Dark Zone (19 page)

“Breakfast?” Karr asked after the timer ran out a second time.

“Sounds good.”

She was still holding his arm when they reached the ground. Karr slowed his pace to match hers as they walked down through the park. They had breakfast at an outdoor café a few blocks away, sitting next to one of the outdoor heaters to ward off the lingering chill from the night before. Karr fumbled his French after Deidre ordered; he finally resorted to English. The waiter smirked and disappeared.

“He thinks you’re French,” Karr told her. “And I’m the ugly American.”

“You’re not ugly.”

“Well, thanks. Neither are you.”

“So how long have you been a spy?”

“Who says I’m a spy?”

“What’s it like?”

“Just like the movies,” Karr said. “James Bond, doubleoh-seven. I drive cool cars. Things blow up. Women throw themselves all over me.”

“I’m sure,” she said coolly.

“I’ve been offered my own television series,” he said, trying to make light of his faux pas, “but I’m holding out for a feature film.”

“I wonder who will get to play me,” she shot back.

In the silence that followed that remark his satellite phone started buzzing. He pulled it out and found himself talking to Chris Farlekas, the Art Room supervisor who had spelled Marie Telach.

“Hello, Tommy. We have an update for you on your chemist. Your com system is off.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Can you talk?”

“Oh, I suppose, if I don’t have to say too much.”

“All you have to do is listen.”

Karr glanced at Deidre, who was concentrating on her meal. “Mind if I take this?” he asked.

“Go right ahead.”

Most of what the Frenchman LaFoote had told Karr yesterday had checked out. Vefoures was a chemist and had worked for the government; though they didn’t have any details on his projects, he worked in the areas that would have involved explosives.

“So what didn’t check out?” asked Karr.

“The French government doesn’t have any project going concerning plastic explosives that we can tell. Certainly not the DST. And if they did, they’d use someone else—there are plenty of younger people still working for the government that were involved in this project. He’d been out of it for a while. His last job was for a company in Tours, France, about two years ago. It was contract work. They’re out of business.”

“Maybe it was somebody else.”

“It’s a theory we’re working on,” said Farlekas. “He did contract work here and there. We think you should go to Vefoures’ house, but be careful. Whoever took out Pierce may realize that they missed the man they were gunning for.”

“No sign he’s being followed?”

“We had one of your CIA friends track him last night. Clean so far.”

“Hmmm. He thinks his former employers were involved,” said Karr, choosing his words carefully because of Deidre.

“French intelligence?”

“Yup.”

“Doesn’t make sense that they took out Pierce. They would have gotten LaFoote directly.”

“Unless somebody made a mistake. Or there’s something we don’t know yet.”

“Granted. Can you pick up the chemical sniffer?”

“Already have.”

The sniffer was an electronic device about the size of a tourist guidebook with a long wand attached via a thick cord. The wand could be “tuned” to look for specific chemical compounds with the addition of a memory card and a set of electronic circuits about the size of a Post-it. Somewhat similar though less sophisticated devices were just coming into use at airports where security teams screened luggage for explosives.

“How’s the date going?” added Farlekas.

“Who says I’m on a date?” Karr smiled as Deidre blushed. “But I will say that having breakfast with the most beautiful woman in Paris is a great way to start your day.”

27

A touch of gray, a fresh razor—Mussa Duoar prided himself on never looking the same two days in a row. It was a small thing, a knack, and yet a very necessary skill. He could vary his voice, offering any number of accents in French, English, and Arabic; he was especially fond of tossing a few Greek words into his patter. Many people thought he was really Greek, and he took that as a great compliment.

