Jon’s chest tightened. “A molecular computer. Can’t be anything else. And they’ve got someone who can operate it. Check whether any computer hackers are missing. Get the other agencies on it.”

  “Already have.”

  “What about Chambord and his daughter? Do you have anything for me?”

  “In my hand. His bio, but it doesn’t seem useful.”

  “Maybe you’ve missed something. Give me the highlights.”

  “Very well. He was born in Paris. His father was a French paratroop officer, killed during the siege at Dien Bien Phu. His mother was Algerian and raised him alone. He showed a genius for math and chemistry early, went through all the best French schools on scholarships, did his doctoral work at Cal Tech, postdoc at Stanford under their leading geneticist, and post-post doc at the Pasteur Institute. After that, he held professional positions in Tokyo, Prague, Morocco, and Cairo, and then returned about ten years ago to the Pasteur. As for his personal life, his mother raised him as a Muslim, but he showed little interest in religion as an adult. Hobbies were sailing, single-malt Scotch whiskies, hiking in the countryside, and gambling, mainly roulette and poker. Not much of Islam in there. That help?”

  Smith paused, thinking. “So Chambord was a risk-taker, but not extreme. He liked his little relaxations, and he didn’t mind change. In fact, it sounds as if he could be restless. Certainly he wasn’t bogged down by a need for stability or continuity, unlike a lot of scientists. He trusted his own judgment, too, and could make big leaps. Just the characteristics one wants in fine theoretical and research scientists. We already knew he didn’t especially follow rules and procedures. It all fits. So what about the daughter? Is she the same type?”

  “An only child, close to her father, especially since her mother’s death. Science scholarships exactly like her father, but not with his early brilliance. When she was about twenty, she was bitten by the acting bug. She studied in Paris, London, and New York, and then worked in provincial French towns until she finally made a splash in live theater in Paris. I’d say her personality’s a lot like Chambord himself. Unmarried, apparently never even been engaged. She’s been quoted as saying, ‘I’m too single-minded about my work to settle down with anyone outside the business, and actors are wrapped up in themselves and unstable, just as I probably am.’ That’s Chambord all over againmodest, realistic. She’s had plenty of admirers and boyfriends. You know the drill.”

  Smith smiled in the dark room at Klein’s primness. It was one of the odd quirks about the lifelong clandestine operative. Klein had seen or done just about everything anyone could, was nonjudgmental, but drew the line at discussing anything remotely graphic about people’s sexual behavior, despite being quite ready to send a Juliet agent to seduce a target, if that’s what had to be done to get what was needed.

  Smith told him, “That fits my assessment of her, too. What it doesn’t fit is her kidnapping. I’ve been thinking about her being able to operate a prototype DNA computer. If she’s been out of science for years and hasn’t seen much of her father in months, then why did they want her?”

  “I’m not cer” Klein’s voice abruptly vanished, cut off in mid-word.

  The silence in Smith’s ear was profound. A void that almost reverberated. “Chief?” Smith was puzzled. “Chief? Hello! Fred, can you hear me?”

  But there was no dial tone, no buzz, no interruption signal. Smith took the cell phone from his ear and examined it. The battery was live. The charge was full. He turned it off, turned it on, and dialed Klein’s private number at Covert-One in Washington, D.C.

  Silence. Again, there was no dial tone. No static. Nothing. What had happened? Covert-One had innumerable backup systems for power failures, enemy interference, satellite blackout, sunspot interference. For everything and anything. Plus, the connection was routed through the top-secret U.S. Army communications system run out of Fort Meade, Maryland. Still, there was nothing but silence.

  When he tried other numbers and continued to be unable to get through, he powered up his laptop and composed an innocent-sounding e-mail: “Weather abruptly changing. Thunder and lightning so loud you can’t hear yourself speak. How are conditions there?”

  As soon as he sent it off, he pulled back the drapes and opened the shutters. Immediately, the fresh scent of the rain-washed city filled the room, while pale, predawn light formed a backdrop for the dramatic skyline. He wanted to stay and enjoy the view, the sense of newness, but too much was preying on his mind. He pulled on his bathrobe, dropped the Sig Sauer into the pocket, and returned to the computer, where he sat again at the desk. An error message stared at him from his screen. The server was down.

