The Paris Option Part 1

The Paris Option.

by Robert Ludlum.

Paris, France Sunday, May 4The first warm winds of spring gusted along Paris's narrow back streets and broad boulevards, calling winter-weary residents out into the night. They thronged the sidewalks, strolling, linking arms, filling the chairs around outdoor cafeacute; tables, everywhere smiling and chatting. Even the tourists stopped complaining this was the enchanting Paris promised in their travel guides.Occupied with their gla.s.ses of vin ordinaire under the stars, the spring celebrators on the bustling rue de Vaugirard did not notice the large black Renault van with darkened windows that left the busy street for the boulevard Pasteur. The van circled around the block, down the rue du Docteur Roux, and at last entered the quiet rue des Volontaires, where the only action was of a young couple kissing in a recessed doorway.The black van rolled to a stop outside L'Inst.i.tut Pasteur, cut its engine, and turned off its headlights. It remained there, silent, until the young couple, oblivious in their bliss, disappeared inside a building across the street.The van's doors clicked open, and four figures emerged clothed completely in black, their faces hidden behind balaclavas. Carrying compact Uzi submachine guns and wearing backpacks, they slipped through the night, almost invisible. A figure materialized from the shadows of the Pasteur Inst.i.tute and guided them onto the grounds, while the street behind them remained quiet, deserted.Out on the rue de Vaugirard, a saxophonist had begun to play, his music throaty and mellow. The night breeze carried the music, the laughter, and the scent of spring flowers in through the open windows of the mult.i.tude of buildings at the Pasteur. The famed research center was home to more than twenty-five hundred scientists, technicians, students, and administrators, and many still labored into the night.The intruders had not expected so much activity. On high alert, they avoided the paths, listening, watching the windows and grounds, staying close to trees and structures as the sounds of the springtime gaiety from the rue de Vaugirard increased.But in his laboratory, all outside activity was lost on Dr. Emile Chambord, who sat working alone at his computer keyboard on the otherwise unoccupied second floor of his building. His lab was large, as befitted one of the inst.i.tute's most distinguished researchers. It boasted several prize pieces of equipment, including a robotic gene-chip reader and a scanning-tunneling microscope, which measured and moved individual atoms. But more personal and far more critical to him tonight were the files near his left elbow and, on his other side, a spiral bound notebook, which was open to the page on which he was meticulously recording data.His fingers paused impatiently on the keyboard, which was connected to an odd-looking apparatus that appeared to have more in common with an octopus than with IBM or Compaq. Its nerve center was contained in a temperature-controlled gla.s.s tray, and through its sides, one could see silver-blue gel packs immersed like translucent eggs in a jellied, foamlike substance. Ultrathin tubing connected the gel packs to one another, while atop them sat a lid. Where it interfaced with the gel packs was a coated metallic plate. Above it all stood an iMac-sized machine with a complicated control panel on which lights blinked like impulsive little eyes. From this machine, more tubing sprouted, feeding into the pack array, while wires and cables connected both the tray and the machine to the keyboard, a monitor, a printer, and a.s.sorted other electronic devices.Dr. Chambord keyboarded in commands, watched the monitor, read the dials on the iMac-sized machine, and continually checked the temperature of the gel packs in the tray. He recorded data in his notebook as he worked, until he suddenly sat back and studied the entire array. Finally he gave an abrupt nod and typed a paragraph of what appeared to be gibberishletters, numbers, and symbolsand activated a timer.His foot tapped nervously, and his fingers drummed the lab bench. But in precisely twelve seconds, the printer came to life and spit out a sheet of paper. Controlling his excitement, he stopped the timer and made a note. At last he allowed himself to s.n.a.t.c.h up the printout.As he read, he smiled. "Mais oui."Dr. Chambord took a deep breath and typed small cl.u.s.ters of commands. Sequences appeared on his screen so fast that his fingers could not keep up. He muttered inaudibly as he worked. Moments later, he tensed, leaned closer to the monitor, and whispered in French, "h.e.l.lip;one moreh.e.l.lip;oneh.e.l.lip;moreh.e.l.lip;there!"He laughed aloud, triumphant, and turned to look at the clock on the wall. It read 9:55 p.m. He recorded the time and stood up.His pale face glowing, he stuffed his files and notebook into a battered briefcase and took his coat from the old-fas.h.i.+oned Empire wardrobe near the door. As he put on his hat, he glanced again at the clock and returned to his contraption. Still standing, he keyboarded another short series of commands, watched the screen for a time, and finally shut everything down. He walked briskly to the door, opened it onto the corridor, and observed that it was dim and deserted. For a moment, he had a sense of foreboding.Then he shook it off. Non, he reminded himself: This was a moment to be savored, a great achievement. Smiling broadly, he stepped into the shadowy hall. Before he could close the door, four black-clothed figures surrounded him.Thirty minutes later, the wiry leader of the intruders stood watch as his three companions finished loading the black van on the rue des Volontaires. As soon as the side door closed, he appraised the quiet street once more and hopped into the pa.s.senger seat. He nodded to the driver, and the van glided away toward the crowded rue de Vaugirard, where it disappeared in traffic.The lighthearted revelry on the sidewalks and in the cafeacute;s and tabacs continued. More street musicians arrived, and the vin ordinaire flowed like the Seine, Then, without warning, the building that housed Dr. Chambord's laboratory on the legendary Pasteur campus exploded in a rolling sheet of fire. The earth shook as flames seemed to burst from every window and combust up toward the black night sky in a red-and-yellow eruption of terrible heat visible for miles around. As bricks, sparks, gla.s.s, and ash rained down, the throngs on the surrounding streets screamed in terror and ran for shelter.PART ONE

Chapter One.

