Dark Zone

“Yes, of course. You have more resources than I have.”

“What about your friend Ponclare? Should I ask him to help?”

“Monsieur Ponclare is not my friend.”

“Figure of speech,” said Karr. “Why do you think he was involved?”

“His organization contacted Vefoures.”

“You’re sure?”

“No,” said LaFoote. “It may have been a trick to get Vefoures to cooperate. But my friend thought it was the DST.”

“And it wouldn’t make sense just to ask Ponclare?”

“If you ask him, he will know you suspect him,” said LaFoote. “And you won’t be able to trust whether he’s telling the truth.”

The American nodded. “If this was something the government wasn’t involved in, who would it be? Terrorists?”

“Vefoures would never work with terrorists. Never.”

“Assuming he knew they were involved.”

“Yes. That is true.”

“Maybe he didn’t.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Maybe the Russians then, or the Chinese. Or even the Americans. Would he work with any of them?”

LaFoote wanted to say no; he felt he had to defend his friend. But the honest answer was that he might, and so LaFoote admitted it. “More them than terrorists.”

“Well, maybe we’ll figure it out from the information on the disk,” said Karr. “Take me to the train station.”

LaFoote put his car in gear and got back on the highway. “When will we meet again?”

“Whenever you want,” said Karr. “Come with me to Paris.”

“No, I have other things to do. Including retrieving the paper with the account.”

“Maybe I should come with you.”

“Non,” said LaFoote. “That is not necessary.”

“I didn’t say it was necessary. It’d be convenient.”

“I have personal things to do,” insisted LaFoote. “I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”

“Sure. But do you think you’re going to go on being lucky?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Somebody gunned for you in England, and your friend’s house blew up. You just missed getting fried two times. That to me is lucky.”

“The house was booby-trapped,” LaFoote said. “Not for anyone specific. You heard them; they thought the cat blew it up. And whoever tried to kill me in London thinks I’m dead.”

“For now.”

LaFoote considered what the American was saying. He knew that the man had his own agenda; that went without saying. But there was no benefit to the American that LaFoote could think of if he came to Paris.

And what if he were to die? It was a legitimate concern.

“I can’t go with you, because I have things to do,” said LaFoote. “But if anything happens, go to the church.”

“To church?”

“In every town, there is one man who can be trusted to keep his word. In my town, it happens to be the priest.”

Karr laughed. “‘That’s not true of all priests?”

“Non,” said LaFoote. “Especially in France. I will meet you in Paris tomorrow evening, at Gare du Nord — the train station. Nine p.m.”

“I’ll be there.”

42

The words judge’s chambers inspired a certain awe in most laymen, and Rubens was no exception. But when he showed up at the courthouse a few minutes late for the meeting, he was shown to an office that was, to be charitable, plain. The walls were in need of a good coat of paint, the curtains on the lone window seemed as if they had been bought at Wal-Mart, and even the American flag in the corner looked a bit worse for wear. At the center of the room sat a long Formica-topped table in front of a plain metal desk. A man in a pin-striped shirt sat at the desk, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie loosened, salt-and-pepper hair gently mussed. This was Judge Croner.

“Mr. Rubens. Please, sit down. I’m glad you could come,” said the judge. “We’ve only just been introducing ourselves.”

Rubens nodded at the others and sat next to his lawyer, which happened to put him across from Rebecca. He was surprised to see that she had a frightened expression on her face.

It made her look younger. Not prettier — she was pretty to begin with — but definitely younger.

Her husband sat next to her: a chubby, pasty-faced accountant.

The judge began speaking about the mechanics of the legal proceedings in general terms, repeating things McGovern had told Rubens the other day and when they had first met. He was speaking in generalities, and Rubens got the feeling that Croner was watching their reactions, sizing them up so he could see how to proceed.

Rebecca’s attorney interrupted as the judge began talking about what the medical examination would most likely entail. The case was straightforward, said the lawyer. Everyone would agree that the General was incompetent and that someone had to be appointed to see to his needs. This should have been done ages ago. The daughter was the natural candidate.

Rubens wanted McGovern to object—he was the natural candidate, the one the General had asked for. But she said nothing as the other lawyer continued. Rubens felt his anger rise as Rebecca’s counsel declared that—“with all due respect ”—other interested parties had their own agendas. As important as those interests might be in their proper sphere, they were of no relevance here.

The comments were, of course, directed at Rubens, though he was not named. Rubens finally found it impossible to not speak out.

“That’s simply not true,” he said. “My interests are the General’s and the General’s alone. He is my friend.”

Ellen put her hand gently on his. Her touch caught him by surprise and he stopped speaking, even though everyone was looking at him.

“I don’t mean to insult you, Mr. Rubens,” said Rebecca’s lawyer. “But you can’t deny that your employer has sent you here.”

Ellen squeezed his hand, speaking before he could. “Mr. Rubens does work for an important government agency, as did the General. We’re all aware of that. But of course that’s no more relevant here than the fact that Mr. Paulson and I are attorneys.”

It wasn’t the strongest argument, Rubens thought, but at least she was saying something.

The other lawyer began talking about “special employment requirements of the government agency involved” and how these would skew Rubens’ judgment even if he hadn’t been ordered to come. Under other circumstances, Rubens might have been amused by the way everyone at the hearing was avoiding naming the agency or talking about what it did. But he wasn’t amused now at all. He wanted to shout at them that it was the General who was important — that brave and intelligent man whose world had been reduced to a white room twelve by fifteen feet, whose brilliant mind was now a trampoline for delusions.

“Mr. Paulson is an eloquent lawyer,” said McGovern finally, once more squeezing Rubens’ hand. “I think the