Dark Zone

16

Dean repeated the story for the two British policemen. As he had each time, the detective in shirtsleeves took notes, recording nearly every word Dean said.

The other man stifled a yawn.

“We went to the train station because we were going to go to the London Eye,” said Dean. “I got turned around, and I went outside to figure out where I was. I thought someone was following me, and I was right. When I turned the corner, I was jumped from the side. I started defending myself. I nearly got clobbered.”

“All right then,” said the man who’d looked bored. He got up. “I’m going to go get a bit of tea. George?”

The detective in shirtsleeves shook his head.

“And you?”

“I’d take coffee,” said Dean.

As soon as his partner was out of the room, the detective asked Dean if he had any other detail he might want to add.

“Not at all.”

“You really do want to cooperate, chap.”

“I don’t know what I’m to cooperate about.”

“Don’t you, though?”

Dean stared at him; the policeman stared back. When the door opened, Dean looked up. Instead of the other detective, it was Chief Inspector Lang — the man who had been involved in the murder investigation.

The man in shirtsleeves jumped up. “Chief Inspector.”

Lang grunted and sat down. He had an overcoat on — and still smelled of cigarettes.

“What happened?” asked Lang.

Dean repeated the story.

“And the friend that you just happened to meet went to the station with you?” said Dean.

“We both wanted to go on the London Eye.”

“That’s across the street and down the block away,” said Lang.

“I didn’t know that at the time.”

“Come now. Who do you work for?” he asked. “The CIA, yes? Or are you FBI?”

Charlie gave an exaggerated sigh and looked toward the other detective. “You should call the number on the card I gave you. We make gauges for home boilers. You probably have one yourself.”

“Have you seen the inside of our prisons?” asked the man.

“Are you threatening me?”

“Come on now,” said Lang. “No need for any of this. Are you CIA or not?”

“Do I look like I’m CIA?”

“You do realize this is a murder investigation?”

“I didn’t murder anyone.”

“You came close,” said the other detective.

Lang frowned. He shook his head at the man. “Why don’t you take a break?”

“Maybe I will.” He got up and went out.

“I would appreciate your cooperation,” Lang told Dean.

“I am cooperating.”

Lang drummed his fingers on the table. “We have an MI5 agent on his way over,” said the chief inspector, rising. “We’ll leave it to him.”

Dean leaned back against the chair after the detective left. He was the one who should be yawning. He hadn’t slept now for nearly two days.

Was the reference to MI5 a bluff?

There seemed too much disgust in the policeman’s voice for that. And besides, guessing that they were spies wasn’t exactly going out on a limb.

“Lang, let’s make a deal,” Dean said aloud. “Let’s talk.”

“No, Charlie, no,” said Rockman from the Art Room.

“Come on. Let’s talk before your spymasters get here,” said Dean.

The door opened a moment later. Lang practically sprinted into the room with the other two inspectors trailing along.

“MI5 is not our master,” said Lang.

“Before we talk,” Dean said, “my partner comes in.”

“We can’t do that,” said one of the other detectives.

“Sure you can.”

“What if we did do that?” said Lang. “Then what?”

“We’ll decide when I see him. You have nothing to lose, right?” added Dean. “As soon as MI5 comes I leave anyway.”

Lang frowned.

“Look, I know the police were embarrassed because four of them couldn’t beat up an over-the-hill Yankee tourist,” he added, “but you have a murder case you’re trying to solve, and holding me isn’t going to help you do that.”

“Bring the other American in,” Lang told the others.

In the Art Room, Rockman leaned against his computer screen, practically yelping to Rubens.

“Dean wants to cut a deal with them,” he said. “I tried to stop him.”

“Yes. I heard,” said Rubens. “As usual, Mr. Dean is a step ahead of us in assessing the situation. He’s made the proper decision here. Don’t interfere.”

Rockman shook his head reluctantly, but Rubens saw what Dean was doing — trying to draw information out of the policeman, who would no longer be available, much less cooperate, once MI5 arrived.

Which would be any moment now.

Rubens reached to his belt for the remote control device for the communications system.

“Charles, this is Rubens. Can you talk?”

“Uh,” replied Dean, more coughing than talking.

“That’s fine. You’ve made the right decision, but be careful.”

Dean snorted.

“Yes, I realize I’m stating the obvious,” Rubens continued. “Nonetheless, they could hold you in connection with the murder, or simply charge you with assault. I daresay you would find either inconvenient, as would I.”

“Well, howdy-hey,” said Karr as he walked into the room. Dean was sitting there, arms folded across his chest. And here was bad news — Lang, the chief inspector from the park murder case, was sitting at the table with the other two policemen. “So what’s going on?”

“Charlie is going to blow your covers,” said Rockman in his ear. Karr thought it would have been nice for the runner to have told him this in a place where his reaction wouldn’t be as conspicuous, like the interrogation room he’d just been sitting in all alone.

“They know we’re spooks,” said Dean.

