Dark Zone

51

The trip on the train from Paris to Aux Boix took less than twenty minutes. Tommy Karr spent most of them staring out the window, thinking of Deidre. He’d never felt so distracted before, as if his mission were just a sideline job.

But of course it wasn’t, and he snapped back in focus with the first step onto the railroad platform. LaFoote’s house was an easy fifteen-minute stroll away; Karr made it in ten.

The CIA shadow sat in a rather conspicuous Renault at the end of the block. The CIA officer nearly jumped when Karr knocked on the window.

“He’s still inside, huh?” asked Karr as he rolled down the window.

“Oh yeah.”

“You can see the back from here?”

Karr leaned over the windshield, answering his own question. He did have a view of the backyard, but with a little care it would be possible to use the hedges at the side to crawl away without being seen.

“I can see. Nobody came or went,” said the CIA officer testily.

“You do a lot of surveillance work?”

“No. He hasn’t come out. Look — there’s his car, right?”

“You sat here the whole time?”

“Of course. You just wanted him protected, right? Without knowing I was here. And no police, no DST, nobody.”

“Yeah,” said Karr.

“So?”

There were good CIA people, Karr thought to himself, plenty of them. But clearly this wasn’t one.

“Can I go home now?” asked the CIA officer. “I haven’t had any sleep.”

“Hang out for just a little while longer,” Karr said. “You talking to my people?”

“On a sat phone.”

“Good.”

Karr straightened, then strolled down toward LaFoote’s house. As he suspected, there was no answer when he knocked at the front door. He looked in the window, saw nothing, then ducked around the side, looking for a back door.

“Looks like LaFoote ducked our CIA rental,” Karr told Rockman.

“Figures,” answered the runner.

There was no back door. Karr glanced through one of the windows, debating whether to go inside and search the house before LaFoote got back.

His hesitation vanished when he peeked through the window of what looked like a study and saw that papers were scattered on the floor of LaFoote’s living room.

“I’m going inside,” Karr told Rockman. “Make sure our lookout stays awake.”

“What’s up?”

“I don’t know yet. But either the old guy is a lousy housekeeper or he’s had guests.”

Karr used his handheld computer to scan for a burglar alarm or booby trap, then opened the window and let himself in. The papers on the floor were franc notes, and there was an empty strongbox nearby.

He found LaFoote inside the bedroom, a grotesque look on his face. Even though he knew LaFoote was dead, Karr checked for a pulse. The body was on the cold side.

“Sucks,” he said aloud.

“You want Knox to come inside?” prompted the Art Room supervisor, Chris Farlekas. Farlekas had just come on to spell Telach. “Your CIA guy?”

“Better keep him where he is or I may strangle him,” said Karr, who for once in his life wasn’t kidding. He corralled his anger and began searching the house for the other CDs.

“You have somebody coming up the walk toward the front door,” warned Rockman about five minutes later.

“All right, thanks. I’ll stay out of the front rooms. Tell Knox to warn me if he goes around the side.”

Where would the old man keep the disks? As a veteran spy, he surely knew all the best hiding places — but he would also realize that all of the best spots could be found. Karr looked around the room, remembering LaFoote going through his friend’s house. The walls were all plasterboard, completely intact and the paint years old. If the disks had been hidden in the strongbox they were gone.

The doorbell rang. Karr kept looking.

“Tommy, we just checked on the license plate,” said Rockman. “That’s a relative, same name, one of the nephews or something. Knox thinks he may have a key, because he’s reaching into his pocket”

Karr looked around the room. The best place to leave CDs would be with other CDs. Since LaFoote didn’t have a computer of his own, Karr looked for a stereo. But LaFoote didn’t seem to have one of those, either. The op went back to the bedroom and bent to the mattress, sliding his hand underneath — he found a thin knife but no CDs.

LaFoote’s lifeless eyes stared at him as he walked over to the bureau.

Nothing. He went back out into the living room, checking the bookcase. Nothing.

He walked into the kitchen, opened the oven on a hunch.

“Tommy, you have to get out of there,” said Farlekas.

The door at the front of the house opened.

The oven was empty as well. Karr turned, then saw the large brown envelope on the counter, as if waiting to be mailed. It was addressed to a Father Brossard.

“Good thinking,” said Karr, grabbing it.

“Denis?” said a male voice at the front of the house. “Denis? Qu‘est-ce-que c’est?” The man started toward LaFoote’s bedroom.

“Tommy!” Farlekas practically shouted.

“I’m out of here,” he said, pulling himself out the window.