Dark Zone

If Amo did not show up, would the train be delayed? It normally carried only a four-man crew, including the head conductor, or “chief of the train.” Mussa had already arranged for one of the crew members to get sick at the last moment, limiting the crew to three and making the train easier to take over.

They wouldn’t replace one person, but they undoubtedly would find another steward if two were absent. Mussa would have to take Arno’s place. Fortunately, they were about the same size.

But the casks were heavy and difficult to manage for two people until they were on their rollers. Even then.

Once they were in the train, it wouldn’t matter.

The operation had been designed from the start with seven men in mind. Now there would be only four.

Muhammad and Kelvin would subdue the passengers and the policemen, if they were unlucky enough to be in their half of the train when it decoupled. Allah would provide, after all.

Mussa glanced at his watch. He had five minutes to get the chests aboard. As he looked up, he saw a small wedge of wood a few feet away. It looked as if it would just fit at the back of the truck, providing a ramp to ease the casks down.

“Get that piece of wood, quickly. Then find me Arno’s work clothes. No, get that piece of wood first!” Mussa yelled as Ahmed reached to pull the first chest from the van. “They are heavier than they seem.”

72

Donohue trotted up the steps to the Eurostar check-in area at Gare du Nord, trying to move quickly without seeming to be too much in a hurry. Passengers had to check in before departure or risk not being cleared through passport control and security. His first-class ticket allowed him a little leeway but not all that much. The next train was not for another hour. By that time Ponclare’s assassination would be general knowledge, and the authorities would surely be at the station, watching.

A man and a woman had seen him get into a cab near the block when leaving the flat. Donohue had looked away quickly, but it seemed to him that the man had shot him an odd look. Had he heard the gun?

Had he recognized him?

Donohue thought the man looked familiar, but he couldn’t place him. Or rather, he could place him in a dozen different situations — the hit at the park in London, the assassination of the Italian colonel in Naples, the strike on the Russian intelligence agent who had stolen money from the Russian mafya.

A dozen faces jumbled together; surely it was just paranoia.

It was definitely time to retire.

But he had the money.

It was inconvenient that someone had seen him but not fatal; by the time the man made any sort of report that could be processed and acted upon, Donohue would be across the English Channel. He had nothing to do now but follow his carefully drawn plan — Eurostar to London Waterloo Station, tube to Paddington and then Heathrow, from there to any of three locations, tickets already secured. A friend from the IRA days would meet him with a fresh, clean passport at Heathrow, along with a bag. He had nothing to do but follow the plan.

A red sign over the check-in area declared that passports must be ready for inspection. Donohue reached for his — it was a phony one, of course — and slipped out his ticket at the same time. The woman at the check-in gate smiled pleasantly and examined the ticket briefly before waving him on to the Frenchman at the passport desk a few feet away. The customs official squinted at his passport and passed him to the Brits behind him.

“And why are you going to England?” asked the officer.

“Live there, mate,” said Donohue.

“Yes, of course,” said the man, nodding and handing him back the passport.

73

Rubens stepped away from the Art Room consoles, walking to the side where a fresh pot of coffee was being brewed in the machine. He poured himself a cup, not so much because he wanted it but because he wanted to do something that would force him to pause, to physically step away from the situation.

Nothing was going on at the Eiffel Tower. Had that been a blind to divert attention from the plot to kill Ponclare?

If so, Deep Black had played an unfortunate role.

Surely not. A random pattern, unconnected.

Air Force One was just touching down at Charles de Gaulle Airport with the President and national security adviser aboard. Rubens had already told Hadash and President Marcke about Ponclare’s murder and that they were following a possible suspect.

With an emphasis on “possible.” Dean had acted on a hunch; so far the man hadn’t gone anywhere they could see him. Even so, the President had decided to inform the French President personally. Marcke would suggest that the French have the man arrested as a material witness, or whatever the equivalent was in France.

A hunch, just a hunch. But Rubens did trust Dean’s judgment.

A large clock sat on the wall above the coffee machine. It was going on 10:00 a.m. The judge in the General’s competency case had called McGovern to tell her he would hold a hearing at eleven and announce his verdict shortly thereafter.

“I told you he was quick. One of a kind,” she’d said on the voice-mail message.

She hadn’t used the word verdict, actually, but it felt like one.

Rubens wanted to be there. Rebecca surely would.

“Boss, the man Dean and Lia have been following is in Gare du Nord, the train station,” said Rockman.

As he walked to the runner’s console with his coffee, Rubens pushed the General out of his mind. He had to concentrate on the here and now — he needed to watch out for his people. That was his priority. The General would have used those exact words.

“Where do the trains go?” Rubens asked.

“All over. There’s a metro stop, commuter trains, high-speed, uh, what do they call them, TVG, I think — those bullet trains that go all over the place. They also have Eurostar there, the train that takes the Chunnel to London.”

Dean had seen the man in London.

“Get the Eurostar passenger list right away,” said Rubens. “Where are Dean and Lia?”

“Just going in.”

“We’re breaking into their video surveillance system,” said Telach, coming over. “It’ll be a few seconds. Listen, Johnny Bib is demanding to talk to you. He says he has new information.”

“He can wait.”

“He says it’s about the Eiffel Tower. Something they just discovered.”

“Very well,” said Rubens. “Have Dean and Lia follow their man wherever he goes. Hopefully it will be someplace easy, like the Eurostar. Which line is Johnny Bib on?”

74

Lia turned left as she came into the large hallway at the far end of the terminal, walking down along the area of shops and ticket windows. Dean’s description of the man they were following was less than complete — tall, dark hair, wearing jeans and a gray windbreaker.

A pair of smoke-colored globes hung down from the ceiling nearby — surveillance cameras. Lia put her hand