Dark Zone

81

Mussa checked his watch as the train passed Charles de Gaulle Airport and began to pick up speed. It took roughly an hour to reach the Chunnel from Paris; they had a little over forty-five minutes to go.

Forty-five minutes to be caught.

The brothers would be at the Eiffel Tower by now. Those two were maniacs — imbeciles, to put it more accurately. They would have others just like them to help.

Forty-four minutes to go. Forty-four chances to be caught.

Was he losing his resolve? Had he suddenly become a coward?

Hardly.

“The dragon lady is in a terrible mood,” said Ahmed, coming back from the other car. “She thinks there was some foul-up with the ticket system and she will somehow be held accountable. The train was supposed to be sold out.”

Mussa suppressed a laugh. To expedite the plan, they had filed a large number of phony reservations, aiming to keep the train nearly empty. Even the second-class cars, normally overflowing, were less than half-full. He had planned the attack for this run because there were few “walk-ups,” or last-minute ticket buyers. Fewer passengers meant less chance at interference.

“You have to bring one of the carts forward with the drinks,” said Ahmed. “It has to go to car nine.”

Mussa selected the cart and backed it out of the holding area. It bumped sharply on the metal furring between the rug and aluminum flooring. The jerk shocked him, and for a millisecond he thought that he had taken the wrong cart and had somehow set off the explosives. This was impossible, yet for the tiny space of time he thought, he felt, he knew it had happened. Even when the shock of the moment passed, he found it difficult to breathe properly.

I am not a coward. I am a believer, and a great man. My father was a great man, and I am his son.

God is great.

Mussa pushed the cart into the passenger area of the train car. The clear plastic of the overhead rack caught his face in its reflections: a deep, worried frown. He forced himself to smile, or at least try to smile, and pushed forward, wheeling the cart to the end of the car. There were five people: an old woman, two young people in their twenties, a woman, and an older man in his fifties. The older man’s stare swept into Mussa’s face. Mussa felt himself wincing, as if the glance were a physical thing.

I can do this easily. I have built an empire and braved much greater dangers. I am a soldier of God, the one, true God.

He made his way between the cars, pushing the cart forward. The other steward, an Englishwoman, met him in car twelve and went with him to car nine. She had him help her set the trays in the vestibule at the end of the car. As he helped, someone came to use the nearby restroom.

Mussa glanced up as the man came through the door. As the man turned to go into the restroom, Mussa swore it was Donohue, the Irish assassin.

Impossible! He’s in Paris, killing Ponclare.

Mussa stared after him for a moment, then realized that the man had a mustache. His hair had also begun to gray. And now that he thought of it, wasn’t he a little taller than the former IRA man and thinner?

I cannot let my imagination run away with me, Mussa told himself, turning to help the other attendant.