Dark Zone

28

Dean had never thought much about showers until Vietnam. He’d gone weeks without taking any on his first tour as a sniper; when he finally came back the water seemed to spark across his body, a light electrical jolt enlivening nerves he didn’t know he’d had.

The shower he had at the Hilton Barcelona didn’t quite approach that one, but it was close. The bed wasn’t bad, either.

The Art Room had managed to insert a suitcase in the luggage at the airport for him with fresh clothes. Whoever had packed it had included three large candy bars, and while Dean ordinarily didn’t eat chocolate, he opened one in the taxi on the way to the airport in the morning to pick up Lia. He found himself reaching into the bag for a second one as the driver slid around the traffic near the terminal entrance.

Lia’s flight had stopped in Frankfurt and was running a few minutes late as Dean arrived at Terminal B. A few minutes ordinarily wouldn’t make much of a difference, but their flight for Casablanca was due to take off in less than forty-five minutes; she had to get over to Terminal A for the next plane. Casablanca was just the first leg of the journey; once they landed they had to grab a puddle jumper for Oujda in eastern Morocco, where their target was.

Lia would be doing most of the work when they got to Oujda. She had to go into a building and replace a miniature bugging device planted in a women’s room. The building was used as a communications center by a loosely knit terrorist network; the site was disguised as an office for an Islamic charity. This cover, however, provided a vulnerability, because the building was shared by other charity organizations, which would give Lia a pretext for visiting. She would arrive just after the office person she was supposed to see had left for home — she always left around four — excuse herself to go to the restroom where the bug was located, replace the unit, then leave.

Dean would back her up. Depending on the situation, he might take a look around the office of the fake charity group. The NSA was interested in collecting possible bank account numbers to track money the organization spread throughout the world. But that task was secondary to Lia’s. He wasn’t to do anything that would make them suspicious, let alone tip them off to the bug.

Missing the plane now would set everything back by at least a day and possibly a week, depending on the schedule of the charity organization they were using as a pretext for entering the building. Morocco might be nice, but Dean didn’t particularly want to spend a week there, especially that close to the Algerian border. He pulled out his satellite phone and leaned against the wall in a hallway, pretending to use the phone while he spoke to the Art Room.

“So where is she?” he asked Rockman.

“They’re just taxiing up now,” Rockman told him. “You should be able to just make it. Wait out in the main terminal. Don’t sweat the schedule. It’ll work out.”

Lia clutched her cany-on tightly as she headed down the hallway, cleared through Customs quickly with the help of the timely arrival of an airport manager — undoubtedly at the Art Room’s prompting. She noticed Dean approaching on her left and quickened her pace toward the other terminal.

“What’s up?” he asked, falling in beside her.

“Nothing.”

“How was the flight?”

“Lousy.”

“We’re running late.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“They update you on the situation?”

“Pretty much.”

“How was Korea?”

“Garden spot of the world.”

“That what happened to your eye?”

An urge came over her suddenly: turn and run out of the terminal, take a taxi into the city, go to a hotel — any hotel — and quit, just totally quit.

But she didn’t. She quickened her pace, following Rockman’s directions in her ear as they made her way to the other terminal building.

“We’re supposed to be on that plane,” said Dean to the clerk at the boarding gate.

The man looked up from his terminal. “Oh. Hold on. There’s some sort of computer glitch.”

“You sure?”

The clerk glanced down. His terminal was working again.

“Lucky thing for you,” he said. He found them in the computer and called over to the plane, which had experienced problems of its own and hadn’t pulled away yet.

“Nice to have friends in high places,” said Dean as they walked down the tunnel.

“Right,” said Lia.

Dean had known Lia long enough to realize she wasn’t the effusive type, but he expected a bit more of a hello. He stowed his bag in the overhead rack and sat next to her. Lia kept her head turned as if there was something interesting to see through the window.

“Hey,” he said softly. He reached to touch her shoulder gently; she jerked away.

He felt as if he’d walked in on the middle of a movie that was hard to follow. They’d spent a week together on the Maine shore after their last assignment — long, languid days steering a friend’s sailboat offshore and cool nights in the seashore village near the borrowed house. He’d loved the unhurried rhythm and casual intimacy.

“Are you OK?” he asked.

“I’m fine, Charlie Dean,” she said. “Just fine.”

“That’s a good makeup job on your eye.”

“I suppose you’re an expert on makeup.”

“I’ve had a few black eyes in my day. What happened?”

“I walked into a door. What do you think?”

“You’re all right?”

“Peachy.”

All right, he told himself. Give her some space. He turned and leaned his seat back, closing his eyes as if there were actually a possibility he could relax enough to nap.