The Paris Option c-3 Page 7

  There was no point in pressing the situation, Smith decided. After all, the fellow did have a key. On the other hand, he wanted to make certain. So he stopped outside the big plate-glass window and watched as the man shoved his arms into a beige sweater-vest and methodically buttoned it from the top down. When the man finished, he took a seat on a high stool behind the counter, looked up, saw Smith, and smiled and gestured for him to come in. He obviously either owned or worked at the bookstore. Smith felt a stab of deep disappointment.

  Still, someone had been surveilling him, and he had narrowed the potentials to the dark-haired woman or the man who had been checking out the street vendor's wares. In turn, whichever of the two it was, he or she had also recognized Smith's suspicions and exited the chase.

  He gave the bookseller a friendly wave and hurried back to the metro station. But then, with a sinking feeling, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise again. Someone was still nearby, studying him. Frustrated, worried, he stood outside the station and gazed all around. He saw nothing. He had to lose his tail. He could not lead them to his meeting with the general. He turned and rushed down into the station.

  In a doorway partially shielded by a bush, the dull-looking woman in the shopkeeper's black outfit scrutinized Smith as he carefully surveyed the area. Her hiding place was recessed and dark, which was perfect, since it allowed her dusky clothing to disappear into the gloom. She took care to keep her face far back in the shadow, because although she was tan, the paler color of her skin might reflect just enough light for the very-observant Smith to notice.

  He looked uneasy and suspicious. He was handsome, with almost American Indian features high cheekbones, a planed face, and very dark blue eyes. Right now the eyes were hidden behind black sunglasses, but she remembered the color. She shivered.

  At last he seemed to make a decision. He hurried into the metro. There was no further doubt in her mind: He had realized he was being followed, but he did not know it was specifically she, or he would have followed after she passed his table outside the caf and stared straight at him.

  She sighed, irritated by the situation. It was time to report in. She pulled her cell phone from a pocket beneath her heavy black skirt. "He figured out he was being tailed, but he didn't make me," she told her contact. "Otherwise, he appears to be here really because he's worried about his injured friend. Everything he's done since he arrived is consistent with that." She listened and said angrily, "That's your call. If you think it's worthwhile, send someone else to tail him. I've got my own assignment.No, nothing definite so far, but I can smell something big. Mauritania wouldn't have come here unless it was imperative. Yes, he's got it."

  She clicked off the cell phone, looked carefully around, and slipped out of the shadows. Jon Smith had not reappeared from the metro, so she hurried back to the caf where he had sat. She searched the pavement beneath the chair he had used. She nodded to herself, satisfied. There was nothing.

  Smith made four changes of trains, returned rapidly to the street, and plunged back down again at two of the stations. He watched everywhere until, finally, after an hour of this, he was confident he had lost his tail. Relieved but still wary, he caught a taxi to the address Fred Klein had given him.

  It turned out to be a private pension in an ivy-covered, three-story brick building on a small courtyard off the rue des Renaudes, secluded from the street and the bustle of the city. At her post inside the elegant front door, the concierge was as discreet as the building itself. A matronly woman with steel-trap eyes and a face that revealed nothing, she showed no reaction when he asked for M. Werner, but she came from behind her counter to lead him up the stairs with decidedly unmatronly movements. He suspected that more metal than just her house keys was hidden under her cardigan and apron.

  He did not have to guess about the bantamweight sitting on a chair in the second-floor corridor, reading a Michael Collins detective novel. The concierge vanished back down the stairs like a magician's rabbit, and the small ramrod on the chair studied Smith's ID without getting up. He wore a dark business suit, but there was a bulge under his armpit that, all things considered, looked to Smith to be an old regulation-issue 1911 Colt semiautomatic. The man's stiff and precise mannerisms hinted at an invisible uniform that was all but tattooed to his skin. Obviously, he was a career enlisted man; an officer would have stood. In fact, he was a privileged enlisted man, to still be carrying the old Colt.45— probably a master sergeant for the general.

