough to not take the papers and files home. Since most of it was classified at the highest levels, it would have constituted a severe security breach to do so. However, the unconscionable nature of his position could never be left behind. Bloch’s work was a never-ending sequence of troubling events. Sometimes he even arranged them. He couldn’t remember the last night he’d gone to sleep with fading thoughts of a good dinner, his granddaughter’s laugh, or loving his wife. Maybe it would be different now.
Bloch pulled files out of his desk and stacked them to be returned for safekeeping in Documents Section. Had his departure been under more favorable circumstances, he might have browsed through and reminisced over the missions they represented. But on this day, he had neither the time nor the inclination. He was elbow deep in the bottom drawer when the secure line rang with its distinct high-pitched tone. He picked up and was rewarded with the voice of a trusted friend.
“We figured out where the Lorraine II came from, boss.”
“Casablanca. She was chartered for a fishing trip two weeks ago. The Moroccan captain and first mate have both disappeared, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out where they ended up.”
The caller sounded crestfallen. “How’d you know that?”
“The British told us this morning. They’re taking this pretty seriously. Have you got anything else?”
“Uh, no. Sorry.”
“All right,” said an exasperated Bloch. “Stay in Morocco and keep looking. And if you call me again, I want you to use a different number.” Bloch gave his home phone number, lacking any better ideas, and hung up. He sat tapping his fingers on the desk. With only a few more hours as Director, if he was going to use his authority, he’d have to do it now. There were two immediate problems — David Slaton and a ten-kiloton weapon, both of which had disappeared into thin air. To get answers, a multitude of options came to mind, but they all carried a common theme. Bloch picked up the phone and dialed. A female voice answered.
“Flight dispatch.”
“Anton Bloch,” he said authoritatively, “I want a plane ready in thirty minutes.”
“Number traveling and destination, sir?”
“One passenger. London.”
The search had gone on for six hours when Chatham called the first meeting. Four supervisors, one from each twenty-man team, assembled at the Yard with Chatham presiding. There was a painful lack of new information. The first three teams had reported six possible sightings of their quarry, all thin in detail and none that got Chatham’s hopes up. Lieutenant Barnstable was the last chance, however his solemn expression matched those who’d gone before. Just as he began, Ian Dark walked in and quietly handed Chatham a copy of the evening Times.
Barnstable stood before the large city map that dominated one wall and went over his troops’ findings. Chatham let his eyes wander across the newspaper. The headlines were still bold. NUKE DISARMED! SUSPECT IDENTIFIED! The picture of David Slaton was on the front page, in a bottom quarter. Rough and grainy in the print reproduction, it had lost a good deal of clarity. If the paper had known another weapon was unaccounted for, Chatham suspected the photo would have covered the entire front page. He scanned idly while Barnstable droned in to an approach and landing.
“Altogether, we’ve identified only one possible match,” he said. “A bus driver claimed to have seen a fellow at a bus stop who looked something like our man.”
Chatham browsed to page four.
“I interviewed him personally,” Barnstable said, in an ode to his own efficiency, “but he didn’t seem very sure. Apparently he didn’t get a good look at the bloke either time.”
“Either time?” Dark asked.
“Well, yes,” Barnstable explained. “It seems the same fellow was at this stop on two consecutive passes.”
Dark queried, “You’re saying this bus got around to a stop twice, and the same man was there both times? A man who bore some resemblance to our suspect?”
“Right.”
“Did he get on the bus?”
“No,” Barnstable said.
Chatham surprised everyone by jumping in. “How much time had elapsed between those two stops?”
Barnstable fished a notepad from his jacket and began searching. Finding the times, he did the math, “One hour and forty minutes, sir.”
Chatham’s attention was now complete. “Ian, get a city schedule. I want to see if there were any other buses he might have been waiting for.” He turned back to Barnstable, “Lieutenant, did this driver have anything else to say?”
Barnstable shuffled through his notes. “No. No, he just said the fellow was standing around. He didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the buses.”
“A man standing at a bus stop, but not waiting for a bus,” Chatham commented.
“Well, yes. I suppose,” Barnstable mumbled. He had the look of a man waiting for the boot to drop.
“Have you been to this stop, Lieutenant?”
“Not recently, but I’m familiar with it.”
“What else is nearby?”
“It’s right next to the New Covent Garden Market. Overlooks the backside, the loading docks.”
Chatham grinned knowingly at his crew. They looked back blankly, not seeing it yet. “We are assuming he’s trying to leave the city. Put yourselves in his shoes. He knows we’ll be watching all the usual means of transportation.”
Dark was the first to speak. “The lorries. They’re in and out of the market all day.”
“Empty when they leave,” Barnstable added.
“Right,” Chatham said encouragingly. “Barnstable, find that bus driver and get the exact times he saw this man. Let’s see if any other buses went by the same stop. If so, we must talk to those drivers.”
“Yes, sir,” Barnstable said. “And I’ll make sure the fellow I talked to didn’t pass by that stop later in the day. If he did, and our man wasn’t there …”
“That’s the idea,” Chatham said. Next, he pointed to Jones on the left, “Go straight to the market. They must keep some kind of log, a record of deliveries. Find out what trucks passed through at the time and where they were headed.” Then it was Cole’s turn. “Once we identify the trucks, we’ll have to track down the owners and drivers. We must find out exactly where they’ve been. Get over to Motor Division and be ready.”
The investigative team leaders had an air of urgency as they went off to their respective assignments. Chatham sat back at his desk and looked again at the Times, still open to page four.
“If we only knew what he was up to,” Dark pondered aloud.
Chatham nodded contemplatively, “When I spoke to him, I could tell there was a plan. One very clear objective. If we can guess what it is, we’ll know where to look.”
“Any ideas at all?”
Chatham raised an eyebrow and turned the newspaper around to face Dark. It was folded so that one article displayed prominently.