Dark Zone (3 page)

The engineer brought up a new set of calculations that showed the best place for the device to be located: 8.342 miles from the start of the French side. Such precision would not be possible, the Pakistani admitted, but the closer the better.

Cherbourg, Le Havre, Calais, Dunkerque, Oostende, Knokke—overwhelmed with a flood that would rival the Patriarch Noah’s.
Perhaps that
was
the one true Lord’s actual intent,
thought Mussa. It was not his to know beforehand.

But the possibility was delicious, was it not?

Mussa turned to the window, gazing toward the Eiffel Tower in the distance.

Delicious horror. And it would come at the climax of his complicated plan for revenge: personal revenge for the death of his father, revenge on the nation that had discriminated against him and his family, and revenge on the race that had devastated his people. God was powerful.

“And when will I be paid?” asked the engineer.

Mussa turned around, pretending to be shocked. “I thought you were working for the glory of Allah.”

“Always,” said the engineer. “But I must also see to worldly concerns.”

“You’ve spoken to Arno?”

“As you directed.”

“And the brothers?”

“The brothers?”

Arno was Mussa’s lieutenant and was doing much of the work on the Chunnel project; it was necessary that he be kept informed. The brothers were another story.

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,” added the engineer. The man was very good with computers, but he was not a convincing liar, and so his confusion now reassured Mussa that the brothers—known to him as Said and Jamal, though he doubted those were anything like their real names—had not been contacted. He did not trust them and had kept their operation isolated from his own concerns.

“I’ve done everything you asked,” said the engineer.

Mussa nodded. “Then you will be paid promptly, by the grace of God.”

“The sooner the better. And will there be a bonus?”

“A bonus? Oh yes.”

The engineer began to smile. As he did, Mussa took a Glock 25 from his pocket and put three bullets through the engineer’s forehead. Mussa had not planned to kill the man himself, but his greed disgusted him.

3

William Rubens, the head of Desk Three and the number two man at the National Security Agency, got up slowly from his bed and took a deep breath. He held it, as he had been taught by his yoga teacher many years ago, then slowly exhaled. He repeated the process twice more; after the third time he stretched forward, hands together, and began the sunrise pose, the first yoga posture he had ever learned.

Rubens regarded yoga more as an interesting collection of ideas than tenets of religion, and his daily routines were more physical workouts than spiritual exercises. He did not believe that souls recycled through the universe, and the Indian theory of the body and its different energies and cycles seemed laughable to him. But the postures did send a warm surge up his spine, relaxing him in a way that sleep never seemed to accomplish.

Rubens had never slept well, and these days he slept as poorly as ever. It was not the tension of his job; he had dealt with that for a long time. A personal matter bothered him, which was unusual for Rubens. He liked to say that he had no personal matters, and it was not so far from the truth.

He finished his routine and went downstairs for his coffee. After he poured it, he put his right index finger on the small pad at the right of the secure computer on the countertop. With the fingerprint recognized, the computer proceeded through the first stages of its boot-up. When the screen flashed, Rubens pulled the keyboard out and typed in his passwords, allowing the computer to proceed, tying into the NSA system by a secure connection.

As he waited, he picked up the remote and turned on the small television across the room near the bread machine that he had never used. Rubens had probably as little love for the television as he had for baking bread (the machine was a present from one of his many and mostly annoying cousins), but he had come to appreciate the fact that it was important to check the mainstream news media every so often. The daily news summaries he received via e-mail could not communicate the impact of television’s visuals.

He lingered on CNN only long enough to realize that the anchor was pontificating about a sports drug scandal. On Fox, a man in a rumpled gray suit declared that the time had come to invade North Korea. The text under the man’s face claimed that he was a former CIA analyst. Rubens knew the man well enough to know that this was indeed true—and that the man’s area of expertise had been European farm commodities. Rubens listened for a minute before deciding that the analyst knew as little about Korea as Rubens did about European wheat.

