Dark Zone (38 page)

Muhammad and Kelvin slammed the carts over the transom as they pulled them from the storage area where he had hidden them.

“Careful!” Mussa yelled. “Careful! One at a time. Both of you. Use caution!”

Assuming the calculations on his stopwatch were correct, they were roughly eight and a third miles from the French side of the tunnel, perfect—or as close to perfect as possible. All he had to do was set up the device.

The emergency lighting system bathed the coach a fitful reddish yellow. Mussa had night-vision glasses but opted not to use them; they were clumsy and there was more than enough light to see what he had to do. He directed the others to bring the first cart forward. One of the women they had shot lay in a pool of blood at the middle of the car, the point where the engineer had calculated the bomb should be placed. Mussa stepped over her and then guided the cabinet against her prone body before twisting it around. The cabinets had to form a tight box around the device.

Mussa removed the painted aluminum cover and false drawers and hinges from the cabinet, then reached to the bottom to clear out the connecting tabs. The final move was the most difficult—the explosive box sat on a wheeled tray that had to be pushed out toward him while the explosives unit remained in place. The dead body behind the cabinet helped the process; it gave them something to steady the cabinet against and then ease it to the floor. With the tray in place, he removed the plastic panel at the top, removed the wheels, and cleared the circuit units that connected it to the others and the timing circuitry.

Perspiration beaded down the side of his face as he finished. Kelvin approached with the second cart, which had to be lowered and wedged precisely against the first. This was a problem not only because it weighed nearly two hundred pounds but also because of the narrow squeeze in the aisles where it had to be placed.

Kelvin had begun huffing as they stopped. Grunting, he started to tip it and then lost his grip; for a moment Muhammad held it balanced precariously on two wheels. Mussa threw his own hands out to grab it, pushing at the top to send it back the other way, but it was too heavy—the chest fell backward toward the floor as Mussa felt the air vanish from his lungs.

Mussa stared at the space before him, sensing that he was about to be vaporized but unable to act. And then he felt himself falling straight backward, the sensation of horror mixing with weightlessness.

Donohue leaped out of his seat, forcing himself upright against the force of the train’s braking. He couldn’t decipher what had happened. There’d been an explosion, several explosions—Mussa undoubtedly was behind this, the demented slime. Donohue would strangle him with his bare hands.

The police would be all over this.

One of the train workers was sprawled across the aisle, knocked out but breathing. Donohue pushed the woman aside and strode to the rear of the compartment. The train had been traveling at something over one hundred miles an hour when the explosion occurred; the automated emergency braking system had not kicked in and the engineer had hesitated at first to apply full brakes, unsure what was going on. They were rolling to a stop but still moving at a decent pace.

Donohue passed through the next car and then the next and the next; a policeman shouted at him, but Donohue didn’t pay any attention, driven as much by his curiosity and his anger at Mussa. When Donohue reached car nine, he saw that the vestibule at the back of the car over the coupling area had been blown off and the rest of the train left behind. The train remained on the tracks.

He guessed that Mussa would be back with the other cars.

With luck he’d blown himself up.

That would do Donohue little good now. The police would swarm over the train, collect everyone’s passport—then check the identities thoroughly. Donohue had no doubt he could get past a cursory screening, but if his fingerprints were taken it would be a different story.

And they were sure to take fingerprints, weren’t they?

“You, who are you?” barked a policeman behind him.

Donohue’s anger sprang out of control. He moved without thinking, spinning and striking the policeman so quickly that the man did not manage to say a word before he fell to the ground. The assassin spun and, despite the fact that the train was still moving at a pace of twenty miles an hour or so, jumped out onto the tracks.

As Dean sensed he was nearing the end of the train the cars above him started to move. He froze, then realized that if he didn’t get away, whatever he’d bumped up against going forward would eventually reach him. He pushed back, scraping both sides of his body.

The cars stopped in a second or two. The power car had nudged them against their set brakes as it uncoupled. It was now moving away at a slow pace.

