Dark Zone (33 page)

“If I were a terrorist,” Karr said aloud, “I’d walk up to where the beams weren’t quite so thick.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Rockman.

“Nothing much,” Karr told him, digging in his pocket for some euros. “Frenchies got the ground covered. I’m going to take a look upstairs.”

71

Mussa backed the truck to the loading dock and checked his watch. He had arrived ten minutes late.

Not enough to be fatal, fortunately, but things were now very tight. The rolling chests must be placed aboard the train before passengers were boarded; there were only a few minutes to do so.

He took a breath, then pulled open the driver’s side door and slid out of the truck. There was a security guard a few paces away; the man returned Mussa’s nod, then turned his gaze elsewhere. Mussa had taken the precaution of showing up here a few times over the course of the last several weeks, not just to understand the layout and procedures but also to make his face somewhat more familiar and thus part of the background.

He moved slowly toward the rear of the truck. As he did, he saw one of his men approaching.

Ahmed, very good.

Mussa unlocked the door and opened the rear compartment. The six large wheeled chests just barely fit in the back of the truck.

“A problem,” said Ahmed, speaking in Arabic.

Mussa shot him a ferocious look—anything but French here would be immediately suspect.

Ahmed blinked, but when he spoke again, he still used Arabic. “Arno did not show up. Bomani and Heru are also gone.”

Mussa tried to take this information in stride, but it was impossible. Arno’s disappearance was especially troubling, as he was the only one besides himself who knew exactly how the chests were to be put together.

Could he do it by himself?

He glanced to the left, toward the policeman. A security official had joined him; they were speaking quietly.

Trouble?

If Arno wasn’t here, where was he? With the authorities? Impossible.

Fate was testing him. He had to move ahead.

“The others?” he asked.

“They have places in coach ten. Their weapons are hidden. Yours as well. Your ticket is ready?”

Mussa nodded.

If Amo did not show up, would the train be delayed? It normally carried only a four-man crew, including the head conductor, or “chief of the train.” Mussa had already arranged for one of the crew members to get sick at the last moment, limiting the crew to three and making the train easier to take over.

They wouldn’t replace one person, but they undoubtedly would find another steward if two were absent. Mussa would have to take Arno’s place. Fortunately, they were about the same size.

But the casks were heavy and difficult to manage for two people until they were on their rollers. Even then.

Once they were in the train, it wouldn’t matter.

The operation had been designed from the start with seven men in mind. Now there would be only four.

Muhammad and Kelvin would subdue the passengers and the policemen, if they were unlucky enough to be in their half of the train when it decoupled. Allah would provide, after all.

Mussa glanced at his watch. He had five minutes to get the chests aboard. As he looked up, he saw a small wedge of wood a few feet away. It looked as if it would just fit at the back of the truck, providing a ramp to ease the casks down.

“Get that piece of wood, quickly. Then find me Arno’s work clothes. No, get that piece of wood first!” Mussa yelled as Ahmed reached to pull the first chest from the van. “They are heavier than they seem.”

72

Donohue trotted up the steps to the Eurostar check-in area at Gare du Nord, trying to move quickly without seeming to be too much in a hurry. Passengers had to check in before departure or risk not being cleared through passport control and security. His first-class ticket allowed him a little leeway but not all that much. The next train was not for another hour. By that time Ponclare’s assassination would be general knowledge, and the authorities would surely be at the station, watching.

A man and a woman had seen him get into a cab near the block when leaving the flat. Donohue had looked away quickly, but it seemed to him that the man had shot him an odd look. Had he heard the gun?

Had he recognized him?

Donohue thought the man looked familiar, but he couldn’t place him. Or rather, he could place him in a dozen different situations—the hit at the park in London, the assassination of the Italian colonel in Naples, the strike on the Russian intelligence agent who had stolen money from the Russian
mafya.

A dozen faces jumbled together; surely it was just paranoia.

It was definitely time to retire.

But he had the money.

