Slaton felt a numbness begin to fall. He needed sleep, needed it every bit as much as he would soon need more conventional weapons. He considered his options for the next morning. His first idea was simplistic—find Inspector Sanderson and press him for every scrap of information. That was what Edmund Deadmarsh would do. But Sanderson had shared little so far, indeed no more than necessary to prod his witness down the desired paths. Slaton doubted the inspector was going to be more forthcoming, no matter how outraged the American stonemason became. His prognosis for that course of action: poor.

He searched for Plan B. Past experience had taught him that for all Israel’s enemies, there was often none more treacherous than Israel herself. Slaton had one confirmed character in the disaster that was playing out—Anton Bloch, former director of Mossad. Centering on this, and disregarding who else might be involved, his answer fell into place. He knew precisely what his next step had to be.

That settled, Slaton allowed his body to relax. He heard the sounds of the city outside his window—passing cars, shouted greetings, a far-off siren. Then, amid the asynchronous din, he extracted another sound, this more constant. It was deep and resonating, a distinctive signature to anyone who was familiar—the diesel rumble of a boat on the waterway. He knew nothing of the boat’s function, nothing about its destination, but that steady sound gave Slaton a fleeting peace of mind.

Minutes later, he was fast asleep.

Chapter 9

NINE

Slaton woke at six-thirty. He’d slept well but was hardly refreshed, his body still in arrears to the tune of six time zones. At the bathroom mirror he weighed the question of whether to shave his thickening beard. He’d not bothered since Christine had left for the conference, almost a week now. Slaton decided to leave it as it was, reasoning that a disheveled look was ideal for a man in his circumstances.

He showered and donned fresh clothes, a pair of tan cotton pants and a long-sleeve button-down shirt. The shirt was a shade of red so bright it might have doubled as a bullfighter’s cape. He pocketed his passport and a wallet full of identification attesting him to be Edmund Deadmarsh, along with the grand sum of thirty-seven hundred dollars—he had cleaned out his and Christine’s joint checking account before leaving Virginia. Everything else went into his suitcase, and that went into the closet.