The Paris Option c-3 Page 2

  For Smith, the dark pain of Sophia's death could still weigh heavily on him, and Marty's injury was bringing it all back. But Sophia was gone, and what mattered now was Marty.

  "What the hell was he doing at the Pasteur?"

  Klein took his pipe from his pocket and brought out his tobacco pouch. "Yes, we wondered about that, too."

  Smith started to speak again then hesitated. Invisible to the public and to any part of the government except the White House, Covert-One worked totally outside the official military-intelligence bureaucracy and far from the scrutiny of Congress. Its shadowy chief never appeared unless something earthshaking had happened or might happen. Covert-One had no formal organization or bureaucracy, no real headquarters, and no official operatives. Instead, it was loosely composed of professional experts in many fields, all with clandestine experience, most with military backgrounds, and all essentially unencumbered without family, home ties, or obligations, either temporary or permanent.

  When called upon, Smith was one of those elite operatives.

  "You're not here because of Marty," Smith decided. "It's the Pasteur. Something's going on. What?"

  "Let's take a walk outside." Klein pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and tamped tobacco into his pipe.

  "You can't light that here," Smith told him. "DNA can be contaminated by airborne particles."

  Klein sighed. "Just one more reason to go outdoors."

  Fred Kleinand Covert-One trusted no one and nothing, took nothing for granted. Even a laboratory that officially did not exist could be bugged, which, Smith knew, was the real reason Klein wanted to leave. He followed the intelligence master out into the hall and locked his door. Side by side, they made their way downstairs, past dark labs and offices that showed only occasional light. The building was silent except for the breathy hum of the giant ventilation system.

  Outside, the dawn sunlight slanted low against the fir trees, illuminating them on the east with shimmering light while on the west they remained tarry black, in shadows. High above the campus to the west towered the Rocky Mountains, their rough peaks glowing. The valleys that creased the slopes were purple with night's lingering darkness. The aromatic scent of pine filled the air.

  Klein walked a dozen steps from the building and stopped to fire up his pipe. He puffed and tamped until clouds of smoke half-hid his face. He waved some of the smoke away.

  "Let's walk." As they headed toward the road, Klein said, "Talk to me about your work here. How's it going? Are you close to creating a molecular computer?"

  "I wish. The research is going well, but it's slow. Complex."

  Governments around the world wanted to be the first to have a working DNA computer, because it would be able to break any code or encryption in a matter of seconds. A terrifying prospect, especially where defense was concerned. All of America's missiles, secret systems at NSA, the NRO's spy satellites, the entire ability of the navy to operate, all defense plans anything and everything that relied on electronics would be at the mercy of the first molecular computer. Even the largest silicon supercomputer would not be able to stop it.

  "How soon before the planet sees an operational one?" Klein wanted to know.

  "Several years," Smith said without hesitation, "maybe more."

  "Who's the closest?"

  "Practical and operational? No one I've heard of."

  Klein smoked, tamped down his burning tobacco again. "If I said someone had already done it, who'd you guess?"

  Precursor prototypes had been built, coming closer to practicality each year, but an actual, complete success? That was at least five years away. Unless Takeda? Chambord?

  Then Smith knew. Since Klein was here, the clue was the Pasteur. "Emile Chambord. Are you saying Chambord is years ahead of the rest of us? Even ahead of Takeda in Tokyo?"

  "Chambord probably died in the explosion." Klein puffed on his pipe, his expression worried. "His lab was completely destroyed. Nothing left but shattered bricks, singed wood, and broken glass. They've checked his home, his daughter. Looked everywhere. His car was in the Pasteur parking lot, but they can't find him. There's talk."

  "Talk? There's always talk."

  "This is different. It comes from top French military circles, from colleagues, from his superiors."

  "If Chambord were that near, there'd be more than talk. Someone knew."

  "Not necessarily. The military checked in with him regularly, but he claimed he was no farther along than anyone else. As for the Pasteur itself, a senior researcher of Chambord's stature and tenure doesn't have to report to anyone."

