The Paris Option c-3 Read online

  "Please." Her swift glance looked him up and down, and she motioned to a sturdy Second Empire love seat.

  He smiled. She had weighed him in that glance and seated him accordingly. She leaned back in a more delicate Louis Quinze armchair. At a distance, standing in the doorway, she had seemed tall, a large and imposing woman, but once she was up close and seated, he realized she was barely five foot six. It was her presence that was large. She filled a doorway and a room. He guessed that on stage she could appear any size she wanted, as well as coarse or delicate, young or old. She projected an image that was larger than she, a sense of self that could control a stage as it did a living room.

  He thanked her and asked, "Did you know Marty Dr. Zellerbach was working with your father?"

  "Not for sure, no. My father and I were close, but we lived such busy and separate lives that we didn't see each other as much as we would've liked. We talked often on the telephone, though, and I recall he mentioned once he'd gotten the oddest and most wonderful collaborator an eccentric recluse from America who suffered from an obscure autistic disorder. But the fellow was also a computer genius. He implied that this Dr. Z, as he called him, had simply walked in one morning, fresh from the airport, and volunteered to be part of the research. When Dad realized who he was, and what he could do, he showed him everything. Dr. Z was soon advancing Dad's work with the most original innovations. But that's all I know about your friend." She added, "I'm sorry."

  She was sorry. Smith could hear it in her voice. Sorry for Marty, for her father, for herself, and for Smith. It was in her eyes, too, the impact of her father's shocking disappearance, the conclusion that it must mean he had been killed. An impact that left her walking in a mental limbo neither in the present nor in the past, but suspended between.

  He saw pain in her eyes. "It's a lot harder for you," he said. "At least Marty has a good chance."

  "Yes." She gave a vague nod. "I suppose that's true."

  "Did your father say anything that led you to think someone might've wanted to murder him? Someone whom he was afraid might try to steal his work?"

  "No. As I said, Dr. Smith, we saw each other infrequently, but even less so these last twelve months. In fact, we talked on the telephone less often, too. He was deeply immersed in his lab."

  "Did you know what he was working on?"

  "Yes, the DNA computer. Everyone knew what the project was. He hated secrets in science. He always said there was no place for such ego-centered nonsense."

  "From what I've heard, that was true up until last year. Any idea what happened to change him?"

  "No." There was no hesitation.

  "What about new friends? Women? Envious colleagues? A need for money?"

  She almost smiled. "Women? No, I think not. Of course, a child, especially a daughter, never knows for certain, but my father barely had time for my mother when she was alive, even though he was devoted to her. She knew that, and it enabled her to put up with her giant rival his laboratory. Dad was, as you Americans would say, a workaholic. He had no need for money and never even spent his large salary. He had few friends, only colleagues. None was new or particularly envious that I knew about. But then, they had no reason to be. All his associates had great reputations of their own."

  Smith believed her. The profile was prevalent among world-class scientists, especially the workaholic part. Enormous envy was unusual their egos were far too big to envy anyone. Compete, yes. Competition was fierce, and nothing delighted them more than the false starts, wrong lines of reasoning, and errors of their rivals. But if a competitor got ahead on the same project, they would be far more likely to applaud and then go to work improving on the other person's success.

  He asked, "When you did talk to him, was there a hint he was close to the goal? A working prototype?"

  She shook her head, and the cloud of long black hair resettled on her shoulders. "No. I'd remember that."

  "How about your intuition? You say you and he were close."

  She thought about it long enough to glance nervously at her watch. "There was a sense about him a feeling of elation the last time we had lunch. We were at a bistro near the Pasteur."

  "When?"

  "Oh, perhaps three weeks ago, probably less." She looked at the watch again and stood up. "I really must go." She smiled at him, a bold, direct smile. "Would you like to come to the theater tonight? See the performance and perhaps talk over dinner later?"

  Smith smiled in return. "I'd like nothing better, but not tonight. Rain check, as we Americans say?"

  She chuckled. "You'll have to tell me the derivation of that phrase sometime."