It was inconvenient that someone had seen him but not fatal; by the time the man made any sort of report that could be processed and acted upon, Donohue would be across the English Channel. He had nothing to do now but follow his carefully drawn plan—Eurostar to London Waterloo Station, tube to Paddington and then Heathrow, from there to any of three locations, tickets already secured. A friend from the IRA days would meet him with a fresh, clean passport at Heathrow, along with a bag. He had nothing to do but follow the plan.

A red sign over the check-in area declared that passports must be ready for inspection. Donohue reached for his—it was a phony one, of course—and slipped out his ticket at the same time. The woman at the check-in gate smiled pleasantly and examined the ticket briefly before waving him on to the Frenchman at the passport desk a few feet away. The customs official squinted at his passport and passed him to the Brits behind him.

“And why are you going to England?” asked the officer.

“Live there, mate,” said Donohue.

“Yes, of course,” said the man, nodding and handing him back the passport.

73

Rubens stepped away from the Art Room consoles, walking to the side where a fresh pot of coffee was being brewed in the machine. He poured himself a cup, not so much because he wanted it but because he wanted to do something that would force him to pause, to physically step away from the situation.

Nothing was going on at the Eiffel Tower. Had that been a blind to divert attention from the plot to kill Ponclare?

If so, Deep Black had played an unfortunate role.

Surely not. A random pattern, unconnected.

Air Force One was just touching down at Charles de Gaulle Airport with the President and national security adviser aboard. Rubens had already told Hadash and President Marcke about Ponclare’s murder and that they were following a possible suspect.

With an emphasis on
“possible.”
Dean had acted on a hunch; so far the man hadn’t gone anywhere they could see him. Even so, the President had decided to inform the French President personally. Marcke would suggest that the French have the man arrested as a material witness, or whatever the equivalent was in France.

A hunch, just a hunch. But Rubens did trust Dean’s judgment.

A large clock sat on the wall above the coffee machine. It was going on 10:00 a.m. The judge in the General’s competency case had called McGovern to tell her he would hold a hearing at eleven and announce his verdict shortly thereafter.

“I told you he was quick. One of a kind,” she’d said on the voice-mail message.

She hadn’t used the word verdict, actually, but it felt like one.

Rubens wanted to be there. Rebecca surely would.

“Boss, the man Dean and Lia have been following is in Gare du Nord, the train station,” said Rockman.

As he walked to the runner’s console with his coffee, Rubens pushed the General out of his mind. He had to concentrate on the here and now—he needed to watch out for his people. That was his priority. The General would have used those exact words.

“Where do the trains go?” Rubens asked.

“All over. There’s a metro stop, commuter trains, high-speed, uh, what do they call them, TVG, I think—those bullet trains that go all over the place. They also have Eurostar there, the train that takes the Chunnel to London.”

Dean had seen the man in London.

“Get the Eurostar passenger list right away,” said Rubens. “Where are Dean and Lia?”

“Just going in.”

“We’re breaking into their video surveillance system,” said Telach, coming over. “It’ll be a few seconds. Listen, Johnny Bib is demanding to talk to you. He says he has new information.”

“He can wait.”

“He says it’s about the Eiffel Tower. Something they just discovered.”

“Very well,” said Rubens. “Have Dean and Lia follow their man wherever he goes. Hopefully it will be someplace easy, like the Eurostar. Which line is Johnny Bib on?”

74

Lia turned left as she came into the large hallway at the far end of the terminal, walking down along the area of shops and ticket windows. Dean’s description of the man they were following was less than complete—tall, dark hair, wearing jeans and a gray windbreaker.

A pair of smoke-colored globes hung down from the ceiling nearby—surveillance cameras. Lia put her hand to her mouth as if covering her face while yawning. “Rockman, they have a surveillance system. See if you can get in it and look for Dean’s suspect.”

“We’re already working on it, Lia, thank you. All right, we have him: gray windbreaker going into Eurostar. No baseball cap. Upstairs.”

“You sure?”

“Go there. Charlie, look at this download on your PDA and make sure we have it right.”

