Covert One 3 - The Paris Option (33 page)

The admiral studied the president, who suddenly looked as exhausted as the admiral felt. The president's broad shoulders were slumped, and jowls seemed to have come from nowhere to age his face ten years. Worried not only about the future but about his leader, Stevens Brose waited for an answer.

Sam Castilla shook his head. “Not yet. Give me another day. Then we'll have to do it. I don't want to start a panic. At least not yet.”

“I understand. Thank you for hearing us out, Mr. President.”

“You're welcome, Admiral.”

Looking doubtful, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs opened the door and left. As soon as President Castilla was alone, he stood up behind his pine-table desk and paced. Outside on the colonnade, a Secret Service sentry gazed back once, his attention attracted by the movement. As soon as he saw that there was no danger, his gaze swept back over the White House grounds and the rainy sky above.

The president noted the attention, the approving look that indicated normalcy, and shook his head grimly. Nothing was normal. Everything had gone to hell in a pretty wicker handbasket. In the eighteen months since he had established Covert-One, Fred Klein and his team had never failed him. Was this to be the first time?

Paris, France

Tucked away on the short rue Duluth in the Sixteenth Arrondissement, the building looked like a typical town mansion of Baron Haussmann's Paris. But the elegant, if unremarkable, facade concealed one of the most exclusive and expensive private hospitals in Paris. Here the rich and infamous came for cosmetic surgery, less to fight the scoring of age than to recapture an imagined youth. Discreet and accustomed to the demands of the elite for the utmost secrecy and security, it was the perfect place to hide, if you knew the right people to convince.

Marty Zellerbach's private room was airy and comfortable, with a vase of fresh pink peonies on a low table before the window. Peter Howell sat beside the bed where Marty lay propped up. Marty's eyes were open and clear, but a bit dulled, as was to be expected when he was on a fresh dose of Mideral, the quick-acting wonder drug that enabled him to sit quietly through onerous tasks like changing lightbulbs, paying bills, or visiting with a friend. Asperger's sufferers were often written off as “nerds” and “geeks”, oddballs and eccentrics, or behaviorally disturbed. Some scientists estimated that as many as one in two hundred fifty people had at least a mild case. There was no cure for Asperger's, and the only help for people with more severe cases like Marty's was medication, usually in the form of stimulants for the central nervous system, such as Mideral.

The shock of events had worn off, and now Marty was acting courtly but gloomy. His soft, chubby frame was collapsed back like a weary rag doll against the white mountain of pillows. There were bandages on his forehead and arms from scrapes he had received as a result of the explosion at the Pasteur.

“My goodness, Peter.” Marty's eyes skittered around the room, avoiding Peter. “It was dreadful. All that gore in the hospital room. If our lives hadn't been at stake, I would've been even more horrified.”

“You could say thank you, Marty.”

“I didn't? That's remiss of me. But then, Peter, you're a fighting machine. You've said so yourself. I suppose I simply took you at your word. Just another day of work for you and your sort.”

Peter straightened. “My sort?”

Marty ignored Peter's glare. “I suppose the civilized world does need you, although I often cannot imagine why”

“Marty, old boy, don't tell me you're a pacificist.”

“Ah, yes. Bertrand Russell, Gandhi, William Penn. Very good company. Interesting, too. Men who really thought. I could quote you passages of their speeches. Long passages.” He glanced at Peter with teasing green eyes.

“Don't bother. Need I remind you that you now know how to use a weapon? An automatic rifle, at that.”

Marty shuddered. “Caught.” Then he smiled, ready to give Peter his due. “Well, I suppose there are times when fighting is appropriate.”

“Bloody damn right. I could've trotted on out and abandoned you for those two goons in the hospital to carve up into dainty morsels. But you'll notice that I didn't.”

Marty's expression changed completely. He stared, appalled. “You have a point, Peter. Thank you.”

“Well done. Now should we get to business?”

Peter exhibited a bandaged cheek, left arm, and left hand, the result of the grim, quiet battle in Marty's room at the Pompidou Hospital. Marty had awakened in time to witness it all. After Peter had dispatched the two attackers, he'd located an attendant's uniform and a laundry basket on wheels, convinced Marty to crawl inside, and piled linens on top of him. Then he'd donned the attendant's uniform. The Legionnaire guards on the door had disappeared, and Peter deduced they must have been bribed, or murdered, or were themselves terrorists. But where were MI6 and the Sreteacute;? But he had no time to think about that.