Of course, these tricks were nothing without the real tools of his trade—the false IDs, the credit cards, and the endless succession of phones. Mussa had worked hard to build up the network that supported him. It stretched throughout France to Germany and down to Africa. Morocco was especially important; without his people in Morocco to send information for him, where would he be? And Algeria, his birthplace, was invaluable in many ways. But then, every node was important. He might take the cell phone he had just received from Wales and use it to call Germany, sending a message to someone in the café a block away in Paris. From there the message might travel back to Germany, around the web, to a young man in the Czech Republic, who would then call a friend in Morocco, who would receive only a one-word message. The chain would then flow in reverse—impossible to track, even for him. Money, identities, weapons, suggestions from sponsors in the Middle East flowed through Mussa’s network. It morphed constantly, changing shape, gaining branches, losing itself in detours. He thought it like a garden that needed constant tending—this plant to be pruned, this to be fertilized.

And always there was weeding.

The Irishman whom he had used to kill the chemist’s friend was useful in that regard. But he had other qualities that made him difficult to work with. Mussa did not mind the brutality—surely this was a trait of the profession, not to be lamented but rather praised. It was Donohue’s unmasked contempt that made him hard to stomach. Mussa had worked with Irishmen before; the peace in Northern Ireland had flooded the market with highly trained talent. As a rule, they were good at their particular specialty and close-mouthed. As long as they were paid promptly and as promised, there were rarely problems with their work. Their religion and their propensity toward drink—genetic, Mussa believed—were regrettable but not fatal. Donohue himself seemed not to drink, but he compensated by being more obvious in his contempt than most of his countrymen.

If he had not been so much better than them at what he did, Mussa would have cut off their relationship long ago.

“There you are,” said Donohue, appearing around the corner in the restaurant and sitting down.

“Bonjour,”
said Mussa. “Hello.”

“Yeah. What is it you wanted?”

“Relax. Sit. Have some lunch.”

“I’ve told you, I don’t like meetings. They make no sense. They invite the police and busybodies.”

Mussa had just the opposite view—phones, e-mail, letters, all could be intercepted and recorded without one’s knowledge. Meeting someone in person was much safer. And it had the value of being more effective.

With most people.

“The police are never a problem for me,” said Mussa. “There are ways to persuade them.”

“You’ve never been in jail.”

Best to change the subject, he decided. “Your other job went well?”

“Your stooge gave me next to no information.”

“Now, now, it must have been sufficient. I’ve heard you did an excellent job. And you were paid.”

“Yes.”

The mention of money usually mollified him, but it seemed to have no effect today.

“I have another small task, similar to the last,” said Mussa. “This time in Paris.”

“I don’t do Paris. I stay out of France.”

Mussa was aware of Donohue’s rule. It was not so peculiar as it seemed—a professional assassin needed to have a place where he might feel less on-guard, and men such as Donohue often declared one country, or a part of it, “off-limits.” It was useless to argue with them about it: even though geographic safety was illusionary, the idea was nonetheless an important emotional factor, and emotion could not be broken by logic.

Money was another story.

“Would the payment of a million euros persuade you?” asked Mussa.

The look on Donohue’s face showed that it would. But the Irishman was no fool; his brow immediately knit and his face pitched forward in a frown. “For that, you’ll want the President or Prime Minister.”

“Hardly.” Mussa pushed the newspaper forward casually, his finger pointed to a name at the top of a column. The name was that of Monsieur Jacques Ponclare—the head of the Paris section of the Directorate of Territorial Security.

“You’re joking,” replied Donohue.

Mussa ignored the objection. “I have access to his schedule. It will be an easy affair to arrange, but the timing is critical.”

“This is
considerably
more difficult than anything I’ve done for you. Or your friends.”

“That is why the price is so much higher.”

“Twice your figure, or no deal.”

“Too much. I could use someone else.”

“Go ahead.”

The waiter approached. Mussa ordered an octopus salad for two. Donohue made a face at the word
pieuvre—
octopus—and Mussa relented and ordered a veal chop for him instead.

Neither man spoke as the waiter left, then returned with a bottle of mineral water.

“Twice what you said,” insisted Donohue when they were alone again. Mussa did not speak.

Lunch arrived; the Irishman remained. That, Mussa decided, was a good sign.

