“So why is this all significant?” asked the American.
“By arranging explosives in a certain shape, you can intensify the blast.”
“Really? How?”
“You are smarter than you seem, aren’t you?” asked LaFoote. “You are trying to seem as if you don’t understand, but you do.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” The American grinning at him — yes, he was one of those who pretended to be a joker, LaFoote realized. But he was very serious inside. He understood fully what LaFoote was saying.
A very good operative: such a man would have made a good partner in Africa when he served.
“The material might also pass by a standard detector without being picked up,” said LaFoote. “I don’t know about such details. There are many things about it that I don’t know — as I said, I am not a technical man. I am just looking for my friend.”
“And someone wants to stop you.”
“It would seem.”
“The DST?”
“It would seem.”
“How’d they know about the meeting?” asked Karr.
“I used Vefoures’ phone to call your embassy. They must have tapped the phone. I had checked the line with equipment I thought would be good — there must have been something I missed.”
“I’m not sure why you’d contact us,” Karr said.
“There was an NSA listening station in Morocco when I was younger. And one in Eritrea. Good men. We occasionally cooperated.”
“I would have thought you’d call Central Intelligence.”
“They are close with the DST, and military intelligence.”
“And you think they killed your friend.”
“I cannot trust the DST,” said LaFoote. “They are riddled with traitors.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“Ponclare?”
“I do not say he is a traitor.” LaFoote chose his words carefully.
“You trust me?”
“Perhaps.”
Karr laughed.
“There are two reasons you should be interested,” LaFoote said. “First, the explosives are so powerful that a trunk of two hundred pounds would be the equivalent of a two-thousand-pound bomb. Or, to put it another way, the amount in a small device, say the computer that you have in your pocket or a cell phone, could blow a hole in an airplane skin.”
“What’s the second thing?”
“The second is that my friend bought a one-way ticket to New York City, which he was to use next week.”
25
They spoke English in London, but Dean found the accents at times made it as indecipherable as Russian or Chinese. When the bartender ran down the list of beers the Golden Goose offered, Dean found himself pointing to the tap. He ordered a Marston, the same as Lang, and then listened as the chief inspector grilled the bartender about Gordon Pierce. Dean thought the detective was much too aggressive and adversarial; all he did was make the bartender defensive. The man finally told the chief inspector not only that he didn’t have to answer any questions from a copper but also that they should feel free to drink up and leave.
Dean touched the policeman’s sleeve. “Gordon was my wife’s cousin-in-law,” he said to the bartender. “We’d just like to know what happened to him, that’s all. I’m from the States. My wife is upset, you know? So’s her cousin.”
“I could tell you were from the States, mate. What’s it to me?”
“We thought it was going to be a holiday. My wife is Rose’s cousin. Rose isn’t taking it well.”
“Pity,” said the bartender, without any sympathy. He walked to the other end of the bar to serve another patron.
Lang lit another cigarette. Dean sipped his ale. That’s what he got for trying to be a liar.
It was just past six; the bar was not very crowded, and more than half of the dozen booths and tables were empty. According to Rose, her brother would generally come here around four or five and stay until ten. Dean thought a stranger would have been more than a little obvious, as they were.
“Rose doesn’t have a sister.”
Dean turned to his right, where a short-haired woman in her forties had just put an empty pint glass on the bar.
“I know. My wife’s her cousin. And actually a second cousin, once removed, but they don’t have much family, and we wanted to see a friendly face in a foreign country. It’s her uncle Tommy’s daughter, Lia,” he added, using the first names that came to his mind.
The woman scowled and pushed the glass farther in.
“You should go to see Rose, if you’re her friend,” said Dean. “She’s not taking it well. She really could use, uh, moral support. And we have to leave.”
“She works hard, that girl,” said the woman.
A waitress came over to take and refill the glass. The young woman glanced furtively at Dean but said nothing.
“Gordy was a drinker,” said the woman who’d been talking to him. “He truly was. Gave his sister quite a lot of heartache.”
“Maybe the mining accident had something to do with that,” said Dean.
“Ah.” The woman took the glass from the waitress, then turned to face him. “You don’t believe that bull, do you?”
“I try to believe the best in people.”
She took a long gulp of the beer. “He was a Frenchman. Older. Past your age by quite a sight. He didn’t talk much, but he’d been in the night before and a time or two before that, I think. Gordy called him ‘Reynard,’ the Fox.”
“Was that his name?” asked the detective.
“Was I talking to you?” snapped the woman.
The inspector reached into his jacket for his police credentials, but the woman waved them away. “I don’t need to be talking to the police and wasting my time with an investigation.”
“That sort of attitude will get you in trouble,” said Lang. He put his credentials away and picked up his cigarette.
“I think anything you said that might help would be good for Rose,” said Dean. “I don’t think there’d be police involved.”
“I’ve told you all I know.”
“Was there anyone besides the Frenchman?” Dean asked. “Anyone watching him? Or other strangers?”
“Nah,” she said. She took her beer and went away.
