Read Online Dark Zone by Stephen Coonts - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen Coonts
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Suspense fiction, Intelligence Officers, Intelligence service, Undercover operations, Cyberterrorism, National security
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the French, Mr. President. I’m as ambivalent about the French as they are about us. But I wouldn’t want them to be blown up by a nuclear weapon.”
“We’ll make sure it doesn’t happen, William. Not on our watch.”
7
Dean looked up from his seat as the door opened. He’d been in the police interrogation room now for nearly two hours, repeating the same story at least a half-dozen times. It was a short story, at least: it relayed exactly what he had seen at the park and included the outlines of the cover he had been supplied with. With the exception of his cover—businessman in town for a conference, taking a stroll with a friend he’d chanced to meet—it was all absolutely true.
It left out a lot, but it was true.
“Who is it that you know at the embassy?” asked the chief inspector, the older of the two men who’d been questioning him. His name was Lang and he smelled of cigarettes. Dean noticed that his fingertips were stained brown. Every so often he excused himself, probably to grab a smoke.
“I don’t know anyone,” said Dean. “I just called the number you gave me.”
“The embassy sent someone to speak to my superior,” said the detective. “It was all very unnecessary.”
“I didn’t mean to cause any trouble,” said Dean. “I’ve answered all your questions and told you what I saw several times. You can’t think I had anything to do with shooting the man.”
The detective gave him a look that suggested the contrary. He slid a pad of paper down on the table.
“A place where I can contact you, both here and in the States,” he told Dean. “Include address and phone number, if you will.”
Dean wrote down the name of the hotel Desk Three had reserved, then added his home address and phone number. The chief inspector took back the pad and looked over the information so slowly that he seemed to be checking each letter against some master file in his brain. Then he got up and waved the pad at Dean, indicating that he should follow.
When he got downstairs, Tommy Karr was there, talking to the desk sergeant about the best place to get “real” shepherd’s pie and a pint. As Dean walked up, the policeman had just mentioned a place near Waterloo Station—a major train station on the other side of the Thames—and Karr acted with exaggerated surprise, as if authentic British beer could not be purchased anywhere near a railway. They chatted on for a few more minutes, Karr oblivious to Dean or the embassy representative, who was waiting for them nearby. The representative was a young man in a business suit whose close-cropped hair and posture screamed military.
Karr finished kibitzing with the sergeant, pointing at the policeman as if he were a drinking buddy before walking away. “Later,” he told the sergeant, strolling over to the man from the embassy. “Say, can I get you to give me a lift? I just got some good pointers on places on food. It’s a little past teatime, but I’m hungry. Charlie, you grab some grub, too.”
“Actually, sir, the ambassador wishes to speak with you,” said the escort.
“You oughta be a salesman, or maybe a politician,” Dean told Karr as they walked to the embassy car. “You have that hail-fellow-well-met act down cold.”
“Just getting some local intelligence,” said Karr, bending himself into the backseat of the embassy’s Ford. Dean slid beside him.
“I’m guessing you’re a Marine who was ordered to dress down for the occasion,” Karr said as the driver put on his seat belt.
“Lieutenant Dalton, sir.”
“Charlie was a Marine,” offered Karr. “Back in the old days. Who was it you fought, Charlie? Barbary pirates?”
“From Tripoli to the Halls of Montezuma,” Dean said drily.
Karr smiled. Dalton glanced in the mirror. Dean realized he’d balled his fingers into a fist, tensing in anticipation of the questions: “Where did you serve?” “What was your rank?” “What did you do?”
It felt so long ago now
“We’ll make sure it doesn’t happen, William. Not on our watch.”
7
Dean looked up from his seat as the door opened. He’d been in the police interrogation room now for nearly two hours, repeating the same story at least a half-dozen times. It was a short story, at least: it relayed exactly what he had seen at the park and included the outlines of the cover he had been supplied with. With the exception of his cover—businessman in town for a conference, taking a stroll with a friend he’d chanced to meet—it was all absolutely true.
It left out a lot, but it was true.
“Who is it that you know at the embassy?” asked the chief inspector, the older of the two men who’d been questioning him. His name was Lang and he smelled of cigarettes. Dean noticed that his fingertips were stained brown. Every so often he excused himself, probably to grab a smoke.
“I don’t know anyone,” said Dean. “I just called the number you gave me.”
“The embassy sent someone to speak to my superior,” said the detective. “It was all very unnecessary.”
“I didn’t mean to cause any trouble,” said Dean. “I’ve answered all your questions and told you what I saw several times. You can’t think I had anything to do with shooting the man.”
The detective gave him a look that suggested the contrary. He slid a pad of paper down on the table.
“A place where I can contact you, both here and in the States,” he told Dean. “Include address and phone number, if you will.”
Dean wrote down the name of the hotel Desk Three had reserved, then added his home address and phone number. The chief inspector took back the pad and looked over the information so slowly that he seemed to be checking each letter against some master file in his brain. Then he got up and waved the pad at Dean, indicating that he should follow.
When he got downstairs, Tommy Karr was there, talking to the desk sergeant about the best place to get “real” shepherd’s pie and a pint. As Dean walked up, the policeman had just mentioned a place near Waterloo Station—a major train station on the other side of the Thames—and Karr acted with exaggerated surprise, as if authentic British beer could not be purchased anywhere near a railway. They chatted on for a few more minutes, Karr oblivious to Dean or the embassy representative, who was waiting for them nearby. The representative was a young man in a business suit whose close-cropped hair and posture screamed military.
Karr finished kibitzing with the sergeant, pointing at the policeman as if he were a drinking buddy before walking away. “Later,” he told the sergeant, strolling over to the man from the embassy. “Say, can I get you to give me a lift? I just got some good pointers on places on food. It’s a little past teatime, but I’m hungry. Charlie, you grab some grub, too.”
“Actually, sir, the ambassador wishes to speak with you,” said the escort.
“You oughta be a salesman, or maybe a politician,” Dean told Karr as they walked to the embassy car. “You have that hail-fellow-well-met act down cold.”
“Just getting some local intelligence,” said Karr, bending himself into the backseat of the embassy’s Ford. Dean slid beside him.
“I’m guessing you’re a Marine who was ordered to dress down for the occasion,” Karr said as the driver put on his seat belt.
“Lieutenant Dalton, sir.”
“Charlie was a Marine,” offered Karr. “Back in the old days. Who was it you fought, Charlie? Barbary pirates?”
“From Tripoli to the Halls of Montezuma,” Dean said drily.
Karr smiled. Dalton glanced in the mirror. Dean realized he’d balled his fingers into a fist, tensing in anticipation of the questions: “Where did you serve?” “What was your rank?” “What did you do?”
It felt so long ago now
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