Then he heard that same strange, soft sound that seemed almost a part of the wind. It gave him a start. Obviously there was no wind inside this modern, bustling airlines terminal, at least none that was natural. He looked sharply at the woman who was swathed in black, instantly regretting that he no longer had his Sig Sauer.

  She seemed to sense his interest. She looked up, gazed boldly into his eyes, and winked. And humbly bowed her head. Jon repressed a smile. Peter had fooled him. The faint strains of a whistled tune reached his ears”Rule Britannia.” The old SAS trooper loved his little jokes and amusements.

  When his flight was finally called, Jon was still scanning all around for Randi, his stomach tight with worry. She had been first to leave. She should have arrived here by now.

  After leaving Peter and Jon, Randi had run down the central staircase, stopping to knock on doors until she found an apartment on the first floor where there was no response. She picked the lock, hurried inside, and discovered a closet filled with flamboyant women’s clothes. She chose a tight skirt that flared wide below the hips and looked as if it had been designed for the swirl of a flamenco dancer. Quickly she put it on as well as a peasant blouse and high-heeled black pumps. She shook out her hair so it was loose and fluffy around her head, and then she hung her MP5K submachine gun under the skirt from her waist.

  The apartment building was quiet, and she was just beginning to relax, when she reached the front entry hall with its fake palms and expensive oriental carpeting. But through the glass panel on the front door she could see five masked men running toward her, glancing warily back over their shoulders as if they were being chased. She felt a burst of fear. The terrorists.

  She retrieved her weapon, wheeled around, yanked open a door beneath the stairs, and dashed down into a dark basement. Breathing hard, she listened intently. As the basement door opened above again, she sprinted away from the light, batting aside spiderwebs. Feet clattered down. The door closed, and sooty darkness spread. Men grumbled in Arabic, and she realized from their conversation that they had not noticed her. The five were here because they were hiding, too.

  Out on the street, some kind of heavy vehicle screeched to a stop, booted feet pounded the pavement, and orders were given in Spanish. The Guardia Civil shock troops had arrived, and they were spreading out to hunt for the terrorists.

  Inside the basement, the men’s voices were angry now, continuing low in Arabic:

  “Who are you, Abu Auda, to tell us to die for Allah? You’ve never even seen Mecca or Medina. You may speak our language, but not a single drop of the blood of the prophets runs in your veins. You’re a Fulani, a mongrel.”

  A deep voice, hard and tight, sneered, “You’re a coward who doesn’t deserve the name of Ibrahim. If you believe in the Prophet, how can you be so afraid to die a martyr’s death?”

  “Afraid to die? No, black one. That’s not it at all. We were beaten today. But that’s just today. There’ll be better times. To die senselessly is an affront to Islam.”

  A third voice said contemptuously, “You tremble like a timid woman, Ibrahim.”

  And a fourth: “I stand with Ibrahim. He’s proved himself over more years than you’ve lived. We’re warriors, not fanatics. Let the mullahs and imams prattle of jihad and martyrdom. I speak of victory, and a Spanish prison has many doors for those who’ll fight on for Allah.”

  The deep voice asked quietly, “You’ll surrender, then? You, too, Ibrahim? And Ali as well?”

  “It’s wise,” the first voice, Ibrahim, announced with a tremor of fear. “M. Mauritania will find some way to free us quickly, because he needs all his fighters to strike his great blows against our enemies.”

  The contemptuous voice was impatient. “You know there’s no time to free any of us. We’ve got to fight our way out now like men, or die for Allah.”

  More angry arguments from the trio who favored surrender were abruptly cut off by three low, sharp sounds. Silenced gunfire. Probably from the same weapon. Randi listened as the silence stretched for what seemed minutes but was probably only seconds. She kept her MP5K aimed into the impenetrable darkness toward the sounds of the shots. Her stomach tightened into a knot.

  At last the voice that had spoken third, the man who claimed to be ready to die, asked softly, “So you’ll kill me, too, Abu Auda? I was the only one who dared to stand with you against the other three.”