  "It'll be my pleasure."

  "Do you have a car?"

  Smith admitted he did not.

  "May I drive you? I'll take you wherever you want." She locked the apartment door behind them, and they rode down in the elevator together.

  In the intimate space, she smelled of spring lilacs. At the apartment building's front door, Smith pushed it open and gallantly held it.

  In appreciation, Thérèse Chambord gave him a dazzling smile of the perfect white teeth. "Merci beaucoup." She walked through.

  Smith watched her step into the dark night, elegant and composed in her white evening suit. It was one of those moments of personal enjoyment that he would not have minded lasting. He repressed a sigh, smiled at himself, and started to follow. He felt the motion before it actually registered. The door slammed back into him. Hard. Caught completely off guard, he skidded back and landed awkwardly on the floor.

  Outside in the night somewhere, Thérèse Chambord screamed.

  He yanked out his Sig Sauer, jumped back up to his feet, and rammed into the door, knocking it aside as if it were not there at all.

  He hit the dark sidewalk running, looking everywhere for Thérèse. Beneath his feet, glass crunched. His head jerked up. Above him, the entry lights were shattered, and out along the curb, the street lamps had also been shot out. Whoever they were, they were thorough. They must have used silencers, or he would have heard the noise.

  Gathering rain clouds blocked all moonlight and starshine. The whole street was dark, full of impenetrable shadows.

  As his heart thudded against his ribs, Smith spotted four figures. From ski masks to athletic shoes, they were clothed completely in black and therefore almost invisible. They were heaving and wrestling a violently resisting Thérèse Chambord into an equally black van. She was a streak of white, tape across her mouth, as she valiantly tried to fight them off.

  He altered course and put on a burst of speed, heading for the van and Thérèse. Faster, he told himself. Faster!

  But as he neared, a single, silenced gunshot made a loud pop in the quiet night. A bullet whined past so close that it singed his cheek. His ear rang, and a for a long moment he thought his head was going to crack open with pain. He blinked furiously as he dove to the street, made himself roll and then spring up, the Sig Sauer poised out in front of him, ready to fire. A wave of nausea wracked him. Had he reinjured his head?

  He blinked harder, forced himself to concentrate, and saw they had forced Thérèse Chambord into the van. He ran again, his feet pounding, fury shaking him. He raised his Sig Sauer and fired a warning shot into the ground at the feet of one of the men who were trying to kidnap Thérèse.

  "Stop!" Smith bellowed. "Stop, or I'll kill you all!" His head throbbed. He kept blinking his eyes.

  Two of the attackers spun expertly, crouched, and squeezed off rounds, forcing Smith to hit the ground again.

  As he raised up, aiming the Sig Sauer, the pair leaped into the van next to Thérèse, while the third jumped into the passenger seat. The man in the passenger seat struggled to close the door as the van ground gears and sped backward out of the driveway. The side door was still open.

  Smith aimed for the tires, squeezing off careful rounds. But there was a fourth man. As he ran alongside the van, preparing to leap inside through the open sliding door, the man fired back at Smi
th.

  Two of the kidnapper's shots bit into the pavement, sending chunks of concrete thudding into the back of Smith's head. He swore, rolled away, and fired. His bullet hit the fourth man in the back just as he had turned to jump inside the van. Blood sprayed out into the dark air, and the man's body arched in a bow. His hand slid off where he gripped the door handle, and he fell screaming as the rear wheel powered over him.

  Tires screeching, the van sped on out into the street and away. Smith chased after it, panting. As his feet hammered, his muscles began to ache. He ran and ran until his heart thundered and the van turned the corner and disappeared, a pair of red taillights the only sign that it existed and had not been part of some twisted nightmare.

  He stopped and leaned over, gasping for breath. He propped his empty hand and his gun hand on his thighs as he tried to fill his lungs. He hurt all over. And Thérèse Chambord was gone. At last he caught his breath. He filled his lungs and stood upright in a pool of yellow lamplight. His gun hand dangled at his side. He closed his eyes and inhaled, mentally testing his head. His mind. It did not hurt, and he was no longer dizzy.

