Covert One 3 - The Paris Option (28 page)

“You uncovered all that? Chambord alive, the DNA computer in the hands of some group calling itself the Crescent Shield? So why did the DCI have to get it from the White House and army intelligence?”

“Because I didn't uncover all that. At least not without help. Jon Smith and Peter Howell were there, too.”

“MI6? The DCI's going to go apoplectic.”

“Sorry about that. Most of it came from Smith. He got the name of the group, he saw Chambord and his daughter alive. Even talked to them. Chambord told him the Crescent Shield had the computer. All I did was find out Mauritania was bossing the terrorists.”

“Who the hell's this Smith?”

“Remember the one I worked with on the Hades virus?”

“That guy? I thought he was an army doctor.”

“He is. He's also a cell and microbiology researcher at USAMRIID, a combat doctor in the field, and a lieutenant colonel. The army grabbed him to work on this because of his field experience and his knowledge of DNA computer research.”

“You believe all that?”

“Sometimes. It's not important. What can you give me on Mauritania and the DNA computer hunt I don't have?”

“You say the last you saw Mauritania was heading south from Toledo?”

“Yes.”

“You know he's from Africa. Most of his strikes with Al Qaeda and other groups have been launched from Africa or Spain. Most of the men he's lost over the years in one group or another have been arrested in Spain. With him and his group heading south, North Africa seems a logical destination, especially after a rumor Langley picked up that says Mauritania may be married to at least one Algerian woman and could have a home in Algiers.”

“Now we're getting someplace. Names? Places?”

“Not yet. Our assets are trawling for specifics. With luck, we'll know something soon.”

Randi nodded. “How about a terrorist named Abu Auda? A giant Fulani, older, maybe late fifties? Odd green-brown eyes?”

Isaacs frowned. “Never heard the name. I'll have Langley run it.” He picked up a phone that stood on the table near him. “Cassie? Send this through to Langley top priority.” He gave her the data on Abu Auda and hung up. “Want to know what we've come up with in the Pasteur bombing?”

“Something new? Damn, Aaron, spit it out.”

Isaacs gave a grim smile. “We got a clandestine call from a Mossad agent here in Paris, and maybe it's pure gold. It seems there's a Filipino postdoctoral researcher at the Pasteur, whose cousin tried to plant a bomb in the Mossad's Tel Aviv HQ. The guy was from Mindanao, where the Abu Sayaaf group of the Moro Islamic Liberation Front was an ally of the Bin Laden faction and Ayman al-Zawahiri. The researcher has no known terrorist connections and has been away from Mindanao a long time.”

“Then what made Mossad alert you to the family relationship?”

“The researcher called in sick to the Pasteur that night. He was supposed to be there, according to his boss, who was badly injured in the blast. That was because he was needed for some important experiment they were conducting.”

“Where's their lab, if the boss was so badly hurt?”

“On the floor below Chambord's laboratory. Everyone in that lab was killed or maimed.”

“Mossad thinks he was the inside man?”

“There's no evidence, but I passed it on to Langley, and they think it's a hot lead. The Pasteur's security isn't state-of-the-art, but it's good enough to keep out bombers, unless the bomber has some kind of internal contact. Particularly since my people believe the terrorists took not only a resisting Chambord, but the entire experimental setup for his DNA computer. And they did it all just minutes before the bomb went off.”

“What about the researcher's supposed illness?”

“On the surface, legitimate. He consulted a doctor for chest pains and was advised to stay home a few days. Of course, chest pains and even heart irregularities can be chemically produced.”

“They can, and relatively easily. Okay, where is this guy? Does he have a name?”

“Dr. Akbar Suleiman. As I said, he's postdoc and lives in Paris. We asked the Paris police to check, and they say he's on leave from the Pasteur until his lab can be rebuilt. Mossad says he's still in the city. I have his address.”

Randi took the sheet of paper and stood up. “Tell Langley I'm going to be working on Mauritania and the DNA computer with Jon Smith and Peter Howell. Tell them I want authorization to commandeer any asset we have, anywhere.”

Aaron nodded. “Done.” The phone rang. Aaron listened. Then, “Thanks, Cassie.” He hung up and shrugged. “Nothing on an Abu Auda at all. Must keep a really low profile.”

