Dark Zone (10 page)

He’d probably been mistaken about the man. Surely he was—he’d seen a few faces through his scope, generic American faces, as he waited. This was just another generic American face. Not the same one.

He was losing his edge. He would have to retire soon, very soon.

Donohue thought of this the whole way down the steps. He led the woman and the girl out of the stairwell and down the thickly carpeted hall to the bar, which was nearly empty. He walked to the far end and out the door, turning left and then left again onto Holbom, the main street, walking toward the tube entrance around the corner. The woman had learned not to question him and followed along silently, herding the girl with her.

It wasn’t until he passed the tube entrance that Donohue had calmed his mind sufficiently to stop and, after making sure that they hadn’t been followed, consider the situation without emotion.

Survival was the first priority. The man in the hall had clearly not recognized him in any way.

Nor had they been followed. So the question was whether to go back and attempt to complete the assignment or simply walk away.

The fee for searching the room was relatively minimal, and thus walking away was easy. But it might also sour the relationship with the Arabs. They were unpredictable about these sorts of things, easily offended on ridiculous matters.

The search had clearly been an afterthought. Only when Donohue called to say that the job was done was there a question about computer disks that might be in the room. To Donohue, this suggested that someone had searched the body soon after the hit: very possibly one of the policemen in the park or a member of the crowd. But it also implied a certain uncharacteristic sloppiness, which concerned him. The information about the assassination had been vague, and while certainly enough to identify his victim it lacked the usual details his employer—Mussa Duoar—was known for. Mussa hadn’t supplied them himself, of course—he had had one of his many minions, an Egyptian if the accent could be trusted, do it. Donohue had only dealt with the Egyptian once before, and it was possible that he was merely prudently limiting the intelligence to what was necessary for the job. However, there was a touch of—what was it? Vagueness? Haste? This worried Donohue, for it potentially exposed him to trouble.

He was being overly cautious. Jumpy even. Using the woman as a cover—truly unnecessary.

What would he do next, see ghosts? The room should be searched. He shouldn’t succumb to paranoia.

“Let’s try this again,” he told the woman. “Come.”

Donohue left the woman outside the door but took her daughter inside with him. He knew as soon as he opened the closet that the room was sterile. Nonetheless, he searched anyway.

“Check the drawers there, quickly,” he told the girl.

“Why are you wearing gloves?”

“No questions, girl. Do what I say.”

Nothing. An empty suitcase. He checked it carefully for secret compartments, but it was the sort of thing you picked up from a street vendor for ten pounds or so, the fabric thin and the stitching so poor it was bound to fall apart on its first trip.

The dead man’s room, Donohue decided. He should have been told.

Sloppiness then. Mussa’s people were slipping. He would charge double for his time.

“Quickly, girl. Close the drawers and come with me.”

Outside, they walked to the end of the block and turned into the tube station, descending the escalator and proceeding to the right, mingling with the sparse crowd. Donohue said nothing. The woman’s eyes hunted around as they always did. She reminded him of a pigeon, pecking and poking on the sidewalk for food.

“You were very good this evening,” he told the girl as the train finally arrived. “Very good.”

He took her arm gently and nudged her toward the open door. The woman went in behind them, glancing at him to see whether she should sit with him or not. He smiled and even leaned his body close to hers, as if he were relaxing.

“We’ll get some dinner,” he told her. “Then you can go back to the hotel.”

“The plane is early in the morning,” said the woman.

“There’s plenty of time.”

