The driver sped off in the same direction as the Subaru. Randi leaned forward behind the driver. “Has Max got the Subaru?”

  “Square in his sights,” Aaron Isaacs told her.

  “Great. Follow them.”

  Aaron nodded. “That Smith with you, or Howell?”

  She introduced them. “Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, M.D., at the moment attached to army intelligence. Jon, meet Aaron Isaacs, our chief in Paris.”

  Jon could feel Isaacs’s eyes studying him, trying to analyze what he saw, assess the truth of his story. Suspicion was the CIA’s trade.

  Isaacs’s radio crackled, and a disembodied male voice reported, “The Subaru’s stopping in front of the Htel St-Sulpice, near Carrefour de L’Odeacute;on. Two men are getting out and entering the hotel. The Subaru’s driving off. Instructions?”

  Randi leaned over the seat, and Aaron handed her his mike. “Follow the Subaru, Max.”

  “You got it, little lady.”

  “Go to hell, Max.”

  Aaron glanced back. “The hotel?”

  “You read my mind,” she told him.

  Three minutes later, the Crown Victoria pulled to a stop a half block from the Htel St-Sulpice. Randi studied the building. “Tell me about it, Aaron.”

  “Cheap. Eight floors. Used to cater to the usual bohemian crowd of the quarter, then to North Africans, now mostly to low-rent tourists. No side or rear exits or entrances. Front only.”

  The car’s built-in radio crackled again, and Max’s voice reappeared: “The Subaru is a rental from a chauffeur service. Reservation made by-phone. No info on the passenger or the pickup.”

  “Come back here to the hotel to get Aaron. We’ll keep his Crown Victoria.”

  Max said instantly, “Does that mean no date tonight, Randi?”

  Randi was losing patience. “Talk like a good boy, or I’ll tell your wife.”

  “Oh, yeah. You’re right. I’m married.” And the radio went dead.

  Randi shook her head. While she and Aaron talked over their respective assignments, Jon was thinking about Marty. He broke into the CIA dialogue: “Marty should be awake by now, Randi. Plus we could use Peter with us on this.”

  “Dr. Suleiman could come out anytime,” she objected.

  “True, but if Max drives me to the hospital, I can get there and back quickly. In case of trouble, you and Max can use the radios to confer, and I’ll take a walkie-talkie so he can call in the hospital.”

  “What about not using anything wireless?” Randi objected.

  Jon shook his head. “Wherever they have the DNA computer, it’s not likely to be focused on local Paris police calls that don’t use a satellite. For one thing, they can’t have any idea Suleiman’s on the run yet. No, it’s almost impossible we’d be overheard or tracked. So if Suleiman moves before I get back, let me know. Peter, Max, and I’ll join you there.”

  Randi agreed, and Aaron announced he would stay on the job with Randi until Jon and Max returned. The two Langley agents continued their discussion, and when Max arrived in a Chrysler Imperial, Jon said good-bye and climbed into the front passenger seat next to Max.

  “You got a med kit here?” Jon asked as the car wove through traffic, heading southwest toward the hospital.

  “Sure. Glove compartment. Why?”

  “Nothing much. Just a scratch.” He cleaned the bullet wound on his side and applied antibiotic cream to it. He taped a bandage to his side, made sure it was secure, then packed the med supplies back into the kit. He returned it to the glove compartment as they neared the hospital.

  Jon moved quickly through the cavernous galleria of the mammoth Pompidou Hospital, past the palm trees and gift shop, and up the escalators to the ICU. He was eager to see Marty, feeling optimistic. Surely by now Marty would be awake, perhaps even feeling like his usual stubborn self. At the desk that guarded the ICU, Jon identified himself to a nurse he had not seen before.

  “Your name’s on the list, Doctor, but Dr. Zellerbach has been moved to a private room on the fourth floor. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

  “I’ve been out of the city. Is Dr. Dubost still here?”

  “Sorry, Doctor. He’s gone for the night. Unless there’s an emergency, of course.”

  “Of course. Then give me Dr. Zellerbach’s room number.”