  “It’s unfortunate. But you look too much like an Arab, and you don’t speak Spanish. All men can be made to reveal what they know under the right circumstances. You’re a risk. However, a single black man such as myself who does speak Spanish can perhaps escape.”

  Randi could almost hear the other man nod. “I’ll greet Allah in your name, Abu Auda. Praise Allah!”

  The final silenced shot made Randi jump. She wanted to see the face of the man whom they had called the Fulani, the black one, who could kill a friend as easily as an enemy. Abu Auda.

  She backed away as his footsteps approached. Chills shot along her spine. She followed the sounds with her weapon trained and heard an exhalation of breath, almost a sigh of relief, as a door opened into the night about ten feet to her right. Moonlight shone in, and she stared at the terrorist who had opened ita giant black man who was dressed like an ordinary Spanish worker. He stepped outside and lifted his face toward the heavens as if saying a silent prayer of gratitude for his freedom. When he turned to grasp the door handle, light from a window caught in his eyes, and they flashed an odd brown-green.

  Before the door had closed, she remembered where she had seen him: He was the white-robed bedouin who had led the attack against her at the farmhouse outside Toledo. Now she had a name for him, too: Abu Auda. She ached to open fire, but dared not. In any case, she had better uses for him.

  She turned abruptly. Light had appeared on the other side of the basement again. The door above the stairs had been opened, and booted feet were pounding down into the cellarthe Guardia Civil.

  She forced herself to count to ten, then she pulled open the outside cellar door, glanced quickly around, stepped out into a courtyard, and closed the door. Somewhere a dog barked, while out on the street a car cruised past. She dismissed the sounds of normalcy.

  It was only a matter of time until the Guardia Civil found the door and tried it. She ran toward a gate. It was the courtyard’s only exit, and she hoped to find the terrorist beyond it. Just as she rushed through and into an alley, she heard the cellar door open behind her. She put on a burst of speed, disgusted with the clumsiness of the high heels. She tightened her ankles and raced determinedly onward to the street, waiting for the sounds of shouts and pounding feet behind her.

  But they never came. She must have been sufficiently fast that they had not seen her. Breathing deeply, she looked around. There was no sign of Abu Auda. She slowed, hooked her MP5K up under her flared skirt again, and stepped out onto the street. For a moment, excitement coursed through her as she saw Abu Auda again. He was approaching the cornerhellip;but police stationed there stopped him. Aching to capture and interrogate him herself, she watched as one of the officers examined his papers. But the inspection was only cursory: After all, a black man with Spanish papers could not be an Arab terrorist.

  Randi rushed through the street’s yellow pools of lamplight, but they were already letting him pass. The police turned to stare at her, their faces grim. She was next. She did not mind their questions, because she had good fake ID. What concerned her was the delay of having to deal with them.

  As she watched Abu Auda turn the corner and disappear, she thought quickly. And began to swing her hips. She swayed toward them in her best imitation of the fiery Carmen, heels clicking on the street rhythmically.

  As she approached, their expressions grew interested. She smiled widely, spun on her toes, and flipped the back of her skirt at them just enough for a flash of panties but not enough to show the weapon that dangled in front. They grinned and whistled in salute, and she passed by, holding her breath, heart thudding against her ribs, until one demanded her phone number. With snapping eyes, she gave him a phony one.

  As the others pounded him on the back in congratulations, she sauntered off and around the same corner that Abu Auda had taken. And stopped, gazing all around, searching the lamplight and shadows of the street for him. But he was nowhere in sight. She had gone through the checkpoint faster than he had, but not fast enough. Disappointed, she moved on, looking everywhere, until finally she reached the next intersection and was forced to believe she had been too slow, ormore likelyhe was already gone.

  She hailed a taxi and told the driver to take her to the airport. Sitting back in the dim interior, she considered what she had learned: First, the black Crescent Shield leader from the Fulani tribe was named Abu Auda and he spoke Spanish and Arabic. Second, whatever the Crescent Shield planned to do were to be massive blows. Thirdand most worrisome was that it would happen soon. Very soon.

