The Perfect Assassin

by Ward Larsen

  She liked how he used the word we with respect to his banker. This was a big fish. “I’m sure Mr. Dhalal will be glad to hear it. When can we expect you back?”

  “Well, I hadn’t planned on returning for a couple of weeks, but I might be able to get back this Thursday afternoon. Would that work?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good. I’ll call tomorrow, once I get my flight information. Again, I’m sorry to have wasted your morning.”

  “Oh, please don’t worry. I’ve got other business just up the street,” she added, hoping her tone was convincing.

  “Ah, there is one other thing …”

  Linstrom’s hesitation seemed extended. “Yes?”

  “It’s rather embarrassing, but it has to do with that silly fall I took the other day.”

  “You’re not hurt, are you?” Her concern was legitimate. Dhalal would be livid.

  “Oh, no. Nothing like that. You see, I’ve lost my wristwatch. It’s not really valuable. More of an heirloom, I suppose. My father gave it to me. I looked around all weekend and couldn’t find it. Then it dawned on me. When I had my hand up in that small attic I must have hooked it on something. Lost my balance and fell, even ended up with a good scratch on my wrist. I suspect the watch is still up there and I’d very much like to know, one way or the other. Would it be too much to ask to have you take a look? Or perhaps Mr. Dhalal could do it.”

  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 Isr
ael.”

  “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.”

  Dark felt a shiver go down his back. “He’s thought of everything, hasn’t he? Slaton’s always two steps ahead,” he said dejectedly.

  “One step right now,” Chatham countered, “and we’re gaining.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Rapid Response Team had been the first to arrive. Christine sat alone in the helicopter, even the pilots having gone to aid the search. Masters’ orders for her had been strict — stay put. Far in the distance she saw a runway where a regular stream of airliners lumbered to either smooth levitation or a noisy stop. Beyond the runway lay the huge passenger terminal, where tens of thousands of people came and went on a daily schedule.

  Here, however, set off in a remote corner of the airport, the Gatwick Executive Terminal was a very different kind of place. It was smaller in scale, less busy. There were buildings behind a fenceline, modest in size, yet tastefully appointed. These were the terminals and offices of the private jet operators. Limousines sat discreetly tucked into niches, lying in wait for the occasional Duke or scion of industry. One building had a strip of red carpet extending out across the concrete, ending near one of the neat rows of business jets that were arrayed across the ramp. This was the elite corner of Gatwick, a place reserved for those endowed with either extreme wealth or importance. It was a blatant display of image that Christine completely ignored. Her attention riveted on what loomed a hundred yards farther back on the tarmac — a big jetliner with the Star of David on its tail.

  Christine was on edge as she watched the show. Masters was presently at the Executive Terminal gate, the only passage she could see through the perimeter fence, arguing with a pair of serious men. They wore business formal, and each sported the unusual accessory of an automatic weapon. He was joined by two of his team and a pair of uniformed policemen. All were flashing identification cards back and forth, shouting, and pointing in different directions. The rest of Masters’ team were already busy, scouring buildings and hangars. And Zak’s aircraft was surrounded by two dozen men and women, most showing weapons of their own.

  Christine wished David was far from here, far from all these people and their guns. But she knew better. He was here somewhere. Here to assassinate Zak, who might arrive at any minute. And as long as she sat in the helicopter, there was nothing she could do about it.

  Another police car arrived and two more officers joined the grand debate. Christine could take it no more. She got out of the helicopter, Masters too engrossed to notice, and headed away from the crowd, along the fenceline. She’d follow it around hoping to see something, anything that could tell her where David was.

  As she ran, the big jets gave way to rows of smaller planes. She tried to see into their front and side windows, wondering if David might be hiding in one. She remembered The Excelsior, what David had told her about getting elevation. The higher you were, the better you could see things. There were hangers back by the main gate, but they didn’t seem very big. As she looked around, there was only one thing that really stuck out — the control tower. It was a hundred yards away, a big column, square all the way up, then topped by a bulbous cap of windows and antennae. Christine saw people milling around up in the control cab. Some of them were certainly air traffic controllers, and today others might be security, staking out the high ground. There was no way David could be up there. Then something else caught her eye, something she hadn’t noticed at first. Halfway up the control tower, a narrow metal walkway was barely visible at the back of the structure. In the front, at the same level, was a single window. But the window had been thoroughly painted over to match the color of the tower. No one inside could ever see through it.

