Dark Zone

14

“Who is Gordon Kensworth?” asked Rubens as he paced in front of the Art Room.

Sandy Chafetz looked up from her console a few feet away. “We’re working on it. The credit card account belongs to someone else completely, a Vefoures in France. It may be a phony — the account seems to have been dormant for a little over two months, and then was used to pay for the fare from France and rent the hotel room.”

“Why was he worth murdering? What else would he have given us?” asked Rubens. He meant the questions rhetorically, but Chafetz ventured an answer, suggesting that perhaps the people whose message system he’d stumbled onto resented it.

“That would go without saying. But it would have been easier to deal with him in France,” said Rubens.

There were other questions, many other questions — one of the Web sites had been compromised by French intelligence two or three months before and didn’t seem to have been used since.

So many possibilities, thought Rubens. He had to winnow them down.

Rubens leaned over and looked at the monitor where Dean’s and Karr’s positions were marked. The police had taken them to a station near Waterloo. A long string of charges were being prepared to punish them for beating the daylights out of the surveillance detail that had attempted to question Dean. So far, neither man had said anything.

The police hadn’t revealed why they were watching Waterloo Station, and the Art Room, so far moving very cautiously, hadn’t been able to figure it out. It could be something simple: pickpockets were on the upswing in the city, and the police had been taking plenty of heat over it.

Even if that was the case, eventually the police would connect Dean and Karr to the earlier murder investigation and have even more questions.

Should he blow their cover now and get it over with? Call up MI5 and say, “Help”?

Two of my men were in London to pick up a list of computers used by terrorists operating in France. We didn’t tell you because we thought you might tell the French, who would inadvertently tip off the terrorists.

Not particularly flattering for anyone, but it was the truth.

MI5 would feel obliged to get involved.

And the French?

Very complicated.

He could call the embassy again. Whether that would work now, though…

“Ms. Chafetz, tell me about that incident earlier, the one where Tommy Karr ran down the purse snatcher,” said Rubens.

“Marie actually handled that herself,” said the runner. “I didn’t come on duty until just afterward. This was a pretty routine assignment.”

“They got off the bus and ran after the thief,” said Telach, coming over. “Tommy vaulted over a wall and caught the guy as he was trying to go through the bag.”

“The ambassador’s daughter was unhurt?” asked Rubens.

“Yes.”

“But she was in danger.”

“Well, it was a purse snatching.”

“Get me the U.S. ambassador,”

“Not MI5?”

“Please, Marie.”

“With the time difference—” She stopped midsentence. “Yes, sir. Right away.”

“Fashona’s on final approach to Hokkaido!” said Rockman on the other side of the room. “‘They’re touching down in Hokkaido right now. She’s safe. Thank God.”

“I believe we can take some credit as well,” said Rubens drily. “Make sure the doctor meets the plane, as we discussed.”