Free Dark Zone by Stephen Coonts

be said that he liked Jews; on the contrary, he hated them quite probably as much as the thugs who had planted the bomb in the synagogue he was just passing soon after the Germans took over the city. But he did not find them much of a threat, surely not in France. In Israel it was certainly a different story, but here in France it was more sensible—and profitable, surely—to hate the French. This white woman with her dog, slowing him now as she crossed the street near the Musée Picasso: he hated her with her upturned nose and her snooty expression. Their eyes met and a frown came to her lips as she saw a dusky face in the big BMW.
    All his life, Mussa had seen such frowns. Soon he would have his revenge, striking a blow that would resound through Europe.
    A man was waiting for him around the corner from the museum. The man was not in Mussa’s employ but a Yemeni whose interests overlapped his own. Mussa pulled over to the curb and made as if he were asking directions. The man came over and, after pointing vaguely to the north, bent down to talk.
    “The brothers are ready to strike, but they need more material,” said the man.
    “The material is not easy to obtain,” said Mussa. “My technical adviser had commitments that could not be avoided.”
    “They need more material according to the plan you outlined.”
    The material they needed was plastic explosive. Mussa had supplied them with a new type that he had manufactured himself; the material was slightly more powerful than the American C-4 and somewhat more stable, but it was expensive and difficult to manufacture. He needed his own store for the Chunnel project. Still, the brothers’ “project” was an important one and he would have to find them more material.
    “They are devout,” said the man. “And ready.”
    “It is important that they act when I tell them,” said Mussa. “Vitally important.”
    “An hour here, a half hour there—what is the difference?”
    “The difference is everything,” said Mussa sharply.
    “Then they will do as they are told,” said the other man.
    “I will find what they need,” said Mussa. “They are wise enough to follow the instructions explicitly?”
    “We have been over this.”
    “Explicitly? The number of packages is very critical.”
    “Explicitly,” said the Yemeni, a note of surrender in his voice.
    “It will be done, with God’s will.” Mussa saw someone on the street and raised his voice. “And where can one find good knishes?”
    The Yemeni was used to Mussa’s provocations. “Around the corner and to the left.”
    “I’ll tell the rabbi you sent me,” said Mussa, putting his car into gear.

9

    The words came at her from somewhere above, blurring together like a murmur that sounded more like a hum than a sentence.
    “Mianhamnida mianhamnida mianhamnida ...”
    Lia bolted upright, consciousness flooding back. Her head quickly began throbbing.
    Where was she? What had happened?
    “I am intensely sorry,” said a man’s voice in Korean. “Very sorry.”
    She glanced down. She was sitting on a couch, wearing different clothes, baggy trousers and a blouse much too big for her. Army clothes, a uniform of some sort.
    What had happened to her? She felt dazed. She’d been smashed in the head, beaten, and for a few moments had blacked out.
    More than a few moments?
    “Where am I?” she asked in Chinese.
    “I do not understand,” said the man in Korean. He said something else; Lia had trouble deciphering. When he finally stopped speaking, she answered haltingly in Korean that she was thankful for his kindness but was OK now and could be left alone. The man responded with something else she couldn’t understand.
    The pain in her head moved from the back to the front. It felt as if a large vibrating sander was being pulled back and across her skull.
    The man was telling her about an airplane. He paused finally and asked if she was all right.
    “Wo hen hao,” she replied automatically in