  Shaking his head, worried, he dialed his cell phone again. Silence. He sat back, his anxious gaze moving around the room and then back to his laptop’s screen.

  Diego Garcia’s communications.

  The Western power grid.

  Now the U.S. military’s ultrasecret, ultrasecure wireless communications.

  All had failed. Why? The first salvos from whoever had Chambord’s DNA computer? Tests to make certain it worked, and that they, whoever “they” were, could control the machine? Or perhaps, if the world was lucky, this shutdown was caused by an exceptionally good hacker on an ordinary silicon computer.

  Yeah. He really believed that.

  If those who had the DNA computer were suspicious of him, then they might be able to track him here through his cell phone conversation with Fred Klein.

  He jumped up, dressed, and threw clothes into his overnight bag. He repacked his laptop, bolstered his Sig Sauer, and, grabbing his luggage, he left. As he trotted down the stairs, he watched and listened, but there was no sign anyone else in the hotel was awake so early. He sped past the deserted front desk and slipped out the door. Paris was beginning to awaken. He moved quickly along the narrow side street. He scanned every doorway, studied the dark windows that watched him like the hundred eyes of a Greek monster, and finally blended into the growing traffic and few pedestrians on the boulevard Saint-Germain.

  Eventually he was able to hail a sleepy taxi driver who delivered him to the Gare du Nord rail station, where he checked his suitcase and laptop. Still watching all around, he took a different taxi to the Pompidou Hospital to visit Marty. As soon as the wireless communications were up and running again, he knew Fred Klein would be in touch.

  Covert One 3 - The Paris Option

  Chapter Nine

  In her usual battered flat shoes and dowdy clothes, the dark-haired woman walked timidly along the exotic Paris street, redolent in the early morning with the odors of North Africa and the Middle East.

  As she peered up, Mauritania stepped from his building’s vestibule. The diminutive terrorist was dressed in a loose raincoat and light corduroy trousers, looking like any Parisian workman. He glanced at her, and in that glance was the eagle eye of two decades of on-the-run experience. It missed little. Since her clothes were properly faded and cared-for, the flat shoes patched by a cheap repair shop, and the battered handbag that of a woman three times her age, as would be expected in a young but frightened soul, Mauritania was reassured. In his usually cautious way, he rounded several corners and doubled back, but the woman never appeared again. Satisfied, he entered the meacute;tro.

  The woman had followed Mauritania through the first few turns, until his maneuvers convinced her he would be gone long enough for her purposes. She hurried back to his building, where the windows remained unlighted and showed no sign of activity. She picked the front-door lock, climbed the stairs to the third-floor apartment where Mauritania was staying, and picked that lock as well.

  She stepped into what first appeared to be a tent in the wilds of Arabia or the heart of the Sahara. The rugs seemed to shift under her feet as if resting on sand. Carpets on the walls and ceiling closed claustrophobically in on her, and the rugs over the windows explained the dark windows at all times of the day and night. Amazed, she remained unmoving for some time, taking it all in, until she finally shook her head and went to work. Listening to be certain she was alone, she methodically searched every square inch of the rooms.

  In the Pompidou Hospital, Smith sat beside the still-unconscious Marty, who lay small and frail in the muted light of the ICU. Outside the cubicle, a man in plainclothes had joined the pair of uniformed gendarmes. Marty’s sheets and blankets were still smooth, as if he had not stirred in days. But that was far from true. Marty was occasionally moving on his own, and meanwhile therapists were coming in regularly to work with him.

  Smith knew all this, because as soon as he had arrived, he checked Marty’s computer chart. The chart also showed that his physical condition was continuing to improve. In fact, Marty would likely be moved from the ICU soon, even though he remained in a coma.

