Dark Zone

78

“What do you mean, you lost him?”

“We’re not omniscient, Charlie,” sputtered Telach.

“How could you lose him?” Dean was standing in the far waiting room at the Gare du Nord Eurostar station, usually reserved for passengers in the forward cars. The train was boarding and the place was empty.

“The cameras don’t catch most of the waiting areas. Look in the men’s room. That’s the only place he could have gone.” Telach’s voice, normally understated, seemed strained and high-pitched.

“I just looked,” said Dean, but he went in again. He glanced at the sinks and then opened each of the stalls. All were empty. He looked up at the ceiling. The vents were too small for anyone to get through.

The loudspeaker announced that the train to London was now in its final boarding. Dean hurried out, kicking one of the boxes placed on the floor for trash — security protocol here did not allow containers where a bomb might, be hidden.

“Where?” he asked Telach.

“We’re looking.”

He turned right, heading toward the exit down to the tracks. There were refreshment counters, small stores like those found in American shopping malls, on either side of the short hallway.

“Did you see a tall man?” he asked one of the women at the register on the right. “He had a gray windbreaker. He might have gone in the back.”

The woman answered in indecipherable French. Dean didn’t wait to hear the translation from the Art Room — he leaned over the side, getting a good view of the back. There were no back entrances; even supplies came through the small opening at the side.

The snack counter on the other side was even smaller, with no place for anyone to hide.

Dean continued to the boarding entrance. There were two officials there, just closing the door.

“Wait,” he said. “S’il vous plait.”

“Charlie, where are you going?” asked Rockman. “Lia will take the train. You stay in the station.”

Dean walked through the door and across to what looked like an escalator down to the train. It turned out to be a moving ramp and it took a moment for him to get his bearings.

“Mr. Dean, where are you going?” said Telach.

“I’m not letting Lia go alone. He’s not here.”

“She’ll be all right.”

That’s what you said about Korea, he thought, but he said nothing, continuing toward the train.

Lia sat in car eleven, a first-class car near the middle of the eighteen-coach train. The Eurostar seemed less than half-full, if that. There were only three other passengers in the car — an elderly woman two seats away and a pair of twenty-something lovers who’d been whispering in German when Lia came in.

She hadn’t seen anyone with a gray jacket on the platform, and she’d made sure she was one of the first passengers down and one of the last in. Probably he’d taken off his coat; the Art Room had downloaded a blurry picture of the suspect that she could use to check out the passengers more thoroughly once the train started. She would also put the camera attachment on the satellite phone to beam images back to the Art Room, so the computers could go over the faces as well.

They had two tentative names — Patrick McCormack and Horace Clark. The name was bound to be an alias, assuming the Art Room had matched it to the right passenger. But they were checking the names against various watch lists anyway.

The doors closed; the train began to lurch forward — and Dean appeared around the corner of the car.

“This isn’t your car,” Lia said as he sat down across from her. The first-class seats faced each other across a table, two spots on the right side of the coach and singles on the other.

“Why? Somebody sitting here?” Dean pushed back in the seat, spreading his arms across the back and taking it over. He had that sort of air about him, as if he owned everything he touched.

“Telach wanted you to stay in the station,” Lia told him.

“That would have been dumb. If he got out, they would have seen him. He must have put on a disguise somewhere. Besides, I couldn’t have gotten out of the waiting area without blowing my cover. Which I’m not supposed to do. Right?”

“Maybe there’s an exit from the waiting area the Art Room doesn’t know about,” said Lia. “Rockman thinks every schematic he looks at is accurate just because he got it off a computer. I can’t tell you how many doors I’ve gone through that the Art Room said didn’t exist.”

“If our John Doe got out, then he’s long gone,” said Dean.

A pair of French border policemen walked through the car toward the back.

“Do they always put policemen on the train?” Dean asked.

“Are you talking to me or the Art Room?”

“You. Marie said they’re busy back there.”

“They’re always busy,” Lia said. “Especially when you need them.”

Lia realized how bitter her words sounded — and that the Art Room would inevitably have heard them, since her communications system was on. But the words were out and she couldn’t take them back.

She had every right to be bitter — they’d let her down when she needed them the most.

No, they hadn’t let her down. They hadn’t been able to help, not immediately. They hadn’t abandoned her — they’d sent the Russians, made phone calls, got Fashona in place. Rubens would have sent the Marines if he needed to.

It wasn’t the Art Room’s fault or Rubens’, or hers or anyone’s. It was the nature of the job. All this high-tech garbage didn’t save you from being alone, truly alone, when the volcano erupted.

You were always alone. Always.

Dean reached his hand across the small table toward hers. Lia pulled back.

“You going to be angry for the rest of your life?” asked Dean.

How do I answer that? she wondered. Be sarcastic? “If I’m lucky.” Be poignant? “Maybe.” Be truthful? “I have no idea.”

She pulled out the phone and put the camera attachment on it. “I’m going to take a walk. Rockman, stand by to download live video of our companions on the train.”