She looked at her watch again. Eleven minutes. She ripped up a handful of grass, roots and all, and hurled it into the night.

  Then her walkie-talkie gave a low crackle, and her pulse raced with hope as Jon’s voice reported in and finally whispered, “Call in the strike.”

  With a thrill of relief, she told him where she was hiding. “You’ve got five minutes. Once I call in”

  “I understand.” There was a hesitation. “Thanks, Randi. Good luck.”

  Her voice seemed to catch in her throat. “You, too, soldier.”

  As she cut the connection, she turned her face up to the cloudy night sky, closed her eyes, and gave a silent prayer of thanks. Then she did her job: She bent to her radio transmitter and made the death call to the Saratoga.

  Jon stood at the villa’s window, waiting for Theacute;regrave;se to crawl through. She froze, staring at her father. Jon looked back.

  Chambord had produced a pistol. He was pointing it at Jon. “Step away from him, child,” Chambord said, the pistol leveled steadily at Jon’s chest. “Lower your weapon, Colonel.” He’d had it in his jacket pocket.

  “Papa! What are you doing?”

  “Shhh, child. Don’t worry. I’m making things right.” He took a walkie-talkie from his other pocket. “I’m serious about your weapon, Colonel Smith. Put it down, or I’ll shoot you dead.”

  “Dr. Chambord” Jon tried, puzzled. He let his weapon drift down, but he did not release it.

  Chambord said into the walkie-talkie, “West side. Get everyone out here.”

  Jon saw the shine in Chambord’s eyes. The glow of excitement. They were the eyes of a fanatic. He remembered the detached, almost dreamy expression he had seen on the scientist’s face when Mauritania had discovered them. With a flash of insight, Jon understood: “You weren’t kidnapped. You’re with them. That’s why all the work to make you look dead. That’s why there was no guard on you just now. It was all an act with Mauritania, to make Theacute;regrave;se think you were a prisoner.”

  Dr. Chambord spoke with disdain: “I’m not with them, Colonel Smith, they’re with me.”

  “Father?” Theacute;regrave;se questioned, her face full of disbelief.

  But before Chambord could respond, Abu Auda, three of his men, and Mauritania appeared on the run. Jon raised his weapon and grabbed Theacute;regrave;se’s from his belt.

  Randi checked her watch. Four minutes. Suddenly there was noise from the building. Shouts and running feet. She held her breath as shots rang out, followed by a burst of automatic fire. Jon and Theacute;regrave;se had no automatic weapons. She was afraid to think, but there was only one possibility: Jon and the Chambords had somehow been discovered. She shook her head, denying it, as two more bursts of automatic fire spit noisily in the distance.

  She leaped to her feet and tore across the grounds toward the villa. Then came another awful sound: From inside, she could hear triumphant laughter. Shouts of victory, praising Allah. The infidels were dead!

  She froze. Unable to think, to feel. It could not be. But all of the gunfire after the two initial early single shots had been automatic. They had killed Jon and Theacute;regrave;se.

  A great sorrow washed over her, and then a towering rage. She told herself sternly she had no time for either. It was all about the DNA computer. That it must not remain in the terrorists’ handshellip;. Too much was at stake. Too many other lives.

  She turned on her heel and ran away from the villa, racing as if all of the hounds of hell were pursuing. Trying not to see Jon’s face, the dark blue eyes, the laughter, the outrage, all of the intelligence. His handsome face with the high, flat cheekbones. How his jaw would knot when he was angry

  When the missile landed, the explosion threw her forward ten feet. The percussive blast was thunderous all around her head and inside it and a windy heat at her back. It was almost as if she had been hurled away by an angry demon. As debris shot through the air and fell in a dangerous rain, she crawled under the branches of an olive tree and covered her head with her arms.

  Randi sat with her back to the perimeter wall, watching red and yellow flames lick up toward the dark sky from where the white villa had stood nearly a mile away. She spoke into the radio. “Call the Pentagon. The DNA computer is destroyed, and Dr. Chambord with it. There’s no more danger.”

