Covert One 3 - The Paris Option (5 page)

When the morning express train from Bordeaux pulled in that Tuesday at the Gare d'Austerlitz, Captain Darius Bonnard was the third passenger off, striding through the throngs of arriving and departing Parisians, provincials, and tourists as if he did not know they existed. The truth was, he was watching for the slightest sign of interest directed toward him. There were too many who would try to stop his work if they discovered it, enemies and friends alike.

He stayed focused, his scrutiny covert, as he headed toward the exit, a compact, vigorous man with blond hair, impeccably attired in his French officer's uniform. He had spent his entire adult life in the service of France, and his current assignment might be the most important in all the nation's illustrious history. Certainly it was the most important to him. And the most dangerous.

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, dialed a number, and when the voice answered, he announced, “I'm here.” As soon as he hung up, he dialed a second number and repeated the message.

Outdoors, he bypassed the ranks of taxis, plus four official and unofficial drivers eager for his business, and climbed into the rogue cab that had just pulled up.

“Salaam alake koom,”

the gravelly voice greeted him from the backseat.

As he settled in beside the robed man, Captain Bonnard replied with the customary response: “La bahs hamdililah.” He slammed and locked the door.

In the street, other drivers shouted curses at this breach of taxicab etiquette.

As the vehicle pulled away, driving southwest into narrow side streets, Captain Bonnard turned to the man who had spoken. In the shadowed interior, shafts of sunlight played intermittently across the hooded, green-brown eyes. Most of the man's face was cloaked in the voluminous white robes and gold-trimmed kaffiyeh of a desert bedouin, but from what little Bonnard could see, the man had satin-black skin. Bonnard knew his name was Abu Auda and that he was a member of the Fulani tribe from the Sahel region at the southern edge of the Sahara, where the dry, forbidding desert met lush forest and grasslands. The green-brown eyes revealed that a blue-eyed Berber or ancient Vandal was somewhere in his family line.

“You've brought them?” the Fulani asked in Arabic.

“Naam.”

The French captain nodded. He unbuttoned his tunic, opened his uniform shirt, and took out a letter-sized, zippered leather portfolio. Abu Auda's gaze followed each of the movements as Bonnard handed over the portfolio and reported, “Chambord's assistant is dead. What of the American, Zellerbach?”

“We found no notes, as was expected, although we searched thoroughly,” Abu Auda told him.

The man's strange eyes bored into Bonnard as if they could reach the Frenchman's soul. Eyes that trusted no one and nothing, not even the god to whom he prayed five times daily without fail. He would worship Allah, but he would trust no one. As Captain Bonnard's face held steadfastly impassive under the heat of the bedouin's examination, the hard eyes finally turned their attention to the portfolio.

Abu Auda felt it all over with long, scarred fingers, then pushed it inside his robes. His voice was strong and measured as he said, “He'll be in touch.”

“No need. I'll see him soon.” Bonnard gave a curt nod. “Stop the taxi.”

The desert bedouin gave the command, the vehicle pulled to the curb, and the Frenchman stepped out. As soon as the door clicked closed behind him, the taxi peeled away.

Captain Bonnard walked to the nearest corner, speaking into his cell phone again. “You followed?”

"Oui.

No problems."

Seconds later, a large Citron with darkened windows slowed as it neared the corner. Its rear door opened, and the captain stepped inside. The expensive car made a U-turn, taking him to his office where he had phone calls to make before he met with Abu Auda's boss.

As Jon Smith regained consciousness in the stairwell at the huge Pompidou Hospital, an image lingered in his mind. It was a face, leering at him. Swarthy, a thick black mustache, brown eyes, and a triumphant smile that faded away like the grin of the Cheshire Cat. But the eyeshellip;He concentrated on the eyes that accompanied the smile down the stairs, fading, fadinghellip; Voices speaking, what? French? Yes, French. Where the devil was hehellip;?

“hellip; are you all right? Monsieur?”

“How do you feel?”

“Who was the man who attacked you? Why was he?”

“Stand back, you idiots. Can't you see he's still unconscious? Give me room so I can examine”

Smith's eyes snapped open. He was lying on his back on hard concrete, a gray cement ceiling overhead. A ring of concerned faces peered down female and male nurses, a doctor kneeling over him, a gendarme and uniformed security people above and behind.

