Dark Zone

before him.

“The new man,” he said, bowing his head slightly.

Ahmed rushed up behind her. “Have you finished what I told you?” she demanded.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“He’s the substitute I told you about,” Ahmed told the woman.

“I was told to report,” said Mussa.

“By who?”

“Stephens, the Englishman,” said Ahmed quickly.

“Where is your card?” asked the train master, referring to Mussa’s railroad identity card. It was carried, not displayed on the uniform. Mussa did not have one.

“In my jacket,” he said.

“Well, get it. Quickly,” said the woman.

He nodded but did not move.

“Well?”

He pointed toward the next car.

“Be quick. We have to board passengers,” said the woman. “If we are late we will hear about it.”

She turned and walked out the nearby door, where passengers’ tickets were being checked to make sure they got the right seats.

“Give me your card,” he told Ahmed.

“My picture is on it,” said Ahmed.

“Don’t worry,” said Mussa. “Give it to me.”

Ahmed reached into his pocket and retrieved the card. The expression on his face made it clear that he thought Mussa was crazy. But the trick was an old one that never failed: he placed his thumb over Ahmed’s picture, then waited at the door for the right moment.

On the platform, the train master was just helping an old woman with her ticket and carry-on luggage when Mussa made his appearance.

“Here,” he said, flashing the card in his hand. As he went to give it to the train master, he saw that the old woman was struggling with her bag. “Oh, ma’am, please, let me help you,” he said, swooping in and grabbing the suitcase from her hand as if she were about to drop it.

“Seat twenty-four B,” the train master told Mussa, her tone slightly less severe. “Help our passenger get situated.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Mussa, sliding the identity card back into his pocket.

77

The security person at the entrance glanced at Karr but said nothing, barely watching as he walked through the small hallway to the metal steps. Three hundred and sixty steps encased in a well-painted but utilitarian steel enclosure led to the first level of the tower. Climbing them felt more like ascending the steps in an industrial building than a world monument.

The first thing that greeted him when he came out on the first level was a large souvenir shop; it was empty and even seemed a little forgotten, tucked into a corner of the plaza away from most of the tourists. He walked around the platform, trying not to remember his visit the other day with Deidre. It was difficult; he’d had a lot of fun and wished she were here now.

Assuming, of course, no one tried to blow the tower up.

Karr paused to look at the Invalides, the large military building nearby originally built as a veterans’ hospital and nursing home and now Napoleon’s final resting place. Tourists filtered across the plaza behind him, checking out the sights and occasionally reading the placards. Any one of them could be carrying a weapon — Karr hadn’t been frisked or put through a metal detector — but the threat that Deep Black had detected was on a much larger scale. One or two gunmen might kill a dozen or even two dozen people, but they didn’t strike terror on the grand scale. An event had to be massive to live in people’s memories.

Why? Anything that happened here would be terrible, wouldn’t it?

A French military helicopter, an Aerospatiale SA 342 Gazelle, passed about three-quarters of a mile away. The small attack helicopter was equipped with antitank weapons, more than enough to stop a bus or truck loaded with explosives. A second helicopter hovered in the distance. Local air traffic had been brought to a virtual halt for the U.S. President’s visit; even outgoing flights at de Gaulle had been canceled for a while.

Karr continued around the plaza, heading back for the steps. He was probably the most suspicious-looking person here.

The second level was another 359 steps away. The girders got thinner and the space between them seemed more open; Karr had more of a sense that he was climbing well above the city.

As he neared the second etage, the Deep Black op noticed a figure dressed in coveralls dangling over the side. For a second he thought the man was going to jump; then Karr realized he was a painter. It wasn’t until he was nearly level with the man that he saw the figure wasn’t real at all but a mannequin, part of a display about how important it was to paint the tower. According to the sign, the process continued every year. The job was done by hand, with old-fashioned paintbrushes rather than spray cans or fancier devices. A picture showed some of the men testing safety ropes.

Sure enough, there were several men nearby dressed in coveralls climbing upward in the grid work toward the third level, using one of the utility ladders to ascend into the web-like structure that held up the third level and its antenna mast.

So where were their paint cans and safety ropes?

78

“What do you mean, you lost him?”

“We’re not omniscient, Charlie,” sputtered Telach.

“How could you lose him?” Dean was standing in the far waiting room at the Gare du Nord Eurostar station, usually reserved for passengers in the forward cars. The train was boarding and the place was empty.

“The cameras don’t catch most of the waiting areas. Look in the men’s room. That’s the only place he could have gone.” Telach’s voice, normally understated, seemed strained and high-pitched.

“I just looked,” said Dean, but he went in again. He glanced at the sinks and then opened each of the stalls. All were empty. He looked up at the ceiling. The vents were too small for anyone to get through.

The loudspeaker announced that the train to London was now in its final boarding. Dean hurried out, kicking one of the boxes placed on the floor for trash — security protocol here did not allow containers where a bomb might, be hidden.

“Where?” he asked Telach.

“We’re looking.”

He turned right, heading toward the exit down to the tracks. There were refreshment counters, small stores like those found in American shopping malls, on either side of the short hallway.

“Did you see a tall man?” he asked one of the women at the register on the right. “He had a gray windbreaker. He might have gone in the back.”

The woman answered in indecipherable French. Dean didn’t wait to hear the translation from the Art Room — he leaned over the side, getting a good view of the back. There were no back entrances; even supplies came through the small opening at the side.

The snack counter on the other side was even smaller, with no place for anyone to hide.

Dean continued to the boarding entrance. There were two officials there, just closing the door.

“Wait,” he said. “S’il vous plait.”