Dark Zone (29 page)

That he cared. That he loved her.

“Look,” he started. “I know you’re still ...”

The words failed him. He wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted to say—or he did, but he couldn’t put it into words that sounded real. He wanted to hold her, protect her—he hadn’t done that, had he?

“I’m still what, Charlie Dean?”

“I love you,” he said.

But her frown only deepened.

The computer was located in a small library in a town on the eastern outskirts of Paris. Unfortunately, the Art Room had no way of narrowing down which of the two dozen computers the libraries owned; each one had to be checked. The process was simple—they could tell simply from the directory—but it would require trying each machine, including those that weren’t in the public areas.

Farlekas suggested that the Art Room sabotage the library’s network. Lia would then go in as a techie to fix it. But the library closed at 5:00, and by the time they got out to the town it was already 4:30. Dean and Lia decided it was very possible the librarians would decide dinner was more important than fixing the machines and put it all off for the morning. Besides, Dean’s lack of French meant he’d have to stay in the background, difficult to do if he was supposed to be a technician. So they decided they would go in, look the place over, then break in after it closed.

Lia dropped Dean off and parked the car two blocks away before doubling back. She walked in the door expecting to see Dean at one of the public access machines, hunting and pecking. But instead he was talking in English with the librarian.

And quite animatedly. The woman, in her early forties, gestured with her hand and led him toward the back offices.

“What the hell is he doing?” Lia muttered.

“Looking for information on a World War One Marine who stayed in the village after the war,” said Farlekas in her ear. “Good idea for a cover, huh? He says he got it from a book he’s been reading.”

Lia stifled her response and went over to the computers used for the library catalog, trying them one by one. Dean soon reappeared, listening to the woman as she told him he could find all of the information he wanted online. She led him to the computers and then offered a cup of coffee, which he accepted with a very mispronounced,
“Merci.”

“Well, he’s got the dumb-American act down pat,” Lia said under her breath.

The machines used for searching the catalog had only thirty-gigabyte local hard drives. Lia drifted through the library, noticing a room at the side that had two computers but was empty. She was just about to go in and check them out when Farlekas announced, “He found it.”

“You’re kidding,” she said.

“If you’re going to talk to yourself,” said the Art Room supervisor, “better use French.”

The computers were at the edge of the open reading area, and Lia could watch Dean easily by pretending to look through the nearby stacks. He sat at a small desktop unit whose monitor was on top of the case; there was no hope of opening it unseen.

With the computer spotted, the next step was to check the security arrangements and plan for the break-in. Lia drifted to the side of the room, examining the large windows. A simple contact burglar alarm was wired to the sill; she slipped a knife from her pocket and slit the wire covering open, then used a small clip to short-circuit the connection and defeat the alarm. Then she took a small Phillips-head screwdriver from her pocket and removed the screws in the lock at the top of the window, which would give way now as soon as it was pushed open.

She had just finished when she heard a commotion coming from Dean’s direction. Lia went there and found him madly trying to stanch the flow of a full cup of coffee before it reached the computer case. The librarian who had helped him before was standing next to him, fretting.

“We need more towels,” he told the librarian in English. Then he turned to Lia and said, “Can you help me take up the monitor? There’s liquid in the case. It’ll get ruined. Please. I don’t want to harm this nice librarian’s machine.”

“Je ne comprends
pas,”
Lia said, looking at the librarian. “I understand not much.”

The librarian told her in French that she had spilled the coffee and was afraid the machine would explode and could she please help. The woman seemed on the verge of tears. Lia told her to get some towels and not to worry.

“Where’s the drive?” Dean asked as she picked up the monitor.

“In my bag.”

He reached in and grabbed the small hard drive, which was about half the size of a paperback book. The case had a hinge and was opened by pressing two detents at the side; Dean had only just gotten it open when the librarian returned. But he handled the whole thing smoothly, grabbing the towels from her and somehow managing to swirl more coffee around while seeming to wipe it up.