“Charlie, this is good. Try for a better date,” said Marie Telach over the Deep Black communications system. “Anything more substantial, even just the first day he showed up, would be useful.”
“Excuse me,” Dean told the woman at the bar. He left his beer and went to look for the gents’, a small room at the far end of the hall. He locked the door with the eye hook and leaned against the sink.
“Marie, are you there?” he said.
“We’re always here, Charlie,” said the Art Room supervisor.
“Gordon Pierce was approached by a Frenchman a few weeks ago. I don’t know his name yet.”
“We heard through your microphone. That jibes with what Tommy found out in Paris.”
“What did he find out?”
“We’ll go through it when you get back.”
“Tell me now.”
“Charlie, go on back and talk to that woman. See what you can find out.”
“Tell me now or I’ll go to Paris and ask Tommy myself.”
“A former French intelligence agent set up the meeting. He says he sent it because he wanted to get our attention on another matter.”
“Like what?”
“It had something to do with explosives. It may be big, or may not be anything. We don’t have the whole story. We hope to by the time you get back.”
“What was his name?”
She hesitated, then told him. “Denis LaFoote. He used to work for or maybe is still working for French intelligence. We’re still working to verify that. He was a friend of Vefoures.”
“All right.”
“How long were you planning on staying in the pub?”
“As
long as Lang does. Why?”
“Mr. Rubens wants you to help back up another mission,” added Telach. “As soon as you’re done there, go directly to Heathrow. You’ll be flying to Spain.”
“What happened to my ticket home?”
“We told you earlier. Don’t worry about the travel arrangements. Just do as we say. Go to Spain.”
Dean thought to himself that maybe Karr hadn’t always been such a kidder — maybe it was simply in reaction to having these people talking in his head all the time.
“We want you to fly to Madrid and meet Lia,” added Telach. “She’s leaving in a few hours. We’d like you to meet her in Spain. We’ll have a full cover for you with new identity details and documents waiting. We’re still pulling everything together.”
“Some fresh clothes would be nice.”
“On their way. We’ll find a hotel room for you to shower in and shave.”
“How is Lia?”
“Lia’s Lia. She wanted to do a night parachute drop into Oujda.”
“Where’s that?”
“Northern Africa. Don’t worry. Mr. Rubens wouldn’t allow it. It’s completely unnecessary — just Lia being Lia.”
Dean heard someone outside the door.
“So this Frenchman — did he kill Pierce?” Dean asked.
“Unlikely. The theory here is that he sent Pierce to make contact and then would have approached you. His message was intercepted, but we’re still working everything out. Please get to Heathrow as soon as you can.”
Dean flushed the toilet, then ran the water over his hands. There were no towels; he had to wipe his hands on his pants. Lang sat morosely at the bar, his beer almost done and the ashtray now full. The woman who had been talking to him had taken her drink and was sitting in a booth with a friend.
Dean slid in next to her. “Does the name LaFoote mean anything to you?”
She shook her head.
“Vefoures?”
She made a face.
“The stranger was French?” Dean asked.
“Maybe. He had an accent.”
“Did he say his name?”
“Mate, if he did, it’s lost in the sands of time.”
Dean asked a few more questions but couldn’t pin her down on the exact date the man had appeared. The more questions he asked, the less sure her memory seemed to become. Finally he gave up and went back to the chief inspector.
“Come on,” Dean told him. “I have some news. I’ll tell you what I know if you give me a ride to the airport.”
“Charlie, you don’t have to share,” hissed Telach in his ear.
Dean reached to his belt and turned off the communications system.
“When’s your flight?” asked Lang as they walked to the car.
“As soon as I get there,” said Dean. “Pierce was hired to meet us by a French intelligence agent. Or a former agent. We’re still checking it out. He didn’t have anything to do with the murder. My guess is that whoever shot Pierce thought it was him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Don’t know yet. He knew Vefoures. He’s looking for him.”
“Did he see who killed Pierce?”
“Don’t know.”
“You don’t know much.”
“True.”
“Should I trust you? I’ve seen how well you lie.”
“Sometimes people need a reason to be nice.”
Lang didn’t say anything else until they were a few miles from Heathrow.
“I arrested the owner of that pub two years ago for running guns to the Protestants in Northern Ireland,” he told Dean. “They’re all dirty there. Your French agent probably picked the place on purpose.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he was just looking for a bar in a poor neighborhood where there’d be people who’d like to make some easy money.”
“When we check Pierce’s background, are we going to find out he’s a spy?”
“I doubt it,” said Dean. “But I honestly don’t know.”
“You have my card,” said the chief inspector as they drove up to the terminal.
“And you have my number.”
“Is it really your number?”
“It’s my house,” Dean told him. “If I ever get back there, I’ll give you a call.”
26
Karr gawked at the sights as he leaned against the rail on the third deck of the Eiffel Tower, a thousand feet above the ground. The sun had only recently started to climb up over the horizon, and it looked to Karr as if he were standing above it as well as the city. He’d actually never been to the tower, and despite the fact that he had traveled around the world, he was impressed.
