Dark Zone

was pulling out all the stops for her.

Lia shrugged. Beyond tired, she followed Fashona across the apron where he had parked his aircraft and nodded when a Navy chief petty officer came out from the plane and asked if she was Ms. DeFrancesca.

“We know you’ve been through a helluva time, ma’am,” said the chief. “You’re in Navy hands now. We’ll take care of ya. Flying you direct back to the States. Not a care in the world. Leave the worrying to us.”

Lia forced herself to smile for him. Though in his thirties, he came off considerably older, ancient even — the wise old man of the sea, she thought. She climbed up the stairway to the aircraft’s rear compartment. The Orion — it was due back in the States for an equipment overhaul — boasted a large array of electronic sensors operated from consoles in the fuselage; the interior looked more like a high-tech computer lab than something that flew around the borders of hazardous airspace. The chief led her to a small lounge, insisted on giving her a blanket, and then went to “grab some grub.” She found his doting father routine a bit much to take — another sign, she realized, that she was coming out of the fog that had descended on her in Korea.

It was like a fog, wasn’t it? She saw it through a haze. There were bits missing — the end. How had she escaped?

She couldn’t remember all of the assault. Just being punched.

Maybe she hadn’t been assaulted.

I was assaulted.

Raped.

That was the word. Better to use it. Better to face it.

The doctor and nurses hadn’t, actually. They had a kit and they had pills, but they hadn’t actually said “rape,” had they? They hadn’t even said “assaulted,” or “attacked.” As if you could avoid the reality by not naming it precisely.

“Here now, ma’am,” said the chief, appearing with a tray. A covered bamboo basket sat in the center; it was the sort used as a steamer and held two trays. At the top was a fish dish; below were some small dumplings and fussily cut vegetables. The chief had also found chopsticks — and a bottle of Sapporo beer.

“Nice airline,” said Lia, trying to joke though her heart wasn’t in it.

“Like I said, ma’am. Navy’ll take care of you. Not a care in the world for you.”

“Thank you,” she said. And then she started to cry.

19

The British intelligence officer was polite — more than polite, under the circumstances — but Dean sensed the resentment beneath the surface. They were mucking around in his backyard and hadn’t had the decency to tip him off about it. That was the way he saw it.

Wolten drove them to a large house about twenty miles outside of London that MI5 used as a kind of guest cottage. He used the word cottage, but the building looked about the size of the White House. There was a fire going in the study off the entrance but no sign of whoever had started it.

“So, chaps. Who was Gordon Kensworth?” asked Wolten, going to a sideboard and pouring himself a drink.

“Don’t know,” said Karr. “How long have you guys been following him?”

“We haven’t. Drink, Charles?”

Dean passed. He leaned back in the leather club chair and felt his eyelids droop.

“Tommy?”

“Just a beer,” said Karr.

“Bitters OK?”

“If that’s what you’re calling beer these days.”

“We used to call it beer,” said Wolten. He reached down into the cupboard. “But all the nasty business with the Germans caused a change in vocabulary. Now, how long have you been after this Kensworth chap? He’s not a Russian, is he? Bosnian?”

Dean drifted off while Karr and Wolten danced. He started dreaming about Lia, wondered where she was, how she was. Then he looked up and saw Karr standing over him.

“What?” he said, struggling to open his eyes.

“Time for bed, dude.” Tommy Karr’s laugh made the old floorboards shake. “Come on. We need to get some sleep. They’ll be hooking us up to the electrodes in the morning.”

“I heard that,” said the British agent from the other room.

Two rooms had been prepared for them upstairs. Karr put his finger to his lips as they walked up the steps — then announced very loudly that the whole place was bugged and Dean shouldn’t think of saying anything. Dean wouldn’t have had the energy even if he’d had the inclination. He collapsed face-first on the bed, still fully dressed. Somehow he managed to kick his shoes off before falling into a deep slumber.

20

Johnny Bib got up from his desk, took three steps to the side — precisely three — and placed his pencil into the sharpener. Working on a problem without a sharp pencil was a waste of time. He had seen this proven over and over. He had a theory that the type of pencil was also critical — but working out the various permutations would require considerable research, and he didn’t care to spend the energy. It seemed better to just muddle through with a variety of pencils, such as those he had collected in the cup at the front of his desk, marching on through time like the point on a Euclidian line.

The metaphor wasn’t exactly right, was it? Points did not march. Someone — a mathematician — might imaginatively trod over the points, but they wouldn’t get up and walk by themselves. Not in Euclidean space, at least.

Johnny considered this as he went back to his desk. The metaphor wasn’t right; the numbers weren’t right; the conclusions were nonexistent. Kensworth did not exist in the time and place called London, and this person named Vefoures was a French pensioner who also didn’t seem to exist, at least not lately.

Which told him something. But what?

Johnny Bib had been working on this question since nine or ten in the morning, and it was now past five in the evening. If there was an answer — and surely there must be an answer — he couldn’t see it.

Perhaps some music would help. Johnny Bib sprang from his chair as the thought occurred to him and went back over to the credenza — three steps — and turned on the stereo. He selected the Thelonious Monk disk and went back to his seat, hoping to be inspired.

Inspiration did not knock. William Rubens did.

“What do you have for me, Johnny?” asked the Desk Three director, leaning in the open doorway. “Anything?”

“Numbers,” said Johnny Bib. “Vefoures’ bank account. Very nice digits: five-four-five euros.”

“Only five hundred and forty-five euros?”

“Lives on a pension.”

Rubens went over to the table in front of Bib’s desk, where the data the rest of the team had been sorting through had been carefully assembled. Johnny had sent most of them home for a break; the relief team had taken a break for pizza and would be back in a half hour or so.

“Nothing at all?” said Rubens.

“Little,” said Johnny Bib.

“You’ve checked the servers on the Web sites?” Rubens asked. He was standing over the pile of information on the disk arrays in the servers, so obviously he knew the answer as well as Johnny. Johnny therefore declined to answer.

“The list we were given — did they check out?”