Diego Garcia Island, Indian OceanAt 0654 hours at the vital U.S. Army, Air Force, and Naval installation on Diego Garcia, the officer commanding the s.h.i.+ft at the control tower was gazing out the windows as the morning sun illuminated the warm blue waters of Emerald Bay on the lagoon side of the U-shaped atoll and wis.h.i.+ng he were off duty. His eyes blinked slowly, and his mind wandered.The U.S. Navy Support Facility, the host command for this strategically located, operationally invaluable base, kept all of them busy with its support of sea, air, and surface flight operations. The payback was the island itself, a remote place of sweeping beauty, where the easy rhythms of routine duty lulled ambition.He was seriously contemplating a long swim the instant he was off duty when, one minute later, at 0655 hours, the control tower lost contact with the base's entire airborne fleet of B-1B, B-52, AWACS, P-3 Orion, and U-2 aircraft, on a variety of missions that included hot-b.u.t.ton reconnaissance and antisubmarine and surveillance support.The tropical lagoon vanished from his mind. He bawled orders, pushed a technician from one of the consoles, and started diagnostics. Everyone's attention was riveted on the dials, readouts, and screens as they battled to regain contact.Nothing helped. At 0658, in a controlled panic, he alerted the base's commanding officer.At 0659, the commanding officer informed the Pentagon.Then, oddly, inexplicably, at 0700, five minutes after they had mysteriously disappeared, all communications with the aircraft returned at the precise same second.Fort Collins, Colorado Monday, May 5As the sun rose over the vast prairie to the east, the rustic Foothills Campus of Colorado State University glowed with golden light. Here in a state-of-the-art laboratory in a nondescript building, Jonathan ("Jon") Smith, M.D., peered into a binocular microscope and gently moved a finely drawn gla.s.s needle into position. He placed an imperceptible drop of fluid onto a flat disk so small that it was no larger than the head of a pin. Under the high-resolution microscope, the plate bore a striking and seemingly impossibleresemblance to a circuit board.Smith made an adjustment, bringing the image more clearly into focus. "Good," he muttered, and smiled. "There's hope."An expert in virology and molecular biology, Smith was also an army medical officerin fact, a lieutenant coloneltemporarily stationed here amid the towering pines and rolling foothills of Colorado at this Centers for Disease Control (CDC) facility. On unofficial loan from the U.S. Army Medical Research Inst.i.tute of Infectious Diseases (USAMRIID), he was a.s.signed basic research into evolving viruses.Except that viruses had nothing to do with the delicate work he was watching through the microscope this dawn. USAMRIID was the army's foremost military medical research facility, while the CDC was its highly touted civilian counterpart. Usually they were vigorous rivals. But not here, not now, and the work being done in this laboratory had only a peripheral connection to medicine.Smith was part of a little-known CDC-USAMRIID research team in a worldwide race to create the world's first molecularor DNAcomputer, therefore forging an unprecedented bond between life science and computational science. The concept intrigued the scientist in Smith and challenged his expertise in the field of microbiology. In fact, what had brought him into his lab at this unG.o.dly early hour was what he hoped would turn out to be a breakthrough in the molecular circuits based on special organic polymers that he and the other researchers had been working night and day to create.If successful, their brand-new DNA circuits could be reconfigured many times, taking the joint team one step closer to rendering silicon, the key ingredient in the wiring of current computer circuit boards, obsolete. Which was just as well. The computer industry was near the limits of silicon technology anyway, while biological compounds offered a logicalalthough difficultnext step. When DNA computers could be made workable, they would be vastly more powerful than the general public could conceive, which was where the army's, and USAMRIID's, interests came in.Smith was fascinated by the research, and as soon as he had heard rumors of the secret joint CDC-USAMRIID project, he had arranged to be invited aboard, eagerly throwing himself into this technological compet.i.tion where the future might be only an atom away."Hey, Jon." Larry Schulenberg, another of the project's top cell biologists, rolled into the empty laboratory in his wheelchair. "Did you hear about the Pasteur?"Smith looked up from his microscope. "h.e.l.l, I didn't even hear you open the door." Then he noticed Larry's somber face. "The Pasteur," he repeated. "Why? What's happened?" Like USAMRIID and the CDC, the Pasteur Inst.i.tute was a world-cla.s.s research complex.In his