Dark Zone

17

Denis LaFoote watched from the rented car as the Americans came out of the station, following the government man to a Ford parked up the street. LaFoote did not know for certain that the man belonged to the British intelligence service, but the tags on the car showed it was an official vehicle and that was a very logical guess. LaFoote started his own car and pulled into traffic behind them, following until they got onto M4, a major highway leading out of the city. At that point, LaFoote decided that he could no longer keep up without making it obvious that he was trailing them. He’d taken far too many chances already; his best bet now was to go back home and start from scratch.

His stand-in’s death had been a terrible shock. He’d feared he was being followed or watched, but he thought he had managed to throw them off. Hiring the man had been prudent, but LaFoote hadn’t thought it would be a matter of life and death.

How had they found him? What mistake had he made?

He’d used his friend Vefoures’ credit card to buy the tickets back and forth between Paris and London. That must have led them to him.

Or perhaps the phone? He had checked the line for a bugging device with his old methods — had they been superseded?

Of course. In twenty years — of course.

Still, it was the logical risk, the least amount of exposure. And now it seemed clear to him that it must be Ponclare.

He tried not to jump to conclusions. Ponclare was, clearly, in the best position to order the murder, but it might not be the intelligence chief.

It had been several years since LaFoote had been in England, and the seventy-two-year-old belatedly realized that he had gotten lost-he wanted to be on M25, the highway that formed a circle around the city; instead he’d somehow managed to get back onto M4 and misinterpreted a sign for Heathrow Airport as being for Gatwick Airport, which was near his hotel. He pulled off the road to consult a map; as he unfolded the paper a police car pulled off behind him.

LaFoote tried to see the man in his mirror as he approached. It might be a routine traffic stop, he thought — or perhaps it was another assassin. He had a small pistol in his belt beneath his coat, his old Mab PA-8. There was only a second to decide what to do.

Instinct told him to leave the gun hidden and roll down the window. He did so.

“Hello,” said the policeman.

“Bonjour,” said LaFoote. “How can I help you, sir?”

The policeman leaned down against the car. He smiled indulgently, then told LaFoote that he couldn’t park at the side of the road, especially in the direction he was facing — LaFoote had gone off on the right side of the road, which was in the opposite direction of the traffic. Or would have been, had there been any traffic.

“Oh, oui, oui,” said LaFoote. He explained that he was lost.

The policeman took the map from him and, after turning it around a few times, found where he was and showed him how to get back to the highway. “It’ll be easy from there. Don’t worry, old fella; my granddad gets lost all the time.”

LaFoote forced a smile to his face as he took the map back. Somehow he managed not to strike the officer as he pulled out, though the seventy-two-year-old Frenchman was sorely tempted.