“Did you have any luck?”
“No,” Bloch said, not bothering to add, And if I did have anything, I wouldn’t share it with you right now.
Nurin sighed, glancing at his watch. “I’m expecting a conference call from the Prime Minister any minute, but I’ve got to see you later today. There are some ongoing projects I’d like you to brief me on.”
Bloch tried to look enthusiastic. Then a thought came to mind.
“Yes, I’ll brief you on everything this afternoon. You know, it would help to have the files. That way we could go over them together.”
Nurin looked at a day planner on his desk. “How about three o’-clock? I’ll cancel the rest of my afternoon.”
“Fine,” Bloch said. “Do I still have authorization? Two days ago I was the Director, but if they’ve gone by the book, those pencil-necks downstairs might have pulled my access.”
Nurin looked surprised, “Oh, of course. I’ll make sure they give you whatever you need.”
Bloch retained his business-like expression. The new Director had just made his research a lot easier.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Inspector Chatham stood fast against the cold drizzle and brisk wind that whipped his face. It was a long face, longer than usual, and beads of precipitation peppered his mustache. He was standing on the ceremonial stage in Greenwich Park, and under his feet were two pieces of tape. They formed an X, this being the very spot where the signing table would be tomorrow morning. From this spot, the leading powers of the most embattled region on earth would commit to a lasting peace. That is, unless David Slaton got in the way. Or a nuclear weapon, or … what else? Chatham wondered fretfully. Perhaps a meteor from the heavens? It was his job to worry about things. All sorts of things. Yet, at the moment, he had an ill feeling he’d missed something.
A tireless Ian Dark came slogging across the wet sod and climbed up to the stage. Chatham’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon as his assistant came alongside and stood silently, apparently allowing rank its privileges.
“You know,” Chatham began, without taking his eyes off the park, “I’ve been at it a long time, this business of chasing after criminals. And I’ve had some success in hunting them down, putting them behind bars as necessary. Some were quite stupid, made the job easy. Others were actually rather clever. But they have all—” Chatham finally looked at his colleague, “all been done in by one thing. The predictability of human nature. It has always amazed me. They’ll rob a bank, then a week later when the money’s gone, they’ll rob the same one again. We’re very much creatures of habit, Ian. People go to work, eat lunch, exercise, and cheat on their spouses with amazing punctuality. My sister has gone to the same hair stylist at ten-thirty on Wednesday mornings for the past twelve years.”
Chatham began to stroll the platform. “My first case was a hit-and-run. Some poor chap got run down on a backstreet intersection at four in the morning. No witnesses, no physical evidence to speak of. I went out and stood on that corner from three to five in the morning for two weeks. Finally, a woman drove up one night and paused at the intersection. I was in uniform, and as soon as she looked over at me I knew. We both knew. I’ll never forget the look on her face. She confessed. She was a nurse, worked the late shift every other Saturday. She’d gone home sleepy that one night and missed the stop sign. Hit the fellow and panicked, kept going.”
Chatham moved slowly, almost as if conserving energy.
“Creatures of habit?” Dark asked. “Predictable? Even Slaton?”
“Especially Slaton!” He stopped and waved a hand out across the park. “Here. He’ll be here tomorrow, somehow.” Chatham strode back to the X. “While Israel’s Prime Minister is standing on this very spot!”
Dark looked around doubtfully. “Ten plainclothes men are already here, and twice as many uniforms. Tomorrow will triple that count, not to mention the head-of-state protection details of a half dozen countries. They’ll stop and question anyone having the faintest resemblance to Slaton’s photo. The trash cans are gone, the sewer covers bolted closed. And the only cars permitted within three blocks will be those carrying the participants. I can’t see how, Inspector.”
“Nor can I, Ian. But just because we don’t see it — that doesn’t mean it’s not there. An opening. Somewhere.” Chatham looked out at the Queen’s House in the distance. “What about that, over there? Too far?” he wondered aloud.
“Oh, yes. I’ve talked to some of the Army chaps who do this sort of thing, the sharpshooters. They tell me four hundred yards is the outside, and then it would require a good bit of luck to hit a target the size of a person. The Queen’s House is nearly a thousand yards.” Dark raised one arm up at an angle. “You’d have to raise the gun up like this and loft the bullet in the general direction of a target. Hitting anyone would be sheer luck.”
Chatham eyed his assistant. “You have been busy.”
Dark grinned. “Those Army lads are really top drawer. I spent some time with them this morning. You see, I thought that of all the people I know, they’re the most like him. They make their livings much the same way he does, knowing how to hide and shoot. They’d know how he might go about doing it. I’m going to meet two of them in an hour, right here. I’ll have them look over the area firsthand and tell us what they think.”
Chatham cocked his head and nodded approvingly. “Yes, I see.” He went back to scanning the park. “Hadn’t thought of that.”
He rarely issued compliments, and when he did, they often seemed to come obtusely. But Chatham saw this one had hit home. Dark couldn’t have looked giddier if the Queen Mum herself had just touched a sword to his shoulders.
“Of course,” he added pensively, “that assumes he’s going to use the rifle.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it occurred to me that he might have stolen those rifles in order for us to think these exact thoughts. For example, if we were concentrating on looking for a concealed sniper with an outsized rifle, we might ignore the more obvious. A well-disguised face in the crowd, an impostor on one of the security details. Remember, he’s stolen a handgun as well.”
“Yes. I suppose.”
“Still,” Chatham reasoned, “we’ve got to cover everything. You meet with those Army lads and tell me what they say.”
“Right, sir.”
“Oh, and anything yet on that boat Bloch told us about, the Broadbill?”
“No. I think we’ve gone over every harbor and slip in the country. Nothing.”
With a thumb and forefinger, Chatham slowly groomed his moustache, brushing away the accumulated droplets of rain. It might not be in England, he thought, but it was out there.
Most of the East End shops were closed on Sunday, so Slaton phoned the hotel concierge. Once he’d explained his needs, the sprightly young woman efficiently directed him to a shopping area a mile north of the hotel. She then offered to call a cab, but he politely declined the transportation. The streets were quiet on Sundays. He would walk.
The concierge was right about the shopping complex. Slaton quickly found what he needed. He made his first purchase in a clothing shop, then two in an electronics store. Avoiding crowded areas, he paid cash and kept his contact with the sales assistants to a minimum. On his way back to the hotel, he considered stopping at a restaurant for one last good meal. As tempting as it was, there was no point in taking chances. Not when he was so close.
He stopped at a small grocer he’d spotted a few blocks from the hotel, picked out a baguette, some sliced ham, and a container of orange juice. He took a spot in line to be rung up by a disinterested young woman who was chewing gum like a cow might chew a mouthful of grass. She mumbled an obligatory greeting of some sort, then summed up Slaton’s purchase. He proffered a ten-pound note and she plopped a few coins in his hand in return, dropping the food in a plastic sack. She mumbled again, this time probably “Thank you,” with little more than a glance at her customer. Slaton left the store pleased that his groundwork was complete.