  “Roger, Agent Russell. Good work.”

  Her voice was dull. “Also tell them Lieutenant Colonel Jonathan Smith, M.D., U.S. Army, died in the explosion, as well as Dr. Chambord’s daughter, Theacute;regrave;se. Then get me out.”

  She switched off the transmitter and gazed up at the slowly moving clouds. The moon peeked out, a silver orb, and then it was gone. The stink of death and burning debris filled the air. She thought about Jon. He had taken a chance and known the risk. It had come out against him, but he would not complain. Then she began to cry.

  PART THREE

  Covert One 3 - The Paris Option

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Beirut, Lebanon

  CIA agent Jeff Moussad moved warily through the rubble of South Beirut, an officially denied area. The air was dusty, and the mountains of brick and mortar on either side reflected the sad story of the long civil war that had torn apart Lebanon and destroyed Beirut’s reputation as the Paris of the East. Although the downtown heart of the city was rebuilding, and several hundred international firms had returned, little progress was in evidence here in this largely lawless no-man’s-land of the grim past.

  Jeff was armed and in disguise, on assignment to contact an important asset, whose identity and location had been discovered in the notes of a fellow CIA agent who had died in the infamous attack on the Pentagon of September 11. His difficult missionakin to finding a needle in a silo of needleswas largely possible because of new sources of intelligence that the U.S. government had been developing in everything from familiar tools like the U-2 spy planes and the constellation of secret spy satellites orbiting overhead, to commercial satellite photos and remote-controlled spy drones.

  Since there were no road markers, Jeff was relying on a specially programmed Palm Pilot to find his way to the right cave carved into the debris of what had once been some kind of building. He paused in dark shadow to check the Palm Pilot again. The viewing screen showed the streets and alleys of this section in live video relayed from one of a new family of pilotless aerial drones. Those upgraded, unmanned aircraft provided real-time images of an area over vast distances through satellite communications. This was a major improvement from when a drone could provide up-to-the-minute intelligence only if a radio signal could be beamed directly back to the base from where it took off.

  Because of the changing geographical chaos here in South Beirut, a stranger would be easily confused. But with the live video feed and the directional lines that told exactly which turns to make, Jeff followed a sure path for perhaps a quarter of a mile. But then gunfire exploded nearby, followed by footsteps behind him. His pulse accelerated, and he darted quickly into the shadow of a smoke-blackened tank that had been twisted and burned in some long-ago firefight. Straining to hear, he pulled out his pistol. He needed to get to the asset’s lair quickly, before he was discovered.

  He checked his Palm Pilot. His destination was not much farther. But as he studied the next turn, the unthinkable happened. The Palm Pilot went dark. He stared at it, stunned, his chest tight. He had no idea where he was. Cursing under his breath, knowing he was lost, he hit buttons, and the usual fake information that he carried in the Palm Pilot appearedphone numbers, appointments. But there was no communication from the drone to tell him where to go later, or how to return to base. The connection had died.

  Frantically, he tried to remember the exact location of the next turn. When he was sure he remembered correctly, he moved on past a collapsed building, rounded the corner, and crossed toward what he hoped was his final destination. As he emerged onto a leveled area, he looked nervously for the cave entrance. He never found it. What he did see was the muzzle flashes of four assault rifleshellip;and nothing more.

  Fort Belvoir, Virginia

  Just south of Washington, D.C., stood historic Fort Belvoir, now a state-of-the-art site for some one hundred tenant organizationsa Who’s Who of the Department of Defense. Among its most clandestine residents was the main receiving station for satellite information for the National Reconnaissance Office (NRO). Created in 1960 to design, launch, and operate U.S. spy satellites, the NRO was so highly secret that it was not even officially acknowledged until the 1990s. Large and powerful, the NRO’s multibillion-dollar annual budget exceeded the yearly spending of any of the nation’s three most powerful espionage kingdomsthe CIA, the FBI, and the NSA.

