Could he do it by himself?
He glanced to the left, toward the policeman. A security official had joined him; they were speaking quietly.
Trouble?
If Arno wasn’t here, where was he? With the authorities? Impossible.
Fate was testing him. He had to move ahead.
“The others?” he asked.
“They have places in coach ten. Their weapons are hidden. Yours as well. Your ticket is ready?”
Mussa nodded.
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 to her mouth as if covering her face while yawning. “Rockman, they have a surveillance system. See if you can get in it and look for Dean’s suspect.”
“We’re already working on it, Lia, thank you. All right, we have him: gray windbreaker going into Eurostar. No baseball cap. Upstairs.”
“You sure?”
“Go there. Charlie, look at this download on your PDA and make sure we have it right.”
Lia spun around and threaded her way toward the stairway, which was about midway in the platform. She watched from the escalator as Dean sidled up t
o one of the large metal posts that held the shed roof up and took out his PDA.
“It’s him,” he said.
“Good,” answered Rockman. “He’s going aboard the Eurostar. A good break for us. I’ll have his ID in a second. Go ahead and get aboard.”
Lia walked toward the ticket window, where a customer was thanking a clerk for getting him a spot on the train.
“Not a problem, monsieur,” said the clerk in French. “A lot of last-minute cancellations. The charge is ninety euros for first class.”
“Ninety euros,” muttered Lia. “I don’t have that much cash. What card should I use?”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Rockman. “Your tickets will be in the system. Just show your passport. Real names; it’s OK. Go.”
Dean came up to the Eurostar level as the other customer fished out his wallet to pay.
“Dump your weapons before you go inside,” continued Rockman. “Duck into those restrooms on the right after you get your tickets. There are no garbage cans inside the waiting area.”
“You want us to go to London?” asked Dean. “Why don’t you just have him arrested?”
“Charlie, we don’t have an ID on him yet,” said Rockman. “And to be blunt, the fact that you may have recognized him from England may not impress the French. It’s their call.”
“You’re going to let him get away,” said Dean, as if he were muttering to himself.
“No. Once he’s on the train he can’t go anywhere. The train can be met in England by the police. He won’t be able to carry a weapon onto the train. You’ll see; the security is tight.”
“If you’re going to have someone meet the train, why should we get on?” asked Dean.
“Things are a little fluid right now, Charlie. Stick with the program, OK? If he gets on the train we’ll be able to deal with it pretty easily. Just follow. There’s a lot of stuff going on here.”
“Art Room knows best,” said Lia sarcastically, reaching into the security belt beneath her jeans for her passport.
75
Donohue walked through the boarding area where the second-class passengers were already queued up. He continued past the small shops that sold refreshments, making his way to the restroom. It was a small crowd for a Eurostar, he thought, maybe a quarter of the normal size, which seemed odd, because the trains were normally much more crowded. He paused at a sink, washing his face and making sure that the stalls were clear. An American tourist was helping his young son at a stall nearby, dad watching over the unlocked door. Otherwise the place was empty.
The assassin turned and walked into a stall on the opposite end, sitting down on the commode.
When he heard the child flush, Donohue took off his windbreaker and unzipped the lining, turning it around so that the jacket was now bright yellow nylon, very different from what he had worn to the station. From his wallet he unfolded a small mustache, applying glue from the center of a roll of Life Savers. Mustache applied, he took out his passport and smeared the rest of the glue on the photo, daubing a tiny amount at the edges as well. Then he removed a replacement page from his pocket, unrolling it carefully and feeding it down carefully. The page was clear except for a new photo, but it had to be put down carefully to preserve the anticounterfeiting impressions. Mucking this up would mean having to pull off the mustache, fairly painful after the thirty seconds it took for the glue to set. But he got it perfectly.
He held the passport page at an angle, making sure there were no flaws.
Passport prepared, he removed a small envelope from behind the license in his wallet. Inside the envelope were two tinted contact lenses to change his eye color. He had trouble getting the first in; the second felt as if he’d jabbed his eye but slipped right into place. In his experience, few people checked the eye color entered on passports — as his experience at the gate proved, since the eye color entered on the document matched the tinted brown effect, not his real eye color, which was a nearly opaque blue. But it was the sort of detail that Donohue insisted on getting right, just in case.
He reached down to his pants and pulled them off, turning them inside out also so that they now appeared to be black sports pants rather than jeans. Psychologically, it was his most vulnerable moment, far worse in his mind than if he’d been caught monkeying with the passport. But this passed as soon as the waist was snapped. He finished his transformation by placing two lift blocks into his shoes, adding another inch and a half to his height. As a last stroke he ran his fingers through his hair, rubbing a bit of coloring cream into the sides. The cream dappled his black a touch gray; he stroked at the side, then took out a comb and straightened it.
He went out and studied the effect in the mirror.
Distinguished.
The loudspeaker announced that the train for London was now boarding. Donohue nodded at the mirror and left the restroom a new man.
76
Mussa felt the sweat pouring from his brow as he finished putting the last cart in place. The perspiration was not from fear; the carts were difficult to maneuver in the confined space at the back of the last first-class coach. He took two real carts and lined them up in front.
This was not what he had planned. He was supposed to be a passenger, sipping complimentary champagne, toasting the death of Ponclare and his father’s ultimate revenge.
Mussa had posted a set of Ponclare’s bank account documents to the Interior Ministry, along with additional information that would make it appear he had hired Vefoures and had LaFoote killed. A small amount of the explosive had been deposited in a warehouse that the police should have no difficulty finding. Ponclare would appear to have been a traitor, profiting by selling explosives to terrorists; the police should have no trouble linking him to the operation at the Eiffel Tower.
And, of course, he would be dead.
Since determining what had happened to his father three years before, Mussa had considered killing the Frenchman himself. Twice Mussa had actually constructed a plan. But simply killing Ponclare had not seemed satisfying enough. Even now, to be honest, he felt cheated — it was Ponclare’s father he truly wished to have revenge on. Killing the son lacked the thrill.
Especially now, sweating like a dog.
Shaming Ponclare would make up for that, somewhat. For if the son was a traitor to France, what did that say about the father?
By extension, Mussa’s father would get the recognition he deserved. He was nearly forgotten now, but as stories of Mussa’s triumph circulated, a few old-timers would resurrect his father’s memory. The family would gain great honor. Exactly as they deserved.
And Mussa would join him in Paradise, basking in the glory of God.
“What are you doing?” barked a voice behind him.
Mussa turned. The train’s master — the person in charge of the serving crew, in this case a woman — stood 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 i
t,” 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.
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