Dark Zone

15

Sometime during college, Alroy Clancy had found he could get by on four or five hours of sleep a night. The ability had come in handy at law school and then during his days as a plebe in a corporate law office; by the time he put law on the back burner to concentrate on real estate development at twenty-eight it seemed incomprehensible that anyone could sleep for longer than six hours.

It still seemed that way. The American ambassador to Great Britain did not have a “usual routine,” but midnight nearly always found him in his study catching up on international news. He generally worked until about 2:00 a.m., rising again at 6:00. One of the very few benefits of being a widower was not having to worry about disturbing his wife when he came to bed or rose.

Clancy began reading some of the mainstream press stories analyzing the President’s upcoming trip to Europe. As usual, the media had half the facts wrong and a tenth of the analysis right. The New York Times editorial writers were particularly perverse, claiming that France’s recent trend toward a greater alliance with Washington had made the world a more dangerous place. As he shook his head and flipped the page, his phone rang. At this hour, it was likely to be America, and so he picked up immediately.

“Mr. Rubens of the National Security Agency on the line for you, sir,” said the night operator. Clancy insisted on a live person answering his phone; the only time someone dialing the embassy got a machine was from 2:00 to 6:00 a.m.

Clancy punched the flashing light on the console next to his desk. “Mr. Rubens, good evening,” he said.

He expected that Rubens would be apologizing for the trouble earlier or at least calling to give him a heads-up on what had happened. But instead, the number two man at the secretive spy agency told him he needed a favor.

“I have a bit of a difficult situation. Two of my men have been taken into custody by the London constabulary,” said Rubens.

“With the police? Your department seems to do that a lot. We just bailed out some of your men.”

“It happens that these are the same ones. I’m afraid I can’t go into the details of the situation, but I need them removed from custody expeditiously.”

Clancy didn’t know Rubens very well, but he had a reputation of being something of a prig and a snob. His tone now confirmed that — he made it sound as if Clancy worked for him.

“What details can you go into?” said Clancy, consciously putting a sharp edge on his voice.

Rubens explained that the men were following up a lead from the earlier incident and apparently blundered into a sting by the police.

“What I need is a pretext for them to have been in Waterloo Station that has nothing to do with their actual mission,” said Rubens. “One that would avoid presenting details and yet be very persuasive. The incident involving your daughter earlier suggested an idea to me. Since it’s known that they have a connection to the embassy, then we might say that they were watching for her, perhaps going to make a reservation with Eurostar or check—”

“My daughter? What does my daughter have to do with this!” Clancy didn’t have to force any edge into his voice now — no one took advantage of his daughter.

“She has nothing to do with this,” said Rubens, his tone still haughty. “However, if my people were to say that they were watching the station prior to her expected arrival there — even if that arrival didn’t occur — that might just be enough to satisfy all concerned. A simple phone call to you verifying the fact, and the entire matter would be dismissed with nothing more than a few hard feelings.”

“My daughter Deidre is not to be involved in any of your department’s operations.”

“Of course not. That isn’t what I’m suggesting,” said Rubens. “I’m saying that if my men were to say that they were merely following up on the earlier incident involving your daughter, a pretext might be found that would satisfy everyone.”

“How does lying to the British government cover all concerns?” Clancy slammed down the phone. He got up and walked over to the antique table at the side of the office, where a decanter of bourbon sat behind a small row of glasses. He took three small ice cubes from the bucket and then poured about a finger’s worth of bourbon into a glass. After a birdlike sip, Clancy turned around to see that his daughter had entered the room and was standing across from him near the doorway.

“Deidre? I thought you went to bed.”

“I thought I’d hunt you down for one of our conferences,” she said. “What were you yelling about?”

“Nothing.”

“I heard my name taken in vain.”

“Oh, that was nothing.”

She was dressed in sweats, her generation’s version of a long flannel gown and eminently more practical.

She’d grown to look very much like her mother, he thought; a bittersweet blessing.

“Well, come in,” he told her. “Sit down and let’s hear about the job at the Musée Rodin.”

“It’s not a job; it’s a fellowship.”

She closed the door and came over. He pulled over one of the chairs for her, then got another so he could face her without the desk between them. They used to have these 1:00 a.m. talks all the time when she was in high school and home from undergraduate school. They called them conferences, and the sessions could last until daybreak. While more than a few had been difficult and even, for him at least, a bit frightening, he missed them greatly.

“Was there a problem about the purse snatching?” she asked.

“Oh no, don’t worry about that.”

She frowned, and Clancy wondered if he seemed too dismissive.

“Tell me what happened again,” he said, sipping his drink. “The guy grabbed the purse and ran?”

She recounted the story. The two men who came to her aid — Rubens’ men — had sprung from nowhere and saved her life, as she put it.

“You shouldn’t be traveling alone,” said Clancy when she finished. “There’s just been an advisory about families traveling. This could have been a terrorist attack.”

“I’m fine.”

“I know you’re fine. It’s not you,” he said quickly, “it’s more me, my job. The ambassador is a target. You really should have an escort. Especially when you go back to Paris tomorrow. London is bad enough. But Paris?”

“I thought we were going to talk about the museum and the fellowship.”

“We can. We will. I just don’t want you to take any risks.”

“I won’t.”

“I can get someone from the embassy to travel back to Paris with you. What do you think?”

“Why?”

“Because there’s an alert out about travel.”

“I’m sure that’s to places like Africa or Egypt, not Paris.”

“France was specifically mentioned,” said Clancy. “We can find a nice young woman. She’ll blend in. She’ll be your friend.”

“Every time someone hears something in a bar, the entire State Department starts acting like nervous hens.”

“That’s an exaggeration.” He tried turning it into a joke. “We’re skittish roosters at least, aren’t we?”

She rolled her eyes with an exaggerated smile.

Just like her mom.

“Someone to go back to Paris. Just on the plane,” he said.

“What if I take the Chunnel?”

“You really want to take a train?” Once he was in overprotective mode, Clancy couldn’t help himself. “Trains can break down.”

“Planes can’t?”

“The Chunnel then.”

“I’ll tell you what — make it the hunk who recovered my pocketbook and I’ll consider it,” she said.

Clancy was not yet comfortable with even mild sexual innuendo from his daughter — would he ever be? — but he pretended to be and managed to ignore it. “What about one of the Marines?”

“They’re too… Mariney.”

“Mariney?”

“You know what I mean.”

“One of our own security people. A young man?”

“The hunk who grabbed my pocketbook. I never thanked him properly.”

“Fine. Consider it done. Now tell me about the museum. Rodin. Why sculpture? Why not painting?”