Taking another drink, he folded the map to display the area he’d be covering in the next hour. It was then that he heard the engine of a truck approaching. He killed the light. His senses went to full alert, discerning that there were actually two heavy diesels. They sounded identical. And at this time of night—
He shoved everything into his pack and quickly glanced left and right. The wall, about four feet high, extended as far as he could see toward town, but ended twenty feet to his right. Since the trucks were coming from town, it would give plenty of cover as they passed. With the belching engines directly behind him, Slaton could feel the ground vibrate. Then came the unmistakable squeal of brakes.
The big rigs paused and then, judging by the grinding of gears, maneuvered back and forth a few times. Finally, the engines stopped and their cavernous rumble was replaced by an even more troubling sound.
A young man’s voice called, “This how you want it, Sergeant?”
“Right, that should do the trick. Leave the headlights on.”
“You sure this is the right spot?”
“The major said two kliks this side of Oundle. Now keep those weapons handy lads. No leaving them about.”
“For show, right?”
“That’s it.”
Slaton hadn’t stumbled onto a roadblock. The roadblock had stumbled onto him. For the second time tonight his luck seemed cursed. He sidled against the wall to the only cover, a spot where the vegetation had gotten out of control. He tried desperately to move behind the dense foliage without causing any movement of the vines that grew up and over the top of the wall.
Slaton listened as five, possibly six, soldiers settled in. They bantered about the things soldiers typically bantered about and exchanged theories on the terrorist they’d been assigned to hunt. None of their ideas were of interest to the Israeli who sat silently concealed not ten paces away. Slaton continued to dig in and pull cover around himself. Across the wall, the group’s mood ascended, becoming more loose and lighthearted. Then the first car came.
The sergeant barked terse instructions and Slaton heard a safety click off on at least one weapon. The car stopped and its driver, a woman, was asked, “Have you seen this man?” Slaton reckoned the picture was a pretty good likeness by now. The bewildered driver replied she had not, and consented to a brief search of her car. Minutes later she was cleared to go on, everyone seeming happier at that point.
Slaton wondered how effective his concealment was. Through gaps in the foliage he had a good view of the end of the wall — he doubted anyone would find reason to vault straight over — but it was hard to tell if any part of his hunkered down body was visible. Thankfully he’d had the foresight to choose dark clothing. And he no longer cursed the mud that had splattered over his extremities on that foray through the ditch. Slaton delicately moved branches here and there to fill in thin spots, and slowly raked dead leaves around his legs. He was still fine-tuning his camouflage when he saw movement. Slaton froze.
One of the soldiers, a squat, fireplug type, appeared from around the end of the wall. He had an automatic weapon hung loosely across his chest and was coming straight at Slaton. With the man only steps away, Slaton prepared to take him, knowing it would be impossible to do quietly. The kidon was an instant away from lunging into a melee when the man stopped. He undid his fly and began to urinate. Midway through, someone shouted a question and the sergeant turned slightly to answer. On doing so, his stream splattered squarely on Slaton’s left foot. Once finished, the man zipped up, turned, and trundled back through the muck and around the wall. Slaton took a deep breath, wondering if his luck wasn’t quite so bad after all.
An hour after taking up post, the soldiers had searched three cars and a truck with nothing to show for it. They were getting bored. The prospect of staying up all night to harass a few civilians was causing mild dissension, and the sergeant allowed two men to sack out in the cabs of the trucks. The others would get their turn. Soon after, a deck of cards appeared and a half-hearted poker game broke out.
Slaton planned his egress carefully. He could move only one way, left and low behind the wall. Fifty yards in that direction the road and wall curved out of sight. There were no obstacles, nor any cover, save for the wall itself. His only concerns would be complete silence, and to not cause any movement that might be seen from the other side. Slaton waited for the next vehicle. It would provide a distraction, and also be the least likely time for anyone else to serve a call of nature.
The car that finally came was perfect. The driver was middle-aged, his passenger a much younger woman. They were both loud, argumentative, and quite drunk.
Amid the shouting, Slaton got up carefully and inched free from his hiding place, the muscles in his legs aching the instant he did so. Moving silently behind the wall, he made a good hundred yards before venturing a look back. The driver was standing by the hood of his car, hurling insults and jabbing a finger in someone’s chest, oblivious to the fact that he was grossly outnumbered by heavily armed soldiers. His companion got out of the car, ostensibly to help. She teetered momentarily on stilt-like high heels, then fell flat on her face. Slaton was almost tempted to stay and watch the show.
He drank the last of his water, then put the empty bottle back in his pack. It was getting late. The roads would be nearly deserted in another hour. A hundred yards farther down there was no line of sight to the roadblock. With the coast clear, Slaton vaulted the thick stone fence that had served him so well and started out at a trot along the shoulder. Blood came back quickly to his legs and the stiffness that had set in during the delay began to subside. For all the inconvenience, Slaton knew he was safe for the next few hours, outside Chatham’s perimeter of search. He noted the time on his watch and gradually picked up speed.
Chapter Eighteen
A distracted Nathan Chatham ambled down the corridor from his office deep in thought. The operation had outgrown his own wing, and been moved to the far end of the building, where an intricate and unfamiliar tangle of conference rooms buzzed with activity. Chatham turned and weaved through a half dozen interconnecting offices, only to find himself back in the hallway where he’d started. He scowled and tried again. On the second attempt he found a wilting Ian Dark splayed out on a couch, staring blankly at another of the endless stream of messages that had been pouring in for the last two hours.
Chatham caught his associate in mid-yawn. “Dark!”
His number two sat up straight.
“What have you got?” Chatham asked, maneuvering his big frame onto a folding chair that looked far too delicate for the task. Dark handed the latest over to his boss.
“Nothing much. This one says the American NEST team has begun a search of central London.”
Chatham harrumphed, “Discreetly, one would hope.”
“Oh, yes. The vehicles are unmarked, and if anyone asks they’ll only say they’re a survey team. No need to incite a panic.”
The inspector looked down his nose at the message through half-cut reading glasses. He cast it aside with a flick of his wrist.
“But why central London?” Dark asked. “Do they know something we don’t?”
“No. We haven’t any idea where to start, so London was suggested.”
“By who?”
“Shearer, who was under the gun from above. It seems all the Members of Parliament who know about this second weapon are in London themselves, as are many of their families.”