Lia spun around and threaded her way toward the stairway, which was about midway in the platform. She watched from the escalator as Dean sidled up to one of the large metal posts that held the shed roof up and took out his PDA.

“It’s him,” he said.

“Good,” answered Rockman. “He’s going aboard the Eurostar. A good break for us. I’ll have his ID in a second. Go ahead and get aboard.”

Lia walked toward the ticket window, where a customer was thanking a clerk for getting him a spot on the train.

“Not a problem, monsieur,” said the clerk in French. “A lot of last-minute cancellations. The charge is ninety euros for first class.”

“Ninety euros,” muttered Lia. “I don’t have that much cash. What card should I use?”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Rockman. “Your tickets will be in the system. Just show your passport. Real names; it’s OK. Go.”

Dean came up to the Eurostar level as the other customer fished out his wallet to pay.

“Dump your weapons before you go inside,” continued Rockman. “Duck into those restrooms on the right after you get your tickets. There are no garbage cans inside the waiting area.”

“You want us to go to London?” asked Dean. “Why don’t you just have him arrested?”

“Charlie, we don’t have an ID on him yet,” said Rockman. “And to be blunt, the fact that you may have recognized him from England may not impress the French. It’s their call.”

“You’re going to let him get away,” said Dean, as if he were muttering to himself.

“No. Once he’s on the train he can’t go anywhere. The train can be met in England by the police. He won’t be able to carry a weapon onto the train. You’ll see; the security is tight.”

“If you’re going to have someone meet the train, why should we get on?” asked Dean.

“Things are a little fluid right now, Charlie. Stick with the program, OK? If he gets on the train we’ll be able to deal with it pretty easily. Just follow. There’s a lot of stuff going on here.”

“Art Room knows best,” said Lia sarcastically, reaching into the security belt beneath her jeans for her passport.

75

Donohue walked through the boarding area where the second-class passengers were already queued up. He continued past the small shops that sold refreshments, making his way to the restroom. It was a small crowd for a Eurostar, he thought, maybe a quarter of the normal size, which seemed odd, because the trains were normally much more crowded. He paused at a sink, washing his face and making sure that the stalls were clear. An American tourist was helping his young son at a stall nearby, dad watching over the unlocked door. Otherwise the place was empty.

The assassin turned and walked into a stall on the opposite end, sitting down on the commode.

When he heard the child flush, Donohue took off his windbreaker and unzipped the lining, turning it around so that the jacket was now bright yellow nylon, very different from what he had worn to the station. From his wallet he unfolded a small mustache, applying glue from the center of a roll of Life Savers. Mustache applied, he took out his passport and smeared the rest of the glue on the photo, daubing a tiny amount at the edges as well. Then he removed a replacement page from his pocket, unrolling it carefully and feeding it down carefully. The page was clear except for a new photo, but it had to be put down carefully to preserve the anticounterfeiting impressions. Mucking this up would mean having to pull off the mustache, fairly painful after the thirty seconds it took for the glue to set. But he got it perfectly.

He held the passport page at an angle, making sure there were no flaws.

Passport prepared, he removed a small envelope from behind the license in his wallet. Inside the envelope were two tinted contact lenses to change his eye color. He had trouble getting the first in; the second felt as if he’d jabbed his eye but slipped right into place. In his experience, few people checked the eye color entered on passports—as his experience at the gate proved, since the eye color entered on the document matched the tinted brown effect, not his real eye color, which was a nearly opaque blue. But it was the sort of detail that Donohue insisted on getting right, just in case.

He reached down to his pants and pulled them off, turning them inside out also so that they now appeared to be black sports pants rather than jeans. Psychologically, it was his most vulnerable moment, far worse in his mind than if he’d been caught monkeying with the passport. But this passed as soon as the waist was snapped. He finished his transformation by placing two lift blocks into his shoes, adding another inch and a half to his height. As a last stroke he ran his fingers through his hair, rubbing a bit of coloring cream into the sides. The cream dappled his black a touch gray; he stroked at the side, then took out a comb and straightened it.