Randi left, heading for De Gaulle again, then Brussels and Jon. If this Dr. Akbar Suleiman was part of the Crescent Shield, and they could find him, maybe he would lead them to Mauritania. She doubted there would be a third chance. Not in time.

Brussels, Belgium

At the airport thirteen kilometers outside Brussels in Zaventem, Jon rented another Renault and picked up the supplies Fred Klein had arranged to be waiting for him. Among them was a uniform, which he put on in preparation for his next destination. Carrying a small overnight bag in which were packed civilian clothes and a 9mm Walther, he drove onto the RO heading west. It was raining steadily, a gray, dismal downpour. Once past Brussels, he left the trunk road and took smaller highways and back roads, watching behind to be certain he was not being tailed.

The countryside was green, flat, and bleak through the sheets of early May rain. Well-tended farms stretched into the distance to a horizon flatter than the great prairie of the American West or the steppes of Russia. In this low-lying land, the various roads crossed many small rivers and canals. Traffic was relatively heavy as he drove in the general direction of the French bordernot as thick as in Los Angeles or London at rush hour, but far more than the wide-open interstates of Montana or Wyoming.

From time to time he stopped at a country inn or simply pulled off into a grove of trees to search the sky for helicopters or light aircraft that might be tracking him. When he was satisfied no one followed, he drove on using the same tactics until at last he reached the outskirts of Mons, fifty-five kilometers southwest of Brussels. Wars and soldiers had been part of the history of Mons, or “Bergen” in Flemish, for more than two thousand years, since the days Roman legions first established a fortified camp here on their empire's northern border. Here, too, the generals of Louis XIV engaged in one of their long series of bloody battles against their perpetual nemesis, John Churchill, duke of Maryborough. Mons had also been a bruising battlefield for the armies of the French Revolution, as well as for the heavily outnumbered British Expeditionary Force, which fought its first major engagement of World War I here.

All in all, this was a fitting location for the Supreme Headquarters of Allied Powers in Europe (SHAPE)the military arm of NATO, and the main office of the Supreme Allied Commander of Europe, the SACEUR himself, General Carlos Henze, U.S.A. Located a few kilometers outside the historic town, the entrance to the parklike campus was a simple kiosk standing before an array of flagpoles flying the banners of all the NATO member nations, plus the United Nations. In the background was a flat-roofed, two-story pale brown building, and behind that rose more unprepossessing buildings.

When Smith presented his credentials at the kiosk, he stated his business as reporting to the chief medical officer. Because of the heightened security of the twenty-first century, one of the military policemen on duty called the chief medical officer's office to confirm the appointment, while another scrutinized Jon, his army uniform, and especially his photo ID and army medical credentials.

When the guards were satisfied, Smith drove onto the right arm of the V-shaped road, parked in the designated lot, and walked to the main entrance, where a steel-beamed marquee like those on a no-frills hotel announced proudly: supreme headquarters allied powers europe. Above that was SHAPE'S green-and-gold official shield. Inside, the receptionist directed him to the second floor, where Master Sergeant Matthias met him with a sharp salute. Dressed in full uniform, with rows of stripes and battle ribbons, Matthias escorted him through endless corridors to General Carlos Henze's office.

The wiry general was as blunt as ever: “Is all this damned cloak-and-dagger necessary, Colonel?”

Smith saluted and said, “Don't look at me, sir. It's not my idea.” Henze glared, returned the salute, and grumbled, “Civilians.” He waved Smith to a leather chair that faced his desk. “The president's people filled me in. Here's the data they sent over.” He pushed file folders toward him, holding back one file. “My staff couldn't locate damn all about any Crescent Shield. Even the CIA knew zip. Looks like you've found a brand-new gang of Arab thugs, Colonel. I had my doubts, but maybe you know what you're doing. Now what?”

“Not Arabs alone, sir. Militants from all parts of the Muslim world: Arabs from many countries, Afghans, a Fulani from northern Nigeriahellip;who knows who else. Their leader appears to have been originally from Mauritania. Islam is a world of many nations and ethnic groups, and I'm not even certain they're all Muslims.”