“So, have you considered my proposal?” he asked when he was finished.

“Twice what you said.”

Mussa sighed. The assassination was very important to him, as it would avenge his father’s death and there would be no opportunity for a second try if things went wrong. Perhaps the funds could be found—but agreeing to the outrageous price would make him feel as if he were going against his nature, as if he were surrendering to the assassin, a mere employee.

“What if we split the difference?” asked Mussa.

“Twice.”

“Let me contemplate it,” said Mussa, giving in, though he was not willing to admit it. “I will contact you in the usual way. In the meantime, a retainer for your time will be provided, as long as you stay on call for the next week.”

The idea of a retainer had obviously not occurred to Donohue, and he surrendered a rare smile. “Good food,” said the Irishman, pushing away from the table. “I’ll see you around.”

“Au revoir,”
said Mussa, savoring the last morsel of octopus. If revenge tasted this sweet, surely it would be worth the price.

28

Dean had never thought much about showers until Vietnam. He’d gone weeks without taking any on his first tour as a sniper; when he finally came back the water seemed to spark across his body, a light electrical jolt enlivening nerves he didn’t know he’d had.

The shower he had at the Hilton Barcelona didn’t quite approach that one, but it was close. The bed wasn’t bad, either.

The Art Room had managed to insert a suitcase in the luggage at the airport for him with fresh clothes. Whoever had packed it had included three large candy bars, and while Dean ordinarily didn’t eat chocolate, he opened one in the taxi on the way to the airport in the morning to pick up Lia. He found himself reaching into the bag for a second one as the driver slid around the traffic near the terminal entrance.

Lia’s flight had stopped in Frankfurt and was running a few minutes late as Dean arrived at Terminal B. A few minutes ordinarily wouldn’t make much of a difference, but their flight for Casablanca was due to take off in less than forty-five minutes; she had to get over to Terminal A for the next plane. Casablanca was just the first leg of the journey; once they landed they had to grab a puddle jumper for Oujda in eastern Morocco, where their target was.

Lia would be doing most of the work when they got to Oujda. She had to go into a building and replace a miniature bugging device planted in a women’s room. The building was used as a communications center by a loosely knit terrorist network; the site was disguised as an office for an Islamic charity. This cover, however, provided a vulnerability, because the building was shared by other charity organizations, which would give Lia a pretext for visiting. She would arrive just after the office person she was supposed to see had left for home—she always left around four—excuse herself to go to the restroom where the bug was located, replace the unit, then leave.

Dean would back her up. Depending on the situation, he might take a look around the office of the fake charity group. The NSA was interested in collecting possible bank account numbers to track money the organization spread throughout the world. But that task was secondary to Lia’s. He wasn’t to do anything that would make them suspicious, let alone tip them off to the bug.

Missing the plane now would set everything back by at least a day and possibly a week, depending on the schedule of the charity organization they were using as a pretext for entering the building. Morocco might be nice, but Dean didn’t particularly want to spend a week there, especially that close to the Algerian border. He pulled out his satellite phone and leaned against the wall in a hallway, pretending to use the phone while he spoke to the Art Room.

“So where is she?” he asked Rockman.

“They’re just taxiing up now,” Rockman told him. “You should be able to just make it. Wait out in the main terminal. Don’t sweat the schedule. It’ll work out.”

Lia clutched her cany-on tightly as she headed down the hallway, cleared through Customs quickly with the help of the timely arrival of an airport manager—undoubtedly at the Art Room’s prompting. She noticed Dean approaching on her left and quickened her pace toward the other terminal.

“What’s up?” he asked, falling in beside her.

“Nothing.”

“How was the flight?”

“Lousy.”

“We’re running late.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“They update you on the situation?”

“Pretty much.”

“How was Korea?”

“Garden spot of the world.”

“That what happened to your eye?”

An urge came over her suddenly: turn and run out of the terminal, take a taxi into the city, go to a hotel—any hotel—and quit, just totally quit.