Covert One 3 - The Paris Option (29 page)

“Yes,” Jon acknowledged. “The actual perpetrators call themselves the Crescent Shield. A multiethnic, multinational Muslim extremist group led by a man who calls himself M. Mauritania.”

The general gulped angrily at his coffee. “The information I was given, and then gave to you, appears to have misled you on many counts. I apologize for this.”

“Actually, it was following the trail of the Basques that revealed most of what we know now, so in the end you turned out to be of great help, General.”

"Merci.

I take comfort in that outcome."

Jon put down his cup. “May I ask where your aide, Captain Bonnard, is?”

“Darius? I sent him on a mission to the South of France.”

Not far from Spain. “Where exactly, General?”

La Porte stared at Jon, frowned. “Our naval base at Toulon and then on to Menorca for an errand. Why? What are these questions about Darius?”

“How well do you know Captain Bonnard?”

“Well?”

La Porte was astonished. “You suspect Darius ofhellip;? No, no, that's impossible. I can't think such a treason.”

“He gave you the information you gave me.”

“Impossible.” The general glared in anger. “How well do I know Darius? As a father knows his son. He's been with me six years. He has a spotless record with many decorations and commendations for courage and daring from before the first time we were togetherwhen he was a platoon commander for me in the Fourth Dragoons in the Iraq War. Earlier, he was a poilu in the Second Foreign Legion Infantry Regiment operating in North Africa at the request of nations that were our former colonies and still called on us from time to time for aid. He was commissioned from the ranks. How can you suspect such an honored man?”

“An enlisted man in the Legion? He's not French?”

“Of course he's French!” La Porte snapped. His broad face seemed to freeze, and a look of discomfort took hold on it, squeezing his features. “It's true his father was German. Darius was German-born, but his mother was French, and he took her name when he was commissioned.”

“What do you know of his private life?”

“Everything. He's married to a fine young woman from a good family with many years of service to France. He's a student of our history, as am I.”

La Porte swept his arm in a wide circle to encompass the entire office, and Jon saw that the walls were covered with paintings, photographs, drawings, maps, all of great moments in French history. There was one exception, a photograph of the painting of the red-stone castle Jon had seen first in the general's Paris mansion.

But the general was still talking. “History is more than the story of a nation, a people. Real history chronicles a country's soul, so that to not know the history is to not know the nation or the people. If we do not know the past, Colonel, we are doomed to repeat it, non? How can a man devoted to his country's history betray it? Impossible.”

Jon listened with a growing sense that La Porte was talking too much, defending Bonnard too hard, as if to convince himself. Was the general realizing deep down that what he saw as impossible might just be possible? There was more than a little doubt in the general's final few words. “No, I cannot believe it. Not Darius.”

But Jon could, and as he left the office, he glanced back at the general in his great, thronelike chair. La Porte was brooding, and there was dread in his unfocused gaze.

Paris, France

Peter Howell dozed on the narrow cot he had insisted the hospital move into Marty's private room, when a bee or wasp or some kind of annoying flying stinger buzzed his ear. He slapped hard and awakened to the pain in his head where he had clouted himselfhellip;and the harsh, insistent ringing of the room telephone on the stand next to his pillow.

Across the room, Marty stirred, mumbling.

Peter glanced at him and grabbed the phone. “Howell.”

“Sleeping were we, Peter?”

“An unfortunate necessity at intervals even for a field operative, no matter how inconvenient for you nine-to-five civil servants who get to spend every night in your own bloody beds, or your mistress's.”

In London, Sir Gareth Southgate chuckled. But there was no real amusement in the sound, for it had been his unenviable task, as the head of MI6, to manage Peter Howell long past when he should have seen the maverick's backside. But nothing about the retired agent was normal, including his pleasure in being troublesome. The fact was, Peter Howell was a brilliant operative, which made him useful in emergencies. Therefore, jocularity and a very rigid lip were the methods Southgate had chosen to deal with him.

But now Southgate's chuckle died in his throat. “How is Dr. Zellerbach, Peter?”

“Unchanged. What the devil do you want?”

Southgate kept his voice light, but added an overtone of gravity: “To give you some disturbing information, and to ask your oh-so-insightful opinion on the matter.”