If there
was
a time to invade North Korea, it had been in the 1990s. Clinton had blown it, like much else—but that was all academic now.

Rubens flipped through a few more channels before turning his attention back to the computer. Once a cut-and-paste Xerox job, the daily briefing was now delivered to the upper echelons of the administration via e-mail with links to more detailed information available on SpyNet, an exclusive intranet service used by the government’s “information” agencies, of which the NSA was one. Ruben scrolled through the e-mail quickly. It was all very low-level, and nothing piqued his interest.

A good thing. That meant nothing had blown up overnight.

He emptied his cup of coffee and picked up the black phone that sat at the side of the computer. The phone looked as if it dated from the 1960s, and it was in fact possible that the outer shell did. Inside, however, the phone held a state-of-the-art encryption device that rendered his conversations indecipherable to anyone who did not have a similar model. And in theory—much in the field of encryption was theory, for the most part impossible to definitively prove or, to put it more accurately, not worth the time needed to prove—only the person with the number Rubens dialed would be able to understand what he said.

“Art Room,” said Marie Telach, picking up on the other end of the line. She knew it would be him, but the flat, neutral answer was part of her personality. The fact that she never deviated was a large part of the reason he had chosen her for her job, though lately she had shown alarming signs of being human.

A vacation would cure that, no doubt.

“This is Rubens. How is the Korean operation proceeding?”

“Lia is on her way to the airport. She’ll be in Beijing in a few hours.”

“Very good. And the other matter,” added Rubens. “Tommy Karr and Charlie Dean?”

“There was a complication.”

“A complication?”

The mission had been a routine milk run.

“Tommy stopped a purse snatching near the Courts after they landed in London.”

Was that all? Rubens glanced at his watch. “Making the jump to police work, is he?”

“They’re on schedule. The meet isn’t for a while yet and everything looks fine. But I thought I should mention it because the robbery victim—”

“Please don’t tell me it was a member of the SVR,” said Rubens, using the Russian initials for the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service,
Sluzhba Vneshnev Razvedki,
one of the successors to the Cold War era KGB.

“No—it was Deidre Clancy, the daughter of our ambassador to Great Britain.”

Rubens did not know Ambassador Alroy Clancy very well; he’d been appointed to the post largely as a reward for his service to the President’s campaign committee. This was exactly the sort of complication Rubens could live with.

“He didn’t realize who it was,” added Telach. “He thought she was just another pretty girl. I expect you may hear about it at some point.”

“I appreciate that, Ms. Telach. Anything else?”

“Nothing at the moment.”

He looked over at his clock. “I’m off to my seven o’clock appointment. Keep me informed on the Korean matter. You can buzz me.”

“Yes, sir.”

The politically connected ambassador to Great Britain owing Desk Three, and by extension William Rubens, a favor: the day was starting out on a good note.

Twenty minutes later, Rubens parked his car in the lot of a suburban Maryland nursing home. He tried to force himself into an overtly cheerful mood as he walked the thirty feet or so from his car to the front door.

Overtly cheerful was a difficult act here. The home was a good one but far from lavish. The lower floors had the feel of a modest apartment house in a once middle-class neighborhood gone slightly to seed. The upper floors were more like hospital wards.

The truly grim floor was at the very top, where he was bound.

Rubens smiled at the receptionist—at this hour, the job was held by one of the uniformed security people, an older woman who worked here largely because her father was a resident—and passed on to the elevators beyond. Rubens was a regular visitor early Monday and Thursday mornings, known not only by the security guard and medical staff but also by the housekeepers and even one or two of the cafeteria personnel. They knew him not as William Rubens but rather as “the General’s friend.” The title was more of an honor than Rubens could have explained.

One of the nurses from the twelfth floor was waiting for the elevator, a tray of medicines in her hand.

“Morning,” she said.

“Hello. How is he today?” asked Rubens.

The nurse grimaced before she spoke; the expression communicated much more than her words.

“Good days and bad days,” she said.

“Yes. We all have them,” said Rubens.

