Dark Zone

72

Donohue trotted up the steps to the Eurostar check-in area at Gare du Nord, trying to move quickly without seeming to be too much in a hurry. Passengers had to check in before departure or risk not being cleared through passport control and security. His first-class ticket allowed him a little leeway but not all that much. The next train was not for another hour. By that time Ponclare’s assassination would be general knowledge, and the authorities would surely be at the station, watching.

A man and a woman had seen him get into a cab near the block when leaving the flat. Donohue had looked away quickly, but it seemed to him that the man had shot him an odd look. Had he heard the gun?

Had he recognized him?

Donohue thought the man looked familiar, but he couldn’t place him. Or rather, he could place him in a dozen different situations — the hit at the park in London, the assassination of the Italian colonel in Naples, the strike on the Russian intelligence agent who had stolen money from the Russian mafya.

A dozen faces jumbled together; surely it was just paranoia.

It was definitely time to retire.

But he had the money.

It was inconvenient that someone had seen him but not fatal; by the time the man made any sort of report that could be processed and acted upon, Donohue would be across the English Channel. He had nothing to do now but follow his carefully drawn plan — Eurostar to London Waterloo Station, tube to Paddington and then Heathrow, from there to any of three locations, tickets already secured. A friend from the IRA days would meet him with a fresh, clean passport at Heathrow, along with a bag. He had nothing to do but follow the plan.

A red sign over the check-in area declared that passports must be ready for inspection. Donohue reached for his — it was a phony one, of course — and slipped out his ticket at the same time. The woman at the check-in gate smiled pleasantly and examined the ticket briefly before waving him on to the Frenchman at the passport desk a few feet away. The customs official squinted at his passport and passed him to the Brits behind him.

“And why are you going to England?” asked the officer.

“Live there, mate,” said Donohue.

“Yes, of course,” said the man, nodding and handing him back the passport.