Slaton had selected a circuitous route back to London. First he would travel southwest, through Coventry and Swindon, before turning direct. He made his one stop after sixty miles, in the Cotswolds. It was a remote section of the district, and aside from a few villages, sparsely populated. The terrain held a gentle contour of easy hills, where pastures blended into random outcroppings of hardwood forest.
Slaton followed a meandering series of gravel side roads, scouting back and forth until he found what he wanted. Exiting a stand of trees, he came upon a relatively flat area, a long, open meadow of grass that sloped softly downward for a few hundred yards, ending in another group of beeches and oaks. He parked the car at the far end, where a clear brook rambled quietly over a timeless bed of stones and pebbles.
Slaton got out of the car and stripped naked. With a towel he’d pilfered from the sayan’s garage, he walked to the stream and stepped in. The water ran over his feet like ice as he waded toward the center, scouting out the deepest spot. Drawing a quick breath, he dropped into the frigid water. The stinging cold seized his body like a glacial vice, giving strong encouragement to expedite the task. He scrubbed hard and vigorously to loosen a thick accumulation of dirt, grime, and sweat.
Finished, he went back to the car and toweled off, the sun aiding by way of a brief appearance. Slaton donned his last set of fresh clothes — a pair of Levis that nearly fit, and a long-sleeve, cotton button-down shirt that felt remarkably warm. Next he opened the trunk, which was at the front of the little sports car. The rifles had fit, but barely. He took one and inspected it for the first time, checking the breech, barrel, and testing its action. It was well-oiled and clean, credit that to the meticulous Royal Engineers. Slaton checked the other, then plucked out a sturdy piece of cardboard and some duct tape he’d also taken from the sayan’s garage, along with a box of ammunition. Back at the garage he had trimmed the cardboard to an egg shape, roughly ten inches in height and eight in width, and drawn a black reference circle, the size of a one-pound coin, in the center.
He hauled his collection to the line of trees at the end of the meadow and found a medium-sized beech, whose trunk was in full sun. He taped the cardboard securely to the tree at shoulder height, then walked up the slight rise, counting paces to estimate distance. At one hundred meters, he stopped and loaded the weapon. Slaton had never used the British version of the rifle, but it had a good reputation. The telescopic sight was another story. He was intimately familiar with the tight, reliable Schmidt & Bender 6x.
Slaton surveyed the ground. He needed support for the shot, but the biggest thing here was a shin-high rock. He eased down and tried to get comfortable among the loose stones and grass. Settling his left wrist on the rock, he trained the familiar gunsight on his target and studied the picture it presented. He shifted the reticle to other points, getting used to the weight and balance of the gun, then settled back on the cardboard oval. The kidon lightly touched his finger to the trigger. The trick was not to squeeze. That involved motion. Gradual pressure … track … gradual pressure … and when the weapon actually fired it would almost be a surprise. Almost.
The shot rang loud through the heavy morning air, scattering a pair of pheasant from the underbrush. The birds were probably stocked game from the hunting club he’d seen a mile back to the south. Slaton had chosen the area for just that reason. Not only was it isolated, but the few people who did live or spend time here were used to hearing the occasional report of a shot.
He shouldered the rifle and walked through tall, dew-covered grass to the target. The bullet had struck high and right, about four inches at two o’clock. Good, but not good enough. Slaton walked back to his perch, made a minor adjustment to the sight, and issued another round. His second shot was inside two inches. He took the other rifle and repeated the process. The second troubled him, striking high three shots in a row.
He then walked all the way to the end of the meadow, again measuring paces to estimate line-of-sight distance to the target. Unfortunately, it was necessary to calibrate the rifles for a wide variance of ranges. Eight rounds later he was getting consistent with both weapons. He could still improve, but Slaton decided not to risk any more attempts for fear of drawing attention to his work. In any case, the primary was well set.
Slaton collected his gear and made one last trip to the beech at the far end of the clearing. There, he ripped the obliterated target down from a pock-marked tree trunk and tossed the remnants into the stream.
Christine’s quarters at Scotland Yard were rudimentary. The bed was comfortable enough, but the rest of the tiny room was set up as an office, no doubt its customary function.
It had not been a restful night. A large man with crew cut red hair loomed outside her door. He had seen to it that she’d been left alone, but Christine still heard the constant commotion outside. A copier whirring across the hall, footsteps passing. Occasionally someone would stomp by on a dead run and she’d wonder. Why the urgency? Had something happened to David? Chatham had originally mentioned a hotel with heavy security, which certainly would have provided fewer distractions, but Christine asked to stay at the Yard, telling the Inspector she might be able to help bring David in safely. In reality, of course, she was just desperate for information. And she suspected Chatham knew it.
It was nearly noon when a hand rapped softly on her door. The knock was followed by a muffled voice, one she recognized as that of Chatham’s assistant, Ian Dark.
“Dr. Palmer?”
Christine went to the door. “Yes, what is it?” she said eagerly, surprised to find Dark backed by a beefy, dour-looking fellow who seemed to be trying to smile.
“Good morning, Dr. Palmer. I’ve brought someone who’d like a word with you. This is Anton Bloch, until a few days ago he was—”
“David’s boss,” she interrupted.
Bloch said, “Well, one of them. He’s told you about me?”
Christine remembered vividly. Anton Bloch was the person David had wanted to talk to, the one he would trust. “Yes, he spoke of you.” She wondered if she should invite them in to the sparse little cubicle she called home. Dark answered the question for her.
“There’s a meeting room down the hall.”
Dark led the way, turning into the plushest room Christine had seen at the Yard. There were leather chairs on royal blue carpet and a table that might have been solid oak, an entire suite that had somehow evaded the pragmatic misers who’d furnished the rest of the building.
Dark left them alone and closed the door, although Christine noticed that Big Red, the guard, had tagged along and was lurking just outside. She took a seat and Bloch did the same, the leather squeaking as he settled his big frame. He looked around at the walls and ceiling, frowning openly.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I’m paranoid by nature. I feel like someone’s watching us,” he grumbled.
Christine looked suspiciously at the light fixtures and picture frames.
“Ah, well. No matter,” Bloch said. “So, I understand you’ve had quite an adventure over the last two weeks.”
Christine sighed, “Yes. Not the kind of stuff I’m used to.”
“Me either, to tell you the truth. In fact, I think David has even found some new ground.”
“I think so.”
“David probably told you I run Mossad.”
Christine nodded.
“That was true up until yesterday. Unfortunately, I’ve been booted out, along with much of the Israeli government.”