  On the fourth floor, the first sight he had of the door to Marty’s new private room made his stomach drop. There was not a single guard outside. He glanced all around, but saw no sign of anyone else watching the room from anywhere. Where were the Sreteacute;? MI6? He slid his hand inside his coat, grabbed his Walther, and held it at the ready just inside his trench coat. Fearing the worst, he passed nurses, doctors, attendants, and patients, his gaze blotting them from his mind as he closed in on Marty’s door.

  He tested it to see whether it was fully closed. It was. With his left hand, he slowly turned the knob until he felt it click open. Holding his weapon in both hands, he used his foot to nudge open the door just enough so he could slip inside, the Walther extended in front, sweeping the room.

  His breath seemed to catch in his throat. The room was empty. The bed’s covers were thrown back, the bottom sheet rumpled as if by a restless patient. No Marty. No Peter. No guards. No plainclothes or MI6 in disguise. His nerves almost vibrating with alertness, he walked deeper into the room and stopped. On the far side of the bed lay two corpses. Jon did not have to examine them to know they were beyond his or anyone’s help. Blood had pooled around them. Although it appeared to be thickening at the edges, it was relatively fresh. Both were dressed in doctors’ scrubs, complete with booties and masks. He could tell by their body shapes that neither man was Marty or Peter.

  He exhaled and knelt. Each had been stabbed once by a two-edged knife handled by an expert. This could easily be Peter’s work. But where were he and Marty? Where were the guards? Jon rose slowly. Clearly no one in the hospital was aware of what had happened. No panic, no alarm, no hint Marty was not where he was supposed to be. The guards were gone, two men were murdered, and Peter and Marty had vanished, all without causing a stir, or, apparently, being noticed at all.

  His walkie-talkie beeped on his belt. He switched it on. “Smith. What’s up, Max?”

  “Randi reports the bird has a companion and is moving. She and Aaron are going after them. She says we should hit the road. She’ll direct us to wherever they follow the guy.”

  “On my way.”

  His distraught gaze took in the silent private room once more. Peter was good, even good enough to have pulled off all of this without anyone’s knowing, although Jon had no idea exactly how he had done it and managed to hide and escape with a sick patient like Marty. But what had happened to the two Legionnaires at the door? To all the plainclothes people who should have been here?

  Just as Peter could have accomplished all this, so could the terrorists. The terrorists could have lured away the sentries and guards, killed and hidden them, captured Peter and Marty, and killed them somewhere else. For a long moment, he did not move.

  He could not lose a quarry who could lead them to the DNA computer. He would alert the Pans police, the CIA, and Fred Klein to what he had found here and hope they could track Marty and Peter.

  He jammed the walkie-talkie back into his pocket, sheathed his gun, and ran out to where Max waited with the Chrysler door open.

  The small black bakery van turned right onto the boulevard St-Michel. At the wheel of the Crown Victoria, Aaron slowed, let the van pull ahead while still keeping it in sight. It continued steadily south.

  Randi guessed, “He’s heading for the Peacute;ripheacute;rique.” It was the broad road that circled inner Paris. She relayed her guess to Max, Jon, and Peter, who were, she hoped, already on the road and closing in.

  “I think you’re right,” Aaron agreed. He tightened the distance between his car and the van, beginning to worry he might miss a sudden turn.

  They had been following this new lead perhaps ten minutes. It had all begun when the bakery van had pulled up outside the Htel St-Sulpice. The driver had jumped out and opened the side doors as if to unload a delivery of bread. Instead, Dr. Akbar Suleiman and a second man ran from the hotel entrance and climbed inside. The driver looked both ways as he slammed the doors shut. Then he carefully walked around, checking, climbed inside, and drove off.

  “Damn,” Randi swore.

  Aaron tensed. “What do you want to do?”

  “No choice. We’ve got to follow.”

  When the van reached the boulevard Peacute;ripheacute;rique, it turned onto it and headed west. Aaron kept it in sight, while Randi radioed each change of direction to Max, who was driving the other car. Soon the van blended onto the A10 toll road, and many miles later when the Al1 split off west to Chartres and the distant sea, the van remained on the A10, now heading south.