  She looked around frantically, realizing time was growing short. Where are you? she thought. Farther away from the airport was a big grassy hill. It was high, but too open, with nowhere to hide. And besides, it seemed awfully far away. She kept moving. There was more commotion back at the entrance, and now Christine heard another helicopter in the distance. Almost directly beneath the control tower, she looked up through the angled glass at the top. She could see fingers pointing toward the horizon. But then there was something else. It didn’t register at first, but when it did Christine stopped dead in her tracks. The small window halfway up was open now — only a few inches, but definitely open!

  She yelled, “David!” but her voice was drowned out by the roar of the helicopter passing overhead.

  From his perch in the tower the kidon leveled his rifle. He used the telescopic sight to scan the area where his target would be any moment — reconnaissance through a soda straw. Everything was as he expected. The pilots had the big jet ready to go. The number two engine was running, and on the port side a dozen men and women buzzed around the tarmac where a wheeled stairway was up against the airplane’s entry door.

  He shifted his sight and monitored the gate. A wild ruckus had been going on for the last few minutes. A handful of patrolmen joined the special tactics team that had just landed. They’d begun searching the hangars and buildings at ground level. Chatham had figured it out. But a check of his watch told Slaton that Zak would be arriving in the next two to three minutes. The inspector was too late.

  The thought came to mind that so many police would make a clean escape difficult. But then Slaton realized that, for the first time ever, he had not even planned an escape. Every moment had been carefully crafted and designed up until the pull of the trigger. There, he had stopped, disregarding what would happen afterward. Or perhaps not caring. He thought about Christine and briefly imagined what might happen if he could get out of this alive. The equipment room was halfway up the control tower, a tactically commanding position, but there was only one way up. And one way down. The room was full of electronic equipment, racks of radios, and telephone circuitry. A generator, obviously an emergency backup, lay idle in one corner. None of it would help. The only item of possible use was a long rope he’d spotted. If the police came up after him, he might manage to secure it and rappel out the window to — to what?

  Slaton forced the desperate thoughts away. He would not allow himself to lose concentration. Not now.

  Next to the runway, mounted on a pole, was a big orange windsock. It registered not only the wind direction, but also the wind speed, measured as the angle of rise. Presently, it showed a nearly dead crosswind of eight knots, down from what it had been twenty minutes ago. The kidon figured the mil correction for his sight picture, then applied it, training his weapon on the head of a woman standing at the base of the airplane’s boarding stairs. He heard the sound of another helicopter overhead.

  If Zak was on the chopper, Christine only had seconds. She ran to the base of the control tower. It was surrounded by a secondary fence, but surprisingly, the gate was wide open. Then she saw why. The heavy door at the bottom, the one that must have accessed the elevator or stairs to the top, had a cipher lock and card-swipe device. There was also a telephone, no doubt to contact the people up above. She ran around to the back of the tower and found an iron ladder attached to the wall, rising straight up to where David had to be. A sign was
strung across the base of the ladder on a chain. It read: warning : high voltage : restricted to authorised persons.

  Christine ducked under the chain and started climbing. The ladder had been painted time and again, and white flakes came off on her hands. When she got to the top, Christine mounted the narrow catwalk. There was a single door, labeled equipment room. She pushed on it and the door moved slightly, then stopped. It had been blocked from within.

  Slaton had heard the metallic clanging as someone climbed the ladder. He cursed and watched the gate, willing Zak’s entourage of vehicles to appear. Whoever was outside pushed on the door, but he’d already barricaded it with everything he could find. It could probably be shoved open, but it would take a few men to do it. Whoever was out there now was alone. He could barely believe the next sound he heard.

  “David!”

  There was no mistaking the voice. He hesitated, then shouted, “What are you doing here?”

  “David, don’t do this! It’s wrong!”

  He tried to block out her words as she struggled against the door.

  “I talked to Anton Bloch, David. You’ve got to listen to what he told me.”

  Slaton gave no response as two limousines flew into view, careening through the quickly opened gate. Zak had arrived.

  Chatham’s helicopter touched down near the base of the tower. He immediately spotted Christine Palmer, of all people, banging on a door from a catwalk halfway up the structure. It didn’t take much thought to figure out why. He pointed up to show Ian Dark and they ran off, Dark grabbing a machine pistol from the helicopter. Circumnavigating the fence, they were joined by two of Masters’ team. All raced for the ladder.

  “Zak wasn’t the one who killed your wife and daughter!”

  Slaton tried to ignore it.

  “I know more about it than you or Anton Bloch. Zak was there! He killed everyone on that bus.” He tracked the two big Mercedes as they skidded to a halt near the airstairs.