Dark Zone (34 page)

He went out and studied the effect in the mirror.

Distinguished.

The loudspeaker announced that the train for London was now boarding. Donohue nodded at the mirror and left the restroom a new man.

76

Mussa felt the sweat pouring from his brow as he finished putting the last cart in place. The perspiration was not from fear; the carts were difficult to maneuver in the confined space at the back of the last first-class coach. He took two real carts and lined them up in front.

This was not what he had planned. He was supposed to be a passenger, sipping complimentary champagne, toasting the death of Ponclare and his father’s ultimate revenge.

Mussa had posted a set of Ponclare’s bank account documents to the Interior Ministry, along with additional information that would make it appear he had hired Vefoures and had LaFoote killed. A small amount of the explosive had been deposited in a warehouse that the police should have no difficulty finding. Ponclare would appear to have been a traitor, profiting by selling explosives to terrorists; the police should have no trouble linking him to the operation at the Eiffel Tower.

And, of course, he would be dead.

Since determining what had happened to his father three years before, Mussa had considered killing the Frenchman himself. Twice Mussa had actually constructed a plan. But simply killing Ponclare had not seemed satisfying enough. Even now, to be honest, he felt cheated—it was Ponclare’s father he truly wished to have revenge on. Killing the son lacked the thrill.

Especially now, sweating like a dog.

Shaming Ponclare would make up for that, somewhat. For if the son was a traitor to France, what did that say about the father?

By extension, Mussa’s father would get the recognition he deserved. He was nearly forgotten now, but as stories of Mussa’s triumph circulated, a few old-timers would resurrect his father’s memory. The family would gain great honor. Exactly as they deserved.

And Mussa would join him in Paradise, basking in the glory of God.

“What are you doing?” barked a voice behind him.

Mussa turned. The train’s master—the person in charge of the serving crew, in this case a woman—stood before him.

“The new man,” he said, bowing his head slightly.

Ahmed rushed up behind her. “Have you finished what I told you?” she demanded.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“He’s the substitute I told you about,” Ahmed told the woman.

“I was told to report,” said Mussa.

“By who?”

“Stephens, the Englishman,” said Ahmed quickly.

“Where is your card?” asked the train master, referring to Mussa’s railroad identity card. It was carried, not displayed on the uniform. Mussa did not have one.

“In my jacket,” he said.

“Well, get it. Quickly,” said the woman.

He nodded but did not move.

“Well?”

He pointed toward the next car.

“Be quick. We have to board passengers,” said the woman. “If we are late we will hear about it.”

She turned and walked out the nearby door, where passengers’ tickets were being checked to make sure they got the right seats.

“Give me your card,” he told Ahmed.

“My picture is on it,” said Ahmed.

“Don’t worry,” said Mussa. “Give it to me.”

Ahmed reached into his pocket and retrieved the card. The expression on his face made it clear that he thought Mussa was crazy. But the trick was an old one that never failed: he placed his thumb over Ahmed’s picture, then waited at the door for the right moment.

On the platform, the train master was just helping an old woman with her ticket and carry-on luggage when Mussa made his appearance.

“Here,” he said, flashing the card in his hand. As he went to give it to the train master, he saw that the old woman was struggling with her bag. “Oh, ma’am, please, let me help you,” he said, swooping in and grabbing the suitcase from her hand as if she were about to drop it.

“Seat twenty-four B,” the train master told Mussa, her tone slightly less severe. “Help our passenger get situated.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Mussa, sliding the identity card back into his pocket.

77

The security person at the entrance glanced at Karr but said nothing, barely watching as he walked through the small hallway to the metal steps. Three hundred and sixty steps encased in a well-painted but utilitarian steel enclosure led to the first level of the tower. Climbing them felt more like ascending the steps in an industrial building than a world monument.

The first thing that greeted him when he came out on the first level was a large souvenir shop; it was empty and even seemed a little forgotten, tucked into a corner of the plaza away from most of the tourists. He walked around the platform, trying not to remember his visit the other day with Deidre. It was difficult; he’d had a lot of fun and wished she were here now.