Fearing more of the extremists could be nearby, he had wheeled Marty out of the hospital and straight to his rental car for the trip to this private clinic, which was run by Dr. Lucile Cameron, an old friend of Peter's from the Falkland Wars.

“Of course. You asked what happened in the lab.” Marty clasped his cheeks with both hands, remembering. “Oh, my. Such a terrible experience. Emileyou know, Emile Chambord?”

“I know who he is. Go on.”

“Emile said he wouldn't be working that night. So I hadn't planned to go into the lab either. Then I remembered I'd left my paper on differential equations there, so I had to return for it.” He paused, and his plump face quivered. “Appalling!” His eyes widened in a strange mixture of fear and elation. “Wait! There was something else. Yes. I want to tell you abouthellip;about everything. I've been trying to tell youhellip;”

“We know, Marty. Jon's been with you nearly every day. Randi came to see you, too. What was it you wanted to tell us?”

“Jon? And Randi as well?” Marty clutched Peter's arm and pulled him close. “Peter, listen. I must tell you. Emile wasn't in the lab, but of course I expected that. But neither was the prototype! Worst of all, there was a body on the floor. A corpse! I ran out and almost got to the stairs, when”his eyes grew haunted“there was this ear-shattering noise, and a hand seemed to lift me, throw mehellip;I screamed. I know that I screamedhellip;”

Peter grabbed the little genius in a bear hug. “It's okay, Marty. It's over. You're fine. Perfectly safe now. It's all over. You're all right.” Perhaps it was the hug, or his reassuring words, or just that Marty had finally been able to relate what he had been trying to say for four days, but Peter felt Marty calm.

At the same time, Peter was deeply disappointed. Marty had told him nothing new, only that Chambord and the DNA computer had not been in the lab when the bomb exploded, but a corpse was, all of which they had figured out. But at least Marty was alive and recovering, and for that Peter was more than grateful. He released him and watched him sink back.

Marty gave a wan smile. “I guess the trauma affected me more than I realized. One never knows how one will react, does one? You say I've been in a coma?”

Marty's face spread in worry. “Where's Emile, Peter? Did he visit me, too?”

“Bad news there. The terrorists who blew up the Pasteur kidnapped him and took the DNA computer. They also kidnapped his daughter. Can you tell me whether the prototype actually works? We figured it does. True?”

“Oh, dear. Those heathens have Emile and Theacute;regrave;se and the DNA computer! This is worrisome. Yes, Emile and I considered it finished. There were a few minor tests to run before we made a formal announcement. We planned to do them the next morning. This concerns me, Peter. Do you know what someone can do with our prototype, especially if they have Emile to operate it? Oh, my! What will happen to Emile and Theacute;regrave;se? Too ghastly to consider!”

“We've had a graphic demonstration of what the computer can do.” Peter filled in Marty about the various electronic attacks. As he described them, Marty's face flushed with anger and he clenched his fists, something Peter had never seen Marty, who really did hate violence, do.

“How impossibly awful! I must help. We must save the Chambords! We must get back the prototype! Get me my slackshellip;”

“Whoa, you're by no means recovered, my boy. Besides, you don't have anything here but that darling hospital gown of yours.” As Marty opened his mouth to complain, Peter hurried on. “Now you just lie back again, lad. Perhaps in a few days, right?” He paused. “I have a critical question for you. Can you build a DNA computer, something so we can fight back?”

“No, Peter. I'm sorry. What happened ishellip;I didn't just hop on a plane and arrive unannounced at Emile's lab. No, he called me in Washington and intrigued me with his great secret, his molecular computer. He needed me to show him how to make the most out of operating it. So that was my end of our partnership. Emile's, of course, was creating the machine himself. Everything was in his notes. Do you have his notes?”

“No one's been able to find them.”

“I was afraid that was the situation.”

After Peter had reassured Marty that everything possible was being done, he made two calls, using the standard phone by Marty's bedside. That finished, he and Marty talked longer.

