Dark Zone

Despite the weight and Mussa’s trembling hands, it snapped into place. Surely God was helping him now. There was no longer a question of failure — there had never been a question of failure. He climbed over the seats to guide the last steps, confident, even awed. The greatness of what he was to accomplish pushed him on. The next units snapped down — there were two left now, two — and then he had merely to punch the buttons and wait.

But as he waited for the last cabinet, something made a thud behind him. He turned and saw a man crawl out from the seats. Mussa reached desperately to his belt, grabbing for his pistol, but it wasn’t there; he’d put it down when he started to move the cabinets.

Mussa ran and kicked the man in the back, stopping him. He stepped to the man’s side and launched another kick to the back of his head, then another and another and another, dashing the man’s skull against the floor of the train. Rage welled in him, and he screamed at the man, asking who he was to try to prevent his triumph.

“Satan? Are you Satan?” he yelled.

Finally, he saw that the man was dead and stopped kicking.

The others were staring at him from behind the half-assembled bomb.

“You were to kill everyone in the train,” he told them. “Everyone.”

“We did.”

“You will go back and make sure. For the glory of God! Now!”

97

When Deidre Clancy finally managed to get out of bed, her chest begin to shake. She felt as if all the blood had rushed from her head and refused to come back.

She went to the bathroom and ran water on her face, then saw the pile of towels she’d left on the floor. Her stomach turned, but this time the urge to vomit was gone; the worst of her illness had passed.

Deidre turned on the bath and took off her robe and got in, spraying herself with the wand as the tub filled up. When she was finished, she threw the soiled towels into the tub and filled it with water again, poking them a bit before letting it drain; she had no washing machine in the small apartment and couldn’t face the idea of going to the Laundromat today, and maybe not tomorrow, either. After a few rinses the towels were clean enough to be hung on the rail and ledge outside the window. That done, she cleaned the tub and took a proper bath, the water as hot as she could stand it.

A half hour later, she got out, wrapped herself in a thick terry-cloth robe — she was now out of bath towels — and walked to the tiny kitchenette to measure out coffee for the ancient pot. When it was ready she poured herself a cup without her usual cream and went to the small living room, intending to veg out until her senses recovered sufficiently for her to come up with a plan for the rest of the day.

After a few minutes, she turned on the television, expecting to flip absent-mindedly through the offerings.

The first image she saw looked like something from a James Bond movie or maybe Schwarzenegger — helicopters buzzing in the air, circling a tower of smoke.

The Eiffel Tower, she realized.

A very good model, she thought. She punched the button for the next channel, but the image remained.

She glanced down at the remote, making sure she had pressed the proper button. The image remained.

It was the real Eiffel Tower.

Two more presses brought her to CNN. She watched the screen as a breathless correspondent based in London announced: “These are live pictures from Paris, where a group of terrorists has attempted an attack on the Eiffel Tower. Police and local military units are battling them now. The American President landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport just a few minutes prior to the attack, and sources close to the French police say that American intelligence agents provided a last-second warning against the terrorist strike. As you can see, the operation is ongoing. . ”

Deidre watched as one of the news helicopters zoomed its camera in on the grid work of the tower. A man was hanging upside down near the side, his leg caught in a cable. Two French policemen were climbing up from below; another was trying to get to him from above.

The large man didn’t look like a terrorist. He had blond hair and was in jeans and—

Deidre dropped the remote as the man’s face briefly came into focus.

It was Tommy Karr. And he was smiling.

98

“Are you sure about this?” demanded Hadash. He was essentially translating what the French President had just asked Rubens.

“Oui,” said Rubens, speaking French so there would be no doubt in the foreign leader’s mind. “L’Eurostar. They’ve found some way of getting the bomb on board the train. We believe they’ve fashioned something similar to C-4 to use as a kind of explosive lens and detonate the atomic warhead. We don’t have all of the data, but I guarantee that they’ve done this, and that at a minimum an attempt will be made. Our best guess from the power fluctuations we’ve detected on the system is that it’s already under way. Their models for the impact of the explosion predict a tidal wave that will engulf the low-lying areas along the Channel. We’re still trying to interpret the data, but you must stop traffic through the Chunnel and get response teams in. I assure you, even if they fail, they will make an attempt.”

The French President replied in French that what Rubens was saying seemed incredible and beyond belief. Rubens agreed but added that until an hour ago the same might have been said about an attack on the Eiffel Tower, and here he was watching a feed from French television showing it in broad daylight.

“A great tragedy for the world had it succeeded,” added Rubens, who, despite his disdain for the French, meant it.

President Marcke came on the line, asking Rubens if he had any other information. Rubens told him that he had summarized the relevant findings and would share whatever details were needed with the French intelligence and military.

“Do it,” said Marcke.

Rubens looked up at the screen. While the Eiffel Tower had not been completely secured, all of the terrorists near the bomb were either dead or severely wounded. Tommy had disabled all of the explosive packs, apparently made into vests that the terrorists had worn and then attempted to assemble on the structure.

French gendarmes had finally reached Karr, who was suspended above the iron latticework by one of the power cables from the lighting. Tommy seemed to be smiling, undoubtedly making one of his irreverent wisecracks to his rescuers.

Thank God.

Hopefully it wasn’t X-rated. The French television crew aboard the helicopter caught the entire sequence before being warned away by one of the military aircraft. Undoubtedly a lip-reader back in the studio was already trying to work out what Karr had said. Knowing the French, it would be inscribed at the base of the tower by morning.

Several dozen people had lost their lives, and the structure had surely been damaged. But compared to what might have happened, the cost had been relatively minor.

One disaster staved off. And a much greater one looming.

“There is one other thing I should mention,” Rubens told President Marcke. “Two of my people were aboard the train that is currently in the Chunnel. They were following a man we think might have been involved in the assassination of Monsieur Ponclare, the security chief. We haven’t heard from them since the train entered the tunnel.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said the President. “We’ll stay on the line.”