The Perfect Assassin

by Ward Larsen

  Zak said, “I’ll bet we made it intentionally dirty, just to scare the crap out of the Arabs.”

  “Perhaps. The Arabs themselves did not have the technology to detect this sort of thing. But the Russians did, and of course they were aligned with our Arab enemies.”

  “Who else would have known what we were doing?” General Gabriel inquired.

  “The Americans of course, maybe Great Britain or France. But there is one other salient point to be made. These nuclear residues provide a unique signature for any given batch. Essentially this means that any U-232 we’ve ever processed can be traced to us.” The Special Assistant to the Minister of Energy let that one sink in.

  “Even after it … blows up?” Steiner asked.

  “Fission would not deny identification.”

  The group went silent and Jacobs stepped in. “Thank you, Mr. Mordechai.”

  Mordechai smiled and loped casually back to his chair, the weight of matters seeming to have no effect. The rest of the room churned in widely angled thought.

  “So, ladies and gentlemen,” the Prime Minister said, “these two particular weapons were part of this legacy. They could theoretically be linked to us. Of course, if they were used in South Africa, we could tell this whole story about how they got there. Our enemies would call it a lie and accuse us of selling weapons of mass destruction. Most of the world would probably believe our version, but we’d be admitting violation of every nuclear non-proliferation agreement ever known. For these reasons, I decided the prudent thing would be to take the weapons back, to safeguard them until things have stabilized in the region.”

  Steiner added, “And we’ll have a big bargaining chip with whoever comes out on top.”

  Jacobs fixed a seething glare on the Labor clod. “I gave my word to General Van Ruut that the weapons would be returned with no strings attached. This is simply a security issue, for both our countries.”

  Steiner sat back, humbled for the moment, and the Prime Minister addressed the others. “Now that you all understand the background of this matter … Anton?”

  Bloch stood next to a video screen that was built into the wall. “Five days ago a cargo ship named Polaris Venture left Cape Town with the weapons. The crew was South African Navy, and one of my people was on board to help with security. After three days at sea, somewhere off the coast of western Africa, Polaris Venture disappeared.”

  A map came into view on the screen. Mostly blue, it depicted the Atlantic Ocean and the northwest coast of Africa. A red course line came up from the bottom of the map, paralleling the coast well offshore. Halfway to the Straits of Gibraltar, it changed from a solid to a dashed line, and a large red box was drawn around the transition point.

  “We were supposed to get hourly position updates by a secure satellite link.” Bloch pointed to the red box, “Somewhere in this area we lost contact.”

  “You’re saying this ship has sunk?” Steiner asked in amazement.

  “Or was hijacked?” General Gabriel suggested.

  “Hijacked?” Steiner was incredulous. “Good God! By who? Our en-emies?”

  Zak said, “Calm down, Ariel. Let’s get the facts first.” He looked at the map. “What are we doing to locate this ship?”

  “Our EC-130 took off an hour ago. Polaris Venture was equipped with two locator beacons, and if she’s gone down, the EC-130 will be able to pinpoint them.”

  General Gabriel prodded, “What about the crew?”

  Bloch said, “Search and rescue in the middle of the Atlantic isn’t something our country is really equipped for. We could ask for help, of course. The French and British are fairly close, but if we do that—”

  Steiner pounced, “If we ask for help this whole fiasco will blow up in our face!”

  General Van Ruut spoke up, “Mr. Prime Minister, there are sixteen men out there. We must consider them first and foremost.”

  Jacobs said, “General, I understand your position. I have been a field commander myself, and I promise that we will take all reasonable steps to find these men.”

  The “all reasonable steps” clause signaled a shifting tide.

  Van Ruut pleaded, “Those men could still be out there! We have to act now!”

  “Mr. Prime Minister, with all due respect to General Van Ruut,” Steiner said in a manner that held none, “this is now a security issue for our government. We all appreciate his help, but I think the General should no longer be present at this Cabinet meeting.”