  Here in the rolling hills of suburban Virginia, the NRO’s information-receiving station was a hotbed of cutting-edge electronics and analytical manpower. One of the civilian analysts was Donna Lindhorst, raven-haired, freckle-faced, and exhausted from the last six days of being on high alert. Today she was monitoring a missile-launch facility in North Korea, a country that was not only considered a serious potential threat to the United States and its allies, but one that had made development of longer-range missiles a high priority.

  A longtime NRO employee, Donna knew that spy satellites had roamed the skies for some forty years, many orbiting a hundred miles above the planet. Traveling at mach 25, these billion-dollar birds flew over every spot on the face of the Earth twice a day, taking digital snapshots of places that the CIA, government policymakers, and the military-high command wanted to see. At any one time, at least five were overhead. From civil war in the Sudan to environmental disasters in China, America’s satellites provided a steady river of black-and-white images.

  The missile-launch facility in North Korea that Donna was studying was high-danger priority right now. All the United States needed was for some rogue nation to take advantage of the current uncertain electronic situation. And that was what might be happening right now. Donna’s throat was dry with fear, because the images she was monitoring indicated a heat plume like those emitted by rocket launches.

  She studied the screen nervously, cuing the satellite to focus on the area longer. Known in the spy trade as an Advanced Keyhole-class satellite, it could take a photo every five seconds and relay it almost instantly through Milstar satellites to her monitor. This placed enormous demands on data relay and image processing, but she had to know whether that plume was real. If it were, it could be an early warning of a missile attack.

  She leaned anxiously forward, running digital scans, reading the data, homing in untilhellip;The screen went blank. All the photos were gone. She froze a moment in utter shock, then pushed her chair back and stared terrified at the wall of screens. All were blank. Nothing was coming through. If the North Koreans wanted to mount a nuclear attack against America, nothing would stop them.

  Washington, D.C.

  The mood in the offices and all along the corridors of the West Wing was of quiet jubilation, a rare Thanksgiving in May. In the Oval Office itself, President Castilla had allowed himself a smile, unusual these past few harrowing days, as he shared the same measured exultation with his room full of advisers.

  “I don’t know exactly how you did it, sir.” National Security Adviser Emily Powell-Hill beamed. “But you really pulled it off.”

  “We

  pulled it off, Emily.”

  The president stood up and walked from around his desk to sit on the sofa beside her, a casual act of fellowship he seldom indulged in. He felt lighter today, as if a crippling load had been lifted from his shoulders. He peered through his glasses, favoring everyone with his warm smile, gratified to see the relief on their faces as well. Still, this was no cause for real celebration. Good people had died in that missile attack against the Algerian villa.

  He continued, “It was everyone here, plus the intelligence services. We owe a great deal to those selfless heroes who work in the lap of the enemy without any public recognition.”

  “From what Captain Lainson of the Saratoga told me,” Admiral Stevens Brose said, nodding to the DCIthe Director of Central Intelligence, “it was CIA operatives who finally got those bastards and destroyed that damned DNA computer.”

  The DCI nodded modestly. “It was primarily Agent Russell. One of my best people. She did her job.”

  “Yes,” the president agreed, “there’s no doubt the CIA and others, who must remain nameless, saved our baconthis time.” His expression grew solemn as he gazed around at his Joint Chiefs, the NSA, the head of the NRO, the DCI, and his chief of staff. “Now we must prepare for the future. The molecular computer is no longer theoretical, people, and a quantum computer will be next. It’s inevitable. Who knows what else science will develop to threaten our defenses, and to help humanity, I might add? We have to start right now, learning how to deal with all of them.”

  “As I understand it, Mr. President,” Emily Powell-Hill pointed out, “Dr. Chambord, his computer, and all his research were lost in the attack. My information tells me no one else is close to duplicating his feat. So we have some leeway.”

  “Perhaps we do, Emily,” the president acknowledged. “Still, my best sources in the scientific community tell me that once a breakthrough like this has been made, the pace of development by everyone else is accelerated.” He contemplated them, and his voice was forceful as he continued. “In any case, we must build foolproof defenses against a DNA computer and all other potential scientific developments that could become threats to our security.”