Assuming, of course, no one tried to blow the tower up.

Karr paused to look at the
Invalides,
the large military building nearby originally built as a veterans’ hospital and nursing home and now Napoleon’s final resting place. Tourists filtered across the plaza behind him, checking out the sights and occasionally reading the placards. Any one of them could be carrying a weapon—Karr hadn’t been frisked or put through a metal detector—but the threat that Deep Black had detected was on a much larger scale. One or two gunmen might kill a dozen or even two dozen people, but they didn’t strike terror on the grand scale. An event had to be massive to live in people’s memories.

Why? Anything that happened here would be terrible, wouldn’t it?

A French military helicopter, an Aerospatiale SA 342 Gazelle, passed about three-quarters of a mile away. The small attack helicopter was equipped with antitank weapons, more than enough to stop a bus or truck loaded with explosives. A second helicopter hovered in the distance. Local air traffic had been brought to a virtual halt for the U.S. President’s visit; even outgoing flights at de Gaulle had been canceled for a while.

Karr continued around the plaza, heading back for the steps. He was probably the most suspicious-looking person here.

The second level was another 359 steps away. The girders got thinner and the space between them seemed more open; Karr had more of a sense that he was climbing well above the city.

As he neared the second
étage,
the Deep Black op noticed a figure dressed in coveralls dangling over the side. For a second he thought the man was going to jump; then Karr realized he was a painter. It wasn’t until he was nearly level with the man that he saw the figure wasn’t real at all but a mannequin, part of a display about how important it was to paint the tower. According to the sign, the process continued every year. The job was done by hand, with old-fashioned paintbrushes rather than spray cans or fancier devices. A picture showed some of the men testing safety ropes.

Sure enough, there were several men nearby dressed in coveralls climbing upward in the grid work toward the third level, using one of the utility ladders to ascend into the web-like structure that held up the third level and its antenna mast.

So where were their paint cans and safety ropes?

78

“What do you mean, you lost him?”

“We’re not omniscient, Charlie,” sputtered Telach.

“How could you lose him?” Dean was standing in the far waiting room at the Gare du Nord Eurostar station, usually reserved for passengers in the forward cars. The train was boarding and the place was empty.

“The cameras don’t catch most of the waiting areas. Look in the men’s room. That’s the only place he could have gone.” Telach’s voice, normally understated, seemed strained and high-pitched.

“I just looked,” said Dean, but he went in again. He glanced at the sinks and then opened each of the stalls. All were empty. He looked up at the ceiling. The vents were too small for anyone to get through.

The loudspeaker announced that the train to London was now in its final boarding. Dean hurried out, kicking one of the boxes placed on the floor for trash—security protocol here did not allow containers where a bomb might, be hidden.

“Where?” he asked Telach.

“We’re looking.”

He turned right, heading toward the exit down to the tracks. There were refreshment counters, small stores like those found in American shopping malls, on either side of the short hallway.

“Did you see a tall man?” he asked one of the women at the register on the right. “He had a gray windbreaker. He might have gone in the back.”

The woman answered in indecipherable French. Dean didn’t wait to hear the translation from the Art Room—he leaned over the side, getting a good view of the back. There were no back entrances; even supplies came through the small opening at the side.

The snack counter on the other side was even smaller, with no place for anyone to hide.

Dean continued to the boarding entrance. There were two officials there, just closing the door.

“Wait,” he said.
“S’il vous plait.”

“Charlie, where are you going?” asked Rockman. “Lia will take the train. You stay in the station.”

Dean walked through the door and across to what looked like an escalator down to the train. It turned out to be a moving ramp and it took a moment for him to get his bearings.

“Mr. Dean, where are you going?” said Telach.

“I’m not letting Lia go alone. He’s not here.”

“She’ll be all right.”