  Jacobs sighed. Even the Prime Minister had to choose his battles, and this was not one of them. “Mr. Steiner is correct, General Van Ruut. I’ll have to ask you to leave. You have my word that we will try to find your men. One of ours is out there too.”

  Van Ruut glared at Steiner, and his reply was clipped, “I understand.” Dignified in defeat, the South African stood straight and did a sharp about-face toward the door.

  As soon as he was gone, Jacobs made the phone call to security. There was no point in trying to be discreet. “General Van Ruut is on level three. Please escort him to the executive lounge. Give him every courtesy, but do not let him leave the complex.”

  The Prime Minister frowned and scribbled down a note to give Van Ruut the use of his personal suite. He then refocused on the task at hand. “Your thoughts?”

  Sonja Franks, the ever diplomatic Foreign Minister said, “How long must we detain him?”

  “At least until we find out what’s happened,” said Jacobs. “But let’s not forget, he’s on our side. Who knows what might have happened if we hadn’t taken those weapons out of South Africa.”

  Zak said, “I agree. We owe him, and he seems a decent man. But it brings something else to mind. I don’t think the loss of this ship is a random maritime accident. I don’t know if it was hijacked or sunk, but security was obviously breached. Aside from Van Ruut and half the people in this room, who knew about the mission?”

  Bloch said, “There were sixteen men on the ship. Another two dozen South African soldiers were involved in the transportation and loading.”

  “But how many knew the nature of the cargo?” Zak wondered aloud.

  “This mission was a scramble from the start, and I can’t speak for security on the South African end. According to General Van Ruut, only Polaris Venture’s captain and our two men were fully briefed, but any of the others might have figured it out.”

  “Two?” General Gabriel inquired. “I thought we had just one on board, Anton.”

  “I sent two to Cape Town. One oversaw the loading process and actually went along when she sailed. The second man was only there to install the communications gear and some scuttling charges.”

  “Some what?” a voice asked.

  Bloch finally put forward a scrap of good news. “Explosives, big charges placed below the waterline. They could be set off intentionally, to sink Polaris Venture fast. It was meant as a precaution against hijacking.”

  “What would have triggered these explosives?” Zak asked.

  “Who, actually,” Bloch said. “My man on board had the ability to set them off.”

  Steiner asked, “What if hijackers got to him first?”

  “Nothing’s impossible, but boarding a large ship that’s under way on the open ocean — it’s no easy thing. Even harder to do it and not be heard or seen by lookouts or radar. I know because we’ve tried.”

  Jacobs said, “So someone might have tried to take Polaris Venture, but then our man sank her intentionally.”

  Bloch agreed, “That would fit most of what we know. It’s also remotely possible that one of the scuttling charges might have gone off by accident.”

  Sonja Franks said, “So, in either case, the ship went down, and as soon as we find it we can get to work retrieving these weapons.”

  “Retrieving the weapons would not be an option,” Bloch said.

  “Why not?”

  Bloch turned again to the map. “We pre-programmed a course for the ship that kept her in very deep water. The
area where she’s down has a minimum depth of nine thousand feet. A salvage there would be a major undertaking. Only a few countries in the world have the technology to do it, and none of them would have any interest in weapons of this type — they’re dinosaurs.”

  “All right, so what now, Anton?” Jacobs asked, wanting to wrap things up.

  “The EC-130 should report back tomorrow. Hopefully they will have found the ELTs and we can pinpoint where the ship is.”

  “And then?” Steiner asked.

  “And then nothing, if we’re lucky,” Bloch said. “We just let it sit on the bottom of the ocean and keep our secret as best we can.”

  Some around the table seemed relieved, but General Gabriel looked concerned. “What about searching for survivors?”

  “We can’t ask for help and expect to keep this quiet,” Steiner insisted.

  “I’m afraid he’s right,” Sonja Franks agreed.