  He was beginning to think he did have a mild concussion from the gunman this morning at the hospital. He would have to be more careful, but he was not going to stop.

  Cursing, he ran back to where the fourth attacker lay face down and unmoving on the dark Seine-St-Denis driveway, blood oozing out beneath. Smith checked him. He was dead.

  Sighing, he searched the man's pockets. He found French coins, a wicked-looking clasp knife, a package of Spanish cigarettes, and a wad of loose facial tissues. No wallet, no identification. The dead man's pistol lay on the pavement near the curb. It was a battered, old-model Glock, but well oiled and cared for. He examined it, focusing on the butt. A leather skin had been shrunk around the original grip, for comfort or silence, or maybe just as a mark of individuality. Smith looked closer. A design had been tooled faintly into the leather: It was a spreading tree with three points of flame rising over the base of the trunk, consuming it.

  Smith was studying it when police klaxons began to wail in the distance. He lifted his head, listening. He must not be found here. Pocketing the dead man's Glock, he hurried away.

  The Hotel Gilles was on the Left Bank, not far from the colorful shops and restaurants of the boulevard Saint-Germain. A discreet little hotel, it was where he had stayed many times when visiting Paris. He entered the tiny lobby and headed to the nineteenth-century registration desk, set in a hand-crafted, wrought-iron gilt cage. With every step, he worried more about Thérèse Chambord.

  The manager greeted him with a Gallic cry of recognition, an emotional hug, and a stream of rapid English. "Colonel Smith! So much delight! I am without speech. You will be with us for long?"

  "It's good to see you, too, Hector. I may be here for weeks, but I'll be in and out. Keep the room in my name whether I'm here or not until I officially check out. Okay?"

  "It is done. I refrain from examining the reservations, they are as nothing for you."

  "Merci beaucoup, Hector."

  In the pleasant although far-from-modern hotel room, he slung his bag and laptop onto the bed. Using his cell phone with its built-in scrambler, he dialed Fred Klein, waiting as the call bounced off innumerable relays around the world to finally be picked up wherever Fred was.

  "So?" Fred Klein said.

  "They've kidnapped Thérèse Chambord."

  "I just got the news. One of her neighbors saw quite a bit of it, including some crazy man who tried to stop the kidnapping. The French police relayed the information. Fortunately, the neighbor didn't get a good look at the man's face."

  "Fortunately," Smith agreed dryly.

  "The police have no clue who the kidnappers are, or why, and it's got them mighty unhappy. Why kill Chambord but only kidnap his daughter? If the bombers have full data for the molecular computer, why kidnap her at all? Was she taken by the same people who blew up the Pasteur and killed Chambord, or by other people entirely? Are there two groups involved — one that has the data and another that wants it, so they've snatched Mile. Chambord in the hope she has something to tell them?"

  "That's an unpleasant thought. A second group. Damn."

  "Hope I'm wrong." Klein sounded frustrated.

  "Yeah. Swell. But we've got to keep it in mind. What about the police report about me and Thérèse Chambord? Do I need to take a new cover?"

  "So far you're clear. They've questioned a taxi driver who took a man fitting your description to the Champs Élysées, where he got out and went into a nightclub. Luckily for us, no one in the nightclub recalls exactly what you look like, and of course you didn't give your name. The police have no other leads. Nice work."

  "Thanks," Smith said tiredly. "I need some help with the meaning of a symbol I found: It's a tree with a broad canopy, and there are three flames burning at its base as if fire is about to consume it." He explained how he had found the picture tooled lightly into the kidnapper's leather pistol grip.

  "I'll check on the image. How did your meetings with Mike Kerns and General Henze go?"

  Smith relayed what he had learned from both men, including the black Citron that periodically was seen picking up Chambord. "And there's something else you need to know. I hope it's not what it could be." He told the head of Covert-One about the "hospital orderly" who had been welcomed by the master sergeant into the highly secure pension where General Henze was staying.

