Dark Zone (12 page)

It still seemed that way. The American ambassador to Great Britain did not have a “usual routine,” but midnight nearly always found him in his study catching up on international news. He generally worked until about 2:00 a.m., rising again at 6:00. One of the very few benefits of being a widower was not having to worry about disturbing his wife when he came to bed or rose.

Clancy began reading some of the mainstream press stories analyzing the President’s upcoming trip to Europe. As usual, the media had half the facts wrong and a tenth of the analysis right. The
New York Times
editorial writers were particularly perverse, claiming that France’s recent trend toward a greater alliance with Washington had made the world a more dangerous place. As he shook his head and flipped the page, his phone rang. At this hour, it was likely to be America, and so he picked up immediately.

“Mr. Rubens of the National Security Agency on the line for you, sir,” said the night operator. Clancy insisted on a live person answering his phone; the only time someone dialing the embassy got a machine was from 2:00 to 6:00 a.m.

Clancy punched the flashing light on the console next to his desk. “Mr. Rubens, good evening,” he said.

He expected that Rubens would be apologizing for the trouble earlier or at least calling to give him a heads-up on what had happened. But instead, the number two man at the secretive spy agency told him he needed a favor.

“I have a bit of a difficult situation. Two of my men have been taken into custody by the London constabulary,” said Rubens.

“With the police? Your department seems to do that a lot. We just bailed out some of your men.”

“It happens that these are the same ones. I’m afraid I can’t go into the details of the situation, but I need them removed from custody expeditiously.”

Clancy didn’t know Rubens very well, but he had a reputation of being something of a prig and a snob. His tone now confirmed that—he made it sound as if Clancy worked for him.

“What details
can
you go into?” said Clancy, consciously putting a sharp edge on his voice.

Rubens explained that the men were following up a lead from the earlier incident and apparently blundered into a sting by the police.

“What I need is a pretext for them to have been in Waterloo Station that has nothing to do with their actual mission,” said Rubens. “One that would avoid presenting details and yet be very persuasive. The incident involving your daughter earlier suggested an idea to me. Since it’s known that they have a connection to the embassy, then we might say that they were watching for her, perhaps going to make a reservation with Eurostar or check—”

“My daughter? What does my daughter have to do with this!” Clancy didn’t have to force any edge into his voice now—no one took advantage of his daughter.

“She has nothing to do with this,” said Rubens, his tone still haughty. “However, if my people were to say that they were watching the station prior to her expected arrival there—even if that arrival didn’t occur—that might just be enough to satisfy all concerned. A simple phone call to you verifying the fact, and the entire matter would be dismissed with nothing more than a few hard feelings.”

“My daughter Deidre is not to be involved in any of your department’s operations.”

“Of course not. That isn’t what I’m suggesting,” said Rubens. “I’m saying that if my men were to say that they were merely following up on the earlier incident involving your daughter, a pretext might be found that would satisfy everyone.”

“How does lying to the British government cover all concerns?” Clancy slammed down the phone. He got up and walked over to the antique table at the side of the office, where a decanter of bourbon sat behind a small row of glasses. He took three small ice cubes from the bucket and then poured about a finger’s worth of bourbon into a glass. After a birdlike sip, Clancy turned around to see that his daughter had entered the room and was standing across from him near the doorway.

“Deidre? I thought you went to bed.”

“I thought I’d hunt you down for one of our conferences,” she said. “What were you yelling about?”

“Nothing.”

“I heard my name taken in vain.”

“Oh, that was nothing.”

She was dressed in sweats, her generation’s version of a long flannel gown and eminently more practical.

She’d grown to look very much like her mother, he thought; a bittersweet blessing.

“Well, come in,” he told her. “Sit down and let’s hear about the job at the Musée Rodin.”

“It’s not a job; it’s a fellowship.”

She closed the door and came over. He pulled over one of the chairs for her, then got another so he could face her without the desk between them. They used to have these 1:00 a.m. talks all the time when she was in high school and home from undergraduate school. They called them conferences, and the sessions could last until daybreak. While more than a few had been difficult and even, for him at least, a bit frightening, he missed them greatly.