  The night sky was a foreboding canopy of black, the stars hidden by clouds, as the van continued at a constant pace past the ancient city of Orleacute;ans and over the legendary Loire River. Hours had passed. It veered suddenly west again, this time onto a two-lane local road, the D51. Abruptly, without bothering to slow, it turned sharply again onto an unnumbered back road, which it followed for several miles until it finally sped into a drive hidden by dense trees and brush.

  It was a tribute to Aaron’s driving that he had not lost them or apparently been spotted. When Randi congratulated him, he shrugged modestly.

  He pulled off onto a shoulder. “What now?”

  “We get close and watch.” She was already stepping out of the car.

  “Might be best to wait for Max and your friends. They’re not far behind.”

  “You stay here. I’m going in.”

  She did not hear the rest of his protest. She could see the lights of a farmhouse through the trees. Moving carefully, she headed into the timber and threaded her way through the vegetation until she found what appeared to be an animal trail. With relief, she hurried along it. Unlike the one outside Toledo, this farmhouse had little open ground around it. It appeared to be more like a hunting lodge or rustic retreat for weary city workers. There were no helicopters, but there were two other cars, and two armed men leaning against the front corners of the country lodge.

  Randi watched silhouettes crossing and recrossing on the other side of the window blinds, their arms gesticulating violently. It looked like an argument. Raised voices came faintly to her ears.

  A hand fell on her shoulder, and a voice whispered, “How many are there?”

  She turned. “Hello, Jon. Just in time. There were three men in the bakery van, and there were two cars already here. There are two guards outside, and there has to be at least one more insidewhoever they came here to meet.”

  “Two cars? Probably more than one waiting for your wandering trio inside then.”

  “It’s possible.” She looked behind him. “Where’s Peter?”

  “Wish I knew.” He told her what had happened at the hospital. Her heart sank as she listened. He went on. “If there were only two terrorists, and Peter killed them, then maybe he was able to figure out a way to get Marty out of there, and they’re somewhere safe. After all, neither of the dead men’s guns had been fired, and I found no shell casings. So, it’s possible.” He shook his head worriedly. “But if there were more terrorists, they could’ve knocked out Peter, or used knives, too. I don’t like to think what they’ve done to Marty and Peter if that’s what really happened.”

  “I don’t like it either.” The front door to the lodge opened. “We’ve got movement. Look.”

  A rectangle of bright light spilled out into the night. Dr. Akbar Suleiman stormed angrily outdoors, turning to continue arguing with someone behind. His voice carried through the night, speaking French: “I tell you my escape was clean. There was no way they could’ve followed me. I don’t even know how they found me in the first place!”

  “That’s what worries me.”

  Jon and Randi looked at each other, recognizing the voice.

  The speaker followed Suleiman from the house. It was Abu Auda. “How can you be sure they did not follow you?”

  Suleiman waved his arms to encompass the estate. “Do you see them here anywhere? Do you? Of course, you don’t. Ergo, they didn’t follow me!”

  “People who could find you, Moro, would not let you, or us, see them.”

  Suleiman sneered. “What then? I should allow myself to be arrested?”

  “No, you would’ve told them everything. But it would’ve been better had you followed normal procedure and contacted us first so we could pursue a plan that was safer than bolting to your own friends like a panicked puppy straight to its pack.”

  “Well,” Suleiman said sarcastically, “I didn’t. Are we going to talk unproductively all night, since you’re so sure they could arrive any minute and overwhelm us?”

  The terrorist’s eyes blazed. He barked orders in Arabic. The man who had left the hotel in Paris with Suleiman joined them from the house, followed by the driver of the bakery van and a third armed manan Uzbek from the look of his face and Central Asian cap. The bakery driver got into the van and drove off on the rutted dirt road that led back to the rural highway.

  “Let’s go,” Randi whispered.

  She and Jon sped through the woods to where Aaron and Max waited in their cars, which were now hidden off the road in brush.

  “What’s up?” Aaron asked, quickly climbing out.

  Max joined him and was staring at Randi as if he were a starving Neanderthal and she were the only meat he had seen in a year.