  Smith nodded. This anachronism was true at the renowned institute. "What about his notes? Records? Reports?"

  "Nothing from the last year. Zero."

  "No records?" Smith's voice rose. "There have to be. They're probably in the Pasteur's data bank. Don't tell me the entire computer system was destroyed."

  "No, the mainframe's fine. It's located in a bomb-proof room, but he hadn't entered any data in it for more than a year."

  Smith scowled. "He was keeping longhand records?"

  "If he kept any at all."

  "He had to keep records. You can't do basic research without complete data. Lab notes, progress sheets. Your records have to be scrupulous, or your work can't be verified or reproduced. Every blind alley, every mistake, every backtrack has to be chronicled. Dammit, if he wasn't saving his data in the computer, he had to be keeping it longhand. That's certain."

  "Maybe it is, Jon, but so far neither the Pasteur nor the French authorities have found any records at all, and believe me, they've been looking. Hard."

  Smith thought. Longhand? Why? Could Chambord have gotten protective once he realized he was close to success? "You figure he knew or suspected he was being watched by someone inside the institute?"

  "The French, and everyone else, don't know what to think," Klein said.

  "He was working alone?"

  "He had a low-level lab assistant who's on vacation. The French police are searching for him." Klein stared toward the east, where the sun was higher now, a giant disk above the prairie. "And we think Dr. Zellerbach was working with him, too."

  "You think?"

  "Whatever Dr. Zellerbach was doing appears to have been completely unofficial, almost secret. He's listed only as a 'general observer' with Pasteur security. After the bombing, the police immediately went to his hotel room but found nothing useful. He lived out of one suitcase, and he made no friends either there or at the Pasteur. The police were surprised by how few people actually recalled him."

  Smith nodded. "That's Marty." His reclusive old friend would have insisted on remaining as anonymous as possible. At the same time, a molecular computer that was near fruition was one of the few projects that might have seduced him from his determined isolation in Washington. "When he regains consciousness, he'll tell you what Chambord's progress was."

  "If he wakes up. Even then it could be too late."

  Jon felt a sudden anger. "He will come out of the coma."

  "All right, Colonel. But when?" Klein took the pipe from his mouth and glared. "We've just had a nasty wake-up call that you need to know about. At 7:55 Washington time last night, Diego Garcia Island lost all communications with its aircraft. Every effort to revive them, or trace the source of the shutdown, failed. Then precisely five minutes later, communications were restored. There were no system malfunctions, no weather problems, no human error. Conclusion was it had to be the work of a computer hacker, but no footprints were found, and every expert short of heaven says no existing computer could've pulled it off without leaving a trace."

  "Was there damage?"

  "To the systems, no. To our worry quotient, one hell of a lot."

  "How does the timing compare to when the Pasteur was bombed?"

  Klein smiled grimly. "A couple of hours later."

  "Could be a test of Chambord's prototype, if he had one. If someone stole it."

  "No kidding. The way it s
tands, Chambord's lab is gone. He's dead or missing. And his work is destroyed or missing."

  Jon nodded. "You're thinking the bomb was planted to hide his murder and the theft of his records and prototype."

  "An operational DNA computer in the wrong hands is not a pretty picture."

  "I was already planning to go to Paris, because of Marty."

  "I thought so. It's a good cover. Besides, you'll have a better chance of recognizing a molecular computer than anyone else in Covert-One." Klein raised his anxious gaze to stare out across the enormous prairie sky as if he could see ICBMs raining down. "You've got to find out whether Chambord's notes, reports, and data were destroyed, or whether they were stolen. Whether there really is a functional prototype out there somewhere. We'll work the usual way. I'll be your only contact. Night or day. Whatever you need from any part of the government or military on both sides of the pond, ask. But you must keep a lid on it, understand? We don't want any panic. Worse, we don't want an eager Second or Third World country cutting a unilateral deal with the bombers."

  "Right." Half the non advanced nations had little love for the United States. Neither did the various terrorists who increasingly targeted America and Americans. "When do I leave?"