“Was there a problem about the purse snatching?” she asked.

“Oh no, don’t worry about that.”

She frowned, and Clancy wondered if he seemed too dismissive.

“Tell me what happened again,” he said, sipping his drink. “The guy grabbed the purse and ran?”

She recounted the story. The two men who came to her aid—Rubens’ men—had sprung from nowhere and saved her life, as she put it.

“You shouldn’t be traveling alone,” said Clancy when she finished. “There’s just been an advisory about families traveling. This could have been a terrorist attack.”

“I’m
fine.”

“I know you’re fine. It’s not you,” he said quickly, “it’s more me, my job. The ambassador is a target. You really should have an escort. Especially when you go back to Paris tomorrow. London is bad enough. But Paris?”

“I thought we were going to talk about the museum and the fellowship.”

“We can. We will. I just don’t want you to take any risks.”

“I won’t.”

“I can get someone from the embassy to travel back to Paris with you. What do you think?”

“Why?”

“Because there’s an alert out about travel.”

“I’m sure that’s to places like Africa or Egypt, not Paris.”

“France was specifically mentioned,” said Clancy. “We can find a nice young woman. She’ll blend in. She’ll be your friend.”

“Every time someone hears something in a bar, the entire State Department starts acting like nervous hens.”

“That’s an exaggeration.” He tried turning it into a joke. “We’re skittish roosters at least, aren’t we?”

She rolled her eyes with an exaggerated smile.

Just like her mom.

“Someone to go back to Paris. Just on the plane,” he said.

“What if I take the Chunnel?”

“You really want to take a train?” Once he was in overprotective mode, Clancy couldn’t help himself. “Trains can break down.”

“Planes can’t?”

“The Chunnel then.”

“I’ll tell you what—make it the hunk who recovered my pocketbook and I’ll consider it,” she said.

Clancy was not yet comfortable with even mild sexual innuendo from his daughter—would he ever be?—but he pretended to be and managed to ignore it. “What about one of the Marines?”

“They’re too ... Mariney.”

“Mariney?”

“You know what I mean.”

“One of our own security people. A young man?”

“The hunk who grabbed my pocketbook. I never thanked him properly.”

“Fine. Consider it done. Now tell me about the museum. Rodin. Why sculpture? Why not painting?”

16

Dean repeated the story for the two British policemen. As he had each time, the detective in shirtsleeves took notes, recording nearly every word Dean said.

The other man stifled a yawn.

“We went to the train station because we were going to go to the London Eye,” said Dean. “I got turned around, and I went outside to figure out where I was. I thought someone was following me, and I was right. When I turned the corner, I was jumped from the side. I started defending myself. I nearly got clobbered.”

“All right then,” said the man who’d looked bored. He got up. “I’m going to go get a bit of tea. George?”

The detective in shirtsleeves shook his head.

“And you?”

“I’d take coffee,” said Dean.

As soon as his partner was out of the room, the detective asked Dean if he had any other detail he might want to add.

“Not at all.”

“You really do want to cooperate, chap.”

“I don’t know what I’m to cooperate about.”

“Don’t you, though?”

Dean stared at him; the policeman stared back. When the door opened, Dean looked up. Instead of the other detective, it was Chief Inspector Lang—the man who had been involved in the murder investigation.

The man in shirtsleeves jumped up. “Chief Inspector.”

Lang grunted and sat down. He had an overcoat on—and still smelled of cigarettes.

“What happened?” asked Lang.

Dean repeated the story.

“And the friend that you just happened to meet went to the station with you?” said Dean.

“We both wanted to go on the London Eye.”

“That’s across the street and down the block away,” said Lang.

“I didn’t know that at the time.”

“Come now. Who do you work for?” he asked. “The CIA, yes? Or are you FBI?”

Charlie gave an exaggerated sigh and looked toward the other detective. “You should call the number on the card I gave you. We make gauges for home boilers. You probably have one yourself.”

“Have you seen the inside of our prisons?” asked the man.

“Are you threatening me?”