  Randi ignored him. “Neither of you can quit now. They’re using two cars. No way we can know which one Suleiman’s in.” She did not add that they could not know which car Abu Auda was in either. Of the two, he could be the more important quarry. “We’ll have to split up, tail one car each.”

  “And damn carefully,” Jon added. “Abu Auda is suspicious someone followed Suleiman, and he’ll be alert.”

  Aaron and Max grumbled about their own work and a night of lost sleep, but Randi’s mission took top priority.

  Jon got in beside Max, while Randi rejoined Aaron. Moments later, the two cars carrying the terrorists left the dirt road for the country highway. Shortly afterward, Aaron and Max drove their cars out to pursue. They kept back almost out of sight, spotting taillights sporadically. It was difficult surveillance and risky, and they could easily lose their prey. But when the two Langley cars finally reached the A6, the four agents saw the terrorists’ cars clearly. Once on the toll highway, it would be simpler to follow.

  But then one of the cars took the ramp south, the other the ramp north. Aaron and Max separated, following as agreed. Jon settled in next to Max, bone-weary already. It was going to be a long night.

  Covert One 3 - The Paris Option

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Washington, D.C.

  The tense meeting that morning of the president, his senior staff, and the Joint Chiefs was interrupted by the abrupt opening of the door between the Oval Office and that of the president’s executive secretary. The secretaryMrs. Pike, frizzy-haired and known for her brusqueness gazed questioningly into the room.

  Irritation creased Sam Castilla’s forehead, but if Estelle was interrupting, he knew it had to be important. Still, these last few days had been nerve-racking and his nights sleepless, so he snapped, “I thought I said no interruptions, Estelle.”

  “I know, sir. Sorry, but General Henze’s on the line.”

  The president nodded, smiled a mute apology to Mrs. Pike, and picked up the receiver. “Carlos? How’s everything over there?” He gazed at the cluster of people sitting and standing around the Oval Office. The name “Carlos” told them it was General Henze, and they had grown even more alert.

  “Almost nothing new in Europe, Mr. President,” General Henze reported. His voice was resolute, but the president heard an undertow of anger as well. “There hasn’t been a single breakdown or interruption anywhere on the continent for more than twenty-four hours.”

  The president decided to ignore the anger for the time being. “A bleak ray of sunshine, but at least it’s something. What about locating the terrorists?”

  “Again nothing so far.” Henze hesitated. “May I be frank, sir?”

  “I insist on it. What’s the problem, Carlos?”

  “I had a meeting with Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smiththe army doctor you sent over to handle the search. He wasn’t reassuring. He’s shooting in the dark, Mr. President. Not only does he suspect that a trusted aide to General La Porte is mixed up with the crazies, he flat out said even I wasn’t above suspicion. In short, he knows damn little.”

  Inwardly, the president sighed. “It seems to me his progress has been impressive.”

  “He’s dug up a lot. That’s true, but I don’t see he’s any closer to the damned dingus. I think he’s spinning his turbans. Shooting off half-cocked, and I’m damned concerned. Shouldn’t we put everything we have on this, not just one lone man, no matter how good he may be?”

  From the sound of it, the president decided, the general would be a lot happier sending the entire 82nd Airborne and all of the 1st Air Cav to search the Middle East, house-to-house, for the terrorists. Of course, the downside of that could be World War III, but the general had not thought that far ahead.

  “I’ll take your thoughts and objections under advisement, General, with my thanks,” the president told him. “If I decide to change horses, I’ll let you know. But don’t forget Langley’s on the job, too, as is MI6.”

  There was stony silence. Then: “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  The president nodded to himself. The general would toe the line for a while at least. “Continue to keep me informed. Thank you, Carlos.”

  After he hung up, President Castilla hunched his big shoulders, dropped his chin onto his tented fingers, and peered through his titanium glasses outdoors into the relentless morning storm. The sky was so dismal and gray with rain he could not see beyond the Rose Garden, which did not improve his frame of mind. He was more than uneasy himself, even scared, that Covert-One had not found the molecular computer.