fifties, Schulenberg was a tan, energetic man with a shaved head, one small diamond earring, and shoulders that were thickly muscled from years of using crutches. His voice was grim. "Some kind of explosion. It's bad. People were killed." He peeled a sheet from the stack of printouts on his lap.Jon grabbed the paper. "My G.o.d. How did it happen? A lab accident?""The French police don't think so. Maybe a bomb. They're checking out former employees." Larry wheeled his chair around and headed back to the door. "Figured you'd want to know. Jim Thrane at Porton Down e-mailed me, so I downloaded the story. I've got to go see who else is here. Everyone will want to know.""Thanks." As the door closed, Smith read quickly. Then, his stomach sinking, he reread . . .Labs at Pasteur Inst.i.tute DestroyedParisA ma.s.sive explosion killed at least 12 people and shattered a three-story building housing offices and laboratories at the venerable Pasteur Inst.i.tute at 10:52 p.m. here last night. Four survivors in critical condition were found. The search continues in the rubble for other victims.Fire investigators say they have found evidence of explosives. No person or group has claimed responsibility. The probe is continuing, including checking into recently released employees.The identified survivors include Martin Zellerbach, Ph.D., a computer scientist from the United States, who suffered head injuriesh.e.l.lip;.Smith's heart seemed to stop. Martin Zellerbach, Ph.D., a computer scientist from the United States, who suffered head injuries. Marty? His old friend's face flashed into Jon's mind as he gripped the printout. The crooked smile, the intense green eyes that could twinkle one moment and skitter off, lost in thought or perhaps outer s.p.a.ce, the next. A small, rotund man who walked awkwardly, as if he had never really learned how to move his legs, Marty had Asperger's Syndrome, a rare disorder at the less severe end of the autism spectrum. His symptoms included consuming obsessions, high intelligence, crippling lack of social and communications skills, and an outstanding talent in one particular areamathematics and electronics. He was, in fact, a computer genius.A worried ache settled in Smith's throat. Head injuries. How badly was Marty hurt? The news story did not say. Smith pulled out his cell phone, which had special scrambler capabilities, and dialed Was.h.i.+ngton.He and Marty had grown up together in Iowa, where he had protected Marty from the taunts of fellow students and even a few teachers who had a hard time believing anyone so smart was not being intentionally rude and a troublemaker. Marty's Asperger's was diagnosed when he was older and at last he was given the medication that helped him function with both feet firmly attached to the planet. Still, Marty hated taking meds and had designed his life so he could avoid them as often as possible. He did not leave his cozy Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., bungalow for years at a time. There he was safe with the cutting-edge computers and the software he was always designing, and his mind and creativity could soar, unfettered. Businessmen, academicians, and scientists from around the globe went there to consult him, but never in person, only electronically.So what was the shy computer wizard doing in Paris?The last time Marty consented to leave was eighteen months ago, and it was far from gentle persuasion that convinced him. It was a hail of bullets and the beginning of the near catastrophe of the Hades virus that had caused the death of Smith's fianceacute;e, Sophia Russell.The phone at Smith's ear began to ring in distant Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., and at the same time he heard what sounded like a cell phone ringing just outside his laboratory door. He had an eerie sense . . ."h.e.l.lo?" It was the voice of Nathaniel Frederick ("Fred") Klein.Smith turned abruptly and stared at his door. "Come in, Fred."The chief of the extremely secret Covert-One intelligence and counterintelligence troubleshooting organization stepped into the laboratory, quiet as a ghost, still holding his cell phone. "I should've guessed you would've heard and called me." He turned off his phone."About Mart? Yes, I just read about the Pasteur. What do you know, and what are you doing here?"Without answering, Klein marched past the gleaming test tubes and equipment that crowded the line of lab benches, which soon would be occupied by other CDC-USAMRIID researchers and a.s.sistants. He stopped at Smith's bench, lifted his left hip, and sat on the edge of the stone top, arms crossed, face grim. Around six feet tall, he was dressed as usual in one of his rumpled suits, this one brown. His skin was pale; it rarely saw the sun for any length of time. The great outdoors was not where Fred Klein operated. With his receding hairline, wire-rimmed gla.s.ses, and high, intelligent forehead, he could