Dark Zone

Why should he react at all?

He’d probably been mistaken about the man. Surely he was — he’d seen a few faces through his scope, generic American faces, as he waited. This was just another generic American face. Not the same one.

He was losing his edge. He would have to retire soon, very soon.

Donohue thought of this the whole way down the steps. He led the woman and the girl out of the stairwell and down the thickly carpeted hall to the bar, which was nearly empty. He walked to the far end and out the door, turning left and then left again onto Holbom, the main street, walking toward the tube entrance around the corner. The woman had learned not to question him and followed along silently, herding the girl with her.

It wasn’t until he passed the tube entrance that Donohue had calmed his mind sufficiently to stop and, after making sure that they hadn’t been followed, consider the situation without emotion.

Survival was the first priority. The man in the hall had clearly not recognized him in any way.

Nor had they been followed. So the question was whether to go back and attempt to complete the assignment or simply walk away.

The fee for searching the room was relatively minimal, and thus walking away was easy. But it might also sour the relationship with the Arabs. They were unpredictable about these sorts of things, easily offended on ridiculous matters.

The search had clearly been an afterthought. Only when Donohue called to say that the job was done was there a question about computer disks that might be in the room. To Donohue, this suggested that someone had searched the body soon after the hit: very possibly one of the policemen in the park or a member of the crowd. But it also implied a certain uncharacteristic sloppiness, which concerned him. The information about the assassination had been vague, and while certainly enough to identify his victim it lacked the usual details his employer — Mussa Duoar — was known for. Mussa hadn’t supplied them himself, of course — he had had one of his many minions, an Egyptian if the accent could be trusted, do it. Donohue had only dealt with the Egyptian once before, and it was possible that he was merely prudently limiting the intelligence to what was necessary for the job. However, there was a touch of — what was it? Vagueness? Haste? This worried Donohue, for it potentially exposed him to trouble.

He was being overly cautious. Jumpy even. Using the woman as a cover — truly unnecessary.

What would he do next, see ghosts? The room should be searched. He shouldn’t succumb to paranoia.

“Let’s try this again,” he told the woman. “Come.”

* * *

Donohue left the woman outside the door but took her daughter inside with him. He knew as soon as he opened the closet that the room was sterile. Nonetheless, he searched anyway.

“Check the drawers there, quickly,” he told the girl.

“Why are you wearing gloves?”

“No questions, girl. Do what I say.”

Nothing. An empty suitcase. He checked it carefully for secret compartments, but it was the sort of thing you picked up from a street vendor for ten pounds or so, the fabric thin and the stitching so poor it was bound to fall apart on its first trip.

The dead man’s room, Donohue decided. He should have been told.

Sloppiness then. Mussa’s people were slipping. He would charge double for his time.

“Quickly, girl. Close the drawers and come with me.”

Outside, they walked to the end of the block and turned into the tube station, descending the escalator and proceeding to the right, mingling with the sparse crowd. Donohue said nothing. The woman’s eyes hunted around as they always did. She reminded him of a pigeon, pecking and poking on the sidewalk for food.

“You were very good this evening,” he told the girl as the train finally arrived. “Very good.”

He took her arm gently and nudged her toward the open door. The woman went in behind them, glancing at him to see whether she should sit with him or not. He smiled and even leaned his body close to hers, as if he were relaxing.

“We’ll get some dinner,” he told her. “Then you can go back to the hotel.”

“The plane is early in the morning,” said the woman.

“There’s plenty of time.”

They took the metro two stops to Oxford Circus. Donohue knew of a good restaurant there, run by a Frenchman who’d found it easier to overcharge the English for food than his fellow Parisians. Donohue ordered a bottle of one of the house wines; the woman required no encouragement to drink and kept at it after the waiter brought another bottle. Her daughter seemed to sink farther in her seat as the meal progressed. She picked at the salmon he’d ordered for her and didn’t eat her vegetables. Donohue found himself sympathizing with the girl. The trip had none of the allure for her that it did for her mother, whose head was easily turned by fancy talk and the appearance of luxury. She had no story she could share with her friends upon her return home. Nine-year-olds, even those from the poor sections of Dublin, were not particularly impressed by fancy hotels or flying first-class or walking in a park. The mother hadn’t even taken her to Buckingham Palace as he suggested in the morning; she’d had a massage at the hotel instead, leaving the girl to sit on the nearby chair and read a magazine.

Donohue’s mother had been similarly distracted and self-absorbed, and watching the child stare blankly at her plate reminded him of many similar dinners he had had, albeit at home and with much plainer fare on the plate.

Sympathy was not one of Donohue’s stronger character traits, and it did not last long. The woman began babbling about how beautiful London was, and his disdain for her quickly crowded out everything else.

“It is beautiful,” he said. This section of the restaurant was empty and no one was close enough to hear. “We’ll get a chance to do more touring tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? I thought we were going home.”

“I think we should stay another few days.” He put his hand on hers. “Why not? You don’t have any commitments, do you?”

Her face flushed as she shook her head.

He paid for dinner in cash, choosing a moment to leave when there was no one between them and the front of the restaurant. He left 20 percent of the bill as a tip — slightly on the generous side, but not so much that it would cause him to stand out particularly. He made it seem to the woman that he had just had an impulse to stroll around a bit before leading her back to the hotel, meandering over to Blackfriars Bridge and crossing. At this hour the bridge was not heavily traveled and they saw no one else on the walkway. A gang of teenagers crowded near the bank as they reached the far side of the Thames, but that worked to his advantage; he nudged the woman’s elbow to steer her to the right, making a point of gazing in their direction and frowning.

“They won’t bother us,” said the woman as they turned down the steps and onto the darkened path. “We’re just tourists.”

A foolish thing to have as your last words alive, he thought, taking the silenced pistol from his pocket.

Donohue shot the woman in the side of the head once, then turned to the girl. Her eyes gaped at him as he fired, but he had seen such expressions before.

Two more shots for each, insurance.

He dropped the pistol from the Millennium Bridge at midspan and continued up to Victoria Street, where he caught the underground and began making his way to Paddington and from there to the airport.

12

Dean stepped onto the long escalator at the foot of the tube station, relieved to be out of the tunnel. Something about the depth of the thing bothered him. He didn’t have a phobia and he didn’t feel as if the walls were crushing in — but he did feel uncomfortable. The London subways may have saved thousands during Nazi bombing in World War II, but the long trip downward made Dean feel like he was in a mausoleum.

“To the right, and smile,” said Karr, just behind him. “We’re on camera.”