Smith sat up and his head swam with pain. “Damn.”

“You must lie back, monsieur. You've had a nasty blow to the skull. Tell me how you feel.”

Smith did not lie down again, but he allowed the white-coated doctor to aim his penlight into his eyes. He endured the examination with little patience. “Great. I feel absolutely great.” Which was a lie. His head pounded as if someone were in there with a sledgehammer. Abruptly, he remembered. He grabbed the doctor's hand in a vise grip, pushed away the light, and gazed all around. “Where is he?” he demanded. “That Arab orderly. Where is he! He had a submachine gun. He”

“He wasn't the only one with a gun.” The gendarme held up Smith's Sig Sauer. His expression was severe, distrustful, and Smith sensed he was very close to being arrested. The gendarme continued, “Did you buy this here in Paris? Or did you, perhaps, find some way to sneak it into the country?”

Smith patted his suit jacket pocket. It was empty, which meant his identification was gone. “You've got my ID?” When the gendarme nodded, Smith continued, “Then you know I'm a U.S. Army colonel. Pull the ID out of its case. Under it is a special permit to bring my gun in and carry it.”

The policeman did as asked, while around Smith the hospital crew watched suspiciously. At last the gendarme gave a slow nod and returned the identification case.

“My Sig Sauer, too. S'il vous plat,” A security guard handed it down, and Smith said, “Now tell me about the 'orderly' with the submachine gun. Who was he?”

The doctor looked up at the security man. “The other man was an orderly?”

“Must've been Farouk al Hamid,” the guard said. “This is his section.”

Another guard disagreed. “That wasn't Farouk. I saw him running, and it wasn't Farouk.”

“Had to be. It's his section.”

A nurse chimed in, “I know Farouk. That man was too tall to be Farouk.”

“While they try to sort through the mystery, I'm going to finish my examination,” the doctor announced to Smith. “This will take only a moment.” He shone the light in one of Smith's eyes, then the other.

Smith struggled to contain his frustration. “I'm okay,” he said again and this time meant it. His head was clearing, the pain subsiding.

The doctor removed the light and sat back on his heels. “Are you dizzy?”

“Not a bit.” Which was the truth.

The doctor shrugged and got up. “I understand you're a physician, so you know the dangers of head injuries. But you seem like something of a hothead.” He frowned and peered worriedly at Smith. “You're obviously eager to be out of here, and I can't stop you. But at least your eyes are clear and tracking, your skin color's good, and you may actually be thinking rationally, so I'll just warn you to take care of yourself and avoid further injuries. And if you start feeling worse or lose consciousness again, come back straightaway. You know the dangers of a concussion. You may have one.”

“Yes, Doctor.” Jon struggled to his feet. “Thanks. I appreciate your concern.” He decided to ignore the comment about his being a hothead. “Where's the hospital's chief of security?”

“I'll take you,” one of the guards told him.

He led Smith down the emergency stairs to a tucked-away office of several rooms, all equipped with the latest in electronic surveillance and computers. The security chief's office looked out over a parking area, and on the wall were several framed photographs that were personal. One was a black-and-white photo of five exhausted, hollow-eyed men with defiant faces in field uniforms. They were sitting on wooden crates with thick jungle all around. Smith studied the photo for a moment, then recognized Dien Bien Phu, where in 1954 the French were defeated in a brutal, humiliating siege that proved the end of France's longtime control of the region.

The guard explained, “Chief, this is the gentleman who tried to stop the armed orderly.”

Smith held out his hand. “Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, U.S. Army.”

“Pierre Girard. Have a seat, Colonel.”

Girard did not get up from behind the clean lines of his modern desk or shake Smith's hand, but nodded to one of the straight chairs. A thick, burly man of medium height, the security chief wore a stained gray suit and loosened tie. He looked more like a longtime Sreteacute; CID detective than a private security man.

Smith sat. “The orderly, or whoever he was, and there appears to be some doubt, came to the ICU to kill Martin Zellerbach, I think.”

Girard glanced toward the guard. “The man wasn't an orderly as reported?”

“It's Farouk al Hamid's station,” the guard explained, “but some witnesses say it wasn't him.”