be anything from book publisher to counterfeiter.He contemplated Smith, and his voice was compa.s.sionate as he said, "Your friend's alive, but he's in a coma. I won't lie to you, Colonel. The doctors are worried."For Smith, the dark pain of Sophia's death could still weigh heavily on him, and Marty's injury was bringing it all back. But Sophia was gone, and what mattered now was Marty."What the h.e.l.l was he doing at the Pasteur?"Klein took his pipe from his pocket and brought out his tobacco pouch. "Yes, we wondered about that, too."Smith started to speak againh.e.l.lip;then hesitated. Invisible to the public and to any part of the government except the White House, Covert-One worked totally outside the official military-intelligence bureaucracy and far from the scrutiny of Congress. Its shadowy chief never appeared unless something earthshaking had happened or might happen. Covert-One had no formal organization or bureaucracy, no real headquarters, and no official operatives. Instead, it was loosely composed of professional experts in many fields, all with clandestine experience, most with military backgrounds, and all essentially unenc.u.mberedwithout family, home ties, or obligations, either temporary or permanent.When called upon, Smith was one of those elite operatives."You're not here because of Marty," Smith decided. "It's the Pasteur. Something's going on. What?""Let's take a walk outside." Klein pushed his gla.s.ses up onto his forehead and tamped tobacco into his pipe."You can't light that here," Smith told him. "DNA can be contaminated by airborne particles."Klein sighed. "Just one more reason to go outdoors."Fred Kleinand Covert-Onetrusted no one and nothing, took nothing for granted. Even a laboratory that officially did not exist could be bugged, which, Smith knew, was the real reason Klein wanted to leave. He followed the intelligence master out into the hall and locked his door. Side by side, they made their way downstairs, past dark labs and offices that showed only occasional light. The building was silent except for the breathy hum of the giant ventilation system.Outside, the dawn sunlight slanted low against the fir trees, illuminating them on the east with s.h.i.+mmering light while on the west they remained tarry black, in shadows. High above the campus to the west towered the Rocky Mountains, their rough peaks glowing. The valleys that creased the slopes were purple with night's lingering darkness. The aromatic scent of pine filled the air.Klein walked a dozen steps from the building and stopped to fire up his pipe. He puffed and tamped until clouds of smoke half-hid his face. He waved some of the smoke away."Let's walk." As they headed toward the road, Klein said, "Talk to me about your work here. How's it going? Are you close to creating a molecular computer?""I wish. The research is going well, but it's slow. Complex."Governments around the world wanted to be the first to have a working DNA computer, because it would be able to break any code or encryption in a matter of seconds. A terrifying prospect, especially where defense was concerned. All of America's missiles, secret systems at NSA, the NRO's spy satellites, the entire ability of the navy to operate, all defense plansanything and everything that relied on electronics would be at the mercy of the first molecular computer. Even the largest silicon supercomputer would not be able to stop it."How soon before the planet sees an operational one?" Klein wanted to know."Several years," Smith said without hesitation, "maybe more.""Who's the closest?""Practical and operational? No one I've heard of."Klein smoked, tamped down his burning tobacco again. "If I said someone had already done it, who'd you guess?"Precursor prototypes had been built, coming closer to practicality each year, but an actual, complete success? That was at least five years away. Unlessh.e.l.lip;Takeda? Chambord?Then Smith knew. Since Klein was here, the clue was the Pasteur. "Emile Chambord. Are you saying Chambord is years ahead of the rest of us? Even ahead of Takeda in Tokyo?""Chambord probably died in the explosion." Klein puffed on his pipe, his expression worried. "His lab was completely destroyed. Nothing left but shattered bricks, singed wood, and broken gla.s.s. They've checked his home, his daughter. Looked everywhere. His car was in the Pasteur parking lot, but they can't find him. There's talk.""Talk? There's always talk.""This is different. It comes from top French military circles, from colleagues, from his superiors.""If Chambord were that near, there'd be more than talk. Someone knew. ""Not necessarily. The military checked in with him regularly, but he claimed he was no farther along than anyone else. As for the Pasteur itself, a senior researcher of Chambord's stature and tenure doesn't have to report to anyone."Smith nodded. This anachronism was true at the renowned inst.i.tute. "What