  Jacobs nodded reluctantly. He looked to General Gabriel. “Let’s put everything we have into a search. Planes, ships, whatever we can do.”

  “Yes sir,” Gabriel responded.

  It was a feeble gesture and everyone knew it. The room was quiet until someone asked, “What if somebody else picks up survivors, or finds the wreckage floating around?”

  Bloch said, “I’ve been told there are no shipping lanes where she went down. Just a lot of ocean.”

  Zak concurred, “It would really be a long shot.”

  “Yes …” Jacobs hedged, “but not out of the question.”

  Zak said, “Anton, why don’t we send a message out to all our stations in North Africa and Europe. Let’s listen for anything on this — discreetly.” Heads nodded around the table.

  “All right.”

  Jacobs rose from his chair. “We’ll meet again tomorrow morning, or sooner if anything breaks. Everyone’s on a half-hour call-back until further notice.”

  Yosy Meier walked out of Harrods with one of the newest Barbie dolls and a model airplane kit tucked under his arm. In the other hand he carried his small suitcase. He’d always been able to find something for Evie and Max at Harrods. In the old days, it was more an effort to ease his guilt at having been gone so much. Today he did it just to see the smiles on their faces — that and to kill some time, since his flight didn’t leave for another three hours. He had turned in the rental car at a different location from where he’d gotten it, telling the agent he was in a hurry. From here, Meier would take the tube to Heathrow, only he didn’t want to be early.

  He wondered if he was getting paranoid. He hadn’t seen anything of the BMW or its occupants since ditching them yesterday. That much was good. But he still couldn’t find Slaton. He’d called the embassy twice and talked to Emma. Still nothing. Meier finally decided it was too risky to stay on, and he booked the first flight home.

  Traffic ran heavy along Brompton Road in the midday rush. Meier looked at his watch and figured he had about an hour to lose before getting on the tube. He paused at the curb of a busy intersection. Businessmen, tourists, and shoppers jammed the sidewalk around him, none venturing to jaywalk as cars, taxis, and scooters shot past. Meier spotted a Thai restaurant across the street. What better place to kill an hour? he thought.

  A car alarm suddenly went off somewhere behind. People turned to look. Meier was struggling with his packages when a heavy forearm shoved him in the back. It caught him completely off-guard and he pitched forward into the street. As he fell, everything seemed to revert to slow motion. He saw the Barbie falling. He saw the street, with its painted crosswalk coming toward his face. And he saw the grill of the huge red bus that was barreling straight at him. Yosy Meier realized he was about to die, and the last instant of his life was spent thinking about the family he would never see again.

  The sound, a muffled thud, was what most people noticed first. Next was the screeching of brakes and an image of what looked like a big rag doll rolling into the intersection. Once they realized what had happened, the bystanders reacted, a cacophony of hysterical screams, shocked “Good Gods!” and the wailing chant of an old Indian man.

  Someone yelled to call an ambulance, although everyone could see it was no use. A hundred feet back on the sidestreet, no one noticed the owner of a big blue BMW as he calmly walked to his car, disabled the alarm, and drove off.

  Chapter Three

  Christine looked at the telltales on the shrouds and trimmed in the main sheet. A brisk early morning breeze was pressing Windsom along at nearly seven knots, but it was rough going. The seas were four to five feet, and choppy. Fortunately, it didn’t seem to bother her patient. He’d been asleep since the previous afternoon. His vital signs were strong and the wound across his ribs showed no signs of infection. Even the blistering on his face and arms had begun to improve, but she still wished she had antibiotics and an IV to give him fluids. Best of all, Christine had calculated that with these winds she’d make Lisbon by noon the next day. One week in a proper hospital and he ought to be as good as new.

  She’d spent two hours the previous night toying with her recalcitrant radios. The sat-com, the one she really could have used, was still down — she couldn’t even get it to take power. The marine two-way had dried out and seemed to be working, but she hadn’t been able to raise anyone. After one last check on the autopilot, she decided to go below to check on her patient and try the VHF again.