  "Now," Klein said. "I'll have other Covert-One experts on it, of course. They'll be following other leads, but you'll be the main thrust. The CIA and FBI have sent people out, too. And as for Zellerbach, remember I'm as concerned as you. We all hope he regains consciousness quickly. But there may be damn little time, and many, many other lives are at stake."

  Chapter Two

  Paris, France

  It was the end of his shift and nearly six P.M. when Farouk al Hamid finally peeled off his uniform and left l'hôpital Européen Georges Pompidou through an employees' entrance. He had no reason to notice he was being followed as he walked along the busy boulevard Victor to the Massoud Caf tucked away on a side street.

  Worn out and depressed from his long day of mopping floors, carrying great hampers of soiled linen, and performing the myriad other back-breaking jobs of a hospital orderly, he took a seat at a table neither outside nor inside, but exactly where the series of front glass doors had been folded back and the fresh outside spring air mingled with the aromatic cooking odors of the kitchen.

  He glanced around once, then ignored his fellow Algerians, as well as the Moroccans and Saharans, who frequented the caf. Soon he was drinking his second glass of strong coffee and shooting disapproving glances at those who were indulging in wine. All alcohol was forbidden, which was a tenet of Islam ignored by too many of his fellow North Africans, who, once they were far from their homelands, felt they could leave Allah behind, too.

  As Farouk began to seethe, a stranger joined him at the table.

  The man was not Arabe, not with those pale blue eyes. Still, he spoke in Arabic. "Salaam alake koom, Farouk. You're a hardworking man. I've been watching you, and I think you deserve better. So I have a proposition to make. Are you interested?"

  "Wahs-tah-hahb?" he grumbled suspiciously. "Nothing is for free."

  The stranger nodded agreeably. "True. Still, how would you and your family enjoy a holiday?"

  "Ehs-mah-lee. A holiday?" Farouk asked bitterly. "You suggest the impossible."

  The man spoke a higher-class Arabic than Farouk did, if with some odd accent, perhaps Iraqi or Saudi. But he was not Iraqi, Saudi, or Algerian. He was a white European, older than Farouk, wiry and darkly tanned. As the stranger waved for the waiter to bring more coffee, Farouk al Hamid noted that he was well dressed, too, but again from no particular nation he could identify, and he could identify most. It was a game he played to keep his mind from his weary muscles, the long hours of mindless labor, the impossibility of rising in this new world.

  "For you, yes," the old stranger agreed. "For me, no. I am a man who can make the impossible possible."

  "La. No, I will not kill."

  "I haven't asked you to. Nor will you be asked to steal or sabotage."

  Farouk paused, his interest growing. "Then how will I pay for this grand holiday?"

  "Merely by writing a note to the hospital in your own hand. A note in French saying you're ill and you've sent your cousin Mansour to take your place for a few days. In exchange, I'll give you cash."

  "I do not have a cousin."

  "All Algerians have cousins. Haven't you heard?"

  "That is true. But I have none in Paris."

  The stranger smiled knowingly. "He has only now arrived from Algiers."

  Farouk felt a leap inside him. A holiday for his wife, for the children. For him. The man was right, no one in Paris would know or care who came into work at the mammoth Pompidou Hospital, only that the work was done and for small money. But what this fellow, or someone else, wanted would not be good. Stealing drugs, perhaps. On the other hand, they were all heathens anyway, and it was none of his affair. Instead, he concentrated on the joy of going home to his family to tell them they would be holidaying where?

  "I would like to see the Mediterranean again," Farouk said tentatively, watching the man closely for a sign that he was asking too much. "Capri, perhaps. I have heard Capri's beaches are covered by silver sand. It will be very expensive."

  "Then Capri it is. Or Porto-Vecchio. Or, for that matter, Cannes or Monaco."

  As the place names rolled off the stranger's tongue, magical, full of promises, Farouk al Hamid smiled deep into his tired, hungry soul and said, "Tell me what you wish me to write."