about his notes? Records? Reports?""Nothing from the last year. Zero.""No records?" Smith's voice rose. "There have to be. They're probably in the Pasteur's data bank. Don't tell me the entire computer system was destroyed.""No, the mainframe's fine. It's located in a bomb-proof room, but he hadn't entered any data in it for more than a year."Smith scowled. "He was keeping longhand records?""If he kept any at all.""He had to keep records. You can't do basic research without complete data. Lab notes, progress sheets. Your records have to be scrupulous, or your work can't be verified or reproduced. Every blind alley, every mistake, every backtrack has to be chronicled. Dammit, if he wasn't saving his data in the computer, he had to be keeping it longhand. That's certain.""Maybe it is, Jon, but so far neither the Pasteur nor the French authorities have found any records at all, and believe me, they've been looking. Hard."Smith thought. Longhand? Why? Could Chambord have gotten protective once he realized he was close to success? "You figure he knew or suspected he was being watched by someone inside the inst.i.tute?""The French, and everyone else, don't know what to think," Klein said."He was working alone?""He had a low-level lab a.s.sistant who's on vacation. The French police are searching for him." Klein stared toward the east, where the sun was higher now, a giant disk above the prairie. "And we think Dr. Zellerbach was working with him, too.""You think?""Whatever Dr. Zellerbach was doing appears to have been completely unofficial, almost secret. He's listed only as a 'general observer' with Pasteur security. After the bombing, the police immediately went to his hotel room but found nothing useful. He lived out of one suitcase, and he made no friends either there or at the Pasteur. The police were surprised by how few people actually recalled him."Smith nodded. "That's Marty." His reclusive old friend would have insisted on remaining as anonymous as possible. At the same time, a molecular computer that was near fruition was one of the few projects that might have seduced him from his determined isolation in Was.h.i.+ngton. "When he regains consciousness, he'll tell you what Chambord's progress was.""If he wakes up. Even then it could be too late."Jon felt a sudden anger. "He will come out of the coma.""All right, Colonel. But when?" Klein took the pipe from his mouth and glared. "We've just had a nasty wake-up call that you need to know about. At 7:55 Was.h.i.+ngton time last night, Diego Garcia Island lost all communications with its aircraft. Every effort to revive them, or trace the source of the shutdown, failed. Then precisely five minutes later, communications were restored. There were no system malfunctions, no weather problems, no human error. Conclusion was it had to be the work of a computer hacker, but no footprints were found, and every expert short of heaven says no existing computer could've pulled it off without leaving a trace.""Was there damage?""To the systems, no. To our worry quotient, one h.e.l.l of a lot.""How does the timing compare to when the Pasteur was bombed?"Klein smiled grimly. "A couple of hours later.""Could be a test of Chambord's prototype, if he had one. If someone stole it.""No kidding. The way it stands, Chambord's lab is gone. He's dead or missing. And his work is destroyedh.e.l.lip;or missing."Jon nodded. "You're thinking the bomb was planted to hide his murder and the theft of his records and prototype.""An operational DNA computer in the wrong hands is not a pretty picture.""I was already planning to go to Paris, because of Marty.""I thought so. It's a good cover. Besides, you'll have a better chance of recognizing a molecular computer than anyone else in Covert-One." Klein raised his anxious gaze to stare out across the enormous prairie sky as if he could see ICBMs raining down. "You've got to find out whether Chambord's notes, reports, and data were destroyed, or whether they were stolen. Whether there really is a functional prototype out there somewhere. We'll work the usual way. I'll be your only contact. Night or day. Whatever you need from any part of the government or military on both sides of the pond, ask. But you must keep a lid on it, understand? We don't want any panic. Worse, we don't want an eager Second or Third World country cutting a unilateral deal with the bombers.""Right." Half the nonadvanced nations had little love for the United States. Neither did the various terrorists who increasingly targeted America and Americans. "When do I leave?""Now," Klein said. "I'll have other Covert-One experts on it, of course. They'll be following other leads, but you'll be the main thrust. The CIA and FBI have sent people out, too. And as for Zellerbach, remember I'm as concerned as you. We all hope he regains consciousness quickly. But there may be d.a.m.n little time, and many, many other lives are at stake."

