was a test.
“Old-fashioned police work,” said Lang. He smiled depreciatingly, then took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and began turning it over in his hand. “Luck. The woman in the park who was nearby when it happened thought she recognized him from her hotel. It’s a high-class place and his clothes were less than the standard. He was also British, and didn’t quite fit with the Asians and Americans who generally stayed there. We weren’t sure, but we checked and found his room.”
Dean nodded.
“And how did you know?”
“Same way we knew to meet him in the park,” said Dean. “This was a backup meeting place, so we thought we’d see if an assistant or someone would be there. I saw the girl, thought maybe she was his backup, and followed her.”
“That girl is a policewoman,” said the detective in shirtsleeves indignantly.
“When did you set it up?” asked Lang.
“We didn’t,” said Dean. “It was set up for us. We’re just messengers. We go to a place; then we go.”
“What were you supposed to get from Kensworth?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
“Why did you think she was meeting him?”
“It was pretty obvious she was looking for someone. I was right — I just didn’t realize she was working for you. Or Scotland Yard, or however you diwy that up.”
“Why were you meeting him?” asked Lang again.
“Haven’t a clue. That’s the way it works.”
“And how did you know to go to the station?”
“How we know everything,” said Dean. “I just told you.”
“You didn’t go into his room? Say, a little before eight?”
“We know that room was opened,” blurted the younger policeman.
Dean started to shake his head. Karr touched his arm. “We’d better come clean if we’re coming clean,” he said. “We were there. For about two seconds. We heard the message and then we went.”
Lang nodded.
“Now it’s our turn,” said Dean. “Who’s the dead man?”
“Gordon Kensworth.”
“Is that his real name?”
“Wouldn’t it be?” asked Lang.
“Were you watching the room?” asked Dean.
“We had only enough men to watch one place,” said Lang. “The station seemed more important.”
“The MI5 agent is Chris Wolten,” said Rockman. “You’ve met him before. He’s on his way upstairs.”
“Is this an MI5 case or your case?” asked Dean.
“The murder is our case,” said Lang.
“When did Kensworth rent the room?”
Dean had a solid technique, Karr decided — he asked questions he knew the answers to, both so he could validate what Lang said and so he would appear to know a little less than he actually did.
“He checked in yesterday.”
“When did he get to London?” Dean asked. “Do you know?”
The inspector hesitated but then said the day before yesterday. In the morning he’d taken the Eurostar — the high-speed train that crossed beneath the English Channel via the Chunnel.
“Where was he before that?” asked Dean.
“We don’t know. We don’t know what his real name is yet. From what the hotel people tell us, he was English.”
“Ask if he’s in their identity database,” said Rubens over the communications set.
“Is he in your identity database?” said Dean.
“No. He’s not a criminal. And we haven’t been told that he’s a terrorist or a spy.”
“Are you sure he’s not one of yours?” said Dean. “Not an agent for MI5 or whatever?”
“I don’t believe he’s in Her Majesty’s Service,” said Lang drily.
“Whose service is he in?” asked Karr.
“You are the ones who were dealing with him,” replied the detective inspector. “Don’t you know?”
There was a sharp rap on the door. Chris Wolten entered.
“My God, it’s not Kjartan Magnor-Karr, is it? The smartest man in the CIA?” said Wolten.
“I’m not that smart,” said Karr cheerfully. “It’s just my IQ.”
He appreciated the fact that Wolten assumed he was with the CIA rather than the NSA, and didn’t correct him.
“He beat a civil servant to a pulp,” said one of the junior policemen.
“Really, Tommy?”
“I have a pretty bad temper. Especially when my buddy’s been jumped on by four guys.”
Wolten turned to Dean. “And you are whom?”
Dean hesitated — a play for the chief inspector, Karr thought, sharing his disdain for the intelligence dandies. Nice touch.
“Charlie Dean,” said Karr. “My good buddy. Chris Wolten here is a liaison between, uh, different government interests.”
“Yes, I am a liaison,” said Wolten. “Chief Inspector?”
“I suppose you can have them,” said Lang.
“Have they told you anything?” Wolten asked Lang.
“Nothing of interest.”
“Oh, anything they say is of interest, Inspector. Come along, gentlemen.”
Rubens realized that the tiny bits of new information Dean had extracted — Gordon Knowlton had come to Britain from France via the Chunnel; someone else had snuck into his room not long before or after Dean and Karr — were like seeds. Some might sprout; some might not. As Karr bantered with the man from MI5 on the way out of the building, Rubens punched his communications line to connect with Johnny Bibleria’s phone and get his team of analysts and researchers to work on the new information.
Johnny Bib replied in his usually bizarre way, commenting on the number of tubes and length of the Chunnel train tunnel beneath the Channel—3 and 31, respectively. These were prime numbers and to Johnny, who was by training a mathematician, they had significance bordering on the mystic. Calling Johnny Bib an eccentric was like saying that Einstein had written something about the speed of light, but Rubens was willing to put up with Johnny Bib’s nonsense because he was a true genius when it came to providing the obscure insight necessary for truly important intelligence work. The NSA had amassed history’s greatest collection of genius cryptographers and code breakers. It had mustered experts who could look at a pattern of telemetry and know what sort of system they were looking at without actually bothering to “read” the details of the transmission. The agency even had savants who could tease significance from seemingly random changes of electrical current. And then there was Johnny Bib, who could not only do all of that but also suggest where the key that tied it all together would be found.
Why?
It would be easier to figure out what Mona Lisa was smiling about. Rubens knew only that the cryptographers and others who worked with Bib worshiped him as a god — a rare honor for a mathematician.
But dealing with Johnny Bib was never easy.
“I don’t like it,” Johnny told him.
“Like what?” asked Rubens.
