Dark Zone

30

Mussa’s phone rang just as he was about to board the airplane. He hesitated before answering — if he used the phone, his self-imposed rules called for him to dispose of it, and that would mean that he would have no way of communicating before evening.

However, if he did not answer it, he would have lost whatever opportunity this information provided. So he pulled the phone from his pocket and stepped aside.

“Yes?” he answered cheerfully.

“The farmhouse has exploded.”

Mussa knew which farmhouse was being referred to — the chemist Vefoures’—but was nonetheless surprised. Of course, being surprised and showing it were two different things.

“A shame,” said Mussa. “We should do something for the family of the man who was sent to disarm it, though I suppose his carelessness was to blame.”

“It wasn’t him. He hadn’t gotten to it yet.”

Hadn’t gotten to it?

Mussa took a moment to stifle his anger. He had asked — directed — that the bomb be disabled within a few hours of learning that Donohue had done his job in England. The delay was inexcusable, though of course there would be some nonsensical excuse.

Another sign of corruption and seduction, the weakness of the West corroding Islamic values. When Mussa was young, orders were carried out promptly. Now, underlings worked on their own schedule.

“It was to be dismantled in only a few hours,” said his caller, sensing his anger.

“These complications are unfortunate and unwelcome,” said Mussa.

“No one was killed,” said the caller. “The police are there. One of our friends made sure to get close enough for information.”

“The bomb did not go off by itself,” said Mussa, barely keeping his calm.

“No. We have additional information. Someone saw a friend of the chemist, a Monsieur LaFoote, at mass the other day. You had asked about him the other day.”

LaFoote?

But the Irishman Donohue had already killed him. Even if one of Mussa’s network had not verified the shooting, he would have been confident that it had been carried out. Another man might have missed or botched the job, but not the obnoxious Donohue.

“LaFoote set off the bomb?”

“It seems possible.”

“You are sure it was LaFoote?”

“Yes.”

“Have you watched his house?”

“Not since you said it was unnecessary.”

LaFoote had been poking around into the chemist’s disappearance, raising trouble with the DST. He had even gone so far as to try to get American intelligence interested. Mussa had enough sources within the French intelligence agency so that he did not have to worry about problems from that quarter, at least not for the time being, but the Americans were a different matter entirely. Fortunately, the fool had made a call from Vefoures’ phone two or three weeks ago. When Vefoures was first approached to work for them the phone was tapped with an automated device that worked only when the call was placed; it had been a surprise to find a call had been made, and Mussa’s people had had some difficulty figuring out what was going on. Mussa, of course, had concluded it must be this LaFoote, who until now had only been an annoying ant, if that. And Mussa might not have been concerned, except that a number of CD-ROMs containing data on the explosives had been taken, apparently by Vefoures before he was killed. The data on them was supposedly technical — but who knew?

Interestingly, the disks had not shown up in England.

LaFoote back at the house — perhaps the disks had been there all along? The house had been searched but must be searched again.

And this LaFoote — even an ant could be annoying.

“Prepare information on Mr. LaFoote for a friend. Precise information,” Mussa told his caller. “And this time, be sure that it includes photographs.”

“It will,” said the caller.

“Have Vefoures’ house searched again.”

“We have been over it twice. There are no CD-ROMs or anything that might—”

“Have the house searched again,” said Mussa. “And this time they may take whatever they find, including the money — but the search shall be thorough. And there will be an additional reward if you find the disks.”

“I will do it myself.”

I’ll bet you will, thought Mussa, pushing the button to end the call. As much as he disliked greed, it remained a most useful motivator.