They took the metro two stops to Oxford Circus. Donohue knew of a good restaurant there, run by a Frenchman who’d found it easier to overcharge the English for food than his fellow Parisians. Donohue ordered a bottle of one of the house wines; the woman required no encouragement to drink and kept at it after the waiter brought another bottle. Her daughter seemed to sink farther in her seat as the meal progressed. She picked at the salmon he’d ordered for her and didn’t eat her vegetables. Donohue found himself sympathizing with the girl. The trip had none of the allure for her that it did for her mother, whose head was easily turned by fancy talk and the appearance of luxury. She had no story she could share with her friends upon her return home. Nine-year-olds, even those from the poor sections of Dublin, were not particularly impressed by fancy hotels or flying first-class or walking in a park. The mother hadn’t even taken her to Buckingham Palace as he suggested in the morning; she’d had a massage at the hotel instead, leaving the girl to sit on the nearby chair and read a magazine.

Donohue’s mother had been similarly distracted and self-absorbed, and watching the child stare blankly at her plate reminded him of many similar dinners he had had, albeit at home and with much plainer fare on the plate.

Sympathy was not one of Donohue’s stronger character traits, and it did not last long. The woman began babbling about how beautiful London was, and his disdain for her quickly crowded out everything else.

“It
is
beautiful,” he said. This section of the restaurant was empty and no one was close enough to hear. “We’ll get a chance to do more touring tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? I thought we were going home.”

“I think we should stay another few days.” He put his hand on hers. “Why not? You don’t have any commitments, do you?”

Her face flushed as she shook her head.

He paid for dinner in cash, choosing a moment to leave when there was no one between them and the front of the restaurant. He left 20 percent of the bill as a tip—slightly on the generous side, but not so much that it would cause him to stand out particularly. He made it seem to the woman that he had just had an impulse to stroll around a bit before leading her back to the hotel, meandering over to Blackfriars Bridge and crossing. At this hour the bridge was not heavily traveled and they saw no one else on the walkway. A gang of teenagers crowded near the bank as they reached the far side of the Thames, but that worked to his advantage; he nudged the woman’s elbow to steer her to the right, making a point of gazing in their direction and frowning.

“They won’t bother us,” said the woman as they turned down the steps and onto the darkened path. “We’re just tourists.”

A foolish thing to have as your last words alive,
he thought, taking the silenced pistol from his pocket.

Donohue shot the woman in the side of the head once, then turned to the girl. Her eyes gaped at him as he fired, but he had seen such expressions before.

Two more shots for each, insurance.

He dropped the pistol from the Millennium Bridge at midspan and continued up to Victoria Street, where he caught the underground and began making his way to Paddington and from there to the airport.

12

Dean stepped onto the long escalator at the foot of the tube station, relieved to be out of the tunnel. Something about the depth of the thing bothered him. He didn’t have a phobia and he didn’t feel as if the walls were crushing in—but he
did
feel uncomfortable. The London subways may have saved thousands during Nazi bombing in World War II, but the long trip downward made Dean feel like he was in a mausoleum.

“To the right, and smile,” said Karr, just behind him. “We’re on camera.”

Surveillance cameras were placed throughout the station. They were used first of all by the local police authorities to help cut down on crime, pickpockets especially. But they were also routinely used by the intelligence agencies; Waterloo was the British terminus of the Chunnel, and an access point to the Continent for “those of dubious purpose,” as the MI5 briefing paper Dean had seen put it. The cameras were not a secret, though there were a number that were rather inconspicuously placed and moved around every few months. Professional spies and terrorists could be assumed to make note of where the cameras were and avoid them as much as possible.

Which naturally led Karr to suggest they check all of the “shadows”—areas where the video cameras couldn’t quite reach. Guided by the Art Room, they walked through the shop area on the concourse outside the platforms to the commuter trains. They split up and took opposite sides of the terminal. Dean got the half on the right and found a spot near the escalator down to the Eurostar entrance where someone could linger without being seen. He worked out in his mind how a meet might go down—“Gordon Kensworth” would come in, having checked his message, be trailed along and then contacted as he passed the newspaper stand at the center.

Or perhaps he would have told Dean and Karr to call the hotel, check the voice-mail message, and they would be contacted.

Either way, someone would be watching. Unless they knew Kensworth had been killed.