“I do feel pretty spooky.” Karr sat down, trying to work out what to say.

“I know you both work for the CIA,” said Lang.

“Come on. Do I look like I work for the CIA?” said Karr. “I can chew gum and walk at the same time, right?”

“They’re sending somebody over from MI5 to talk to us,” said Dean.

“I get these confused,” said Karr, still trying to psyche out what Dean was up to. “MI5 is internal intelligence and MI6 external? Or is that backward?”

One of the younger detectives told him that MI5 was “tasked with internal security in the British Isles.” He summarized their duties, sounding more than a little as if he had memorized a recruiting video.

“Sounds pretty good,” said Karr. “Can we join?”

“I believe it is open only to British subjects,” said the man.

“We really don’t have time for fun and games,” said Lang. “Who do you work for?”

“Let’s just say the American government and leave it at that,” said Dean.

“Why were you there?” asked Lang.

Karr looked at Dean, unsure exactly how the older man intended to play it.

“Question for you first,” said Dean. “How’d you know to go there?”

“It was an anticrime task force,” said the detective in shirtsleeves.

Karr laughed. Dean played it cool — very cool, thought Karr, watching. He stared at Lang, letting him know it was a test.

Points, Charlie, thought Karr.

“Old-fashioned police work,” said Lang. He smiled depreciatingly, then took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and began turning it over in his hand. “Luck. The woman in the park who was nearby when it happened thought she recognized him from her hotel. It’s a high-class place and his clothes were less than the standard. He was also British, and didn’t quite fit with the Asians and Americans who generally stayed there. We weren’t sure, but we checked and found his room.”

Dean nodded.

“And how did you know?”

“Same way we knew to meet him in the park,” said Dean. “This was a backup meeting place, so we thought we’d see if an assistant or someone would be there. I saw the girl, thought maybe she was his backup, and followed her.”

“That girl is a policewoman,” said the detective in shirtsleeves indignantly.

“When did you set it up?” asked Lang.

“We didn’t,” said Dean. “It was set up for us. We’re just messengers. We go to a place; then we go.”

“What were you supposed to get from Kensworth?”

“Haven’t a clue.”

“Why did you think she was meeting him?”

“It was pretty obvious she was looking for someone. I was right — I just didn’t realize she was working for you. Or Scotland Yard, or however you diwy that up.”

Good gambit, Karr thought to himself — Dean had made what seemed an offhanded comment as an opening for the police officer to talk about his operation, subtly turning the tables. Lang volleyed back by ignoring the question.

“Why were you meeting him?” asked Lang again.

“Haven’t a clue. That’s the way it works.”

“And how did you know to go to the station?”

“How we know everything,” said Dean. “I just told you.”

“You didn’t go into his room? Say, a little before eight?”

“We know that room was opened,” blurted the younger policeman.

Dean started to shake his head. Karr touched his arm. “We’d better come clean if we’re coming clean,” he said. “We were there. For about two seconds. We heard the message and then we went.”

Lang nodded.

“Now it’s our turn,” said Dean. “Who’s the dead man?”

“Gordon Kensworth.”

“Is that his real name?”

“Wouldn’t it be?” asked Lang.

“Were you watching the room?” asked Dean.

“We had only enough men to watch one place,” said Lang. “The station seemed more important.”

“The MI5 agent is Chris Wolten,” said Rockman. “You’ve met him before. He’s on his way upstairs.”

“Is this an MI5 case or your case?” asked Dean.

“The murder is our case,” said Lang.

“When did Kensworth rent the room?”

Dean had a solid technique, Karr decided — he asked questions he knew the answers to, both so he could validate what Lang said and so he would appear to know a little less than he actually did.

“He checked in yesterday.”

“When did he get to London?” Dean asked. “Do you know?”

The inspector hesitated but then said the day before yesterday. In the morning he’d taken the Eurostar — the high-speed train that crossed beneath the English Channel via the Chunnel.

“Where was he before that?” asked Dean.

“We don’t know. We don’t know what his real name is yet. From what the hotel people tell us, he was English.”

“Ask if he’s in their identity database,” said Rubens over the communications set.

“Is he in your identity database?” said Dean.

“No. He’s not a criminal. And we haven’t been told that he’s a terrorist or a spy.”

“Are you sure he’s not one of yours?” said Dean. “Not an agent for MI5 or whatever?”

“I don’t believe he’s in Her Majesty’s Service,” said Lang drily.

“Whose service is he in?” asked Karr.

“You are the ones who were dealing with him,” replied the detective inspector. “Don’t you know?”

There was a sharp rap on the door. Chris Wolten entered.

“My God, it’s not Kjartan Magnor-Karr, is it? The smartest man in the CIA?” said Wolten.

“I’m not that smart,” said Karr cheerfully. “It’s just my IQ.”

He appreciated the fact that Wolten assumed he was with the CIA rather than the NSA, and didn’t correct him.

“He beat a civil servant to a pulp,” said one of the junior policemen.

