Dark Zone

12

Dean stepped onto the long escalator at the foot of the tube station, relieved to be out of the tunnel. Something about the depth of the thing bothered him. He didn’t have a phobia and he didn’t feel as if the walls were crushing in — but he did feel uncomfortable. The London subways may have saved thousands during Nazi bombing in World War II, but the long trip downward made Dean feel like he was in a mausoleum.

“To the right, and smile,” said Karr, just behind him. “We’re on camera.”

Surveillance cameras were placed throughout the station. They were used first of all by the local police authorities to help cut down on crime, pickpockets especially. But they were also routinely used by the intelligence agencies; Waterloo was the British terminus of the Chunnel, and an access point to the Continent for “those of dubious purpose,” as the MI5 briefing paper Dean had seen put it. The cameras were not a secret, though there were a number that were rather inconspicuously placed and moved around every few months. Professional spies and terrorists could be assumed to make note of where the cameras were and avoid them as much as possible.

Which naturally led Karr to suggest they check all of the “shadows”—areas where the video cameras couldn’t quite reach. Guided by the Art Room, they walked through the shop area on the concourse outside the platforms to the commuter trains. They split up and took opposite sides of the terminal. Dean got the half on the right and found a spot near the escalator down to the Eurostar entrance where someone could linger without being seen. He worked out in his mind how a meet might go down—“Gordon Kensworth” would come in, having checked his message, be trailed along and then contacted as he passed the newspaper stand at the center.

Or perhaps he would have told Dean and Karr to call the hotel, check the voice-mail message, and they would be contacted.

Either way, someone would be watching. Unless they knew Kensworth had been killed.

There was a woman standing near the spot as Dean passed by, looking as if she were watching one of the schedule screens posted above the heads of the crowd but definitely checking the crowd carefully. Dean walked past, went into a nearby shop that sold coffee and snacks, then browsed in the flower shop across the way, checking surreptitiously to see if the woman was still there.

She was. She glanced at her watch, then leaned against the nearby rail, trying to look nonchalant.

“I think I have her,” he muttered.

“Funny, I think I have him,” said Karr.

Chafetz told them to watch their respective suspects. Neither changed position over the next few minutes.

“What do you think?” Karr asked Dean over the conferenced communications circuit at 8:10.

Dean took out his satellite phone — it looked like a regular cell phone, without the thick antenna usually associated with the devices — and used it as a cover to talk over the communications system. “I say we page Kensworth at eight-fifteen. See what happens.”

“We will,” said Chafetz. “Be ready.”

The woman Dean was watching looked to be about thirty. She had short hair and a slender build, though her shoulders seemed a little broader than he would have expected, which Dean interpreted as a sign that she worked out a lot — as Lia did.

He missed her.

He reached in his pocket for change and approached the newsstand. The announcement sounded as he did: “Passenger Gordon Kensworth, please pick up the beige phone. Gordon Kensworth.”

The woman started to move. Dean dropped a ten-pound note on the counter near the register — far too much for a copy of the Guardian—and followed her as she crossed toward the commuter platforms. He paused in front of the entrance, looking at the blue sign with the line information; as he did, the woman walked inside toward the tracks, turned right, and then walked along the platform.

Dean stepped out of the way as a group of commuters hurried through. He sidled right and saw that the woman was angling back toward the concourse. Dean spun around, nearly knocking over a pair of nuns as they tottered toward their train.

“You’re being followed,” said Karr cheerfully as Dean got back out into the terminal. “Maybe you got the right person after all.”

Dean continued along the side, watching for the woman. She came out at the far end of the platform and walked toward the street entrance. He pulled out his cell phone and pretended to dial a number.

“Want to hand off?” he asked Karr.

“Nah. Keep doing what you’re doing. The woman should stop ahead and ask you what’s up. Throw out the identifier we were supposed to use in the park.”

Dean had to quicken his pace as she neared the entranceway, but he still lost her by the time he reached the street.

“Left, left,” said Chafetz. “We can see you in the security camera network. Go left.”

As Dean started in her direction a flood of visitors just off one of the commuter trains came out onto the walk. He tried sliding through, but there were too many of them. By the time he made it past, the woman had disappeared. He continued past the bus stop, angry at himself for having blown such an easy assignment. As he turned the comer, two men stepped from the shadows so close to him that he barely saw them as they grabbed for him.

“Buckingham Palace,” was all Dean could get from his mouth as the men tried to grab him. They weren’t being gentle; as one launched a fist at him Dean ducked and started to fight back. He managed to push the closest one to the ground, then whirled to face the other, who made the mistake of swinging against him. Dean ducked and plowed into the puncher’s midsection, upending him like a bull tossing a matador. Someone jumped him from behind; caught off-balance, Dean struggled to shed him and finally managed to get him off him and to the ground. But as he staggered back a fourth thug emerged from around the corner.

“Tommy, where are you?” said Dean out loud.

“Just hold it,” said the man. He took a step forward — then flew to the sidewalk as Karr answered Dean’s question in person. One of the men who’d been on the ground threw himself at Karr and was sent flying into the wall headfirst. As another started to get up, Karr grabbed the back of his shirt and threw him clear across to the other curb.

There were sirens in the distance, and blue lights were flashing up the street.

“Police!” yelled one of the men on the ground.

“You have nerve yelling for the police,” said Dean.

“No, Charlie, they are the police,” said Karr, holding up an ID that had fallen in the fight.