Dark Zone

44

The garage was located in a warehouse that dated from the 1950s, a steel-fabricated structure whose sides were covered with dents and dimples, along with the faded splatters of a dozen paint jobs. It sat next to a rarely used railroad spur; when Mussa had first found the building the railroad had been an important part of his planning, but as it turned out he had used it only once. That was the way it went with such things, though — one might plan carefully and consider all of the alternatives, but in the end life made its own demands.

From the time he had bought it three years before until just six months ago, the warehouse had been part of Mussa’s business empire and main source of income. To call it an empire was aggrandizement; Mussa arranged for the exporting of automobiles from Europe to Africa. This involved several phases: obtaining the cars, preparing them for transit, and actually shipping them. The warehouse was involved in the middle phase. As a rule, the vehicles Mussa obtained were mechanically perfect; he rarely procured one more than twelve months old. However, his customers in Africa and the Middle East required certain modifications, new serial numbers on engine blocks being among the most critical. Generally, he changed the exterior color as well. Other modifications tended to be done to order — armor, secret compartments, and certain types of electrical equipment, including cell phone jammers, had become almost de rigueur.

The car export business had been lucrative, though not without its liabilities. Surprisingly, its greatest liability had been its effect on his conscience. While Mussa could justify his thefts intellectually — he was taking vehicles from heathens — there was a part of him that objected. In fact, the objections had grown greater as his wealth increased.

Two years before, he had heard an imam suggest that guilt was merely faith speaking. Mussa still remembered that talk; in many ways it had helped set him on his current path.

But even the most righteous man must live in this world. Driving across the crumbling macadam toward the plant at the back of the old factory area near Marseilles, he felt pride at all he had accomplished, and even greater pride at what he would achieve in just a few days.

Sparks from a welder’s torch inside the garage ended his brief reverie of self-congratulations.

“Non, non, non!” Mussa shouted, jumping from his car and running inside. The van was up on a lift, its undersides being reinforced and prepared for the extra springs. The five carefully fashioned explosives for the bomb assembly sat less than ten meters away.

Mussa’s emotions ran so strongly that he couldn’t even sputter a curse or an explanation; all he could do was point at the crates.

“Idiots!” he managed finally, speaking Arabic rather than French. “Idiots! Don’t I pay you enough not to kill yourselves?”

Heads down, the workers took the van down and began moving it to the far bay. They were running behind schedule, but Mussa decided not to chide them further; they would undoubtedly perceive any urge now to move faster as a contradiction of these orders, and besides, past experience showed that they were just as likely to react by slowing down as speeding up once he left their sight.

There was a more effective strategy.

“Listen to me for a moment,” he said loudly. “Listen. Stop what you are doing and listen.”

The half-dozen garagemen came over to him.

“I will return tomorrow to gather everything. If everything is in order and the van properly loaded, everyone who has worked on the project will receive an appropriate bonus,” he said.

The faces lit up with smiles. Mussa was not an ungenerous man, and all of those here had benefited from his bonuses before.

“Tomorrow, then,” he added, looking around. “It is understood?”

He strode from the building before the heads stopped bobbing. Outside he checked his watch, then got into the car. Three kilometers away, he pulled off the road and took one of the cell phones from his bag.

Donohue picked up on the first ring.

“You’re late,” he told Mussa.

“It couldn’t be helped. Have you considered my proposal?”

“Twice what you said.”

“I would be willing to take your price if we can add another matter at your usual fee,” said Mussa.

“I don’t do package deals.”

Mussa sensed a bluff.

“There was an error in your previous assignment. I am not blaming you, but it is a matter that needs correction. I am willing to pay to fix it,” continued Mussa, “as clearly someone on my side erred, but it must happen very soon.”

“I don’t do package deals.”

“Well then, that is that,” said Mussa. “Perhaps in the future we will have occasion to be of use to each other.”

He hesitated before hanging up — just long enough, as it turned out.

“What are the details?” said Donohue.

“The details will be forthcoming in the manner you specify,” said Mussa. “The time line is critical. Which will be explained.”

“If it has to be done on an expedited timetable, the scale changes.”

Mussa decided he could concede on that point. Getting rid of LaFoote was important: it was the last loose end that needed tying up. If Donohue didn’t do it, someone less dependable would have to.

“Well, of course. That is to be expected. And expenses will be covered,” added Mussa, suddenly feeling generous. “Reasonable ones, of course.”

“That’s already figured into the fee. But the sentiment is appreciated.”

The line clicked off. Pleased with himself, Mussa dropped the phone out of the car, then backed up to make sure he crushed it with his tire as he got back on the highway.