Dark Zone

76

Mussa felt the sweat pouring from his brow as he finished putting the last cart in place. The perspiration was not from fear; the carts were difficult to maneuver in the confined space at the back of the last first-class coach. He took two real carts and lined them up in front.

This was not what he had planned. He was supposed to be a passenger, sipping complimentary champagne, toasting the death of Ponclare and his father’s ultimate revenge.

Mussa had posted a set of Ponclare’s bank account documents to the Interior Ministry, along with additional information that would make it appear he had hired Vefoures and had LaFoote killed. A small amount of the explosive had been deposited in a warehouse that the police should have no difficulty finding. Ponclare would appear to have been a traitor, profiting by selling explosives to terrorists; the police should have no trouble linking him to the operation at the Eiffel Tower.

And, of course, he would be dead.

Since determining what had happened to his father three years before, Mussa had considered killing the Frenchman himself. Twice Mussa had actually constructed a plan. But simply killing Ponclare had not seemed satisfying enough. Even now, to be honest, he felt cheated — it was Ponclare’s father he truly wished to have revenge on. Killing the son lacked the thrill.

Especially now, sweating like a dog.

Shaming Ponclare would make up for that, somewhat. For if the son was a traitor to France, what did that say about the father?

By extension, Mussa’s father would get the recognition he deserved. He was nearly forgotten now, but as stories of Mussa’s triumph circulated, a few old-timers would resurrect his father’s memory. The family would gain great honor. Exactly as they deserved.

And Mussa would join him in Paradise, basking in the glory of God.

“What are you doing?” barked a voice behind him.

Mussa turned. The train’s master — the person in charge of the serving crew, in this case a woman — stood before him.

“The new man,” he said, bowing his head slightly.

Ahmed rushed up behind her. “Have you finished what I told you?” she demanded.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“He’s the substitute I told you about,” Ahmed told the woman.

“I was told to report,” said Mussa.

“By who?”

“Stephens, the Englishman,” said Ahmed quickly.

“Where is your card?” asked the train master, referring to Mussa’s railroad identity card. It was carried, not displayed on the uniform. Mussa did not have one.

“In my jacket,” he said.

“Well, get it. Quickly,” said the woman.

He nodded but did not move.

“Well?”

He pointed toward the next car.

“Be quick. We have to board passengers,” said the woman. “If we are late we will hear about it.”

She turned and walked out the nearby door, where passengers’ tickets were being checked to make sure they got the right seats.

“Give me your card,” he told Ahmed.

“My picture is on it,” said Ahmed.

“Don’t worry,” said Mussa. “Give it to me.”

Ahmed reached into his pocket and retrieved the card. The expression on his face made it clear that he thought Mussa was crazy. But the trick was an old one that never failed: he placed his thumb over Ahmed’s picture, then waited at the door for the right moment.

On the platform, the train master was just helping an old woman with her ticket and carry-on luggage when Mussa made his appearance.

“Here,” he said, flashing the card in his hand. As he went to give it to the train master, he saw that the old woman was struggling with her bag. “Oh, ma’am, please, let me help you,” he said, swooping in and grabbing the suitcase from her hand as if she were about to drop it.

“Seat twenty-four B,” the train master told Mussa, her tone slightly less severe. “Help our passenger get situated.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Mussa, sliding the identity card back into his pocket.