Dark Zone

22

Deidre Clancy had begun to feel foolish the moment her father said he had succeeded in getting “Mr. Karr” as her escort back to Paris. She’d mentioned him as a joke — completely and totally and utterly a joke — but her father tended to be literal minded, and once he set his course it was impossible to get him to deviate.

Which didn’t mean that she didn’t want to see the handsome man who’d retrieved her purse, just that she wanted to see him under some circumstance other than as her minder.

Now she bristled as she waited for him in the car, torn in all different directions. They had tickets on the Eurostar and had been instructed to show up an hour before departure. They were running very late; depending on traffic they might not make the train at all. Deidre hated to be late; it was a trait she shared with her father.

Finally Karr materialized, strolling from the doorway with a casual air, a backpack over his shoulder. He turned back and yelled something to one of the people inside, waved, and laughed. The driver held the rear door for him; Karr bowed his head as if it were all a joke and slid in.

“Hey there,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“We’re running a little late,” she said.

“You don’t think they’ll hold the train for you?”

Clearly he thought she was a spoiled brat — or even worse. As the car wended its way through traffic, Deidre watched out the window, annoyed at the entire situation. Meanwhile, Karr leaned back in his seat and seemed to doze. Then about halfway to the station he sprang to life as they bogged down in traffic.

“OK, let’s go,” he said, opening the door.

“What?” she asked.

“Pop the trunk.”

Before she or the driver could say anything else, Karr had jumped from the car and was at the trunk. He grabbed her bag as it sprang open, then swung around to her side. She got out.

“This way, quick,” he said.

She headed toward the curb, hesitating as she reached it because she’d forgotten to close her door.

“Come on, let’s go,” said Karr, looming over her. He gave her a gentle push and she started running, unsure what was going on.

“Left,” he told her, walking behind at a pace that wasn’t quite a trot. “Into the tube.”

She stepped to the side at the doorway. He slid a ticket into her hand as he passed, walking quickly through the gate and then onto the escalators. He kept up the same brisk pace and they arrived on the platform just as a train was pulling in. They hopped in.

“Two stops,” he said.

“Are we being followed?” she asked.

He didn’t answer. The train was crowded; they had to stand near the door. Deidre squeezed toward him as the train stopped to take on more passengers. She reached toward her carry-on bag, but he shook his head.

It wasn’t until the train stopped that she realized that they were at Paddington train station. He was out of the car so quickly that she had trouble keeping up; not until they made it upstairs did she point out that the Eurostar train for Paris left from Waterloo.

“Really?” Karr grinned and didn’t stop walking.

“We’re going to the airport?” she said when she saw the sign for the shuttle over to Heathrow.

“Very possibly,” said Karr. “But we’ll have to see how it plays.”

They made the shuttle just as the doors were closing. Karr produced two tickets for the conductor.

“Are we being followed?” Deidre asked finally.

“Not that I know of.”

“Why are we going by airplane instead of taking the train?”

“I like to fly,” said Karr.

“I don’t like this.”

“Which?”

“I don’t like being kept in the dark like this. What’s up? Why are we changing plans?”

“For one thing, you bought the ticket in your own name, and you did it a few weeks back,” said Karr. “So anyone interested in you had plenty of time to figure out where you’d be.”

“I thought you said I wasn’t being followed.”

“You’re not,” he told her. “But I am.”

LaFoote had nearly lost the American agent at the embassy; he’d had to circle on the bicycle at a distance until the car finally left. Luckily, he’d guessed not only that the man would be in the car but also that at some point he would abandon the vehicle, for either a second one or the tube. The retired French agent had spent nearly fifty pounds on the secondhand bicycle and felt a twinge of regret as he tossed it to the side before entering the tube station. But at least he’d made the train, getting in a car behind the American and the girl.

