“And this is why we’re going to see the Israelis today?” Dark asked.
“I met a chap yesterday in my office, an Israeli from the embassy. I think he might be the new Mossad chief here in London. Nice enough bloke. Had a few questions about what had gone on. We decided a little more cooperation might serve us both better next time. Before he left, I told him what bothered me, what I’ve just told you.”
“Did he have any ideas?”
“Didn’t say a thing. But he invited me over this afternoon. So there you are.”
Fifteen minutes later they were standing in front of the Israeli Embassy on Palace Green. The man Chatham had spoken with met them at the gate. A congenial fellow, dressed in suit and tie, he looked nothing like the spy he certainly was. Chatham introduced his associate, and the Israeli shook Dark’s hand. If he had any qualms about an extra guest, he wasn’t letting on. He led the two Englishmen onto the grounds and then inside the embassy building.
“Gentlemen,” he said as he guided his guests, “I’ve heard from a number of sources, both here and back in Israel, that you’ve been a great help to us in the past few months. I also understand that my government was, at the time, not always … forthcoming? Is that the right word?”
Chatham agreed, “It is, sir.”
The Israeli smiled. “You told me of your frustration yesterday, Inspector. I think we at least owe you this.”
He paused, reached into a pocket, then held out his hand. In his open palm was a smashed blob of metal that would have fit in a thimble.
“Is that it?” Dark wondered.
The Israeli held it closer to Chatham. “You may have it,” he said.
The Inspector took it and held it to the light.
“Ballistics can tell us if that’s the one,” Dark guaranteed.
Chatham didn’t need ballistics. Somehow he knew. “Where did you get it?” he asked.
The Israeli beckoned them to follow. They walked further back into the building, through doors and hallways where strangers didn’t normally venture — at least that was how it seemed based on the looks they got from the embassy workers. Still, no one challenged them, which meant their escort had plenty of clout. They ended up in a parking garage where a few dozen cars were crammed into tight spaces. Their friend led them to a row of limousines and he gestured to one in particular, which had been backed into its parking spot. Chatham and Dark stood staring at the hood for a moment. Then it registered.
“Good God!” Dark whispered. “Do you mean he—”
“Yes,” Chatham said, the weight now gone from his shoulders.
On the hood of the car was a small jagged hole, the metal torn where the bullet had ripped through and probably lodged in the engine below. Just in front of the hole was an upright hood ornament, the trademark emblem of Mercedes-Benz. Except all that remained was the ring. The three spokes of the symbol were gone, removed by one round from an L96A1. From three hundred and ninety yards.
Chatham fingered the slug in his hand.
“He didn’t miss after all, did he?”
Acknowledgments
A work of this nature is never complete without suffering under the critical eye of knowledgeable professionals. Thanks to Stan Zimmerman and Dr. Kevin Kremer for their help early on. And to Martha Powers and Susan Hayes — together, your fresh eyes proved invaluable. Bob and Patricia Gussin of Oceanview Publishing, whose support and enthusiasm have been uplifting. And thanks to Susan Greger and her entire staff. You have been, and will remain, essential.
Finally, all appreciation to my wife, Rose, for her enduring patience with the entire affair.