There was a woman standing near the spot as Dean passed by, looking as if she were watching one of the schedule screens posted above the heads of the crowd but definitely checking the crowd carefully. Dean walked past, went into a nearby shop that sold coffee and snacks, then browsed in the flower shop across the way, checking surreptitiously to see if the woman was still there.

She was. She glanced at her watch, then leaned against the nearby rail, trying to look nonchalant.

“I think I have her,” he muttered.

“Funny, I think I have
him,”
said Karr.

Chafetz told them to watch their respective suspects. Neither changed position over the next few minutes.

“What do you think?” Karr asked Dean over the conferenced communications circuit at 8:10.

Dean took out his satellite phone—it looked like a regular cell phone, without the thick antenna usually associated with the devices—and used it as a cover to talk over the communications system. “I say we page Kensworth at eight-fifteen. See what happens.”

“We will,” said Chafetz. “Be ready.”

The woman Dean was watching looked to be about thirty. She had short hair and a slender build, though her shoulders seemed a little broader than he would have expected, which Dean interpreted as a sign that she worked out a lot—as Lia did.

He missed her.

He reached in his pocket for change and approached the newsstand. The announcement sounded as he did: “Passenger Gordon Kensworth, please pick up the beige phone. Gordon Kensworth.”

The woman started to move. Dean dropped a ten-pound note on the counter near the register—far too much for a copy of the
Guardian
—and followed her as she crossed toward the commuter platforms. He paused in front of the entrance, looking at the blue sign with the line information; as he did, the woman walked inside toward the tracks, turned right, and then walked along the platform.

Dean stepped out of the way as a group of commuters hurried through. He sidled right and saw that the woman was angling back toward the concourse. Dean spun around, nearly knocking over a pair of nuns as they tottered toward their train.

“You’re being followed,” said Karr cheerfully as Dean got back out into the terminal. “Maybe you got the right person after all.”

Dean continued along the side, watching for the woman. She came out at the far end of the platform and walked toward the street entrance. He pulled out his cell phone and pretended to dial a number.

“Want to hand off?” he asked Karr.

“Nah. Keep doing what you’re doing. The woman should stop ahead and ask you what’s up. Throw out the identifier we were supposed to use in the park.”

Dean had to quicken his pace as she neared the entranceway, but he still lost her by the time he reached the street.

“Left, left,” said Chafetz. “We can see you in the security camera network. Go left.”

As Dean started in her direction a flood of visitors just off one of the commuter trains came out onto the walk. He tried sliding through, but there were too many of them. By the time he made it past, the woman had disappeared. He continued past the bus stop, angry at himself for having blown such an easy assignment. As he turned the comer, two men stepped from the shadows so close to him that he barely saw them as they grabbed for him.

“Buckingham Palace,” was all Dean could get from his mouth as the men tried to grab him. They weren’t being gentle; as one launched a fist at him Dean ducked and started to fight back. He managed to push the closest one to the ground, then whirled to face the other, who made the mistake of swinging against him. Dean ducked and plowed into the puncher’s midsection, upending him like a bull tossing a matador. Someone jumped him from behind; caught off-balance, Dean struggled to shed him and finally managed to get him off him and to the ground. But as he staggered back a fourth thug emerged from around the corner.

“Tommy, where are you?” said Dean out loud.

“Just hold it,” said the man. He took a step forward—then flew to the sidewalk as Karr answered Dean’s question in person. One of the men who’d been on the ground threw himself at Karr and was sent flying into the wall headfirst. As another started to get up, Karr grabbed the back of his shirt and threw him clear across to the other curb.

There were sirens in the distance, and blue lights were flashing up the street.

“Police!” yelled one of the men on the ground.

“You have nerve yelling for the police,” said Dean.

“No, Charlie, they
are
the police,” said Karr, holding up an ID that had fallen in the fight.

13

By the time the aircraft landed, Lia felt more like herself. Not well, not normal, but more the person she was.