That’s what you said about Korea,
he thought, but he said nothing, continuing toward the train.

Lia sat in car eleven, a first-class car near the middle of the eighteen-coach train. The Eurostar seemed less than half-full, if that. There were only three other passengers in the car—an elderly woman two seats away and a pair of twenty-something lovers who’d been whispering in German when Lia came in.

She hadn’t seen anyone with a gray jacket on the platform, and she’d made sure she was one of the first passengers down and one of the last in. Probably he’d taken off his coat; the Art Room had downloaded a blurry picture of the suspect that she could use to check out the passengers more thoroughly once the train started. She would also put the camera attachment on the satellite phone to beam images back to the Art Room, so the computers could go over the faces as well.

They had two tentative names—Patrick McCormack and Horace Clark. The name was bound to be an alias, assuming the Art Room had matched it to the right passenger. But they were checking the names against various watch lists anyway.

The doors closed; the train began to lurch forward—and Dean appeared around the corner of the car.

“This isn’t your car,” Lia said as he sat down across from her. The first-class seats faced each other across a table, two spots on the right side of the coach and singles on the other.

“Why? Somebody sitting here?” Dean pushed back in the seat, spreading his arms across the back and taking it over. He had that sort of air about him, as if he owned everything he touched.

“Telach wanted you to stay in the station,” Lia told him.

“That would have been dumb. If he got out, they would have seen him. He must have put on a disguise somewhere. Besides, I couldn’t have gotten out of the waiting area without blowing my cover. Which I’m not supposed to do. Right?”

“Maybe there’s an exit from the waiting area the Art Room doesn’t know about,” said Lia. “Rockman thinks every schematic he looks at is accurate just because he got it off a computer. I can’t tell you how many doors I’ve gone through that the Art Room said didn’t exist.”

“If our John Doe got out, then he’s long gone,” said Dean.

A pair of French border policemen walked through the car toward the back.

“Do they always put policemen on the train?” Dean asked.

“Are you talking to me or the Art Room?”

“You. Marie said they’re busy back there.”

“They’re always busy,” Lia said. “Especially when you need them.”

Lia realized how bitter her words sounded—and that the Art Room would inevitably have heard them, since her communications system was on. But the words were out and she couldn’t take them back.

She had every right to be bitter—they’d let her down when she needed them the most.

No, they hadn’t let her down. They hadn’t been able to help, not immediately. They hadn’t abandoned her—they’d sent the Russians, made phone calls, got Fashona in place. Rubens would have sent the Marines if he needed to.

It wasn’t the Art Room’s fault or Rubens’, or hers or anyone’s. It was the nature of the job. All this high-tech garbage didn’t save you from being alone, truly alone, when the volcano erupted.

You were always alone. Always.

Dean reached his hand across the small table toward hers. Lia pulled back.

“You going to be angry for the rest of your life?” asked Dean.

How do I answer that?
she wondered.
Be sarcastic? “If I’m lucky.” Be poignant? “Maybe.” Be truthful? “I have
no
idea.”

She pulled out the phone and put the camera attachment on it. “I’m going to take a walk. Rockman, stand by to download live video of our companions on the train.”

79

Rubens found it more difficult than normal to wait patiently for Johnny Bib to get to the point. He knew from experience that it would do absolutely no good to tell Johnny Bib to get to the point—if anything, it might make him take twice as long—but Rubens needed to get back to Hadash and the President as soon as possible.

“Six units of thirty-two-point-seventy-three pounds apiece,” Johnny was saying on the phone line. “Of course the original formulas were configured in kilograms and I’ve converted.”

Telach, standing over Rockman at the computer console a few feet away, waved at him.

“Johnny, what exactly are the units?” said Rubens, holding up his finger to tell Telach to wait.

Johnny was several stories above the bunkered Art Room, but Rubens could almost see him standing back from his desk in surprise at the question. He found it baffling that anyone couldn’t follow his convoluted logic through its myriad twists and turns.