“It’s not right,” he insisted, “Zak getting off the hook while others paid so dearly. You and I only lost our careers. But Slaton …”
Bloch lifted his glass, “To David Slaton. May he finally be at peace.”
Jacobs touched his glass to his comrade’s.
“Peace.”
Christine sat on the porch with the mail in her lap. It had been there for fifteen minutes, but April was a beautiful time of year in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. The mornings were still cold, yet when the sun came up it spread a warmth that seemed to bring everything to life. Today the wind was strong, as it often was, but the tall trees bursting with fresh foliage took the brunt of it. Up here you didn’t feel the breeze, you heard it. Better yet, that was all you heard.
It would all change in a month or two. There were other cabins nearby, and soon the masses of summer would ascend from Boston. For now, though, it was heaven. And when the crowds eventually did show up, Christine would be gone, back to England to pick up Windsom and cross before hurricane season. Then, finally, back to work. She was already hitting the books every night. Upper Downey had been more than understanding, and Christine was determined to not let him down. When she went back to the hospital, she’d be ready.
She shuffled through the mail and found a letter from her mother. Christine had been e-mailing daily, but mom liked to write back the old-fashioned way. That was okay, although it made for some disjointed conversations. She had brought her up to the cabin last month for a short stay. They talked about things that hadn’t come up in years, and it was a salve to both their souls.
The second letter was from Clive Batty. She opened it and was pleased to read that Windsom would be ready in a week — repaired, rigged, and provisioned for the crossing. Good old Bats, she thought. Nothing less than a case of his favorite Scotch.
The last two letters were credit card offers, both promising incredible introductory rates to consolidate Christine’s debt. Both had her name spelled wrong. She tore them in half and chuckled, “Welcome back to the real world.”
Christine stood up and checked her ugly little watch. The gravel road leading up to the cabin was straight for the last hundred yards and she spotted Edmund Deadmarsh as he came around the bend heading toward her. He was running at a decent clip and then sped up slightly as he closed in. He ended right in front of the cabin, pacing back and forth, and completely out of wind.
She eyed him critically. “Get to the top today, Deadmarsh?”
He shook his head, still pacing with his hands on his hips.
“We don’t have forever, you know.”
He bent over and put his hands on his knees, then pointed off in the distance. “Mountain—” he croaked, “big mountain.”
“All right, Deadmarsh, maybe tomorrow.”
He climbed the steps up to the porch and got right in her face, “Would you stop calling me that.”
She smiled mischievously, “Okay … Eddie.”
He tackled her onto the old couch that had become porch furniture. They landed in a tangle. She giggled, he groaned.
“Ow!”
“What is it?” she asked, her humor instantly gone.
Slaton struggled to a sitting position and cocked his head to his shoulder. “That kevlar vest I swiped from the Royal Engineers — it saved my life, but I wish they’d made a long sleeve version.”
Her face tightened in worry.
“It’s all right,” he assured. “And I suppose what really saved my life was having a doctor five seconds away when I took seven rounds.”
Christine sighed. He put his good arm around her and they settled back into the big, worn cushions.
“So they wouldn’t let you choose a name?” she asked.
“No. It came as a package. The passport, birth certificate, bank account — all the rest. The guy who briefed me on the legend, he was CIA, I think. Never said where they got it, but it was very thorough.”
“And Anton Bloch was the one who made it happen?”
“Yeah. He came to see me while I was still in the hospital. Asked me what I wanted to do. I said I wanted out, the States. He made it happen. Officially, David Slaton is dead.”
“David Slaton, the assassin, is dead.” She put her head on his good shoulder. “You’ve been through so much.”
“I guess. But …”
“What?”
“It’s just that I’ve done a lot over the years,” Slaton hesitated, “things that are hard to justify. You could call it patriotism, an undeclared war, or maybe revenge for what I thought happened to my family. But still …” his voice faded away.
Christine spoke quietly. “Would you like to talk about it?”
“Yeah, I would,” he said. They settled farther back into the couch and he added, “But not right now.”
In the months after the debacle at Greenwich, things slowly reverted to normal at Scotland Yard. In fact, with all nuclear weapons accounted for and no assassins running amok, the staff had blithely fallen to old ways and become consumed by the trivial.
Chatham was eying a second helping of the cafeteria’s chocolate cake when Ian Dark came bustling in.
“There you are, sir. Did you forget about the briefing? It starts in three minutes.”
Chatham was reluctant, eyeing the short queue at the cash register. “What is it they’re demonstrating?”
“A biometric hand scanner. It’s like fingerprinting, you see, but rather looks at your entire hand. By the end of summer, no one will be able to enter the building without using it.”
Chatham raised an eyebrow and wondered about not being able to get into the building. Inconvenience or blessing? He shook his head.
“No, Ian. There’s something much more important on the agenda. And I’d like you to come along.”
He put a hand on Dark’s shoulder and guided him down the hall. They left the building and walked toward Victoria Station. Along the way, Chatham turned serious as he told Dark where they were headed.
“The Israeli Embassy? What for?” Dark asked.
“Ian, since that day in Greenwich we’ve found out a great deal. Slaton explained much of it himself when I interviewed him afterward in the hospital. We know where he stayed, what he bought, where he ate. We found the spring gun, figured out who set it off. We know exactly how he did it. But there’s still one thing, Ian. One thing that bothers me immensely.”
“What?”
“He missed, Ian. He bloody missed!”
They stood on the tube platform as a car noisily presented itself. Taking a seat to the rear, Chatham carried on, clearly bothered.
“He led us a merry chase all over the country. He killed people, stole cars and weapons, half the time with a complete amateur in tow, and we never got close to him. He planned the assassination perfectly, if you overlook the escape, which I suspect was done intentionally. This man got around the tightest security I’ve ever seen. Flawless! And then he goes and misses.”
Dark didn’t seem troubled, “He was at three hundred and ninety yards, Inspector, on a windy day. To hit a target the size of a person from that far off — it’s no easy shot.”
“But by every account he was an unusually gifted marksman. And everything else was so perfect.”
Dark looked at his boss, “You’ll never rest, will you? Not until everything makes sense. I thought the months might have made a difference.”
Chatham rambled on, “We’ve searched the tarmac inch by inch. The bullet is nowhere to be found. I’ve talked to Anton Bloch back in Tel Aviv and he says they’ve gone over the airplane time and again. No hole, no bullet lodged in a tire. Nothing.” He wrung his hands together. “We all heard that shot!”
Chatham had completed a jigsaw puzzle, only to find the last piece missing.