Free The Perfect Assassin by Ward Larsen

cup of hot coffee.
    “So,” he said, obviously with things on his mind, “I figure it’s about three days to Land’s End. Sound right?”
    Christine had taken a good look at the chart earlier. “I’d say so. Where exactly will you be getting off?”
    “I haven’t quite decided, but you’ll be the first to know. In a hurry to be rid of me?”
    There was a hint of playfulness in the question. She went along. “Oh, no. Stay as long as you like. And next time bring some friends. I’m sure they’re a fun bunch.”
    “Indeed they are.”
    “If you brought enough of them, next time you could commandeer a freighter. Maybe even a cruise ship.”
    Christine thought she actually saw his rough, chapped lips crack at the corners.
    “Of the two, definitely the cruise ship,” he said.
    “Why?”
    “Because I’d hate to be forced into sleeping with my arm around some smelly old sea dog.”
    “That would be disgusting.”
    “Your protest is duly noted. But nothing changes.”
    She sighed, and the man looked at her with something bordering on concern. “You know, you really look like you could use some sleep.”
    Christine had to agree. Physically and emotionally she was drained. He started to clean up the galley.
    “Go ahead. Lie down. I think I can handle the boat for now.”
    She suspected he could handle it in a typhoon if he had to.
    He finished cleaning and climbed up the stairs. “I’ll wake you if any-thing comes up.”
    Christine looked longingly at her bunk and decided it was worth a try. She stretched out and her body was immediately grateful. Knotted, aching muscles began to loosen and relax. As wonderful as it felt, though, her thoughts were still a scramble of worrisome questions, as they’d been all day. How had she gotten into this mess, and when would it end? Three days from now in England? And how would it end? What would he really do with her? The only realistic answers were frightful. Christine pulled a blanket up to her chest, finding warmth and even a thin, laughable sense of security. The bunk was soft and she closed her eyes. Three days to England. Would she ever be able to sleep with him lurking around? That question danced lightly in her mind for a few moments, then was answered.

Chapter Four
    It was called the War Room, the name an obvious choice for a place designed with exactly that in mind. The Israeli government had seen more than its share, and after the invasion of Lebanon in 1982, it commissioned the nation’s best and brightest structural engineers to design a complex that would harbor the country’s leadership through whatever dark days might lay ahead.
    The engineers took to the task with relish and quickly identified an ideal site for the fortress, one which at the time, unfortunately, was occupied by the Ministry of Agriculture and Rural Development. The engineers made a compelling case for the location, based on geological stability, advantages of the existing structure and, most importantly, proximity to the Knesset. So it was announced, with great public fanfare, that a new headquarters would be built for the Ministry of Agriculture. The Ministry’s employees cheered the announcement, although some thought it suspicious since the old building had been renovated at great expense only a year earlier.
    These doubts were quickly erased by way of a spreading rumor that the real reason for the move involved the original building’s foundation — it was suspect, and might collapse at any time. An engineering report surfaced, confirming that the rickety structure was indeed doomed to ruin. The place was boarded up and notices of condemnation were posted all around at street level. Ministry employees were given notice to clear out their personal possessions, and an entire department of government was temporarily relocated to a rented building on the outskirts of town.
    Another engineering survey soon declared that the original structure was perhaps salvageable, but not without