The chief reached for his telephone. “Get me personnel.” He waited, his face neutral. A former detective, no doubt of it, accustomed to bureaucracy. “You have an orderly named Farouk al Hamid who works thehellip;yes, ICU. He did? I see. Thank you.” Girard hung up and told Smith, “He wrote a note saying he was sick, his cousin would do his job, and he sent the note with the cousin, who, it seems, was our tall orderly with the gun.”

“And who,” Smith said, “was no orderly, and maybe not even Algerian.”

“A disguise.” Girard nodded to himself. “Possibly. May I ask why someone would want to assassinate Mr. Zellerbach?” The security chief made the usual hash of the French trying to pronounce a German name.

“It's Dr. Zellerbach. He's a computer scientist. He was working with Dr. Emile Chambord at the Pasteur the night of the bombing.”

“A great pity to lose Chambord.” Girard paused. “Then it's possible your Dr. Zellerbach saw or heard something incriminating there. Perhaps now the bombers are trying to stop Dr. Zellerbach from awakening and giving us the information.”

It was a policeman's answer, and Smith saw no reason to elaborate further. “I'd say that it was more than possible.”

“I'll alert the police.”

“I'd appreciate you or the police doubling the guard on him in the ICU and, if he's moved, posted wherever he's sent.”

“I will contact the Sreteacute;.”

“Good.” Smith stood. “Thank you. I've got an appointment, so I'm going to have to leave.” That was not exactly the truth, but close.

“Of course. The police will need to speak to you, though, eventually, I expect.”

Smith gave Girard the name and number of his hotel and left. At the ICU, there was no change in Marty. He sat beside Marty's bed again, studying the round, sleeping face, worrying. Marty looked so vulnerable, and Smith found his throat tight with emotion.

At last he stood up, pressed Marty's hand once more, and told him he would be back. He left the ICU but stayed on the same floor, returning to the fire stairs. On the landing, he searched for anything the gunman might have dropped, for any clue at all. He found nothing but a trace of blood on the post of the balustrade, evidence he really had wounded the gunman, which could be useful information if the man ever reappeared.

Still on the deserted stair landing, he activated his cell phone with its special scrambler capacity and dialed. “Someone tried to kill Marty in the hospital,” he reported.

The head of Covert-One, Fred Klein, answered from across the Atlantic Ocean in his usual growl. “Do we know who?”

“Looks like a pro. It was a good setup. The guy was disguised as an orderly, and if I hadn't been there, he could've gotten away with it.”

“The French guards didn't pick up on him?”

“No, but maybe the Sreteacute; will do better now,” Smith said.

“Better yet, I'll talk to the French myself, ask them to send special forces soldiers to guard Zellerbach.”

“I like that. There's something else you need to know. The guy had a mini-submachine gun. He was carrying it hidden under bed linen.”

There was an abrupt silence at the other end of the connection. Klein knew as well as Smith that the submachine gun changed the picture. It turned what had appeared a straightforward assassination attempt into something far more complex. When Klein spoke again, he asked the question, “Meaning what exactly, Colonel?”

Smith was sure Klein knew perfectly well what he was thinking, but he said it anyway: “He had the firepower to kill Marty from where he was standing. My being there would've been no deterrent, if he'd been willing to shoot me and maybe everyone else in the ICU, too. His initial plan was probably to go in with a knife, something quiet, so he wouldn't attract attention. The submachine gun was only for last-ditch protection.”

“And?”

“And that suggests he realized that if he opened fire and killed a handful of us, his escape from the hospital would've been far more difficult, and that means he didn't want to take any chances that he might be captured, alive or dead. Which, in turn, suggests again that the bombing was no random act or the crazed vindictiveness of some fired employee, but part of a careful plan by people with a specific goal who will go to great lengths to not be discovered.”

Klein was silent again. “You think it's clearer now that Dr. Chambord was the target. And therefore Marty, too, because he was working with Chambord.”

“Has there been any group or individual claiming credit for the bombing?”

“Not yet.”

“There won't,” Smith decided.

Klein gave a cold chuckle. “I always thought you were wasted in medicine and research, Jon. Very well, we think the same, but so far everyone else is whistling in the dark in hopes Chambord's death was collateral to the bombing, an accident.” There was a deep sigh at the far end. “But that part's my job. Yours is to dig deeper and turn up those notes and any type of prototype computer he developed.” His voice grew hard. “And if you can't grab them, you've got to destroy them. Those are your orders. We can't run the risk of that kind of power staying in the wrong hands.”