“Come on now,” said Lang. “No need for any of this. Are you CIA or not?”

“Do I look like I’m CIA?”

“You do realize this is a murder investigation?”

“I didn’t murder anyone.”

“You came close,” said the other detective.

Lang frowned. He shook his head at the man. “Why don’t you take a break?”

“Maybe I will.” He got up and went out.

“I would appreciate your cooperation,” Lang told Dean.

“I am cooperating.”

Lang drummed his fingers on the table. “We have an MI5 agent on his way over,” said the chief inspector, rising. “We’ll leave it to him.”

Dean leaned back against the chair after the detective left. He was the one who should be yawning. He hadn’t slept now for nearly two days.

Was the reference to MI5 a bluff?

There seemed too much disgust in the policeman’s voice for that. And besides, guessing that they were spies wasn’t exactly going out on a limb.

“Lang, let’s make a deal,” Dean said aloud. “Let’s talk.”

“No, Charlie, no,” said Rockman from the Art Room.

“Come on. Let’s talk before your spymasters get here,” said Dean.

The door opened a moment later. Lang practically sprinted into the room with the other two inspectors trailing along.

“MI5 is not our master,” said Lang.

“Before we talk,” Dean said, “my partner comes in.”

“We can’t do that,” said one of the other detectives.

“Sure you can.”

“What if we did do that?” said Lang. “Then what?”

“We’ll decide when I see him. You have nothing to lose, right?” added Dean. “As soon as MI5 comes I leave anyway.”

Lang frowned.

“Look, I know the police were embarrassed because four of them couldn’t beat up an over-the-hill Yankee tourist,” he added, “but you have a murder case you’re trying to solve, and holding me isn’t going to help you do that.”

“Bring the other American in,” Lang told the others.

In the Art Room, Rockman leaned against his computer screen, practically yelping to Rubens.

“Dean wants to cut a deal with them,” he said. “I tried to stop him.”

“Yes. I heard,” said Rubens. “As usual, Mr. Dean is a step ahead of us in assessing the situation. He’s made the proper decision here. Don’t interfere.”

Rockman shook his head reluctantly, but Rubens saw what Dean was doing—trying to draw information out of the policeman, who would no longer be available, much less cooperate, once MI5 arrived.

Which would be any moment now.

Rubens reached to his belt for the remote control device for the communications system.

“Charles, this is Rubens. Can you talk?”

“Uh,” replied Dean, more coughing than talking.

“That’s fine. You’ve made the right decision, but be careful.”

Dean snorted.

“Yes, I realize I’m stating the obvious,” Rubens continued. “Nonetheless, they could hold you in connection with the murder, or simply charge you with assault. I daresay you would find either inconvenient, as would I.”

“Well, howdy-hey,” said Karr as he walked into the room. Dean was sitting there, arms folded across his chest. And here was bad news—Lang, the chief inspector from the park murder case, was sitting at the table with the other two policemen. “So what’s going on?”

“Charlie is going to blow your covers,” said Rockman in his ear. Karr thought it would have been nice for the runner to have told him this in a place where his reaction wouldn’t be as conspicuous, like the interrogation room he’d just been sitting in all alone.

“They know we’re spooks,” said Dean.

“I do feel pretty spooky.” Karr sat down, trying to work out what to say.

“I know you both work for the CIA,” said Lang.

“Come on. Do I look like I work for the CIA?” said Karr. “I can chew gum and walk at the same time, right?”

“They’re sending somebody over from MI5 to talk to us,” said Dean.

“I get these confused,” said Karr, still trying to psyche out what Dean was up to. “MI5 is internal intelligence and MI6 external? Or is that backward?”

One of the younger detectives told him that MI5 was “tasked with internal security in the British Isles.” He summarized their duties, sounding more than a little as if he had memorized a recruiting video.

“Sounds pretty good,” said Karr. “Can we join?”

“I believe it is open only to British subjects,” said the man.

“We really don’t have time for fun and games,” said Lang. “Who do you work for?”

“Let’s just say the American government and leave it at that,” said Dean.