In the hospital room, Marty stirred again. He appeared restless. Peter looked at him hopefully. When Marty seemed to fall back into slumber, Peter returned his attention to the conversation with Southgate. Once he knew he had gotten under any of the bosses' skins, he became quite civil. Noblesse oblige. “I am, as we say in California, all ears.”

“How nice of you,” Southgate commented. “This will be ultrasecret. PM's eyes only. In fact, I'm making this call using a brand-new scrambler and encryption code, to make bloody damn sure the terrorists haven't had a chance to break through it yet. And I'll never use it again, not until we get that monstrous DNA computer under our control. Do you read me clearly, Peter?”

Peter growled, “Then you'd best not tell me, old boy.”

Southgate's testmess rose closer to the surface. “I beg your pardon?”

“The rules haven't changed. What I do on an assignment is my decision. Should I, in my judgment, need to share the information to achieve the goal, then I will. And you may tell the PM that.”

Sir Gareth's voice rose. “Do you enjoy being an arrogant bastard, Peter?”

“Immensely. Now tell me what you want me to know or push off, right?” Peter figured it was only logical that officials a great deal higher up than the head of MI6 had invited him to this party, which meant Southgate was powerless to fire him. He smiled as he envisioned South-gate's frustration.

Southgate's voice was brittle: “General Sir Arnold Moore and his pilot are missing and presumed dead on a flight from Gibraltar to London. He was flying home to present a report of utmost urgency to the PM. All he would tell the PM over even the most secure electronic connection was that it involved theand I quote'recent electronic disruptions in America.' For that reason, I have been instructed to relay the information on to you.”

Peter was instantly sobered. “Did General Moore give any hint of how or where he had encountered what he wanted to tell the PM?”

“None.” Southgate, too, abandoned the feud. “We've checked every source we have, and what we know is that the general was supposed to be at his country estate in Kent. Instead, he flew to Gibraltar from London with his own pilot. After that, he and the pilot took a helicopter and returned some six hours later. During those six hours, he was out of contact.”

“Gibraltar station doesn't know where he flew?”

“No one does. His pilot, of course, vanished with him.”

Peter digested this news. “All right, I need to remain here until I can question Dr. Zellerbach. Meanwhile, put everyone you can on finding out where Moore went. Once I've spoken to Zellerbach, I'll head south and root around. A helicopter has a limited flight range, so we should be able to narrow the general's destinations.”

“Very well. Ihellip;hold on.” Southgate's voice faded as he turned to speak with someone else. The two voices continued for some seconds before the chief of MI6 resumed his conversation with Peter: “We've just received a report that debris from Moore's Tornado have been found at sea off Lisbon. The fuselage showed signs of an explosion. I imagine we can consider both him and the pilot dead.”

Peter agreed. “An accident seems unlikely, considering everything. Keep your people digging, and I'll be in touch.”

Southgate bit off a remark that Howell was also one of his people, subject to orders. But it was not true. Inwardly, he sighed. “Very good. And, Peter? Try to tell as few people as possible, eh?”

Peter hung up. Pompous ass. He thanked his stars he had always managed to remain out of a position of authority. All it did was go to a perfectly decent man's brain and impede oxygen, progress, and results. On second thought, decent men rarely sought or received authority. You had to be a solemn fool before you wanted that sort of agony.

“My goodness.” A shaky voice was speaking behind him: “Peterhellip;Peter Howell? Is that you, Peter?”

Peter leaped from his cot and ran to Marty's bedside.

Marty blinked and rubbed his eyes. “Am I thenhellip;dead? Surely I must be. Yes, I must be in hell.” He gazed worriedly into Peter's face. “Otherwise, I wouldn't be seeing Lucifer. I should've known. Where else would I meet that insufferable Englishman but in hell?”

“That's more like it.” Peter smiled broadly. “Hello, Marty, you silly fellow. You gave us quite a turn.”

Marty peered worriedly around his hospital room. “It looks pleasant enough, but I'm not tricked. It's an illusion.” He cringed. “I see flames behind these innocent walls. Orange, yellow, red. Boiling fire from the hubs of hell! Blinding! Don't think you can hold Marty Zellerbach!” He threw back his sheets, and Peter grabbed his shoulders.