  Klein swore under his breath. "What the devil's going on? It can't mean the general's mixed up in anything. Not with his record. If it's anything more than some bizarre coincidence, I'd be shocked. But it's got to be looked into. I'll handle it from my end."

  "Could the sergeant be a security problem? A mole of some kind?"

  Klein's voice hardened. "That's unthinkable, too. You stay away from it. We don't want anything to hurt your cover. I'll have Sergeant Matthias investigated from this end, too, and I'll find out about that tree symbol." Klein clicked off.

  Smith sighed, exhausted. He hoped an explanation of the tree graphic would lead him to Thérèse. With luck, the terrorists would not be far away. He moved his suitcase from the bed and pushed down on the familiar mattress. The bed was springy but firm in the French way, and he looked forward to spending some quality time in it, sleeping.

  In the bathroom, he stripped off his clothes and plunged into the shower. It had been installed in the ancient tub since he was here last. Once he had washed off the trip and the exertions of the day, he wrapped himself in a terry-cloth robe, sat at the window, and pushed open the shutters so he could gaze out across the steepled rooftops of Paris.

  As he sat there, his mind wandering and weary, the black sky suddenly split open with a bright bolt of lightning. Thunder crashed, and rain poured down. The storm that had threatened all day had finally arrived. He lifted his face outside his window and let the cool raindrops splash him. It was difficult to believe that only yesterday he had been in his laboratory at Fort Collins, the dawn rising over the sweeping prairies of eastern Colorado.

  Which made him think of Marty. He closed the shutters. As the rain made a rhythmic tattoo, he dialed the hospital. If anyone was listening in, they would hear the concerned friend they expected, using the phone innocently. No suspicions nor subterfuge.

  The ICU nurse told him Marty's condition was basically unchanged, but he was still showing small signs of progress. Feeling grateful, he said bonsoir, hung up, and dialed the hospital's security office. The chief was gone for the day, but an assistant reported nothing alarming or suspicious had happened involving either Marty or the ICU since the attempt on his life this morning. Yes, the police had increased the security.

  Smith was beginning to relax. He hung up, shaved, and was about to climb into bed when his cell phone gave off its low buzz. He answered it.

  Without preamble, Fred Klein reported: "The tree and fire are the emblem of a defunct Basque separatist group called the Black Flame. They were suppose
dly broken up years ago in a shootout in Bilbao where all their leaders were killed or, later, imprisoned. All but one of those locked up committed 'suicide' in prison. They haven't been heard from for years, and Basque terrorists usually claim responsibility for their acts. However, the more violent groups don't always. They're more focused on real change, not just propaganda."

  "So am I," Smith said, and he added, "And I've got one advantage."

  "What would that be?"

  "They didn't really try to kill me. Which means they don't know what I'm actually doing here. My cover's holding."

  "Good point. Get some sleep. I'll see if I can come up with anything more on your Basques."

  "One more favor? Dig deeper into Emile Chambord's past, will you? His whole history. I've got a hunch something's missing somewhere, and maybe it's there. Or maybe it's something vital that he could tell us, if he were alive. Thérèse might know it, too, without realizing it, and that could be why she's been taken. Anyway, it's worth a shot." He hung up.

  Alone in the darkened room, he listened to the sound of the rain and of tires on the wet street below. He thought about an assassin, a general, and a band of Basque fanatics who might be back in action with a vengeance. Fanatics with a purpose. With a deep sense of disquiet, he wondered where they would strike next, and whether Thérèse Chambord was still alive.

  Chapter Eight

  The hypnotic rhythms of a classical Indian raga floated on the hot, heavy air, trapped by the thick carpets and wall hangings that lined Mauritania's apartment. Seated cross-legged in the exact center of the main room, he swayed like a sinuous Buddha to the gentle yet strident sound. His eyes were closed, and a beatific smile wreathed his face. He sensed rather than saw the disapproving look of his lieutenant, Abu Auda, who had just entered.