Water was everywhere. By the time they managed the twenty or thirty yards to the access doorway it was to his knees.
Lights were flashing in the service area. Alarms were sounding, but above it all Dean could hear the rush of water.
“This way,” said Lia. “Toward France.”
“It’s miles.”
“You want to wait for the water to reach us? Go! Go!”
Dean started after her. She tripped over something and, unable to stop himself, he tripped over her. They tumbled down against the concrete, sprawling.
“I don’t think I can go any further,” he said.
“You have to,” she hissed, pushing up.
“Stay where you are,” said a voice in French.
Dean looked up to see a French FAMAS assault rifle in his face. He’d never been so happy to have a gun pointed at him in his life.
114
Rubens waited until he heard Lia’s voice for himself before finally allowing himself to believe his people were all right.
“They had this bomb cobbled together from a bunch of carts or crates that looked like the things they use to give out meals from,” she told him.
She and Dean had been taken to a hospital in Calais. Rubens had no idea how good the medical facilities were; all he knew was that it had no video hookup, so he could only talk to his two ops.
“You’d have thought the French would have figured it out,” she added. “They’re so obsessed with food.”
“I’m glad to hear you’re still your cynical self,” said Rubens.
“I’m not cynical,” she said.
“Sarcastic. Excuse me.”
“I have a lot to be sarcastic about,” she said. “And thankful for.”
The last remark was so completely out of character for Lia that Rubens found it impossible to say anything else until Dean came on the line.
“Mr. Dean, I hope your injuries are not too severe,” he told him.
“I’ve had worse.”
“Our understanding is that the northbound tube of the Chunnel is completely flooded,” Rubens told him. He was looking at a video image from the French side — several feet of water surrounded the closed access doors.
“Everyone on our half of the train is dead,” said Dean. “What happened to the other side?”
“The front part of the train was able to make it out before the explosion,” Rubens told him. “It followed its protocol for a decoupling at speed. It could have been much worse. Much, much worse.”
The other train tube was intact. Divers with special protective gear would be sent to inspect the flooded tube — and recover the warhead’s plutonium, assuming it could be found and recovered safely. Eventually, the Chunnel would be repaired.
Eventually being many, many years in the future.
“So what happened at the Eiffel Tower?” asked Dean. “Was that a diversion?”
“On the contrary. It appears to have been a related attack, and very real. Monsieur Duoar was quite a planner. He wanted to see a crescendo of terror. The tower plot was foiled with the help of Mr. Karr,” continued Rubens. “I’m surprised you haven’t seen the video of him hanging upside down from the third
“You kidding?”
“I do not kid, Charlie. I leave that for others.” Rubens broke the connection.
He was in his office when the attorney, Ms. McGovern, finally returned his call back to her.
“Mr. Rubens, good time?”
“It is,” he said.
“You sound tired.”
“A little.”
“That attack in France, and the Chunnel — it sounds incredible.”
“Oh? I haven’t had a chance to check the news.”
“Terrorists attacked the Eiffel Tower and the Chunnel,” she told him. “It sounds terrible.”
“I’m sure.” He turned away from the desk, looking toward the chair that sat in the corner of his office. It was a leather club chair that had once belonged to the General.
“The judge made his decision,” said McGovern. “I told you he would move quickly.”
Rubens waited, but instead of telling him what the decision was, she changed the subject.
“You have Rebecca’s letter?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Rubens.
He’d lost. So be it.
“That’s a good sign, don’t you think?” said McGovern. “She does love her father. She’s just concerned about him.”
“Yes,” said Rubens.
“The judge saw no reason to go against the General’s wishes,” she told him. “You were appointed.”
Oddly, it didn’t feel like much of a victory.
115
Karr knew there was someone in the room with him, but it seemed to take forever to open his eyes. When he finally did, he saw not a person but an angel floating at the side of the bed: Deidre Clancy.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey yourself.”
“Hey,” he said again, sliding up on his elbows. “Whoa, that hurts.”
“It shouldn’t. Your blood’s fifty percent Demerol.”
“See, that’s where the doctors always get it wrong,” said Karr, easing back down. “Give me a good pint of Guinness stout and nothing would bother me.”
“Take more than a pint.”
“Probably.”
“You’re a national hero, you know. The French are calling you the American Golden Bear.”
“Yeah?”
“You and your friends in the Chunnel.”
“Which?”
Karr listened as Deidre told him about Lia and Dean, who had been pulled out after foiling a plot to explode a nuclear device in the Chunnel.
“The French President claims it wouldn’t have exploded anyway,” added Deidre. “But that sounds pretty political. And French. Want me to move the bed? You have a lift thing in the back.”
He grimaced as the bed moved, but it did feel better.
“They have guards on your door to keep the media away,” she told him.
“Really?”
“I’m not kidding. I think they have orders to shoot to kill.”
