“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 étage. French television has been playing it nonstop for the past four hours.”
“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.”
“So how’d you get in? Your dad?”
“I tried that, but it didn’t work. So I told a little white lie.”
“Like?”
“I said I was your fiancée.”
Karr started to laugh. His ribs had been broken and he started to wheeze and cough — and laugh even harder.
“You don’t have one, do you?” she asked.
“Well, maybe now.”
116
In the dream, she was back in Korea. She was powerless to do anything, completely unable to resist. He and his henchmen dragged her to the little room. She began to scream, but no one came and the men began to pummel her.
“Hey.”
Lia shook herself awake, practically jumping out of the seat. She was in an airplane with Charlie Dean — an Air Force VIP jet that had been used to take the Secretary of State to France. It had been detailed to take them home at the President’s direct order.
“Bad dream?” asked Dean, sitting across from her.
A dream? Yes. A nightmare. And more.
She’d gotten past it. Whether that was good or not — what that really meant — she didn’t know.
“Hey, did you have a dream or what?” Dean asked again.
“None of your business, Charlie Dean.”
He grabbed her arm. “You are my business,” he said.
She frowned but then said softly, “Just a dream.”
STEPHEN COONTS
As a naval aviator, STEPHEN COONTS flew combat missions during the Vietnam war. A former attorney and the author of thirteen New York Times bestselling novels, he resides with his wife and son in Nevada. He maintains a Web site at www.coonts.com.
Deep Black co-author JIM DEFELICE’S most recent solo effort is Cyclops One. He lives in upstate New York.
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