  He returned Smith's ID, gave a slight nod of his bullet head as a salute to rank, and said, "What's the word, Colonel?"

  "Loki."

  The bullet head pointed. "The general's waiting. Third door down."

  Smith walked to it, knocked, and when a guttural "Come in" sounded, he opened the door and stepped into a sunny room with a large window and a view of tangled, blooming gardens that Monet would have liked to paint. Standing inside was another bantamweight, but ten years older and forty pounds lighter than the one in the hallway. He was rail thin, his back turned to Smith as he stared out at the watercolor-perfect gardens.

  As Smith closed the door, the general demanded, "What's going to happen with this new technology that's supposed to be out there somewhere, Colonel? Are we looking for a result on the order of a nuclear bomb, or is it more like a peashooter? Or maybe nothing at all? What are they planning?" Small as he was, his voice was six feet tall and should have belonged to a heavyweight. It was as rough as redwood bark and hoarse, probably from a youth spent bellowing orders over gunfire.

  "That's what I'm here to find out, sir."

  "You have a gut hunch?"

  "I've been in Paris just a few hours. A would-be assassin has threatened me and Dr. Martin Zellerbach, who worked with Dr. Chambord, with an automatic weapon."

  "I heard about that," the general admitted.

  "I've also been tailed by someone who knows their job. Plus, of course, there's the incident at Diego Garcia. I'd say it's definitely not nothing."

  The general turned. "That's all? No theories? No educated guesses? You're the scientist. An M.D. to boot. What should I be worrying about? Armageddon in the hands of sweet damn all, or just a schoolboy's bloody-nose and our vaunted American ego bruised?"

  Smith gave a dry smile. "Science and medicine don't teach us to theorize or make wild guesses in front of generals, sir."

  The general brayed a laugh. "No, I suppose not."

  General Carlos Henze, U.S. Army, was the Supreme Allied Commander of Europe (SACEUR) for NATO's combined forces. As wiry as a coiled spring, Henze wore his graying hair short, which, of course, was expected in the military. But it was not the boot-camp buzz affected by marine generals and other stiff-necks to show they were plain, no-nonsense soldiers who slogged through the muck like any other hero. Instead, his hair grew down to an inch above the collar of his immaculately tailored, charcoal-brown, two-piece suit, which he wore with the easy familiarity of the CEO of a Fortune 500 corporation. He was the new breed of general, integrated and fully prepared for the twenty-first century.

  The general gave a crisp nod. "All right, Colonel. What say I tell you what I know, okay? Have a seat. That couch will do."

  Smith sat on the ornate velvet couch from the time of Napoleon III, while the general returned to his window and bucolic view, his back again to Smith, who found himself wondering if this was Henze's way of focusing a roomful of division and regimental commanders on the matter at hand. It was a good trick. Smith thought he might try using it in one of the meetings with his notoriously disorganized fellow research scientists.

  The general said, "So we've maybe got some kind of new machine that can access and control all the world's electronic software and hardware, including any country's codes, encryptions, electronic keys for launching missiles, command structures, and instructions. That about sum up what the gizmo will be able to do, assuming it exists?"

  "For military purposes, yes," Smith agreed.

  "Which is all that con
cerns me and, right now, you. History can handle the rest." His back still facing Smith, the general raised his gaze to the steely clouds that hid the May sky, as if wondering whether the sun would ever shine again. "Every sign is that the man who built it is dead, and his records are ash. No one claims responsibility for the bomb that killed him, which is unusual among terrorists but not unheard of." This time Henze simply stopped speaking, an almost imperceptible stiffening of his back and shoulders indicating he expected a response, either yes or no.

  Smith repressed a sigh. "Yes, sir, except that we can add the probable assassin, affiliation unknown, who attempted to kill Dr. Zellerbach in the hospital this morning."

  "Right." Now Henze turned. He stalked to a brocade chair, dropped into it, and glared at Smith as only a general could. "Okay, I've got some information for you, too. The president said I was to extend all help, and keep mum about you, and I'm not in the habit of ignoring orders. So this is what my people and the CIA have found out: The night of the explosion, a black van was seen parked behind the Pasteur annex on the rue des Volontaires. Just minutes before the explosion, it left the area. You know Chambord had a research assistant?"