The hard drive sat in a cage at the front of the machine, held by four screws as well as its cables. Lia, still holding the monitor, tried to think of a long enough diversion that would let Dean swap the drives. Before she could, the phone at the front desk rang and the librarian dashed over to get it.

“Bit of a ditz,” Lia said. “Take the monitor.”

“Seemed pretty nice to me.”

“Right.”

Lia slid around and unscrewed the drive. She was sliding the new one in when the woman put down the phone and started toward them. Dean managed to swing around and block her view temporarily; Lia fussed over the computer but couldn’t quite get the wires back before the librarian returned.

“Saved,” Lia said in French, standing up with a pile of paper towels and holding them out toward the woman. “Where is the garbage?”

“Here, come with me,” said the librarian.

“You have to connect the cables,” Lia whispered to Dean.

“Cables?”

“So the drive works. They just plug right in. Get at least two screws in. Ask the Art Room if you need help. Go.”

Lia followed the woman to the ladies’ room. The librarian thanked her—then asked what she thought of the helpful American.

“Very ... helpful,” said Lia. She tried to stall, but the librarian turned quickly to go back.

A bell began to ring.

“Closing,” said the librarian. “You have it back? Very good.”

“Closing,” said Dean, standing back. “I think we saved it. Maybe—is there a good place to eat?” he asked the librarian. “In town around here?”

The librarian frowned as if thinking, then named two or three restaurants. Dean asked if she could give him directions.

“I could take you there,” offered the librarian.

“Would you really?”

“Dean couldn’t get the power plug to go in before she came out,” Farlekas told Lia from the Art Room. “You’re going to have to get it working.”

Lia stifled a curse and told Dean in what seemed like rusty English that she hoped all Americans were like him.

“You’ll have to go back,” said Farlekas.

“Oui,”
muttered Lia, heading toward the door.

“How’d she know I was American?” Dean asked the librarian as the woman shut down the rest of the machines and began locking up.

55

It was a little past 11:00 a.m. when Rubens returned to Crypto City from his meeting at the White House. He went directly to the Art Room, where Tommy Karr was just checking in from Paris.

“You’re not making any jokes,” said Rubens when Karr finished updating him.

“No? Maybe I’m tired,” said Karr.

“Understandable. We haven’t been able to locate the priest?”

Rubens looked at Rockman for the answer, but Karr supplied it.

“The Art Room has been checking. He did a mass this morning and was at some sort of counseling thing this afternoon. I’ll be at the church first thing in the morning.”

“You’re sure Vefoures had another account?” said Rubens.

“I don’t think LaFoote made it up.”

“Very well. Go there first thing. We’ve prepared a report for the French Interior Ministry on some of what we know,” added Rubens. “On the President’s orders.”

“Is it going to Ponclare, too?” Karr’s animosity was obvious.

“That will be their call,” said Rubens.

“Ponclare’s the guy that screwed LaFoote,” said Karr. “He may be a traitor. He may even have killed the old man.”

“You don’t usually jump to conclusions, Tommy.”

“I’m not saying he’s a traitor, just that we ought to be careful.”

“We always endeavor to be careful.”

Tommy laughed, it wasn’t his usual hearty roar.

56

The restaurant the librarian recommended turned out to be right down the street. It also, not coincidentally, happened to be the one to which she was going. Since the hour was early—the French rarely ate before seven—she suggested a drink at the bar.

“Stall for as long as you can,” Farlekas told Dean. “Lia’s just getting into the library now.”

It wasn’t exactly the most difficult order he’d ever had to follow. The woman’s English was very good, and the wine wasn’t all that bad, either. She asked him about America; he told her about California and asked about France.

The woman seemed to suddenly realize that she hadn’t told him her name. “Marie,” she said, holding her hand out across the table. Dean shook the hand, its warmth tickling him for just a moment.

He thought of Lia and felt guilty, as if he were cheating on her somehow. The drinks turned into a light dinner. The woman ended up walking him to the Metro line two blocks away. They exchanged e-mail addresses—and a pair of kisses. The woman watched as Dean bought a ticket and went down to the platform.

Lia was standing there, arms folded. She didn’t acknowledge him.