Dean kept moving. When he finally reached the end of the train he pulled himself out. His arm scraped against the jagged end of the mangled coupler assembly as he got up. The pain took him by surprise and he cursed loudly, unable to stop himself.

Unwise, but too late to do anything about it.

He stuffed the collar of his shirt into his teeth against the pain and climbed up onto the car, whose door had been blown open by the explosion. The emergency lights turned the coach a very dull yellow, as if Dean were wearing sepia glasses.

Bodies were scattered across the seats, blood everywhere. He looked at each one only long enough to make sure that it wasn’t Lia, then continued through to the car where she’d been sitting.

All her life she’d fought. Losing one battle—losing
this
one—didn’t make her a coward.

Lia pushed to get away from the black cloud that sucked at her. She pushed and fought and clawed. She would not give up. Lose, maybe, but not give up.

“Where are you, Charlie? Where are you when I need you?” she mumbled.

“Here.”

Lia turned her head to the left, then to the right. The darkness moved away like a cloud of mist clearing a lake. Dean was leaning over her.

“Are you OK?” he asked her.

“No,” she said, managing to pull herself up into a half-sitting, half-leaning position.

She forced herself to examine her wounds. One of the bullets from the submachine gun or perhaps just a piece of metal from the floor had ricocheted and lodged in her calf. The bleeding had already slowed to an oozing trickle. Another bullet had hit her midsection, but it had only grazed her side, leaving a large red welt that hurt to touch but was otherwise not painful.

Bullets had riddled the table between the seat, along with the cushions nearby. Lia had been saved, at least temporarily, by the configuration of the coach, as well the inexperience of the terrorists.

And luck. Never forget luck.

“Can you walk?” Dean asked.

“Maybe.”

“They unhooked the power car and took it away.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Maybe they’re going to ram into the next train. Or maybe they’re going to use it somehow to escape.”

Someone moaned at the other end of the car.

“There’s a light on the side of the tunnel about fifty yards that way,” said Dean, pointing toward what had been the front of the train. “I think it’s one of the crossover points to the service tunnel in the middle. Maybe there’s a phone there. We can get help and warn them.”

“Shouldn’t we pull these people out?”

“Let’s see if we can get help first.”

“All right,” she said, rising and testing her leg gingerly. It wouldn’t take much weight, but she could probably hobble.

She
would
hobble.

“All right,” she said. “Lead the way, Charlie Dean.”

The cabinet took forever to hit the ground. Mussa tried to close his eyes but could not.

He felt the vibration, felt the shock, knew the horror of death. But he didn’t die. The explosives had not gone off. As the chemist had said, the material was exceedingly stable.

By the time Mussa realized it hadn’t exploded, he had already reached to pull it into the proper position. Now time began to speed up, and he found that his hands and legs couldn’t move quickly enough. Kelvin recovered from his own shock and helped move the unit into place. Mussa pulled the panel off, then barked at the others to get the next units in. The next one was placed without a mishap.

Now the device itself had to be placed. Again the cart had to be tipped, but this time they were ready. Despite the weight and Mussa’s trembling hands, it snapped into place. Surely God was helping him now. There was no longer a question of failure—there had never been a question of failure. He climbed over the seats to guide the last steps, confident, even awed. The greatness of what he was to accomplish pushed him on. The next units snapped down—there were two left now, two—and then he had merely to punch the buttons and wait.

But as he waited for the last cabinet, something made a thud behind him. He turned and saw a man crawl out from the seats. Mussa reached desperately to his belt, grabbing for his pistol, but it wasn’t there; he’d put it down when he started to move the cabinets.

Mussa ran and kicked the man in the back, stopping him. He stepped to the man’s side and launched another kick to the back of his head, then another and another and another, dashing the man’s skull against the floor of the train. Rage welled in him, and he screamed at the man, asking who he was to try to prevent his triumph.

