Elizabeth Merrill pooh-poohed the idea, “No, that’s no problem at all. Mr. Dhalal is busy in his shop, but I can do it.”
“Oh, thank you, Miss Merrill. And please be more careful than I was.”
“Give me a minute.” She put the phone on the kitchen counter. As a property agent for sixteen years she’d been asked to do a lot of strange things. This didn’t even make the top ten. She looked around and wondered aloud, “Now where was that ladder?”
Zak had almost laughed. When his aide came on stage and whispered into his ear, he’d managed a terrifically filthy joke. It was all Zak could do to hold a serious expression. He couldn’t be angry, though. They’d all have a good laugh about it on the flight home. Zak watched the British Prime Minister back away from the podium. Now it was his turn.
Normally he would have negotiated hard and fast to make the Arab go first. It was always preferable to have the last word. But on this day, Zak would go first — and still have the last word. When he was done speaking, he would turn to see a stage full of tight-lipped starched shirts whose jaws would be resting on their two hundred dollar shoes. And then he would walk away.
He moved to the podium slowly, his face a precise combination — astonishment, but well under control. His words would come in measured bursts, as if extemporaneous, and they would be steel, no doubt to be published verbatim tomorrow in all the world’s papers.
“Ladies and gentlemen … I had come here today in the name of peace. Unfortunately, information I’ve just received tells me that not everyone on this stage has the same vision …”
Elizabeth Merrill found the ladder in the hall. She got it to the middle of the room and then took off her shoes, which had a substantial heel. She climbed four rungs to reach the small attic door, hoping to find the watch by feel. She didn’t want to go any higher. The property agent pulled on the small knob that was the door’s handle, but it didn’t budge. She reasserted her balance on the ladder and gave a good, sharp tug.
The string ran from the door, through a single pulley, and terminated in a very secure knot at the trigger of the well-mounted rifle. The physical forces involved were undeniable, and could supply only one result. The rifle’s recoil caused a cloud of dust to bounce in the attic as the bullet exited the flat, quite cleanly, through a single, meticulously broken slat in the louvered vent.
The only random outcome was of no consequence — the crack of the shot startled Elizabeth Merrill. So much so, that she fell off the ladder.
The audience had no idea what had happened. The report of the rifle was distant enough to be lost in the cacophony of man-made sounds that polluted all big cities. A few did notice a tiny explosion of some kind on the backdrop — shards of debris popping out of a small hole in the curtain.
The multitude of security teams were another story. They were elite units, all having trained for years to recognize exactly such sights and sounds. Zak was tackled hard to the wooden planks. The British Prime Minister was surrounded within seconds. The Arabs and others on stage far outnumbered their protectors, so in line with the instinct of self-preservation, those who realized what was happening simply hit the deck with varying degrees of emphasis. There was shouting and chairs fell over in a wild scramble of bodies. The audience began to catch on that something had gone very wrong, particularly when they recognized that some of the men on stage were now holding weapons and pointing them outward. Slowly, the people on the grass began to react — some fell to the ground, others ran.
Within seconds, the random flailing on stage began to organize. Security men clustered around those who were deemed important and, in amoebic masses, they shuffled backstage and out of sight.
Ian Dark desperately scanned outward, trying to see where the shot had come from.
“Where do you think he is, Inspector?”
There was no answer. Dark turned to see that Chatham was gone. He looked down behind the stage. People were running in every direction, including at least a dozen men with guns drawn. Two big limousines, sporting Israeli flags on the front fenders, spun grass and mud as they fishtailed toward the asphalt. Then he spotted Chatham, running as fast as his lanky old legs would carry him.
Dark, a practiced distance runner, scrambled after him and caught up within a hundred yards. “Where are you going?” he shouted as he ran alongside his boss. “Didn’t the shot come from the front?”
Chatham strained for breath. “The helicopter!” he croaked.
The carte blanche of resources had not been squandered. There were two police boats on the river, idling at the docks, an assortment of cars, and a helicopter sat waiting in a clearing on the park’s southeast corner.
Chatham waved for Dark to go on ahead. “Tell the pilot to start the thing!”
Dark held his questions and sprinted ahead.
Three minutes later they were airborne, looking down on the remains of what had minutes ago been a world-wide focus of the hope for peace.
Chatham yelled to the pilot in short bullets, trying to get his breath. “Gatwick Airport — get word to Headquarters — the Rapid Response Team — to the airport now!”
Dark was bewildered. His boss took a few more gasps before explaining.
“The string, Ian.”
“String?”
Chatham eyed the contraption they were riding in suspiciously. “Never been in one of these,” he said over the engine noise. “Do they all shake like this?”
“Yes,” Dark assured him. “What do you mean about the string?”
Chatham’s breath came more evenly now. “Do you remember his hotel room? We found a window blind.”
Dark nodded.
“The string, the one that operates the thing. It had been cut off. Didn’t that bother you as being strange?”
“I’ve seen stranger things lately.”
“Add in the hardware he bought. Don’t you see?”
Dark sat perplexed.
“A spring gun, Ian! He set up a gun somewhere and fired it remotely.”
“Of course!” Dark exclaimed. “But he missed so badly. How could he expect a hit on a day as windy as—” He stopped in mid-thought and said simply, “Two rifles!”
Chatham tapped his nose with an index finger. “He’s a hunter, Ian. And right now he’s flushing his prey.”
“But why the airport?”
“Think about the schedule,” Chatham prodded.
Dark knew it by heart. “After the ceremony was a luncheon and reception at the Camberly. Eleven in the morning until two in the afternoon. Then Zak was scheduled to leave. Gatwick back to Israel.”
“Right. And if someone tried to assassinate Zak, what do you think the Israelis would do?”
“Straight to the airport,” Dark said. “But how would Slaton know the schedule?”
“He might still have friends at the embassy. Then again, he might have guessed. He suspected Zak was about to rebut this whole peace process. No need for a reception then, eh? And he knows exactly how the Israelis work their security. Throw in an assassination attempt, and it’s a safe bet as to where Zak is headed right now.”
“Can’t we call the Israelis and tell them not to go to the airport?”
“I’m afraid not. They won’t listen to anyone at the moment. That’s how these special security teams work. In a crisis they have a plan to get their subject safe and nothing’s going to alter it. In ten minutes they’ll be at the airport, shoving Zak on his jet. And Slaton will be lining up his crosshairs.”