  Covert One 3 - The Paris Option

  Chapter Nineteen

  Paris, France Thursday, May 8

  In the ultramodern Pompidou Hospital, Marty Zellerbach had been moved to a private room, where Legionnaires now guarded his door. Peter Howell pulled up a chair to Marty’s bed and said cheerfully, “Well, old friend, this is a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into. Can’t leave you on your own for long, can I? That’s righthellip;Howell here. Peter Howell, who taught you all that you know about firearms. Oh, don’t try to deny it or claim weapons are vulgar and stupid. I know better.” Smiling to himself, he paused, rememberinghellip;.

  It had been night, black night, in a large state park outside Syracuse, New York. He and Marty were trapped in his RV at the edge of the woods, surrounded by hired thugs whose gunfire had shot out all the windows. He threw Marty an assault rifle. “When I say point, just pull the trigger, my boy. Imagine the weapon’s simply a joystick.”

  He could see Marty’s expression of distaste as he examined the rifle and grumbled to himself, “There are some things I never wanted to learn.” He gave a pained sigh. “Naturally, I understand this primitive machine. Child’s play.”

  Marty was as good as his word. When Peter told him to fire, Marty nodded and squeezed the trigger. The weapon bucked hard, and Marty fought to keep his balance and to keep his eyes open. His barrage shredded leaves and pine needles, ripped bark, sawed through branches, and created so much havoc that their attackers had been momentarily stopped. Which was just what Peter had needed to slip away and go for help.

  Peter liked to think of himself as a peaceful man, but the truth was, he enjoyed action. To his way of thinking, he was just an old English bulldog, who relished getting his fangs into something worthwhile. He leaned over the bed’s railing and told Marty, “Took to bloody combat like a duck to water, you did.” It was far from true, but it was the sort of annoying statement that always got a rise out of Marty.

  Peter waited, hoping Marty’s eyes would snap open and he would say something insulting. When nothing happened, he turned to look back at Dr. Dubost, who was standing at the end of the bed, entering information into Marty’s computer chart. Peter raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  “It’s a small relapse,” the doctor explained in French. “They’re to be expected.”

  “They’ll diminish with time?”

  “Oui.

  All the signs are there. Now I’m off, monsieur, to see other patients. Please continue your conversation with Dr. Zellerbach, by all means. Your ebullience is charming, and it can’t but help.”

  Peter scowled. “Ebullience” did not strike him as an accurate description, but then the French were known to be slightly off kilter in their understanding of a lot of things. He said a polite adieu and turned back to Marty. “Alone at last,” he muttered, suddenly feeling tired and very worried.

  He had dozed on the jet ride from Madrid, giving him more consecutive hours of sleep than he had on many assignments, but it was the worry itself that nagged him. He had been thinking about the Crescent Shield, that it appeared to be pan-Islamic. There was no shortage of countries in the Third World that hated the United States and, to a lesser extent, Britain, claiming great damage from their driving capitalism, that their brand of globalization ignored local customs and businesses and destroyed the environment, and that their cultural arrogance crushed sensible protest. He was reminded of that old died-in-the-wool Tory, Winston Churchill, who had explained blithelyand accurately that His Majesty’s government did not base its practices and policies on the whims of locals. Whether the Crescent Shield were fundamentalists or not religious at all seemed less worrisome to him than the poverty that gave rise to so much terrorism.

  The voice that brought him out of his uneasy reverie was not Marty’s: “You couldn’t wait for me?”

  Automatically, Peter grabbed for his gun and turned. And relaxed. It was Randi Russell, marching into the private room, the credentials she had shown the guard at the door still in her hand.

  “To where, may I ask,” Peter admonished, “did you disappear?”

  Randi put away her ID, and Peter met her in the middle of the room. She related what she had seen and done since they separated in Madrid. The sexy flamenco outfit she described was gone, and now she was dressed in serviceable twill slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a tailored black jacket. Her blond hair was pulled back into a stubby ponytail, and her brown eyes were worried as she told him, “I got to Barajas about ten minutes after the two of you had flown out.”

  “You had Jon’s wind up a bit. The poor sod was anxious about you.”