“Satan? Are you Satan?” he yelled.

Finally, he saw that the man was dead and stopped kicking.

The others were staring at him from behind the half-assembled bomb.

“You were to kill everyone in the train,” he told them. “Everyone.”

“We did.”

“You will go back and make sure. For the glory of God!
Now!”

97

When Deidre Clancy finally managed to get out of bed, her chest begin to shake. She felt as if all the blood had rushed from her head and refused to come back.

She went to the bathroom and ran water on her face, then saw the pile of towels she’d left on the floor. Her stomach turned, but this time the urge to vomit was gone; the worst of her illness had passed.

Deidre turned on the bath and took off her robe and got in, spraying herself with the wand as the tub filled up. When she was finished, she threw the soiled towels into the tub and filled it with water again, poking them a bit before letting it drain; she had no washing machine in the small apartment and couldn’t face the idea of going to the Laundromat today, and maybe not tomorrow, either. After a few rinses the towels were clean enough to be hung on the rail and ledge outside the window. That done, she cleaned the tub and took a proper bath, the water as hot as she could stand it.

A half hour later, she got out, wrapped herself in a thick terry-cloth robe—she was now out of bath towels—and walked to the tiny kitchenette to measure out coffee for the ancient pot. When it was ready she poured herself a cup without her usual cream and went to the small living room, intending to veg out until her senses recovered sufficiently for her to come up with a plan for the rest of the day.

After a few minutes, she turned on the television, expecting to flip absent-mindedly through the offerings.

The first image she saw looked like something from a James Bond movie or maybe Schwarzenegger—helicopters buzzing in the air, circling a tower of smoke.

The Eiffel Tower, she realized.

A very good model,
she thought. She punched the button for the next channel, but the image remained.

She glanced down at the remote, making sure she had pressed the proper button. The image remained.

It was the
real
Eiffel Tower.

Two more presses brought her to CNN. She watched the screen as a breathless correspondent based in London announced: “These are live pictures from Paris, where a group of terrorists has attempted an attack on the Eiffel Tower. Police and local military units are battling them now. The American President landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport just a few minutes prior to the attack, and sources close to the French police say that American intelligence agents provided a last-second warning against the terrorist strike. As you can see, the operation is ongoing. . . .”

Deidre watched as one of the news helicopters zoomed its camera in on the grid work of the tower. A man was hanging upside down near the side, his leg caught in a cable. Two French policemen were climbing up from below; another was trying to get to him from above.

The large man didn’t look like a terrorist. He had blond hair and was in jeans and—

Deidre dropped the remote as the man’s face briefly came into focus.

It was Tommy Karr. And he was smiling.

98

“Are you sure about this?” demanded Hadash. He was essentially translating what the French President had just asked Rubens.

“
Oui
,” said Rubens, speaking French so there would be no doubt in the foreign leader’s mind. “
L’Eurostar
. They’ve found some way of getting the bomb on board the train. We believe they’ve fashioned something similar to C-4 to use as a kind of explosive lens and detonate the atomic warhead. We don’t have all of the data, but I guarantee that they’ve done this, and that at a minimum an attempt will be made. Our best guess from the power fluctuations we’ve detected on the system is that it’s already under way. Their models for the impact of the explosion predict a tidal wave that will engulf the low-lying areas along the Channel. We’re still trying to interpret the data, but you must stop traffic through the Chunnel and get response teams in. I assure you, even if they fail, they will make an attempt.”

The French President replied in French that what Rubens was saying seemed incredible and beyond belief. Rubens agreed but added that until an hour ago the same might have been said about an attack on the Eiffel Tower, and here he was watching a feed from French television showing it in broad daylight.

“A great tragedy for the world had it succeeded,” added Rubens, who, despite his disdain for the French, meant it.

President Marcke came on the line, asking Rubens if he had any other information. Rubens told him that he had summarized the relevant findings and would share whatever details were needed with the French intelligence and military.