“I’m sorry,” she offered, not really sure if that was the right thing to say in such circumstances.
He waved his hand dismissively, “Bah! A good job to be rid of.”
Christine found the answer less than convincing.
He looked at her, his eyes narrow with curiosity. “How well have you gotten to know David?”
She almost laughed at the loaded question. For the head of one of the world’s top spy organizations, this guy didn’t have much guile. “Well enough,” she said with a shrug. “He saved my life. More than once.”
“And you his.”
“I was in the right place at the right time. Anyone would have done what I did. I only wish I could help him now.”
“So do I,” Bloch concurred. “But to do that, I’ll need your help. Can you tell me the story?”
Christine sighed. She’d been over the whole thing so many times. But this was the man David had wanted to talk to all along, the one who really might be able to help, so she went through it once more. The Israeli listened carefully. When she finished, he had a few of the usual questions, and Christine tried to offer accurate answers. That done, he grew more circumspect.
“You know, David was lucky to have been found out there in such a big ocean. And luckier still that it was someone like yourself.”
She had the feeling he meant it. “Have you known David long?”
“Since he began with Mossad. I recruited him, so I suppose you could say I got him into this mess.”
“Did you ever know his wife and daughter?”
Bloch shifted in his chair as the witness turned the table. “I was never introduced, but I know a little about them. Did he tell you what happened?”
“He told me they were murdered, by an Arab group. And I know he still has nightmares about it.” Bloch listened closely, but showed no surprise until the next question. “Who was responsible for their death, Mr. Bloch. Do you know?”
“Specific names? No, we never found out who attacked that bus. I don’t think we’ll ever know. And now, it’s so long ago …”
“He knows,” she said quietly.
“What?”
Christine stared off into space, verbalizing what she’d known since his last words to her yesterday. “David knows. After all these years, he’s figured it out. And that’s where he’s going. To find that person.”
“What makes you think that?”
“It happened yesterday in Eastbourne. He found something out from a man named Wysinski, one of the men he …” Christine couldn’t bring herself to say it. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. David, you’ll never get what you’re looking for. Not that way.
“Wysinski knew who attacked that bus twenty years ago? Who?”
Christine regrouped. “David didn’t say. But he knows, I’m sure of it.”
Bloch studied his hands for some time before asking, “Did David say anything at all regarding this nuclear weapon, the one that’s still out there?”
“No, but I think it’s tied to the rest. Find who killed his family, and you’ll find that weapon.”
They both sat silently, lost in their respective thoughts. It was Anton Bloch who brought things to an awkward close. “Dr. Palmer, I’d like to talk some more, but I have a lot to do.”
“I understand. Will you tell me if you hear anything about David?”
“I will,” he promised.
“You know, David trusts you. So I will too.”
“Good.”
Bloch left the room and asked the guard where he could find Ian Dark. As he wound his way through Scotland Yard’s byzantine corridors, he thought back to the tragedy. Twenty years ago the Mossad and Shin Bet, Israel’s internal security service, had done a quick rundown of a murderous attack in Netanya, basically relying on the police report. It was rare to find the actual culprits in such an attack. The killers would hit, then disperse, disappearing into homes, markets, and mosques within seconds. Is-rael had taken to a policy of retribution versus legal justice. No need to find out who pulled the trigger. Just keep a list of the combatants and commanders. For every Israeli killed, take out two of the enemy. It was a campaign of numbers. A simple, logarithmic, escalation in-kind. The policy was shaped by continuous, small-scale violence, and limited resources. But it gave little solace to victims’ families on either side. And now, perhaps, it was coming back to haunt them.
For years Slaton had tried to find out who was responsible for the massacre in Netanya, while the Mossad had shown little interest. A fearful Anton Bloch began to think it should have been precisely the other way around.
Slaton worked his way south to Swindon, then rode the M-4 back to the bustling anonymity of London. He crossed to the East End, arriving at the onset of dusk. Here, the tired warren of streets were void of the tourists who flocked to the more trendy boroughs. The people he saw were locals — born here, lived here, died here. And not many drove Porsches. Slaton knew he couldn’t do as he had this morning. Then, he’d known the Land Rover would be missed immediately, and he figured that leaving the keys in the ignition might buy an extra hour or so. The Porsche would not have been reported missing, but if it turned up wrecked from a joyride or van-dalized, Chatham might make the right connections and know where to start looking.
Slaton scouted for twenty minutes until he found what he was looking for — a bank with a public parking garage that looked like a fortress. He decided to circle the place once to make sure. On the backside, the neighborhood trended downward, a row of dilapidated brownstones. They were weather-beaten and crumbling at the edges, but clearly occupied.
Slaton slowed for a group of schoolboys playing soccer in the street ahead. They stopped their game and parted enough to let him pass. If he’d been driving a Ford the boys probably would have glared down the intruder who’d interrupted their match. Instead, they looked on Slaton, or actually the car, with a certain reverence. The sleek machine was innately the kind of thing that young men aspired to, especially when in the company of other young men. Slaton waved as he passed and wondered how old they were. Eight or ten? Maybe eleven? He really had no idea. Slaton watched as the game resumed in his rearview mirror, then turned at the next corner. The bank would have to do.
The Benton Hill Inn was a seedy establishment, even by East End standards. A well-constructed young woman sauntered across the enlarged hallway that passed for a lobby. She wore a loose-fitting top that shifted a great deal as she moved, offering intermittent and ever-changing views of her considerable cleavage. Her pants took another course altogether, tight to the point of being a second skin, notwithstanding their lime green hue. She stopped at the front desk, which was really nothing more than a well-worn counter separating the entrance from the owner’s “suite.” She slammed her hand down on a bell and its ring pierced the early morning silence. A clock on the wall confirmed that it was nearly five in the morning. Hearing no response from the room behind the counter, the woman banged on the bell a few more times. “Roy!” she shouted in a husky voice.
A bleary-eyed man finally emerged from the doorway behind the desk. He wore a rumpled T-shirt and old brown boxers. “All right! All right, Beatrice! Keep your knickers on!”
Beatrice grinned through an earthen hardpan that blurred the distinction between cosmetics and masonry.
He squinted at the clock. “Working late are ye?”
“I’ve got a bloke taking good care of me, I ’ave.”
The proprietor looked past her to see the figure of a man hunched over by the staircase. He was wearing a run-down overcoat and a brimmed cap. He was also swaying as though he were on a ship in a storm, his hands locked to the banister in a determined effort to stay upright.