  There was a general silence in the Oval Office as they solemnly considered the task ahead and their own responsibilities. The quiet was shattered by the sharp ringing of the telephone on the president’s desk. Sam Castilla hesitated, staring across the room at the phone that would ring only if the matter were of great importance.

  He put his big hands on his knees, stood up, walked over, and picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

  It was Fred Klein. “We need to meet, Mr. President.”

  “Now?”

  “Yessir. Now.”

  Paris, France

  In the exclusive private hospital for patients undergoing plastic surgery, Randi, Marty, and Peter had gathered in Marty’s spacious room. The muted noises of traffic from outside seemed particularly loud as the painful conversation paused, and tears streamed down Marty’s cheeks.

  Jon was dead. The news ripped at his heart. He had loved Jon as only two friends of such dissimilar talents and interests could love each other, bound by the elusive quality of mutual respect and seasoned by the years.

  For Marty, the loss was so large as to be inexpressible. Jon had always been there. He could not imagine living in a world that had no Jon.

  Randi sat down beside the bed and took his hand. With her other hand, she wiped the tears from her own cheeks. Across the room, Peter stood against the door, stone-faced, only his slightly reddened skin betraying his grief.

  “He was doing his job,” Randi told Marty gently. “A job he wanted to do. You can’t ask for more than that.”

  “Hehellip;he was a real hero,” Marty stammered. His face quivered as he struggled to find the right words. Emotions were difficult for him to express, a language he did not fully have. “Did I ever tell you how much I admired Bertrand Russell? I’m very careful about my heroes. But Russell was extraordinary. I’ll never forget the first time I read his Principles of Mathematics. I think I was ten, and it really startled me. Oh, my. The implications. It opened everything to me! That was when he took math out of the realm of abstract philosophy and gave it a precise framework.”

  Peter and Randi exchanged a look. Neither knew what he was talking about.

  Marty was nodding to himself, his tears splashing helplessly out onto the bedclothes. “It had so many ideas that were exciting to think about. Of course, Martin Luther King, Jr., William Faulkner, and Mickey Mantle were pretty heroic, too.” His gaze roamed the room as if looking for a safe place to alight. “But Jon was always my biggest hero. Absolutely, positively biggest. Since we were little. But I never told him. He could do everything I couldn’t, and I could do everything he couldn’t. And he liked that. So did I. How often can anyone find that? Losing him is like losing my legs or my arms, only worse.” He gulped. “I’m going tohellip;miss him so much.”

  Randi squeezed his hand. “We all are, Mart. I was so sure he’d get out in time. He was sure. But …” Her chest contracted, and she fought back a sob. She bowed her head, her heart aching. She had failed, and Jon was dead. She cried softly.

  Peter said gruffly, “He knew what he was doing. We all know the risk. Someone has to do it so the businessmen and housewives and shop girls and bloody playboys and millionaires can sleep in peace in their own beds.”

  Randi heard the bitterness in the old MI6 agent’s voice. It was his way of expressing his loss. Where he stood he was alone, as in reality he always was, the wounds on his cheek, left arm, and left hand half-healed and unbandaged, livid in his repressed rage at the death of his friend.

  “I wanted to help this time, too,” Marty said in that slow, halting voice that resulted from his medication.

  “He knew, lad,” Peter told him.

  A sad silence filled the room. The traffic noises rose in volume again. Somewhere far off, an ambulance siren screamed.

  Finally Peter said in gross understatement, “Things don’t always work out the way we want.”

  The telephone beside Marty’s bed rang, and all three stared at it. Peter picked it up. “Howell here. I told you never tohellip;what? Yes. When? You’re sure? All right. Yes, I’m on it.”

  He set the receiver into its cradle and turned to his friends, his face a grim mask as if he had seen a vision of horror. “Top secret. Straight from Downing Street. Someone has taken control of all the U.S. military satellites in space and locked the Pentagon and NASA out. Can you think of any way they could’ve done that without a DNA computer?”