The day was uncharacteristically sunny, the temperature nearing fifty degrees. Still, he carried an overcoat folded across one arm — a frequent visitor from abroad whose past experience had given broad confidence in England’s meteorological inconsistencies. In his other hand was a thin leather attaché, which contained today’s Financial Times and a sampling of tourist brochures regarding the local area.
The tremendous expanse of Greenwich Park had been authored by Le Notre, Louis XIV’s celebrated landscape architect. On commission from Charles II, Le Notre transformed a featureless riverside tract into a vast Royal playground. Acre upon acre of green grass lay divided and bordered by wide, tree-lined walking paths. Over the years the Park had matured and been gradually encircled by the stoically urban City of Green-wich. Its character, however, remained intact, and as monarchs gave way, the Park reverted to a more public domain, granting the masses a chance to stroll like kings.
Centuries old beech, oak and chestnut trees loomed over Slaton as he meandered the trails. There were more people out than usual this day. Throngs of tourists made their way to the Royal Naval Observatory at the top of the hill, and a smattering of locals strolled and exercised their dogs in the grassy clearings. In the center of a western knoll, workmen were busy constructing the stage, which three days from now would be the center of world attention. Today it was Slaton’s focal point.
He’d probably walked fifteen miles since arriving in the early afternoon. Starting from Greenwich Station, Slaton had circled the huge park, committing the surrounding roads and buildings to memory. He knew the location of every tube, bus, and ferry stop within a two mile radius, and Slaton had already purchased an unrestricted day pass for each system. If he needed to leave in a hurry, he didn’t want to be scrambling for change or banging his fist on a broken vending machine.
He had spent the last hour in the park itself, watching from a distance, considering different angles and elevations. The stage was a simple enough structure. Large wooden planks formed the base, about four feet above ground level. Behind the stage was a tall plywood backdrop, and the entire framework would no doubt soon be festooned with all the trappings and regalia always required of such sideshows — flags, curtains, ribbons, and probably a big banner depicting two hands clasped in friendship, perhaps an olive branch above. It was all very predictable, which made Slaton’s job that much easier.
There was no heavy security yet, perhaps a few more bobbies than usual. Slaton surmised that Inspector Chatham had not yet deduced his intentions. That could change at any time and, in any event, things would get much tighter in the days to come. Slaton had been on the other end before, arranging security for just this sort of event. He knew how hard it was. With three days to go, preparations were being made, details assigned. Each day would bring more severe measures and eventually there would be spotters with binoculars and sharpshooters on the rooftops, helicopters circling at a discreet distance, and roving plainclothes types checking IDs randomly in the crowd. Sunday would be very different, indeed. But by then it would be too late.
Slaton walked up the pathway that led nearest the stage for his first and only close pass. Most of what he needed to know he could ascertain from afar, yet he wanted one good look. The carpenters were nearing completion of the wooden structure, and next would be electricians to rig for light and sound. The asphalt path took him within twenty feet of the stage. A few people had stopped along the path to watch the project unfold. Slaton kept moving — his disguise was good, but not infallible — and he expressed the same idle curiosity that a hundred passers-by had shown in the last hour.
At a glance, he gauged the height of the stage at standing level and its dimensions. The width was roughly seventy feet, the depth half that. To each side, in back, were stairs that led down and behind the structure. This was where the participants would amass, concealed by a temporary arrangement of tents, blinds, and men with dark glasses. They would arrive on a schedule drawn in proportion to their importance, lesser dignitaries forced to mill about for up to an hour, the most vital appearing only minutes in advance. Then, in a carefully choreographed scene, all would make their way to the stage, again segregated. Peons to the left, leaders to the right. Or perhaps the other way around. The poor security chiefs had to grasp straws of unpredictability wherever they could find them. Slaton passed the stage and looked back once over his shoulder, knowing he would not get this close again. He saw nothing to alter his plan.
He continued out of the park and walked north along Crooms Hill Road, the street that bordered its western edge. He turned a few times to gauge his distance from the stage, and also to check the trees. A single row of huge beeches, their branches void of foliage for the winter, stood encircling the park, arboreal guardians whose presence delineated the preserve from its harsher urban surroundings. There were occasional breaks in the treeline to accommodate pathways and service roads. Slaton lingered at two of these gaps and reckoned the angles and distance to the stage. One was roughly fifty meters closer, but either would work.
Across Crooms Hill Road were rows of shops at street level, and above those the second and third floors seemed to be residential, some likely occupied by the shopowners, others rented out as apartments. Slaton had so far spotted two buildings with to let signs in the window. He immediately discarded the idea of attempting to rent, or even view either of them. It would be one of the first things Chatham checked, and any vacant rooms would be searched and monitored.
He continued walking down the street, counting his steps. A middle-aged woman swept the sidewalk in front of a pub. A slight young man parked a bicycle near an alleyway and disappeared into a side entrance. At five hundred yards he stopped. Anything more would be ludicrous. He looked back along the far side of Crooms Hill Road. It had to be done here. Somewhere.
Slaton crossed the street and covered the same ground in the opposite direction. The busiest place was a restaurant, the Block and Cleaver, which drew a steady stream of customers. Next to it was a souvenir store, then a small tobacco shop with a for sale sign in the window. Slaton was three steps past it when he paused. He turned and looked at the small shop, then up above. Strolling back, he stopped at the for sale sign and turned to see the stage in the distance. He had a partial line of sight, with one tree close-in on the right. Slaton judged it to be a hundred and ninety yards, perhaps a bit more.
He looked again at the advertisement in the window and read a brief description of the property, noting that it encompassed not only the shop, but two individual flats on the upper floors. He committed this information to memory, along with the asking price, and the name and number of the property agency, then again crossed the street. Slaton surveyed the front of the building, checking windows and the angle of the roof. He saw furniture on the second floor, however curtains were drawn on the window of the top flat and he couldn’t tell what was inside.
He took a seat on a bench and pulled out the Times. For twenty minutes he alternated between the paper and the building. He watched the comings and goings at the tobacco shop, and decided the place was meager from an entrepreneurial standpoint. On further study of the facade, Slaton saw three windows on the upper levels, two on the second floor and one on the third. He also took note of a small, slatted vent at the apex of the roof. He thought of what might go wrong, and a dozen fatal scenarios came to mind. They were, however, the same disasters that would likely apply to any spot along this street next Monday morning.