Given that some sort of mistake he had made had allowed his meeting to be compromised, LaFoote felt vindicated that he had at least managed to guess correctly that the government agent would return to the U.S. embassy. He hadn’t managed to get onto the shuttle for the airport. He considered hiring a car but decided instead to fall back on a second plan — he’d go to London Airport instead, where he knew he could catch a flight to Paris. He might not beat the Americans — there were three flights over that they could take before he’d land — but he had a friend who worked for Air France who could watch the terminal for him. LaFoote called her from London and described the pair to her.

“Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers,” said his friend, who like LaFoote had worked as a spy some decades before.

“If Fred Astaire had blond hair and was over two meters tall, yes,” LaFoote told her.

“I think you’re getting paranoid,” said the runner in Karr’s ear when he finally made it to the restroom at the back of the airbus en route to Paris.

“Paranoia is healthy,” Karr told him. “It’s an old guy. He was on a bike.”

“I really think you’re hallucinating,” said Johnson.

“Could be. You have my rentals ready?”

“I scrounged up two stiffs from the embassy in Paris,” said Johnson. Stiffs was Johnson’s favorite term for CIA officers; Johnson had worked at the CIA and was not particularly fond of his experience there.

“Good. Talk to you then.”

Out in the cabin, the pilot was flashing the Buckle Up sign and preparing to descend.

“Did I miss anything good?” Karr asked Deidre as he sat down.

“Two little green men flew by the wing in their flying saucer.”

“See? Now you’re getting the hang of it,” said Karr. “Sarcasm can be a very handy quality.”

“So why would someone follow you?” asked Deidre.

“They want my secret to a long life,” Karr told her. She seemed to be warming up a bit; maybe she wasn’t the stuck-up rich kid he’d taken her for. “I’m actually over two hundred years old, you know. I fool a lot of people.”

“Do you always turn everything into a corny joke?”

“Only when I’m awake. Although some people say I talk in my sleep, too.”

“We’re watching the gate for you,” said Johnson after the plane landed and rolled toward the gate. The Art Room had infiltrated the security system at the airport and was monitoring the video cameras. “So far you look clean.”

“Uh-huh,” murmured Karr.

“What?” asked Deidre.

“Talking to myself. You’ll find I do that a lot.”

“Do you answer back?”

“Oh yeah. That’s what keeps it interesting.”

Karr spotted one of the CIA people drifting beyond passport control, but if anyone else was looking for him they were being extremely subtle. Karr led Deidre toward the queue for one of the shuttle buses into the city, then turned and went over to the taxi line, staying there for about five minutes — long enough, he figured, for the Art Room and the CIA officers to pick out anyone following him. Then he got Deidre and tugged her toward the rental car counter, where the Art Room had already reserved a car for Mr. Greene of London. Karr flashed the proper credit card, paused to negotiate an upgrade, and then went outside into the lot.

His shadow didn’t show up until he was on the highway into the city — an old guy in a Renault, reported the CIA agents, who wanted to know what to do.

“Just tag along,” Karr said. “I’ll drop D here off at the embassy and then have a chat with Grandpa. Find me a dead end somewhere.”

“Who are you talking to?” Deidre demanded.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” said Karr.

“Stop.”

“My phone has a mike in it,” he told her. He pulled it out and waved it in the air. “I’m talking to our trail team.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, sliding it back in his pocket.

“I’m D?” she said. “That’s not much of a code word.”

“Sorry. I’m not very creative when danger’s breathing down my neck.”

“Grandpa is the danger? Doesn’t sound very threatening.”

“That’s just his code word. Besides, guy with a cane? Could have a machine gun there.”

“Are we really in danger?”

“Nah. Nothing to worry about.” He turned and smiled at her. “So you live in Paris?”

“I go to school here, yes.”

“College?”

“Postgrad. Art history.”

“Good field,” said Karr, who had no idea if it was or not.

“I like to think so.”

“I’m going to drop you off at the embassy,” he told her, moving to the right lane as the exit approached. “They’ll take care of you. I want you to stay with them, all right?”

“I really don’t want to be taken care of,” she said. There was something plaintive in her voice.