  “Hi, Marty.” Smith smiled at him, took his hand, which was warm and dry, and again reminisced, recalling their childhoods, the years growing up together, and college. He covered the same territory as before, but with more details, because as he recounted the past, it grew more vivid in his own mind. As he was chatting, filling the time while, more important, trying to stimulate Marty’s brain, he had an idea.

  “The last time we had a good long talk,” Smith said, “you were still at home in Washington.” He studied the sleeping features. “I heard you boarded an airplane and flew over here by yourself. Man, was I impressed. The only way I could convince you to even get near a plane was when we had trigger-happy gunmen on our tails. Remember? And now here you are, in Paris.”

  He waited, hoping the name of the city would elicit a response. But Marty’s face remained listless.

  Smith continued, “And you’ve been working at the Pasteur.”

  For the first time, he saw Marty rouse. It was almost as if a wave of energy passed through him when he heard the word Pasteur. His eyelids fluttered.

  “I’ll bet you wonder why I know all this,” Smith continued, hope growing inside him. “The daughter of Emile Chambord”

  Marty’s chin quivered at the mention of the scientist’s name.

  “told me you arrived unannounced at her father’s lab. Just walked right in and volunteered to help.”

  Marty’s lips seemed to shape a word.

  Excited, Smith leaned close. “What is it, Marty? I know you want to tell me something. It’s about the Pasteur and Dr. Chambord, isn’t it? Try, Marty. Try. Tell me what happened. Tell me about the DNA computer. You can do it!”

  Marty’s mouth opened and closed. His chubby face flushed. He was struggling to assemble thoughts and words, the effort straining his whole body. Smith had seen this in other coma victims. Sometimes they awoke quickly, all their faculties intact; other times it was a rebuilding process. For some, it was slow, for others, faster, much as if they were retraining a muscle that had been weakened by lack of use.

  Just then, Marty gave Smith’s hand a squeeze. But before Smith could squeeze back, Marty went limp, his face exhausted. It was all over in seconds, the struggle valiant but apparently too overwhelming for the injured man. Smith silently cursed the bomber, cursed whoever was behind all the violence. Then, as he sat there holding Marty’s hand, he resumed talking again. The antiseptic quiet of the room was broken only by his low voice and the inhuman clicks and whirs of machines, the blinking and flashing of LEDs and gauges. He continued on, working the key words into his conversation: Emile Chambord. The Pasteur Institute.

  A woman spoke behind him. “M. Smith?”

  He turned. ” Oui? “

  It was the nurse from the ICU front desk, and she held out a plain but expensive white envelope. “This is for you. It arrived not long ago, but I’ve been so busy I forgot you were here. I’m sorry. If I’d remembered, you could’ve spoken to the messenger yourself. Apparently, whoever wrote you has no idea where you’re staying.”

  Smith thanked her and took the envelope. As she returned to the front desk, he tore it open. The message was simple and to the point:

  Lt. Col. Dr. Smith,

  General the Count Roland la Porte will be at his Paris home this morning. He requests you report to him at your convenience. Please call me at the following telephone number to name the hour you will arrive. I will give you directions to the general’s home.

  Captain Darius Bonnard

  Aide-de-Camp to the General

  Smith remembered that General Henze had told him to expect an invitation to talk with the French general. This polite summons must be it. From what Henze had said, it sounded as if General La Porte was in the loop with the local police and the Deuxiegrave;me Bureau about both the bombing and Emile Chambord. With luck, he might be able to throw more light on Dr. Chambord and the elusive DNA computer.

  A large part of the grandeur of Paris arose from its magnificent private residences, many of which were tucked on side streets under branching trees near the boulevard Haussmann. One of those fine houses, it turned out, belonged to General Roland la Porte. Built of gray stone, it was five stories tall, fronted by a baronial columned entrance, and surrounded by balustrades and fine decorative stonework. It looked as if it had been built in the 1800s, during the sweeping imperial reconstruction of Paris by Baron Georges-Eugegrave;ne Haussmann. In those days, it would have been called a town mansion.

  Jon Smith used the old-fashioned knocker. The door was heavy and carved, the brass fittings gleaming.