As he prepared to leave, Peter said soberly, “You're in excellent hands here, Marty. Lochiel's a hell of a doctor and a soldier. He'll make sure no one can get to you, and he'll monitor your health. A coma's nothing to fool around with. Even an overeducated egghead like you knows that. Meanwhile, I have a bit of work to do myself, then I'll be back before you can say Jack the Ripper.”

“ 'Jack the Ripper.' Very funny.” Marty gave a small nod of the head in tribute. “Personally, I prefer Pete the Sticker.”

“Oh?”

“Much more appropriate, Peter. After all, that nasty, sharp stiletto of yours saved our lives in the hospital. Ergo: Pete the Sticker.”

“There's that.”

As Peter returned the smile, the two men accidentally looked into each other's eyes. Both smiled wider. Then they averted their gazes.

“I suppose I'll be all right,” Marty grumbled. “Goodness knows, I'm safer here than with you and all the trouble you can get yourself into.” Then he brightened. “I forgot. It puzzles me.”

“What puzzles you?”

“The painting. Well, not really a paintinghellip;a print copy of a painting. It was Emile's, and it was missing, too. I wonder why? Why on earth would terrorists want that?”

“What print, Marty?” Peter was impatient. He was already making plans in his mind. “Missing from where?”

“Emile's laboratory. It was his print of the famous The Grand Army Retreats from Moscow painting. You know it. Everyone does. It's the one in which Napoleon is riding his white horse, his chin sunk on his chest, with his ragged troops trudging through the snow behind him. They've been badly beaten. I think it was after the battle for Moscow. Now, why would terrorists steal that? It wasn't valuable. Just a print, after all. Not the real painting.”

Peter shook his head. “I don't know, Marty.”

“Odd, isn't it?” Marty mused. He stroked his chin, looking for a meaning.

Washington, D.C.

Fred Klein sat in the presidential bedroom, chewing again on the stem of his unlit pipe. There had been moments in the last few days when his jaw had been so tight he had nearly bitten through the stem. He had faced other crises of great magnitude and desperation, but never anything as tense and uncertain as this. It was the sense of impotence, the knowledge that if the enemy wanted to use the DNA computer there would be no defense against it. All their mighty weapons, built so carefully and expensively over the last half century, were useless, although they gave a feeling of security to the uninformed and unimaginative. In the end, all they had were the intelligence services. A few agents following a faint trail, like a single hunter in a planet-sized wilderness.

President Castilla came in from his sitting room, shed his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and flopped into a heavy leather armchair. “That was Pat Remia over at 10 Downing. Seems they've lost a top generalGeneral Mooreand they think it's the doing of our terrorists.” He leaned back, resting his head against the chair, his eyes closed.

“I know,” Klein said. The light behind him reflected on his face, emphasizing the receding hairline and the deepening ravines in his face.

“Did you hear what General Henze thinks of our tactics? Our progress?”

Klein nodded.

“And?”

“He's wrong.”

The president shook his head and pursed his lips. “I'm worried, Fred. General Henze says he's unimpressed by Smith's prospects for finding these people again, and I have to admit from what you've told me I'm concerned myself.”

“In clandestine operations, Sam, progress is sometimes hard to see. We've got all our intelligence resources out there working on various aspects of this. Plus, Smith's teamed up with a couple of highly seasoned fellow agents. One from CIA, and one from MI6. It's unofficial, of course. But through them he can tap directly into CIA and MI6 resources. Because of all the communications problems, I haven't been as much help to him as I'd ordinarily be.”

“Do they know about Covert-One?”

“Absolutely not.”

The president crossed his hands over his wide girth. The room filled with silence. At last he looked across at Klein. “Thanks, Fred. Stay in touch. Close touch.”

Klein stood up and headed toward the door. “I will. Thank you, Mr. President.”

Es Calo, Isla de Formentera Friday, May 9

From where he lay on the low, sun-bleached hill, Jon raised his head just enough to see the Far de la Mola lighthouse, which loomed to the east on the highest point of this windswept island. All around spread pristine beaches that led down to clear, unspoiled waters. Since the island was not only largely undeveloped but essentially flat, he and Max had used every possible rock and thicket of the tough native brush for cover as they crawled closer to the three terrorists whom they had been following through the long night.