The fact that Deidre had wrapped her arm around his as the first gust of wind hit them off the stairs didn’t hurt, either.
The American embassy had arranged for a VIP tour for Ms. Clancy and guest before regular hours, and a member of the French Interior Ministry had personally escorted them. There were some advantages to being the “guest” of the daughter of an ambassador, Karr realized — especially if Dad was stationed a country away.
“Isn’t it spectacular?” Deidre asked.
“Blows me away,” said Karr.
“Come on. Be serious.”
“I am.”
She began pointing out the sights. They moved slowly around the platform and then put a few coins in the stationary binoculars.
“Breakfast?” Karr asked after the timer ran out a second time.
“Sounds good.”
She was still holding his arm when they reached the ground. Karr slowed his pace to match hers as they walked down through the park. They had breakfast at an outdoor café a few blocks away, sitting next to one of the outdoor heaters to ward off the lingering chill from the night before. Karr fumbled his French after Deidre ordered; he finally resorted to English. The waiter smirked and disappeared.
“He thinks you’re French,” Karr told her. “And I’m the ugly American.”
“You’re not ugly.”
“Well, thanks. Neither are you.”
“So how long have you been a spy?”
“Who says I’m a spy?”
“What’s it like?”
“Just like the movies,” Karr said. “James Bond, doubleoh-seven. I drive cool cars. Things blow up. Women throw themselves all over me.”
“I’m sure,” she said coolly.
“I’ve been offered my own television series,” he said, trying to make light of his faux pas, “but I’m holding out for a feature film.”
“I wonder who will get to play me,” she shot back.
In the silence that followed that remark his satellite phone started buzzing. He pulled it out and found himself talking to Chris Farlekas, the Art Room supervisor who had spelled Marie Telach.
“Hello, Tommy. We have an update for you on your chemist. Your com system is off.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Can you talk?”
“Oh, I suppose, if I don’t have to say too much.”
“All you have to do is listen.”
Karr glanced at Deidre, who was concentrating on her meal. “Mind if I take this?” he asked.
“Go right ahead.”
Most of what the Frenchman LaFoote had told Karr yesterday had checked out. Vefoures was a chemist and had worked for the government; though they didn’t have any details on his projects, he worked in the areas that would have involved explosives.
“So what didn’t check out?” asked Karr.
“The French government doesn’t have any project going concerning plastic explosives that we can tell. Certainly not the DST. And if they did, they’d use someone else — there are plenty of younger people still working for the government that were involved in this project. He’d been out of it for a while. His last job was for a company in Tours, France, about two years ago. It was contract work. They’re out of business.”
“Maybe it was somebody else.”
“It’s a theory we’re workin
g on,” said Farlekas. “He did contract work here and there. We think you should go to Vefoures’ house, but be careful. Whoever took out Pierce may realize that they missed the man they were gunning for.”
“No sign he’s being followed?”
“We had one of your CIA friends track him last night. Clean so far.”
“Hmmm. He thinks his former employers were involved,” said Karr, choosing his words carefully because of Deidre.
“French intelligence?”
“Yup.”
“Doesn’t make sense that they took out Pierce. They would have gotten LaFoote directly.”
“Unless somebody made a mistake. Or there’s something we don’t know yet.”
“Granted. Can you pick up the chemical sniffer?”
“Already have.”
The sniffer was an electronic device about the size of a tourist guidebook with a long wand attached via a thick cord. The wand could be “tuned” to look for specific chemical compounds with the addition of a memory card and a set of electronic circuits about the size of a Post-it. Somewhat similar though less sophisticated devices were just coming into use at airports where security teams screened luggage for explosives.
“How’s the date going?” added Farlekas.
“Who says I’m on a date?” Karr smiled as Deidre blushed. “But I will say that having breakfast with the most beautiful woman in Paris is a great way to start your day.”
27
A touch of gray, a fresh razor — Mussa Duoar prided himself on never looking the same two days in a row. It was a small thing, a knack, and yet a very necessary skill. He could vary his voice, offering any number of accents in French, English, and Arabic; he was especially fond of tossing a few Greek words into his patter. Many people thought he was really Greek, and he took that as a great compliment.
Of course, these tricks were nothing without the real tools of his trade — the false IDs, the credit cards, and the endless succession of phones. Mussa had worked hard to build up the network that supported him. It stretched throughout France to Germany and down to Africa. Morocco was especially important; without his people in Morocco to send information for him, where would he be? And Algeria, his birthplace, was invaluable in many ways. But then, every node was important. He might take the cell phone he had just received from Wales and use it to call Germany, sending a message to someone in the café a block away in Paris. From there the message might travel back to Germany, around the web, to a young man in the Czech Republic, who would then call a friend in Morocco, who would receive only a one-word message. The chain would then flow in reverse — impossible to track, even for him. Money, identities, weapons, suggestions from sponsors in the Middle East flowed through Mussa’s network. It morphed constantly, changing shape, gaining branches, losing itself in detours. He thought it like a garden that needed constant tending — this plant to be pruned, this to be fertilized.
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