  "Yes. Last I heard, the French authorities were looking for him. He's been found?"

  "Dead. Suicide. He killed himself last night in a miserable little hotel outside Bordeaux. He'd been vacationing in a village on the coast, painting the fishermen, of all fool things. According to one of the kid's Paris friends, Chambord had told him he was working too hard, take a vacation, and that's his idea of fun. These French. So what was he doing in a fleabag on the wrong side of the Garonne?"

  "They're sure it was suicide?"

  "So they say. The CIA tells me the owner of the fleabag remembers the assistant was carrying a briefcase when he checked in. He noticed, because it's more luggage than most of his so-called guests have. You know what I mean it's that kind of 'hotel.' The deal was that the assistant was alone, no girlfriend, no boyfriend. And if he did have a briefcase, it's missing now."

  "You figure the bombers hit again, made the murder look like a suicide, and then took the briefcase and whatever was in it."

  Henze jumped up, paced, and marched back to his favorite post at the window. "Thinking about it is, the president tells me, your job. But I will say the CIA is of the opinion the suicide has a rank odor, even though the Sret seems satisfied."

  Smith pondered. "The research assistant would've known Chambord's progress, but that alone wouldn't necessarily have been enough reason to kill him. After Chambord's death, and the rumors of success, we'd have to act as if Chambord built a working molecular machine anyway. So I'd say there had to be more reason. Most likely, the briefcase, as you suspect. The assistant's notes maybe Chambord's own notes something inside that they considered dangerous or critical."

  "Yeah," Henze growled, and turned to give Smith a baleful stare. "So, because Diego Garcia happened, it looks like the bombers have the data for whatever Chambord created, which you think's an honest-to-God working molecular supercomputer"

  "A prototype," Smith corrected.

  "What does that mean?"

  "It's probably bulky, not easily portable. Glass and tubes and connections. Not yet the sleek commercial models we'll see in the future."

  The general frowned. "The important question is, will it do the job?"

  "With a competent operator, it sure looks like it."

  "Then what's the difference? They have this damn thing, and we have bubkes. Now, ain't that a kick in the eye."

  "Yessir. In fact, I'd say that was a serious mule kick."

  Henze nodded soberly. "So get it out of my eye, Colonel."

  "I'll do my best, General."

  "Do better. I'm going to have my Deputy Commander at NATO that's General La Porte to you get in touch. He's a Frenchman. Their military is naturally concerned. Since this is their country, the White House wants to keep them feeling happy, but not give them any more than we absolutely have to, understand? La Porte has already been sniffing around about you and Dr. Zellerbach. I get the impression he senses he's being left out of the loop everywhere that's the French again. I told him you're here as a friend of Dr. Zellerbach, but I can see he's skeptical. He's heard about that little fracas at the Pompidou Hospital, so be prepared for a bunch of personal questions, but stick to your story." Henze crossed to the door, opened it, and held out his hand. "Keep in touch. Whatever you need, call. Sergeant Matthias over there will walk you out."

  Smith shook the iron hand. Out in the corridor, the short, stocky sergeant was not happy to leave his post. He opened his mouth to argue with the general a career master sergeant, for sure but caught his boss's eye and thought better of it.

  Without a word, he escorted Smith down the stairs and past the concierge, who was smoking a Gitane behind her counter. As Smith passed, he spotted the butt of a 9mm pistol in the waistband of her skirt. Someone was taking no chances with the security around General Carlos Henze, U.S.A.

  The sergeant stopped at the door, watching until Smith walked safely across the courtyard, through the archway that led to the street, and on out to the sidewalk. Smith paused beside a tree and gazed all around at the thick traffic, the few pedestrians and his heart seemed to stop. He whirled.

  He had caught a glimpse of a face in the backseat of a taxi as it turned from the street to the courtyard. Chilled, Smith counted to five and slipped back around to where he could get a view of the pension's entrance through bushes.