  Christine had just reached the companionway steps when she saw it, slightly off the port bow. A ship! A big freighter of some kind, probably ten miles off, and on a crossing path that wouldn’t bring it any closer. But definitely within radio range.

  She ducked down into the cabin, turned on the VHF and grabbed the microphone. The radio was already set to the emergency frequency, 121.5 MHz. Christine stretched the spiral cord tight and poked her head back through the hatch, somehow not wanting to lose sight of the ship as she spoke.

  “Mayday! Mayday! This is Windsom calling any ship this frequency.”

  Nothing.

  “Mayday! Mayday! This is Windsom, over.”

  More silence, and then finally a deep voice with a thick German accent. “Calling mayday, this is the Breisen. Say again your call sign and what is nature of your problem.”

  “Yes!” Christine shrieked. “Breisen, this is the sailboat Windsom. I am a civilian vessel of United States registry. I have to report the sinking of another vessel in this area and my sat-com is out. Can you relay information for me?”

  The silence returned. “Breisen, this is Windsom, over.”

  Something wasn’t right. Christine hadn’t heard the clicks from the radio sidetone on her last transmission. She looked down into the cabin and was stunned to see her patient standing next to the radio. He had his finger on the power switch — and it was off.

  “What are you doing?” she asked incredulously.

  The man simply stared at her, a direct, riveting look in his eyes. Christine lowered the microphone from her lips.

  “Your shipmates might still be out there. Shipmates,” she insisted, wishing to God she knew the Swedish word. “We must start a search. Search!”

  The man shook his head, his gaze level and strong. “There’s no one else out there,” he said. “They’re all dead.” He reached out, gently pulled the microphone from her hand and unplugged its cord from the back of the radio. The man then tossed the handset out the hatch, its arcing path ending with a plop in the cold blue Atlantic.

  Christine took a step back, stunned. Stunned that he was not letting her start a rescue. Stunned that he had just spoken perfectly clear, concise English. As she backed away, he moved toward her.

  “What do you want?” Christine asked.

  He began climbing the stairs out of the cabin, no longer looking tired and weak. Christine kept backing slowly. She spotted a big brass winch handle lying on the seat next to her. She grabbed it, putting on her most determined face.

  Reaching the deck, he stopped his advance. The man seemed bigger now, taller. She
realized she’d never seen him when he wasn’t hunched over. His expression was noncommittal as she brandished the heavy brass bar.

  “Put that down,” he said calmly.

  Christine stood her ground.

  “I’m not going to hurt you. You’ll have to do what I ask for a few days, that’s all. We’re not going to Portugal. We’re going to England.”

  “We’ll go wherever I say! This is my boat.”

  He sighed, looking at her with the regard one might hold for a petulant child. The man moved again, slowly and deliberately toward her.

  Christine raised the brass handle over her head. “Stay back! I warn you!”

  She swung with all her might. Her arm came to a painful stop midway through its arc, and his hand clamped around her wrist like a vice. She kicked out, but he parried every blow, still holding her arm tight. Christine lost her balance and fell onto the railing, one leg dangling over the side before he pulled her back up. She wrenched away and fell to the deck, her heart pounding.

  “I’ve done nothing but help you!” she spat. “I saved your life!”

  The blistered, unshaven face remained a blank.

  “You have no right to do this!”

  He pried the winch handle from her grip and dropped it casually into the ocean.

  “I’ve got more of those!”

  “And the next time you try to use one on me I’ll keep the handle and toss you overboard.”

  Christine glared at him. She knew she was in good shape and could put up a fight, but they both understood. He could have easily put her overboard moments ago. He hadn’t.

  “Please don’t think I’m not grateful. I know I’d be dead right now if it wasn’t for you. I’ve got to get to England, though.”