“Really, Tommy?”

“I have a pretty bad temper. Especially when my buddy’s been jumped on by four guys.”

Wolten turned to Dean. “And you are whom?”

Dean hesitated — a play for the chief inspector, Karr thought, sharing his disdain for the intelligence dandies. Nice touch.

“Charlie Dean,” said Karr. “My good buddy. Chris Wolten here is a liaison between, uh, different government interests.”

“Yes, I am a liaison,” said Wolten. “Chief Inspector?”

“I suppose you can have them,” said Lang.

“Have they told you anything?” Wolten asked Lang.

“Nothing of interest.”

“Oh, anything they say is of interest, Inspector. Come along, gentlemen.”

“Chief Inspector,” said Lang.

Rubens realized that the tiny bits of new information Dean had extracted — Gordon Knowlton had come to Britain from France via the Chunnel; someone else had snuck into his room not long before or after Dean and Karr — were like seeds. Some might sprout; some might not. As Karr bantered with the man from MI5 on the way out of the building, Rubens punched his communications line to connect with Johnny Bibleria’s phone and get his team of analysts and researchers to work on the new information.

Johnny Bib replied in his usually bizarre way, commenting on the number of tubes and length of the Chunnel train tunnel beneath the Channel—3 and 31, respectively. These were prime numbers and to Johnny, who was by training a mathematician, they had significance bordering on the mystic. Calling Johnny Bib an eccentric was like saying that Einstein had written something about the speed of light, but Rubens was willing to put up with Johnny Bib’s nonsense because he was a true genius when it came to providing the obscure insight necessary for truly important intelligence work. The NSA had amassed history’s greatest collection of genius cryptographers and code breakers. It had mustered experts who could look at a pattern of telemetry and know what sort of system they were looking at without actually bothering to “read” the details of the transmission. The agency even had savants who could tease significance from seemingly random changes of electrical current. And then there was Johnny Bib, who could not only do all of that but also suggest where the key that tied it all together would be found.

Why?

It would be easier to figure out what Mona Lisa was smiling about. Rubens knew only that the cryptographers and others who worked with Bib worshiped him as a god — a rare honor for a mathematician.

But dealing with Johnny Bib was never easy.

“I don’t like it,” Johnny told him.

“Like what?” asked Rubens.

“The tunnel is one hundred fifty feet below the seabed,” said Johnny Bib. “Not a friendly number.”

“Please pass the information along to your team and see if it helps,” Rubens told him.

“Yes. Have you given any thought to that other matter we were discussing?”

“Which matter?”

“Complex Fibonacci function,” said Johnny Bib.

It was a classic math problem involving a progression of numbers — and a problem that, as far as Rubens knew, could not be solved. Johnny Bib had brought up a conjecture about a possible solution some months ago. To get him out of his office, Rubens had agreed to think about it.

“I haven’t had time to consider it, unfortunately,” he said.

“I really think that we’re on the right trail.”

“Perhaps. Concentrate for now on Eurostar. See if you can work backward from that somehow with this Kensworth. Passenger lists, maybe some connection or something. You know the routine.”

“All right,” said Johnny Bib, clearly dejected.

Rubens started to click off, then had an inspiration. “The train schedules probably work like a Fibonacci series.”

“How so?” asked Johnny Bib, his voice perking up.

“You don’t see it?”

Johnny Bib thought for a moment. “Connections in the series?”

“Precisely,” Rubens told him. “But that’s just the start.”

“Yes. Yes, of course it is.” Johnny’s mind was already racing; he sounded short of breath.

Fibonacci had begun his inquiry into number series by wondering how many rabbits could breed in a year; the answer was found in an interesting series where each new number was the sum of the previous two: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, and so on. What that had to do with the fact that the dead man had come to England from France Rubens couldn’t imagine, but if that was what Johnny Bib needed to start his inquiry, he was more than willing to go along.

“Let me know what develops,” said Rubens.

“Ambassador Clancy is holding for you,” Telach told him.

“Clancy?”

“I think he wants to apologize.”

“Too late,” said Rubens. But he made the connection anyway.

“I can do that favor for you,” said Clancy. “I have a condition, though. I want to arrange an escort for my daughter. She has to travel to Paris tomorrow. There’s been a fresh alert put out and I’m concerned. As her father. I realize it’s a lot to ask.”

How convenient, thought Rubens, especially since he was probably going to have to send one of his team to France anyway; now they had the prefect cover.

Well, not perfect but certainly usable. And perhaps Clancy would be more cooperative in the future if the need arose.

“Mr. Dean should be available,” said Rubens.

“Not Dean. The young man. Tommy something or other. He looked like a football player.”

“Tommy Karr?”

“Yes. I think that was his name.”

“It’s too late to help with the police,” Rubens told the ambassador. “But we may be able to arrange for Mr. Karr to escort your daughter. It may take a little time for me to set up, however.”

“How much time?”

“It should be in place by morning.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Yes,” said Rubens, killing the connection.