Chapter Two.

Paris, FranceIt was the end of his s.h.i.+ft and nearly six P.M. when Farouk al Hamid finally peeled off his uniform and left L'Hpital Europeacute;en Georges Pompidou through an employees' entrance. He had no reason to notice he was being followed as he walked along the busy boulevard Victor to the Ma.s.soud Cafeacute; tucked away on a side street.Worn out and depressed from his long day of mopping floors, carrying great hampers of soiled linen, and performing the myriad other back-breaking jobs of a hospital orderly, he took a seat at a table neither outside nor inside, but exactly where the series of front gla.s.s doors had been folded back and the fresh outside spring air mingled with the aromatic cooking odors of the kitchen.He glanced around once, then ignored his fellow Algerians, as well as the Moroccans and Saharans, who frequented the cafeacute;. Soon he was drinking his second gla.s.s of strong coffee and shooting disapproving glances at those who were indulging in wine. All alcohol was forbidden, which was a tenet of Islam ignored by too many of his fellow North Africans, who, once they were far from their homelands, felt they could leave Allah behind, too.As Farouk began to seethe, a stranger joined him at the table.The man was not Arabe, not with those pale blue eyes. Still, he spoke in Arabic. "Salaam alake koom, Farouk. You're a hardworking man. I've been watching you, and I think you deserve better. So I have a proposition to make. Are you interested?""Wahs-tah-hahb?"he grumbled suspiciously. "Nothing is for free."The stranger nodded agreeably. "True. Still, how would you and your family enjoy a holiday?""Ehs-mah-lee.A holiday?" Farouk asked bitterly. "You suggest the impossible."The man spoke a higher-cla.s.s Arabic than Farouk did, if with some odd accent, perhaps Iraqi or Saudi. But he was not Iraqi, Saudi, or Algerian. He was a white European, older than Farouk, wiry and darkly tanned. As the stranger waved for the waiter to bring more coffee, Farouk al Hamid noted that he was well dressed, too, but again from no particular nation he could identify, and he could identify most. It was a game he played to keep his mind from his weary muscles, the long hours of mindless labor, the impossibility of rising in this new world."For you, yes," the old stranger agreed. "For me, no. I am a man who can make the impossible possible.""La.No, I will not kill.""I haven't asked you to. Nor will you be asked to steal or sabotage."Farouk paused, his interest growing. "Then how will I pay for this grand holiday?""Merely by writing a note to the hospital in your own hand. A note in French saying you're ill and you've sent your cousin Mansour to take your place for a few days. In exchange, I'll give you cash.""I do not have a cousin.""All Algerians have cousins. Haven't you heard?""That is true. But I have none in Paris."The stranger smiled knowingly. "He has only now arrived from Algiers."Farouk felt a leap inside him. A holiday for his wife, for the children. For him. The man was right, no one in Paris would know or care who came into work at the mammoth Pompidou Hospital, only that the work was done and for small money. But what this fellow, or someone else, wanted would not be good. Stealing drugs, perhaps. On the other hand, they were all heathens anyway, and it was none of his affair. Instead, he concentrated on the joy of going home to his family to tell them they would be holidayingh.e.l.lip;where?"I would like to see the Mediterranean again," Farouk said tentatively, watching the man closely for a sign that he was asking too much. "Capri, perhaps. I have heard Capri's beaches are covered by silver sand. It will be very expensive.""Then Capri it is. Or Porto-Vecchio. Or, for that matter, Cannes or Monaco."As the place names rolled off the stranger's tongue, magical, full of promises, Farouk al Hamid smiled deep into his tired, hungry soul and said, "Tell me what you wish me to write."Bordeaux, FranceA few hours later, the telephone rang in a shabby rooming house tucked among the wine warehouses on the banks of the Garonne River outside the southern city of Bordeaux. The only occupant of the room was a small, pasty-faced man in his mid-twenties who sat on the edge of his cot, staring at the ringing phone. His eyes were wide with fear, his body trembling. From the river, shouts and the deep braying of barge horns penetrated the dismal room, and the youth, whose name was Jean-Luc Ma.s.senet, jerked like a plastic puppet on a string as each loud noise sounded. He did not pick up the telephone.When the ringing finally stopped, he took a notepad