As the rail-thin general listened, the four stars on his uniform seemed to glint belligerently as if to defy the terrorists, the bleak day outside his rain-swept windows, and the fruit salad climbing from his pocket nearly to his shoulder. His gaze was intense, as if he were seeing every country, every ethnic group, analyzing every implication. This was no longer a potential threat. It was real. So real and worrisome that Henze rotated his chair around to face his window in his usual back-turned act. “Indonesia? Malaysia?” the general's voice rumbled. “Turkey?”

“Not so far. But I wouldn't be surprised if there were recruits from all of them, and we have indications some of the Central Asian tribes and countries could be involved as well.”

Henze whipped his chair back around to stare at Smith. “Indications?”

“An MI6 man I know identified an unusual auditory night signal as being from Central Asia, similar to the night signals of our woodland Indians.”

“The old Soviet Republics? Tajiks? Uzbeks? Kirghiz and Kazak?”

Jon nodded, and Henze stroked his nose, deep in thought. He picked up a thinner file from his desk and tossed it across the desk. “The president wanted you to have this, too. It's the complete official NATO dossier on Captain Darius Bonnard, plus what the Oval Office dug up from the French. You're suspicious of General La Porte's top aide? A trusted man who works right here? Practically in my lap?”

“I'm suspicious of everyone, General.”

“Even me?”

Remembering his earlier suspicions about the “orderly's” visit to Henze's pension in Paris, Jon's smile was thin. “Not so far.”

“But I'm not above suspicion?”

Jon hesitated, then decided to be as blunt as the general. “No, sir.”

“God in heaven,” Henze breathed. He leaned back and studied Jon, his fierce focus reminding Jon of a laser beam. “Yesterday when you and I talked, we knew zip. Now we know the doohickey is for real, the big Kahuna who created it is alive and kicking, and the gang that has them and the daughter is both multinational and multiethnic. So answer what I asked earlier: Now what?”

“Now we find them.”

“How?”

“I don't know yet.”

“You don't know yet?” Henze stared at Smith. “When the hell will you know?”

“When I do.”

Henze's mouth opened, his bony face turned almost purple. “Is that supposed to satisfy me?”

“It's that kind of war, General. I wish I could give you more, a lot more. I have ideas, leads, hunches, but nothing I can honestly say will do the job, much less how and when.”

The general continued to stare at Smith, but his high color receded. “I don't like this kind of war. I don't like it one damn all.”

“Neither do I. But it's the way it is right now.”

Henze nodded to himself, his focus turned inward. He was the supreme commander of NATO in Europe, with all of the highly mechanized, cyber-smart armies of the member nations at his disposal. Yet he was feeling powerless in the face of this new enemylittle known, without territory or tribe, with hardly a way of life to protect. Only an apocalyptic vision and impossible-to-satisfy grievances.

He rubbed his eyes, looking tired. “I went through one kind of 'new' war, Colonel Smith, and it damn near destroyed me. After Vietnam, I'm not sure I can handle another 'new' one. Maybe it's just as well. Time for a new kind of commander.”

“We'll get it done,” Jon said.

Henze nodded. “We have to win.” Looking drained, he indicated Jon should pick up the file folders.

Jon took them, saluted, and left. In the corridor, he paused and decided to take the files to Brussels, where he was to meet Randi. He could study them there. As he walked off, he heard his name called. He turned to see General the Count Roland la Porte striding toward him with a broad smile.

"Bonjour,

General La Porte."

Doors seemed to rattle on their hinges as the massive general cruised past. “Ah, Colonel Smith. The man who's given us all the great shock. We must speak at once. Come, my office is near. We will have coffee, non?”

Jon agreed they would have coffee, and he followed La Porte into his office. The general sat in a large red leather armchair in the style of a British club chair. It looked as if it were the only piece of furniture besides the desk chair that would not crumble under his oversized body. He assigned Jon another delicate occasional chair from the Louis Quinze period. Soon a nervous young French lieutenant served coffee.

“So, our Emile is alive after all, which is magnifique, but the kidnappers have him, which is not so magnifique. You could not be mistaken, Colonel?”

“Afraid not.”

La Porte nodded, scowling. “Then we've been duped. The remains found in the bombed Pasteur building were not there by accident, nor the fingerprints and DNA profile in his Sreteacute; file, and the Basques were only a front, a charade to hide the real terrorists. Is that so?”