His resignation had been effective last Wednesday night. What surprised him was that by the next evening he’d fallen off the face of the earth, professionally speaking. Jacobs fully expected to spend a month or two debriefing, tying up the administrative and procedural loose ends of an executive administration that had lasted almost two years. Instead, his calls to Zak’s office had gone unanswered, and even his old staff seemed to be avoiding him. Lowens’ phone extension suddenly changed. Moira had been transferred to a different office, but nobody seemed to know where. The Deputy Assistant to the Minister of Transportation had hung up on him. Jacobs tried not to take it to heart. They were all in the career survival mode. A simple case of out with the old and in with the new.
So it was, when Jacobs’ green secure phone rang in its familiar, piercing tone, he picked it up expecting someone from the Ministry of Communications to be on the other end. No doubt to remind the sacked PM that he had to return the phone so it could be used by someone who was still important.
He lifted the handset and growled, “What is it?”
There was a pause before Anton Bloch’s distinct voice rumbled, “Ah, it’s me, Mr. Prime … or …”
Jacobs had to laugh, “Benjamin will do, Anton. How are you?”
“Fine,” Bloch said quickly, no real regard given to the question. “I’ve been busy.”
“At least one of us is. I feel like a leper.”
Bloch didn’t laugh, his usual humorless self. “I’ve got something I’d like to talk to you about.”
“Old business?” Jacobs guessed.
“Yes, in a way.”
“Come over tomorrow afternoon. Our housekeeper, if we still have one, makes a terrific seafood pasta dish.”
“Actually, I was thinking of something sooner.”
“My wife and I have plans to go out tonight, Anton. It’s been some time since we’ve been able to do that kind of thing.” Silence was the reply and Jacobs became uncomfortable. “Of course, if it’s important—”
Eight minutes later, the doorbell rang. Anton Bloch was there, looking impatient and flanked by two of Jacobs’ security men.
Irene Jacobs, the former First Lady of Israel, had answered the chime as well. Her husband reintroduced her to the old Director of Mossad, the two having met once before. She was practiced and proper as she greeted their guest, the years of social diplomacy still fresh. The men then retired to the study, closing the doors discreetly behind. When they emerged minutes later, Benjamin Jacobs addressed his wife.
“I’m so sorry darling, but I won’t be able to keep our arrangement tonight. I promise to make it up to you soon.” He kissed his wife on the cheek and she beamed, a paragon of understanding.
“That’s all right dear. Some other time.” Her stone smile told him there would be hell to pay later.
“And I may be late,” he warned, “please don’t wait up.” Jacobs collected his coat and murmured instructions to one of the security men outside the front door. Then, he and Bloch disappeared.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The firemen were walking down the stairs as Chatham was going up. All the hotel’s guests and most of the staff had been evacuated, and the only people now on the third floor were police. The forensics team Chatham had put on alert was already busy sifting, scraping, and searching. The woman in charge, Jane Grimm, met Chatham in the hall outside Number 36.
“Good afternoon, Inspector.”
Competent and thorough, Grimm was a favorite of Chatham’s. Today, however, there was no time for pleasantries.
“What have you found?”
Grimm led Chatham into Number 36.
“The patrolman thought it was another false alarm. He came up to 37 and knocked on the door figuring he could clear things up right away. Nobody answered, so he went back downstairs to talk to the manager. Clearly our friend was home after all. His room was connected to 36 by a door. It was bolted closed, but I doubt it took more than one kick.”
“There was no one in this room?” Chatham asked.
“No, it was vacant. I’m not sure how he knew.”
“That’s what he does. He knows things like that.”
Chatham could only see a thin veil of smoke in the room, but the smell, a particularly acrid variety, lingered heavily. They went to the bathroom and Grimm pointed to a pile of ashes and charred debris in the bathtub.
“He started it with a newspaper and some hotel stationery, then threw in a couple of blankets.”
“What’s that on top?” Chatham wondered, pointing to a pair of melted lumps.
“Jogging shoes. A good choice,” she admitted, “gives you a lot of thick, dark smoke, sort of like an old tire. Gets everyone’s attention.”
“Exactly what time did the alarm go off?”
“The desk clerk called the fire department within a minute of the alarm going off. The fire department dispatcher logged that call at 1:39.”
“Damn!” Chatham said in frustration. He had ordered a special watch on all transportation out of the area when he’d gotten the news, but that had been two o’clock. Still a twenty minute gap. “He’s gotten a head start again.”
They left the bathroom and walked through the shattered door frame that connected to Number 37. A man was poking around the room with a probe of some sort, connected by a wire to a machine on his back. The machine bore markings that identified it as property of the U.S. government. The man wore civilian clothes but had a short haircut, and Chatham decided he was likely a part of this American NEST team he’d been hearing about.
“There’s not much here,” Grimm said. “A few items of clothing, some food wrappings.” She presented a plastic bag that held a collection of tiny, curled scraps. “Wood shavings. We found them on the floor. Of course, no telling how long they’ve been here. Then there was this …” Grimm led to a table where a window blind sat. “We found it up on the shelf, there, pushed all the way to the back.” Chatham looked at the closet. He raised up on his toes, barely able to see the top of the now-empty shelf.
Someone called Grimm into the other room and she excused herself, leaving Chatham in silence with the American fellow. He was waving his sensor rhythmically in one corner of the room, looking like a badly dressed orchestra conductor. Chatham studied the window blind. His first train of thought was simple — the last person before Slaton to stay in the room was a decorator who had left it behind by accident. His second train of thought was ridiculous — Slaton was going to take it to Greenwich, put it up on a window for cover, then at the last minute, turn it open and shoot. At least that plot was foiled. He nearly laughed out loud. If it could only be so easy.
He took a closer look. The blind seemed brand new, and the cord used to raise and lower the thing had been cut short, two loose pieces of string dangling from the casing. He stood straight with his hands on his hips, both mystified and intrigued. “What are you up to?” he whispered harshly.
Grimm came back in and Chatham said, “Have you got a … ah, a cell phone?”
Grimm pulled a phone from her pocket. “They haven’t given you one?”
Chatham frowned. He fumbled and punched at buttons until the display announced that it was ready to do his bidding. He then managed to dial his office. Moments later, Ian Dark was taking instructions.
“—Continental Visions, model number 201048. It’s forty-eight inches in length. He may also have bought some wood—”