“Yeah, I know,” said Karr. “But I do have to figure out who this is. I think he’s tracking me, not you, but until we’re sure, better safe than sorry. Promise?”

She didn’t answer.

“Listen, if you don’t promise, I’m going to have to hand you over to the Marines and have them put you in the brig.”

“I promise.”

“All right. No fingers crossed or any of that stuff, right^?”

“Please.”

Karr had concluded that the person following him was either a British agent or the person who had used the dead man to contact him. He hoped the latter. Still, he couldn’t take any chances with her.

“So why are you being followed?” Deidre asked.

“If I knew, I wouldn’t have to grab him.”

“Can I come?”

Karr laughed. “No. Sorry.”

“I won’t get in the way.”

“Well, I know it seems like it’s fun and games. And it is.” Karr laughed. “Maybe next time I’m in town. Looks like a nice place.”

“You’ve never been to Paris?”

“Oh, I’ve been here once or twice,” said Karr. “Never as a tourist, though.”

“I’ll give you a tour.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure.”

He turned down the Champs-Elysées, the main boulevard in the heart of the city. It was choked with traffic — which was fine, since it locked his trail in place. The embassy was a few blocks away.

“I wasn’t kidding,” she said when they reached the embassy. She reached into her purse and took out a small notebook. “I’d love to show you around.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Well, great.”

“Call me,” she said, writing down her phone number and tearing off the page. “Please.”

“Sure,” said Tommy, grabbing the page and then getting out of the car. “That Marine there. Run to him now. Go!”

LaFoote drove past the embassy, trying to avoid the stare of the French policeman near the entrance. He turned left and then took a quick right, paralleling the compound. He saw a parking spot opening up on the side street to the left and turned in quickly, parking there, and got out.

Having thought over the matter, he’d decided his best bet was to contact the agent directly. The embassy was likely to be the safest place in the area to do so, but he wanted to make sure that he wasn’t being followed by whoever had shot his messenger in London.

A small Fiat passed within inches of him as he waited to cross the street. LaFoote jerked back, a jolt of fear reverberating through his body.

He hadn’t felt that in years. It took him a second to gather himself, his throat suddenly dry. Until now he’d been driven mostly by his anger, without much thought for his own safety. Now the realities of being over seventy settled in. He wasn’t quitting — he would not quit even if it meant his death — but he must pace himself.

And above all he must be careful; he had no backup. In the old days — not the good old days, just the old days — in Africa he’d have at least two men covering his back in case of a misstep. Here it was all on him.

LaFoote had never been in the American embassy in Paris, not even as a young man. He’d dealt with plenty of Americans, however; while he found them almost incurably naive and optimistic, they had also been extremely honest. At the time he did not value such a quality. He did now.

LaFoote stopped at the corner of the street, unsure exactly what to do next. Besides the French policeman at the front entrance, there were guards immediately inside the wall. He surveyed the area, then decided to approach the policeman directly for advice.

Just as he stepped to the curb something hard grabbed him from the right side and dropped him to the pavement. As he gasped for breath, the face of the blond American he’d been following loomed above him.

“What do you say you tell me why you’ve been following me,” said the American in heavily accented French. “Or one of us is going to be in a lot of trouble.”

“I think,” gasped LaFoote. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”

“Then you’d better talk quickly.”

LaFoote coughed. He’d had the wind knocked out of him and his back hurt from being thrown down, but he wasn’t having a heart attack. Despite his tough words, the American loosened LaFoote’s collar and helped him up. He took a small handheld computer out of his pocket and slid it over him.

“Is that a stethoscope?” asked LaFoote in English. He fumbled over the word stethoscope for a moment before guessing it was the same in English as in French.

“Nah.” The American chuckled, as if that were the funniest joke in the world. “You speak English?”

“Some.”

“Better than my French, huh?” The American laughed again. “You feel all right?”

“I think.”

“You sent Gordon Kensworth?”

“Oui. Yes. That was not his real name. I regret that he is dead.”

“Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”