Covert One 3 - The Paris Option (13 page)

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.”

“I think that's wise,” Smith agreed regretfully. “Tell me, is there any news about Dr. Chambord? I checked the newspaper as I rode over in the taxi, but it said that as of last night, there were no new facts.”

The general grimaced. “Unfortunately, they have found a part of his body, alas.” He sighed. “I understand there was an arm with an attached hand. The hand wore a ring his colleagues sadly identified, and the fingerprints have been confirmed as a match with those on file at the Pasteur. That won't be in the newspapers for a few days. The officials are still investigating, and they're keeping as much to themselves as they can for now. They hope to find the perpetrators without giving away everything. I'd appreciate your keeping that information to yourself.”

“Of course.” Smith contemplated the sad confirmation that Emile Chambord was indeed dead. What a pity. Despite every sign to the contrary, he had held out hope that the great scientist had survived.

The general had been silent, as if considering the frailty of the human condition. “I had the honor of meeting your Dr. Zellerbach. Such a shame that he's injured. I'd be devastated if he doesn't recover. I'd appreciate your conveying that to his family in America, should the worst occur.”

“I'd be happy to. May I ask how you met Dr. Zellerbach, General? I wasn't aware myself that Marty was even in France or at the Pasteur.”

The general seemed surprised. “Didn't you think our military would be interested in Dr. Chambord's research? Of course they were. Intensely interested, in fact. Emile introduced Dr. Zellerbach to me during my last visit to his lab. Naturally, Emile would not allow any of us to just drop by. He was a dedicated and busy man, so an invitation was a grand event. That was two months ago or so, and your Dr. Zellerbach had just arrived. It's a pity about Emile's work being destroyed in that wretched bombing. Do you think any of it survived?”

“I have no personal knowledge, General. Sorry.” Two could play the fishing game. “I suppose I'm surprised you'd involve yourself personally. After all, you've got a great many important responsibilities at NATO.”

“I'm still French, no? Besides, I knew Emile personally for many years.”

“And was he close to success?” Smith asked, careful to keep his voice neutral. “A practical, working DNA computer?”

La Porte tented his fingers. “That's the question, isn't it?”

“It could be the key to who planted the bomb and why. No matter what happens to Marty, I want to do what I can to help catch the bastard who injured him.”

“A true friend.” La Porte nodded. “Yes, I'd like the miscreant punished, too. But, alas, I can be of little help to you there. Emile was close-mouthed about his work. If he had made ahow do you Americans say it?'breakout,' he didn't inform me. Nor did Dr. Zellerbach or poor Jean-Luc Massenet tell me or anyone else, as far as we know.”

“The research assistant? That was terrible. Have the police formed an opinion of why he killed himself?”

“A tragedy, too, to have lost that young man. Apparently, he was devoted to Emile, and when Emile died, he was cast adrift. He could not face life alone. At least that's what I've been told. Knowing the charismatic power of Emile's personality, I can almost understand the lad's suicide.”

“So what's your take on the bombing, General?”

La Porte gave the Gallic gesture of confusiona shrug with hands spread and head tilted. “Who knows what raving lunatic would do such a thing? Or perhaps it was some perfectly sane man with some personal hatred of science, or of L'Institut Pasteur, or even of France, to whom the bombing of a crowded building seemed a thoroughly reasonable response.” La Porte shook his large head, disgusted. “There are times, Colonel, when I think the patina of civilization and culture we all profess to share is cracking. We return to the barbarians.”

“The French police and Secret Service know no more than that?”

La Porte repeated his mannerism of tenting his long fingers. His unblinking blue eyes regarded Smith as if they could dissect his thoughts. “The police and the Second Bureau do not confide everything to a mere general, especially one who is, as you pointed out, on duty at NATO. However, my aide, Captain Bonnard, heard rumors that our police have evidence that the attack on the Pasteur could've been the work of an obscure Basque separatist group thought wiped out years ago. As a rule, the Basques confine their 'events' to Spain, but I'm sure you know there are many Basque people who live in three small regions of Basse-Pyrenees on the Spanish border with France. It was probably inevitable something would spill over across the border, even to Paris, sooner or later.”