  Although the fellow wore a hat, Smith had recognized the dark features, the thick mustache, and now he recognized the lean figure as well. It was the fake orderly who had gone to the hospital to kill Marty. The same man who had knocked Smith unconscious. He had just reached the pension's door. The same door through which Smith had left. The sergeant was still standing there. He stepped politely aside to let the killer enter. An utter professional, the sergeant looked protectively around, stepped back, and closed the door.

  Chapter Seven

  A heavy spring twilight settled like a darkening blanket on Seine-St-Denis on the north side of Paris, beyond the boulevard Périphérique. Smith paid his taxi driver and got out, smelling the metallic odor of ozone. The warm air was close, almost stifling with humidity, threatening rain.

  Pausing on the sidewalk, he jammed his hands into his trench-coat pockets and studied a narrow, three-story beige brick apartment building. This was the address Mike Kerns had given him for Thérèse Chambord. The place was quaint, picturesque, with a peaked roof and decorative stonework, and it stood in a row of similar structures that had probably been constructed in the late fifties or early sixties. Her building appeared to be divided into three apartments, one to a floor. There were lights on in windows in each story.

  He turned and surveyed the street, where cars were parked with two wheels up on the curbs in the French way. A sporty Ford cruised past, its headlights shooting funnels of white light into the dusk. The block was short, porch lights and street lamps glowed, and at the end, near an elevated rail service, rose an ultramodern, eight-story hotel of poured concrete, also painted beige, perhaps to blend in with the lower apartment buildings.

  Wary, Smith turned on his heel and walked to the hotel. He stood in the lobby a half hour, cautiously watching through the glass walls, but no one followed him onto the street or into the hotel. No one went into or left Thérèse Chambord's building either.

  He searched through the hotel until he found a service entrance that opened onto a cross street. He slipped out and hurried to the corner. Peering around, he saw no sign of surveillance at the lobby entrance or anywhere else in the neighborhood near Thérèse Chambord's apartment. There were few, if any, places to hide, except for the cars parked on both sides. But all appeared empty. With a nod to himself, he moved briskly-back to Mile. Chambord's address, still surveying all around.

  In the recessed entryway, there was a white calling card with her name engraved on it, slid into the address slot for the thir
d floor. He rang her bell and announced his name and purpose.

  He rode the elevator up, and when it opened, she was standing in her open doorway, dressed in a slim white evening suit, a high-necked, off-white silk blouse, and high-heeled, ivory pumps. It was as if she were an Andy Warhol painting, white on white, with a violent and focusing touch of blood red in a pair of long, dangling earrings and again at her full lips. Then there was the contrast of her hair, satin black, suspended in an ebony cloud above her shoulders, theatrical and appealing. She was an actress all right. Still, her dramatic flair could also be the simple reflex of talent and experience.

  A large black handbag hung over her left shoulder as if she were about to go out. He walked toward her.

  She spoke flawless English, no trace of an accent. "I don't know what I can tell you about my father, or that poor man in the hospital they say might've been in his lab with him when when the bomb exploded, Mr.Smith, is it?"

  "Dr. Jon Smith, yes. Can you give me ten minutes? Dr. Zellerbach is a very old and close friend. We grew up together."

  She studied her watch, biting her lower lip with small, incredibly white teeth, as she calculated in her head. At last she nodded. "All right, ten minutes. Come in. I have a performance tonight, but I'll forgo a few minutes of yoga."

  The apartment was not what he expected from the building's quaint facade. Two walls were composed entirely of glass, giving it a very modern feel. On a third wall, tall glass doors opened onto a wraparound balcony with a railing of stark, geometric wrought-iron patterns.

  On the other hand, the rooms were large but not enormous, with elegant period furniture from Louis Quatorze to Second Empire, haphazardly mixed and heavily packed into the room in the Parisian fashion that never seemed cluttered and somehow ended up being totally, and improbably, harmonious. Smith glimpsed two bedrooms through half-open doors as well as a small but efficient kitchen. Regal, warm, comfortable, and contemporary.