  The man who answered the door wore a paratrooper’s uniform with the rank of captain and the insignia of the French general staff. He decided in crisp English, “You must be Lieutenant Colonel Jonathan Smith. You’ve made good time. Please come in.” Short, blond, and compact, he stood aside and gestured Smith to enter. “I’m Darius Bonnard.” He was all business, definitely military style.

  “Thank you, Captain Bonnard. I guessed as much.” As instructed, he had called ahead, and Bonnard gave him directions.

  “The general’s taking his coffee now. He’s asked that you join him.”

  The captain led him through a spacious entry foyer, where a graceful staircase curved upward to the second and third floors. They passed through a European-style doorway that had no frame and was wallpapered in the same French fleur-de-lis pattern as the grand entry. The room Smith entered was large, with a high ceiling on which were painted life-sized nymphs and cherubs on a pale blue background. There were gilded cornices, handsome moldings and wainscoting, and slender, delicate Louis Quatorze furniture. The place looked more like a ballroom than a coffee room.

  A hulking man was sitting by the window, sunbeams dancing above his head. Nodding Smith to a simple straight chair with a brocaded seat, he said in good but accented English, “Sit over there, if you will, Colonel Smith. How do you take coffee?”

  “Cream, no sugar, sir, thank you.”

  General the Count Roland la Porte wore an expensive business suit that would have been large on a defensive end in the NFL, but it fit him perfectly. Besides his great girth, he had a regal bearing, dark, thick hair worn as long and straight as that of a young Napoleon at the siege of Toulon, and a broad Breton face with piercing blue eyes. The eyes were remarkable, as immobile as a shark’s. Altogether, his presence was formidable.

  “My pleasure,” he said, smoothly polite. His oversized hands dwarfed the sterling coffee service as he poured and handed a bone-china cup to Smith.

  “Thank you, General.” Smith took it and said shamelessly, “It’s a privilege to meet one of the heroes of Desert Storm. Your flanking maneuver with the French Fourth Dragoons was bold. Without it, the allies never would’ve been able to secure the left flank.” Smith silently thanked Fred Klein for the thorough briefing he had received before he flew out of Colorado, because while he was in Iraq patching up the wounded on all sides, he had never heard of La Porte, who had been a lieutenant colonel back in those days.

  The general asked, “You were there, Colonel?”

  “Yessir. With a surgical unit.”

  “Ah, of course.” La Porte smiled at a memory. “Our tanks had not been camouflaged for the western Iraqi desert, so we French stood out like polar bears. But the Dragoons and I held our ground, ate the sand, as we say in the Legion, and turned out to be most lucky.” He studied Smith. “But you understand all that, don’t you? In fact, you have had combat experience, yes? Line command also, I think.”

  So La Porte had his people looking into him, as General Henze had warned. “Only briefly, yes. Why do you ask?”

  The general’s unblinking blue eyes fixed him like a butterfly on a pin and then retreated, still unblinking, but with a small smile. “Forgive me. It’s an old soldier’s vanity. I pride myself on my judgment of people. I guessed your training and experience from your carriage, your movements, your eyes, and your action at the Pompidou Hospital yesterday.” La Porte’s unmoving gaze peeled layers from his skin. “Few would have your unusual combination of medical and scientific expertise, and the skills and daring of a soldier.”

  “You’re far too kind, General.” Also too nosy, but then, as General Henze had said, La Porte was suspicious that something was up, and he had the interests of his country to protect.

  “Now to something far more important. Has there been any change in your friend’s condition at the hospital?”

  “Not so far, General.”

  “And what is your honest prognosis?”

  “As a friend or as a doctor?”

  A tiny furrow of annoyance appeared between the general’s hard eyes. He did not like fencing or hair-splitting. “As a friend and as a doctor.”

  “As a doctor, I’d say that his coma indicates his prognosis must be considered guarded. As a friend, I know he will recover soon.”

  “Your sentiments as a friend are, I’m sure, shared by all. But I fear it’s your medical opinion we value most. And that doesn’t give me confidence we can rely on Dr. Zellerbach to help us with information about Dr. Chambord.”