SECURITY TIGHTENED FOR GREENWICH ACCORD
Reuters, London
Security measures have been strengthened for the upcoming Greenwich Accord. The treaty signing ceremony will be under increased scrutiny in light of the recent discovery of a nuclear weapon on a motor yacht in Eastbourne. According to a Scot-land Yard spokesperson, “We see no relationship between the events in Eastbourne and the peace talks, but it serves to reinforce that terrorist elements take no holiday. Security arrangements for the Greenwich Accord will be intensified as we anticipate the signing of a treaty which will help bring an end to just this kind of threat.”
The article went on to describe some of the more obvious precautions being taken. Dark’s youthful face was heavy with worry. “Do you think that second weapon will turn up in Greenwich?”
Chatham leaned on a table and drummed his fingers. “I have no idea, Ian. But something tells me our man Slaton is headed there.”
Chapter Seventeen
Cold sandwiches and lukewarm tea. Supper was easily ignored as Chatham and Dark poured over information that was now coming in from all quadrants. Foremost at the moment was a status report. The American’s Nuclear Emergency Search Team, or NEST, was enroute, and scheduled to arrive early the next morning. Chatham was surprised to see how inadequately prepared his own country was to undertake such a search. Scotland Yard and the military had held a few joint maneuvers, but these had more to do with disposing of a known weapon, as had been the case in Eastbourne. The process of searching for a nuclear device hidden in a large city, or for that matter a country, was a far more daunting task. Success depended on an immensely complex network of sensors and computers, which had to be driven and flown across targeted search areas.
“The Americans are bringing their best gadgets,” Dark said.
“Well,” Chatham grumbled, “I suppose they do have a knack for this sort of thing.”
“I’m told these sensors have a limited range, though. They’re not much use if you don’t know where to begin.”
“Which is precisely why we must locate Slaton. I’m still convinced he’s our best lead.”
“We’ve had a few more sketchy sightings, but none sound promising.” Dark held up a clipboard with a half dozen loose fax pages, “We’ve accounted for seven delivery trucks that were at the market this morning. They belong to one of the big co-operatives in Birmingham and their routes were all tracked by computer. We talked to each driver, and forensics has tracked down all but two of the trucks. So far, nothing suspicious.”
Chatham wasn’t surprised. “No, no. This fellow spent hours at that bus stop looking for something in particular. He had to get out of London, but there was a destination in mind. I think he waited for a truck that was going where he wanted to go.”
“Of course!” Dark said. “He stood at the bus stop and shopped for one that was bound for the right place. Now if we only knew where that was.”
“Give me the log.”
Dark handed over the clipboard and Chatham leafed through the pages.
“Sixty deliveries in our time frame.”
He mulled the list, then took a pencil and circled an even half dozen entries. Scooping thumbtacks from the top drawer of his desk, he went to the road map of England, which had been hastily stuck to the wall right next to the room’s only artwork, a cheap oil rendition of the Battle of Trafalgar. Chatham ran a finger over the map to find the towns he’d selected, then jabbed a red tack into each. All were conspicuously in the same general area. East Anglia and the East Midlands.
“Let’s track these down first. Talk to every driver. Find out the routes they took after leaving London, especially where they stopped to purchase fuel, eat, or use the toilet. We’ll have a look at the trucks as well.”
“Just in case he’s gone and left evidence behind?”
“Yes, it’s worth a try, although I doubt he’d make that kind of mistake. Our best hope is that someone might have seen him.” Chatham looked at the map again. “We’re not far behind, but we’ve got to spot him again soon. Otherwise, we’re sure to lose track.”
The Smitherton Farms and Dairy truck hit a big rut and Slaton was nearly thrown to the floor of the cargo compartment. He’d been trying to brace himself but there wasn’t much to grab. Aside from two empty wooden crates, the back of the truck was barren. It was also dark. They’d been going non-stop for four hours since leaving the London market, and the sun had set along the way. There were only two spots where light could enter the compartment to begin with. One was a fist-sized hole in the ceiling that had been taped over — Slaton had removed the tape — and the other a horizontal slit between two of the front end panels. During the afternoon, the gaps had allowed just enough light to see the corrugated sidewalls of his temporary quarters. But now he sat in almost complete darkness, wishing Mr. Smitherton could have afforded a new set of shocks and springs to keep the old contraption from bottoming out with a crunch on every pothole. Slaton tried to be thankful they weren’t carrying a full load.
Periodically, he looked through the thin opening in front. He could see past the rear window and into the driver’s cab. Ever present was the back of the old man’s head, his attention locked forward as the truck bounced onward, steady and true.
Slaton wished he could make out road signs to confirm they were headed in the right direction, but the angles of view and lack of light made it impossible. That being the case, he was forced to dead reckon. For this, he looked past the old man to the instruments on the dashboard. The speed had averaged forty miles an hour for the first one and three-quarters hours. Seventy miles, but then distance was the easy part. Direction was far more problematic. Initially, he’d used the sun as a reference, its reflections clear as it set to the left. They’d been headed northbound, probably on the A1.
Then the first turn had come. Fortunately, the night skies had cleared and Slaton could see up through the hole in the ceiling. He was able to identify the Little Dipper and Orion, situated to suggest a more easterly track. Not very precise, but the best he could manage under the circumstances. And significant, because he knew that Thrapston would have been a westerly turn off the A1. They were headed elsewhere.
Slaton conjured up a mental image of the East Midlands and tried to deduce where they might be headed. No clear answer came to mind. He was still mulling the possibilities when the truck suddenly braked and turned onto a road that was in noticeably worse condition. Smitherton slowed to a crawl, smashing heavily over a series of potholes, water splashing into the wheelwells with each dip. When they finally came to a stop, the old man honked the horn once before shutting off the engine.
Slaton reached in his backpack for the bottle of rum he’d bought earlier. It was half empty now, after he’d discreetly spilled much of it into a dumpster. With the bottle in hand, he waited, squinting into the driver’s cab. The old man was waving to someone through the front window, and as he slid out of the cab, Slaton heard the voices of children.
“Grandfather! Grandfather!” they squealed gleefully.
“Hello, lads,” the old man said.
A high-pitched voice pleaded, “Can we play in the truck? Can we? I want to be the chicken!”
Another howled exception, “You were the chicken last time! You’re the pig now!”
“No, I won’t be the pig!”
“Easy now,” the old man broke in. “Tell me, has your mum saved me some supper?”
Slaton then heard a different voice, this one an adult female in the distance. He couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was universal.