  At that, she grinned. “Was he now?”

  “Save it for Jon, my girl,” Peter declared. “For me, I never doubted. You say Abu Auda was leading them?” He looked grim. “Possibly some Nigerian warlord is helping the Crescent Shield. It gets murkier with every new detail.”

  “It sure does,” Randi agreed. “But the most vital piece of information I overheard was that whatever they’re planning is going to happen soon. Two days, at the most.”

  “Then we’d best get a move on,” Peter told her. “Check in with your station chief yet?”

  “Not before I saw Marty. Is he asleep?”

  “Relapsed.” Peter sighed wearily. “With any luck, he’ll wake again soon. When he does, I shall be here in case he can tell us anything we haven’t learned.”

  “Is this your chair?” She headed for the armchair he had moved next to Marty’s bed. “Mind if I use it?” She sat without waiting for an answer.

  “Certainly,” he said. “Be my guest.”

  She ignored the sarcasm and picked up Marty’s hand. It had a natural warmth that was reassuring. She leaned forward and kissed his pudgy cheek. “He looks good,” she told Peter. Then she said to Marty, “Hi, Marty. It’s Randi, and I just want you to know how great you look. As if you’re going to wake up any moment and say something wonderfully disagreeable to Peter.”

  But Marty was silent, his jaw relaxed, his high forehead uncreased, as if he had never had an unpleasant experience. But that was far from the truth. After the Hades problem had been resolved, and Marty had returned to his solitary life in his bungalow hidden behind high hedges in Washington, he might have left bullets and terrifying escapes behind, but he still had to deal with the normal activities of everyday life. For someone with Asperger’s, they could be overwhelming. Which was why Marty had designed his home as a mini fortress.

  When Randi had arrived to visit him the first time, he had put her through her paces, demanding she identify herself even though he could see her in his surveillance camera. But then he had unlocked the barred interior cage, hugged her, and stepped back bashfully to welcome her into his cottage, where all the windows were protected by steel bars and thick drapes. “I don’t have visitors, you know,” he explained in his high, slow, precise voice. “I don’t like them. How about some coffee and a cookie?” His eyes made glittering contact and then skittered away again.

  He made instant Yuban decaf, handed her an Oreo cookie, and took her into a computer room where a formidable Cray mainframe and other computer equipment of every possible description filled all wall space and most of the floor, while the few pieces of furniture looked like Salvation Army discards, although Marty was a multimillionaire. She knew from Jon that Marty had tested at the genius level since the age of five. He had two Ph.D.sone in quantum physics and mathematics, of course, and the other in literature.

  He had launched into a description of a new computer virus that had caused some $6 billion in damage. “This was a particularly nasty one,” he explained earnestly. “It was self-replicatingwe call them worms and it e-mailed itself to tens of millions of users and jammed e-mail systems around the globe. But the guy who started it left behind his digital fingerprinta thirty-two-digit Globally Unique IDwe call them GUIDsthat identified his computer.” He rubbed his hands gleefully. “See, GUIDs are sometimes embedded in the computer code of files saved in Microsoft Office programs. They’re hard to find, but he should’ve made real sure his was erased. Once I located his GUID, I tracked it to files all over the Internet until I finally pinpointed one that actually contained his name. His whole name can you believe it?in an e-mail to his girlfriend. Dumb. He lives in Cleveland, and the FBI says they have enough evidence to arrest him now.” The smile on Marty’s face had been radiant with triumph.

  As she remembered all this, Randi leaned over Marty’s hospital bed to give him another kiss, this one on the other cheek. She stroked it tenderly, hoping he would stir. “You’ve got to get better soon, Marty, dear,” she told him at last. “You’re my favorite person to eat Oreo cookies with.” Her eyes felt moist. At last she stood up. “Take good care of him, Peter.”

  “I will.”

  She headed toward the door. “I’m off to check in with my station chief and find out what he can tell me about Mauritania and the DNA computer hunt. Then it’s Brussels. In case Jon does call here, remind him I’ll look for a message at the Cafeacute; Egmont.”