The phone suddenly rang and Chatham filed that answer away for further consideration. It was the Commissioner himself on the line, and Chatham promptly directed his superior to standby. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and addressed Bloch, “Sorry, this might take a few minutes. I doubt the Commissioner would find it amusing that the head of another country’s spy service was loitering in my office.”
“Ex-head.”
“Right. How long will you be here in London?”
Bloch shrugged, “My calendar is suddenly very empty. I’ll stay as long as I can help. That is, if I’m not deported. I am here illegally, you know.”
Chatham winked. “I’ll take care of that. And Dark will set you up with a place to stay.”
“Thanks.” Bloch added introspectively, “You know, Inspector, I wish I could talk to David. I think he’d trust me enough to tell me what he knows.” He let that float for a moment, then as an apparent afterthought added, “Oh, and do you think I could have that word with Dr. Palmer?”
Chatham had already decided on the matter. He made a show of looking at the clock on the wall, which read ten minutes after eleven. “First thing in the morning.”
Slaton arrived at the compound shortly before sunrise. He was disappointed in his timing, having arrived too late to make a move in the predawn hours, the preferred schedule for attacking an unsuspecting adversary. With that chance gone, Slaton granted himself a break. He’d essentially run a marathon last night, after little rest in the last three days. He could feel the tendrils of fatigue setting in fast, sapping his strength and, more ominously, clouding his thoughts. Certain that he was outside Chatham’s immediate search area, he allowed himself a tenuous combat nap in a thick, quiet stand of trees overlooking the post.
It lasted nearly two hours. Just before eight, a storm of noise, dust and diesel exhaust violated the still morning air. Three truckloads of troops lumbered to the front gate, where a single guard sat slouched on a chair inside the small gatehouse. Slaton watched as the guard stepped from the shack to exchange shouted obscenities with his departing mates. When the trucks disappeared, the man quickly moved back to the warmth of his shelter.
The Royal Engineers 119th Field Squadron, a mile outside the village of Uppingham, was not a high security facility. The soldiers here were an engineers regiment, a contingent whose time was spent in the practice of building temporary encampments, bridges, roads, and runways. Of course, they remained soldiers first, which was why the bulk of the force had been rousted from their normal duties and, Slaton was quite certain, sent thirty miles southeast to beat bushes for Scotland Yard.
He watched from the treeline, a hundred meters away, as a slight young man walked from the barracks to the headquarters building. Minutes later, a young woman performed the reciprocal act. Shift change at the command post. Somewhere a small gas engine, probably a generator, droned continuously. The sentry looked bored, and was probably miffed that he’d been left behind on post while his mates had gone off to track down the world’s most wanted terrorist. David Slaton, the object of that search, waited twenty more minutes before he was satisfied. All was quiet.
He reckoned there might be a dozen troops remaining, mostly for command and control, and maybe a guard or two for the next shift. He started to move, making a wide half circle to the rear of the facility. There were thirteen buildings of various sizes strewn across the compound. A few were obviously barracks. Then there was a headquarters building, a mess hall, and a couple of others he discounted for various reasons. He decided his objective lay in one of those five buildings whose purpose seemed indeterminate. Slaton moved in closer.
Yesterday there might have been a roving sentry, perhaps with a dog, to patrol the fence surrounding the post. But clearly not on this morning. The fence itself was a simple twelve-foot high chain-link variety, with bands of razor wire across the top for show. Slaton had raided a barn a few miles back and requisitioned a set of bolt cutters. As long as there were no motion or vibration sensors on the perimeter, which he strongly doubted, getting in would be easy.
The ground outside the fence had been stripped of all vegetation, leaving a fifty-yard clear zone all around. At the rear of the post, a second road, this one gravel, came in from the surrounding forest and led to a back gate. This gate was heavily chained and looked as if it hadn’t been used in years. Just inside the rear entrance were the remains of the motor pool — a small armored troop carrier, a drab olive Land Rover, two dump trucks, and three bulldozers. There were large voids in the parking area, empty spots where the troop trucks and command vehicles had no doubt been last night.
Under other circumstances he might have watched for a few more hours, but he knew he had to move. Chatham would be widening his efforts soon, and the head start Slaton had earned would quickly evaporate.
He clawed up some dirt and rubbed it over his face and hands, an exercise of redundancy since he was already filthy from head to toe with the mud from three English counties. Hygiene aside, it made for excellent camouflage. The backpack he’d been toting contained his worldly possessions. One spare change of clothing, British identification documents, cash, map, penlight, an empty water bottle, and the bolt cutters. He didn’t want to take the bag since it might prove cumbersome. On the other hand, he couldn’t leave it here. If anything went awry, he might not have time to retrieve it. Slaton settled on a middle ground. He took the identification papers, along with his remaining British pounds, and stuffed them into a filthy pocket. The papers were probably compromised, as the Danish documents had proven to be at The Excelsior. They were, however, all he had left, and might buy a few minutes in an emergency. Slaton extracted the bolt cutters, then zipped up the backpack and slid it under a prominent bush beside the gravel road.
The cutting tool in hand, Slaton made one last survey of his target. With no one in sight, his gaze settled on the motor pool, and a particularly wicked idea came to mind. He moved off low and fast toward the fence.
Chapter Nineteen
Chatham was asleep on one of the back room cots when Ian Dark gently rattled his shoulder.
“Inspector,” Dark said.
Chatham’s eyes opened and he gathered his bearings.
“Something you should hear, sir.”
Chatham looked at his watch and saw it was nearly noon. “What is it?”
Dark motioned for him to follow. Chatham made an effort to smooth the wrinkles from his clothes and ran his bony fingers once through the matted tangle of hair atop his head.
A man in uniform was waiting in his office. Dark introduced Chatham to Colonel Edward Binder, the Defense Ministry Liaison to Scotland Yard. Colonel Binder repeated what he’d told Dark five minutes earlier, and any cobwebs remaining from Chatham’s slumber were swept away.
“Are you telling me our suspect has broken into a military facility and taken weapons?” Chatham stood rigid.
A contrite Binder replied, “We don’t know who it was, Inspector. No one got a look at this person.”
Chatham fumed, having no doubt whatsoever. “What exactly did he take?”
“We’re not completely sure yet, but an inventory is under way. We do know he’s taken two L96A1s.”
“Two what?”
“L96A1s. They’re rifles. He’s also taken a handgun, some ammunition, a vest and … there was one other thing.”
“A main battle tank, perhaps?” Chatham ripped.
“Actually it was a Land Rover, the military version.”
Chatham exploded, “One of the most wanted men of all time has walked onto a post and taken guns, ammunition, and a truck? Without anyone even seeing him?”