“Yes, we do, hon. Yes, we do.”

As the General’s days went, this one would actually be classified as a good one—when Rubens entered, the old man who had once been the head of the NSA was sitting upright in bed, staring toward his window at the side of the room. The view was of a gray patch of an old train yard, long since abandoned to junk cars and piles of broken furniture. The window was dirty and turned the scene even grayer. But the General undoubtedly didn’t notice.

“Good morning, General,” said Rubens. “You’re looking good today.”

Major General John Paul Rosenberg (Ret.) turned in his direction and nodded. Rubens pulled over the metal chair and sat at the side of the bed.

“I picked up a book on Mussolini the other evening, of all things,” said Rubens. “A biography. The one by Fermi. I had never read it. I started thumbing through it and found myself engrossed.”

The General did not acknowledge the statement. Rubens—who had indeed picked up a copy of the book—began telling the General about what he had read: the Italian dictator’s childhood, his attraction to violence, his background. It was exactly the sort of conversation the two men might have had twenty years before, though then the roles would have been reversed. Then the General was trying to broaden Rubens’ sense and understanding of the world, arouse his curiosity in things beyond math and art. Military history and politics were special passions for Rosenberg, though when they talked about math and art, Rubens had found the General at least as knowledgeable as himself.

An odd combination, the General had said the very first time they had spoken—Rubens’ second day at the agency, at lunch.

Odd to others but not to Rubens. He had loved math as a boy; its logic brought order to his life and channeled his imagination. Art was more a family birthright, passed down in the genes. He was descended from Peter Paul Rubens, the Flemish painter who lived from 1577 to 1640 and was so famous that people besides art historians knew who he was—albeit often because his name had become a euphemism for “fat.”

Where many youths might turn to art as a relief from the rigors of school subjects like math, Rubens found relief in the other direction. His early years were nothing but art; he was saturated in it by the time he reached high school. The unemotional impersonality of numbers was a great comfort. Working on his doctorate had seemed more like a vacation than the rigorous exercise it was supposed to be.

The General had sent Rubens to MIT, where he’d obtained another doctorate, this one in political science. His thesis involved the intersection of information technology and foreign relations; part of it remained classified, though in Rubens’ opinion this was now due more to inherent bureaucratic caution than any real need for secrecy.

MIT had been important for other reasons. He had taken a postgraduate seminar in foreign relations and technology there, studying with George Hadash, now the national security adviser. In some respects Hadash had taken over the General’s role as career mentor, but the relationship was otherwise very different. Hadash, though certainly an intelligent man, had too many flaws. And the General—the General was not only Rubens’ intellectual mentor; he was also a bona fide hero. He had proven himself under fire, first as a seventeen-year-old private in the Italian campaign during World War II and later as a colonel in Vietnam. He’d earned his way to Officer Candidate School at a time when Jews were, at best, a novelty in the officers’ ranks, and if any man deserved the title “a soldier’s soldier,” John Paul Rosenberg did. From Rubens’ first day at the NSA, he had viewed Rosenberg with awe and reverence, both well deserved.

Their roles now were worse than reversed. To the General’s great credit, Rubens had used his intellectual gifts to broaden his knowledge in many ways. But the General’s deterioration over the last year, due to the accelerated effects of Alzheimer’s disease, had left him far emptier than the bright young man he’d set out to cultivate nearly two decades before.

“I’m hoping that the Mussolini book will explain something about his attraction to violence,” said Rubens. “I can understand the attraction to power. We all want to feel important.”

The General turned to him. “Marshall was very underrated. A hell of a man.”

This was not the non sequitur it appeared on the surface, Rubens decided. Mussolini had been Italy’s dictator during World War II. Marshall—George C. Marshall, clearly—had been the head of the Army and one of Roosevelt’s top lieutenants during the war. And, as the General stated, one of the most underrated leaders in American history, or certainly one of the most forgotten. How many five-star generals won the Nobel Peace Prize? Yet Marshall didn’t exist to most Americans.