“Excuse me, mademoiselle,” he said, walking up over to her. “Didn’t we meet in the library?”

Lia gave him a death-wish glare.

“Sorry, guess I was wrong,” said Dean. The train came in, its rumble light because of the rubber wheels the metro used. Dean got into the car, expecting Lia to follow, but she didn’t.

“She’s getting the car. She’s OK,” said the Art Room when he checked what was going on. “She’s got the drive and is going to take it directly to the airport. We have a plane standing by.”

He went back to the hotel and sat on one of the plush couches in the ornate lobby, staring up at the mirrored ceiling. It was more than an hour later when Lia arrived. She didn’t acknowledge him, walking briskly past the doorman to the elevators at the side. Dean waited for a second and then got up to follow, entering the elevator just as the doors closed.

“Thanks for holding the door,” he said.

“You made it”

“Look, I know—”

“What do you know, Charlie Dean? What do you know?”

“I don’t see why you’re mad at me.”

Her face flushed. The elevator stopped at the second floor and two people got in, standing between them. Lia turned around, as if interested in the next day’s forecast, which was posted on a small piece of paper at the back of the elevator car.

He wanted to tell her he loved her, but there was no way he could speak. They went to their separate rooms, Dean so angry with himself that he forgot to scan the room first with the personal computer. He flipped on the television, sat back on the bed, then remembered that he had to check the room for bugs.

He had just turned on the PDA when someone knocked on the door. He jerked around, surprised.

“Oui?”
he said, pulling out his pistol. “Yes?”

“I’m going for a walk,” said Lia.

Dean stared at the door for a moment, then looked down at the gun in his hand.

“Yeah, so am I,” he told her, stuffing the gun back beneath his shirt and grabbing his jacket.

They waited for the elevator silently. Inside the car, Dean hit the stop button.

“You’re going to set off an alarm,” said Lia as the car paused between floors. Her lip trembled.

“Look, I don’t know what happened to you in Korea. I know you got beat up. I’m sorry. But I love you. I do love you.” The words were choking, but he forced himself to continue. “Look, I’m not good at this. I get, whatever, tongue-tied. But I do love you. And if I can do something to help you, I will. Just let me.”

Lia’s eyes had puffed up and he could tell she was fighting back tears. He pulled her toward him, but she was stiff in his arms, still distant.

It’s not like it is in the movies,
he thought.
I can’t make it better just because I wish it were.

57

After he finished talking to Rubens, Karr went up to Montmarte to see the second cousin LaFoote had stayed with in Paris. It turned out to be a waste of time; the cousin wasn’t around and there was no way to let himself into the small street-level apartment without being seen. He went over and asked one of the nosier neighbors watching him from a nearby window if he knew where the man had gone; the woman answered civilly but curtly, telling him that Monsieur Terre’s uncle had died and he was most likely with the family.

“You see anybody else poking around?” Karr asked the woman in French.

“Tâtonner?”
she answered, repeating the infinitive form of the verb poke.

Karr held his hands out and apologized for his poor French, first in French and then in English, claiming to be a Canadian from Montreal who knew the older Monsieur LaFoote and had hoped to find him with his second cousin. That got her to lighten up just a little, and she told him that Monsieur Terre kept mostly to himself, except for his very nice uncle—the age difference made him seem more an uncle than a cousin. It was the same uncle, LaFoote, who now was gone, to everyone’s great sorrow.

Tommy thanked her and borrowed a piece of paper to leave a note. He scribbled something and then went over to the cousin’s front door, slipping it into the crack—then placing a set of bugging devices on the sill so the Art Room would know if the place was broken into.

Tommy went back to the embassy to use the phones and see if any of the local intelligence guys had anything useful. After a few fruitless attempts to locate the priest, Tommy decided he would take a break and called Deidre. He got her answering machine and on the spur of the moment told her he’d be at the bar of the Ritz on the Champs Elysées at eleven if she wanted to have a drink. Karr had never been to the Ritz and didn’t actually know for a fact that the famous hotel had a bar. But what the hey.