As he struggled to hold Marty in bed, Peter roared, “Guard! Get the nurse! Get the damn doctor! Get somebody!”

The door snapped open, and the guard looked in and saw what was happening. “Be right back.”

Marty pressed into Peter's hands, not struggling now so much as simply using the full weight of his stout body to push determinedly toward freedom. “Arrogant Lucifer! I'll be out of your clutches before you can blink. Reality and illusion. Zounds, who do you think you're dealing with? Oh, it'll be fun to match wits with the archfiend. There's no way you can win. I'll fly from here on the wings of a red-tailed hawk. No wayhellip;nohellip;no .. .”

“Shhh, boy,” Peter said, trying to calm him. “I'm not Lucifer. Not really. Remember old Peter? We had some good times, we did.”

But Marty continued to rave, caught in the grip of the extreme manic stage of his Asperger's Syndrome. The nurse ran in, followed by Dr. Dubost. While she and Peter held Marty down, the doctor injected him with an aqueous solution of Mideral, the drug that controlled his manic stage.

“hellip;I must fly awayhellip;Satan can't outwit me! Not me! I will . . .”

While Peter and the nurse continued to restrain Marty, the doctor nodded approval. “Try to keep him as quiet as possible. He's been in the coma a long time, and we don't want any relapses. The Mideral will take effect soon.”

Peter talked quietly as Marty continued to rant, building his schemes and castles in the sky, all centered on the delusion that he was in Pluto's underworld and had to outwit the devil himself. Soon he grew less physical and no longer tried to escape, and eventually his eyes turned dull, his lids drooped, and he began to nod.

The nurse smiled at Peter and stepped back. “You're a good friend to him, Mr. Howell. A lot of people would've run screaming from the room.”

Peter frowned. “That so? Don't have much backbone, do they?”

“Or heart.” She patted him on the shoulder and left.

For the first time, Peter regretted not having electronic communications or being able to bounce cell calls off a satellite. He wanted to let Jon and Randi know about Marty, while at the same time, he should call his contacts in the South of France, along the Costa Brava into Spain, and all the places a helicopter from Gibraltar could have flown to see what he could learn about General Moore's last few hours. But they were best reachable by their cell phones.

Frustrated, he sat down, sighed, and let his head fall forward into his hands. That was when he heard light steps behind him. Soft, evasive footsteps, and he had not even heard the door open.

“Randi?” As he started to turn, he reached for the Browning Hi-Power 9mm in his belt. That tread was not Randi'shellip;. And he was too late. Before the weapon was in his hand, the cold metal of the intruder's gun muzzle pressed firmly into the back of his head. He froze. Whoever it was, was skilled. Frighteningly adept, and not alone.

Brussels, Belgium

Smith closed the cover of the last file folder, ordered a second Chimay ale, and sat back. He had dropped a note at the Cafeacute; Egmont, telling Randi to meet him at the cafeacute; Le Cerf Agile, where he was seated at a sidewalk table. It was his favorite cafeacute; in the rue St-Catherine area of the lower city, not far from the bourse and what had once been the banks of the river Senne when this part of Brussels was a port to hundreds of fishing vessels. As this was still a fish-market area, seafood remained the order of the day in bistros here, even though the river had long ago been boxed inside a manmade channel and bricked over to become the boulevard Anspach.

But the fish, the hidden river, and the food were far from Smith's mind as he took a long draft of his dark ale and looked around. No other patrons were sitting outside, since dark clouds still rolled occasionally across the sky. But the rain had stopped an hour ago, and when Smith had asked, the matre d' had wiped off this table and the two accompanying chairs. The other patrons had decided to take no chances that the heavens would open again in another deluge, which was fine with Jon.

He liked being out here alone, out of range of prying eyes and ears. He had changed out of his uniform after he left SHAPE and now looked like any tourist in his tan cotton slacks, open-necked tartan shirt, dark-blue sports jacket, and athletic shoes. The shoes were important, in case he had to run. The jacket was important, to hide his pistol. And the black trench coat he had slung over the back of his chair was important, because it helped him to blend with the night.