  Bordeaux, France

  A few hours later, the telephone rang in a shabby rooming house tucked among the wine warehouses on the banks of the Garonne River outside the southern city of Bordeaux. The only occupant of the room was a small, pasty-faced man in his mid-twenties who sat on the edge of his cot, staring at the ringing phone. His eyes were wide with fear, his body trembling. From the river, shouts and the deep braying of barge horns penetrated the dismal room, and the youth, whose name was Jean-Luc Massenet, jerked like a plastic puppet on a string as each loud noise sounded. He did not pick up the telephone.

  When the ringing finally stopped, he took a notepad from the briefcase at his feet and began to write shakily, his speed accelerating as he rushed to record what he remembered. But after a few minutes, he thought better of it. He swore to himself, tore off the sheet of paper, crumpled it into a wad, and hurled it into the wastebasket. Disgusted and afraid, he slapped the notepad down onto the little table and decided there was no other solution than to leave, to run away again.

  Sweating, he grabbed the briefcase and hurried toward the door.

  But before he could touch the knob, a knock sounded. He froze. He watched the door handle turn slowly right and left, the way a mouse watches the swaying head of a cobra.

  "Is that you in there, Jean-Luc?" The voice was low, the French a native's. Surely whoever spoke was no more than an inch from the door. "Captain Bonnard here. Why don't you answer your phone? Let me in."

  Jean-Luc shuddered with relief. He tried to swallow, but his throat was as dry as a desert. Fingers fumbling, he unlocked the door and flung it open onto the dreary hallway.

  "Bonjour, mon Capitaine. How did you?" Jean-Luc began.

  But with a gesture from the brisk, compact officer who strode into the room, he fell silent, respectful of the power of the man who wore the uniform of an elite French paratroop regiment. Captain Bonnard's troubled gaze took in every detail of the cheap room before he turned to Jean-Luc, who was still standing motionless in the open doorway.

  "You appear frightened, Jean-Luc. If you think you're in such great danger," he said dryly, "I suggest you close the door." The captain had a square face, reassuring in its strong, clear gaze. His blond hair was clipped short around his ears in the military way, and he exuded a confidence to which Jean-Luc gratefully clung.

  Jean-Luc's ashen face flushed a hot pink. "I'm sorry, Captain." He shut the door.

  "You should be. Now, what's this all about? You say you're on vacati
on. In Arcachon, right? So why are you here now?"

  "H-hiding, sir. Some men came looking for me there at my hotel. Not just any men. They knew my name, where I lived in Paris, everything." He paused, swallowed hard. "One of them pulled out a gun and threatened the front desk man.I overheard it all! How did they know I was there? What did they want? They looked as if they'd come to kill me, and I didn't even know why. So I sneaked out and got to my car and drove away. I was sitting in a hidden cove I'd found, just listening to the radio and trying to decide whether I could go back to get the rest of my luggage, when I heard the news about the horrible tragedy at the Pasteur. Thatthat Dr. Chambord's presumed dead. Do you have any news? Is he okay?"

  Captain Bonnard shook his head sorrowfully. "They know he was working late that night in his lab, and no one's seen him since. It's pretty clear to the investigators that it's going to take at least another week to search through the rubble. They found two more bodies this afternoon."

  "It's too terrible. Poor Dr. Chambord! He was so good to me. Always saying I was working too hard. I hadn't had a vacation, and he's the one who insisted I go."

  The captain sighed and nodded. "But go on with your story. Tell me why you think the men wanted you."

  The research assistant wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Of course, once I knew about the Pasteur and Dr. Chambordit all made sense, why they were after me. So I ran away again, and I didn't stop running until I found this boardinghouse. No one knows me here, and it's not on the usual routes."

  "Je comprends. And that's when you called me?"

  "Oui. I didn't know what else to do."

  But now the captain seemed confused. "They came after you because Emile Chambord was caught in the explosion? Why? That makes no sense, unless you're saying the bombing was no simple matter."

  Jean-Luc nodded emphatically. "There's nothing important about me except that I'm I was the laboratory assistant to the great Emile Chambord. I think the bomb was intended to murder him."