Dark Zone

54

“Wake up. We have to go steal a computer from a library.”

Dean jerked out of bed with a start. Lia was standing over him, frowning.

“How the hell did you get into my room?” he asked her. “I had the dead bolt set.”

“Oh, Charlie. You’re so naive.”

Dean pulled his clothes on and went to the bathroom to shave. Just as he finished he heard a knock on the door; thinking it was Lia, he yelled to her to come in. A French voice answered, informing him it was room service with his coffee.

Suspicious, Dean took a towel and covered his pistol, opening the door for the man. He was, in fact, from room service, and he did have a large pot of coffee. Dean blanked on the cover name used for the reservation, so he scrawled a signature that could have been anything from John Doe to Napoleon on the receipt. He was on his second cup when Lia returned.

“I got a car. Come on, let’s go,” she said.

He grabbed the small knapsack that had met them at the airport as part of their mission equipment. Besides some maps, his handheld computer, and a sweater, the knapsack had a spare satellite phone.

“Where are we going?” Dean asked in the car.

“A library.”

“You said that.”

“Why’d you ask again?”

“You going to be like this for the rest of your life, or just the rest of the day?”

“Like what, Charlie Dean?”

Her habit of saying his whole name grated on him, but he didn’t give her the satisfaction of complaining about it, especially not now.

He wanted to talk to her, to really talk. He wanted to let her know…

What?

That he cared. That he loved her.

“Look,” he started. “I know you’re still…”

The words failed him. He wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted to say — or he did, but he couldn’t put it into words that sounded real. He wanted to hold her, protect her — he hadn’t done that, had he?

“I’m still what, Charlie Dean?”

“I love you,” he said.

But her frown only deepened.

The computer was located in a small library in a town on the eastern outskirts of Paris. Unfortunately, the Art Room had no way of narrowing down which of the two dozen computers the libraries owned; each one had to be checked. The process was simple — they could tell simply from the directory — but it would require trying each machine, including those that weren’t in the public areas.

Farlekas suggested that the Art Room sabotage the library’s network. Lia would then go in as a techie to fix it. But the library closed at 5:00, and by the time they got out to the town it was already 4:30. Dean and Lia decided it was very possible the librarians would decide dinner was more important than fixing the machines and put it all off for the morning. Besides, Dean’s lack of French meant he’d have to stay in the background, difficult to do if he was supposed to be a technician. So they decided they would go in, look the place over, then break in after it closed.

Lia dropped Dean off and parked the car two blocks away before doubling back. She walked in the door expecting to see Dean at one of the public access machines, hunting and pecking. But instead he was talking in English with the librarian.

And quite animatedly. The woman, in her early forties, gestured with her hand and led him toward the back offices.

“What the hell is he doing?” Lia muttered.

“Looking for information on a World War One Marine who stayed in the village after the war,” said Farlekas in her ear. “Good idea for a cover, huh? He says he got it from a book he’s been reading.”

Lia stifled her response and went over to the computers used for the library catalog, trying them one by one. Dean soon reappeared, listening to the woman as she told him he could find all of the information he wanted online. She led him to the computers and then offered a cup of coffee, which he accepted with a very mispronounced, “Merci.”

“Well, he’s got the dumb-American act down pat,” Lia said under her breath.

The machines used for searching the catalog had only thirty-gigabyte local hard drives. Lia drifted through the library, noticing a room at the side that had two computers but was empty. She was just about to go in and check them out when Farlekas announced, “He found it.”

“You’re kidding,” she said.

“If you’re going to talk to yourself,” said the Art Room supervisor, “better use French.”

The computers were at the edge of the open reading area, and Lia could watch Dean easily by pretending to look through the nearby stacks. He sat at a small desktop unit whose monitor was on top of the case; there was no hope of opening it unseen.

With the computer spotted, the next step was to check the security arrangements and plan for the break-in. Lia drifted to the side of the room, examining the large windows. A simple contact burglar alarm was wired to the sill; she slipped a knife from her pocket and slit the wire covering open, then used a small clip to short-circuit the connection and defeat the alarm. Then she took a small Phillips-head screwdriver from her pocket and removed the screws in the lock at the top of the window, which would give way now as soon as it was pushed open.

She had just finished when she heard a commotion coming from Dean’s direction. Lia went there and found him madly trying to stanch the flow of a full cup of coffee before it reached the computer case. The librarian who had helped him before was standing next to him, fretting.

“We need more towels,” he told the librarian in English. Then he turned to Lia and said, “Can you help me take up the monitor? There’s liquid in the case. It’ll get ruined. Please. I don’t want to harm this nice librarian’s machine.”

“Je ne comprends pas,” Lia said, looking at the librarian. “I understand not much.”

The librarian told her in French that she had spilled the coffee and was afraid the machine would explode and could she please help. The woman seemed on the verge of tears. Lia told her to get some towels and not to worry.

“Where’s the drive?” Dean asked as she picked up the monitor.

“In my bag.”

He reached in and grabbed the small hard drive, which was about half the size of a paperback book. The case had a hinge and was opened by pressing two detents at the side; Dean had only just gotten it open when the librarian returned. But he handled the whole thing smoothly, grabbing the towels from her and somehow managing to swirl more coffee around while seeming to wipe it up.

The hard drive sat in a cage at the front of the machine, held by four screws as well as its cables. Lia, still holding the monitor, tried to think of a long enough diversion that would let Dean swap the drives. Before she could, the phone at the front desk rang and the librarian dashed over to get it.

“Bit of a ditz,” Lia said. “Take the monitor.”

“Seemed pretty nice to me.”

“Right.”

Lia slid around and unscrewed the drive. She was sliding the new one in when the woman put down the phone and started toward them. Dean managed to swing around and block her view temporarily; Lia fussed over the computer but couldn’t quite get the wires back before the librarian returned.

“Saved,” Lia said in French, standing up with a pile of paper towels and holding them out toward the woman. “Where is the garbage?”

“Here, come with me,” said the librarian.

“You have to connect the cables,” Lia whispered to Dean.

“Cables?”

“So the drive works. They just plug right in. Get at least two screws in. Ask the Art Room if you need help. Go.”

Lia followed the woman to the ladies’ room. The librarian thanked her — then asked what she thought of the helpful American.

“Very… helpful,” said Lia. She tried to stall, but the librarian turned quickly to go back.

A bell began to ring.

“Closing,” said the librarian. “You have it back? Very good.”

“Closing,” said Dean, standing back. “I think we saved it. Maybe — is there a good place to eat?” he asked the librarian. “In town around here?”

The librarian frowned as if thinking, then named two or three restaurants. Dean asked if she could give him directions.

“I could take you there,” offered the librarian.

“Would you really?”

“Dean couldn’t get the power plug to go in before she came out,” Farlekas told Lia from the Art Room. “You’re going to have to get it working.”

Lia stifled a curse and told Dean in what seemed like rusty English that she hoped all Americans were like him.

“You’ll have to go back,” said Farlekas.

“Oui,” muttered Lia, heading toward the door.

“How’d she know I was American?” Dean asked the librarian as the woman shut down the rest of the machines and began locking up.