from the briefcase at his feet and began to write shakily, his speed accelerating as he rushed to record what he remembered. But after a few minutes, he thought better of it. He swore to himself, tore off the sheet of paper, crumpled it into a wad, and hurled it into the wastebasket. Disgusted and afraid, he slapped the notepad down onto the little table and decided there was no other solution than to leave, to run away again.Sweating, he grabbed the briefcase and hurried toward the door.But before he could touch the k.n.o.b, a knock sounded. He froze. He watched the door handle turn slowly right and left, the way a mouse watches the swaying head of a cobra."Is that you in there, Jean-Luc?" The voice was low, the French a native's. Surely whoever spoke was no more than an inch from the door. "Captain Bonnard here. Why don't you answer your phone? Let me in."Jean-Luc shuddered with relief. He tried to swallow, but his throat was as dry as a desert. Fingers fumbling, he unlocked the door and flung it open onto the dreary hallway."Bonjour, mon Capitaine.How did you?" Jean-Luc began.But with a gesture from the brisk, compact officer who strode into the room, he fell silent, respectful of the power of the man who wore the uniform of an elite French paratroop regiment. Captain Bonnard's troubled gaze took in every detail of the cheap room before he turned to Jean-Luc, who was still standing motionless in the open doorway."You appear frightened, Jean-Luc. If you think you're in such great danger," he said dryly, "I suggest you close the door." The captain had a square face, rea.s.suring in its strong, clear gaze. His blond hair was clipped short around his ears in the military way, and he exuded a confidence to which Jean-Luc gratefully clung.Jean-Luc's ashen face flushed a hot pink. "Ih.e.l.lip;I'm sorry, Captain." He shut the door."You should be. Now, what's this all about? You say you're on vacation. In Arcachon, right? So why are you here now?""H-hiding, sir. Some men came looking for me there at my hotel. Not just any men. They knew my name, where I lived in Paris, everything." He paused, swallowed hard. "One of them pulled out a gun and threatened the front desk manh.e.l.lip;.I overheard it all! How did they know I was there? What did they want? They looked as if they'd come to kill me, and I didn't even know why. So I sneaked out and got to my car and drove away. I was sitting in a hidden cove I'd found, just listening to the radio and trying to decide whether I could go back to get the rest of my luggage, when I heard the news about the horrible tragedy at the Pasteur. Thath.e.l.lip;that Dr. Chambord's presumed dead. Do you have any news? Is he okay?"Captain Bonnard shook his head sorrowfully. "They know he was working late that night in his lab, and no one's seen him since. It's pretty clear to the investigators that it's going to take at least another week to search through the rubble. They found two more bodies this afternoon.""It's too terrible. Poor Dr. Chambord! He was so good to me. Always saying I was working too hard. I hadn't had a vacation, and he's the one who insisted I go."The captain sighed and nodded. "But go on with your story. Tell me why you think the men wanted you."The research a.s.sistant wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Of course, once I knew about the Pasteur and Dr. Chambordh.e.l.lip;it all made sense, why they were after me. So I ran away again, and I didn't stop running until I found this boardinghouse. No one knows me here, and it's not on the usual routes.""Je comprends.And that's when you called me?""Oui.I didn't know what else to do."But now the captain seemed confused. "They came after you because Emile Chambord was caught in the explosion? Why? That makes no sense, unless you're saying the bombing was no simple matter."Jean-Luc nodded emphatically. "There's nothing important about me except that I'mI wasthe laboratory a.s.sistant to the great Emile Chambord. I think the bomb was intended to murder him.""But why, for G.o.d's sake? Who would want to kill him?""I don't know who, Captain, but I think it was because of his molecular computer. When I left, he was ninety-nine percent certain he'd made an operational one. But you know how he could be, such a perfectionist. He didn't want word to get out, not even a hint, until he was one hundred percent sure it worked. You understand how significant a machine like that would be? A lot of people would kill him, me, and anyone else to get their hands on a real DNA computer."Captain Bonnard scowled. "We found no evidence of such a success. But then, there's a mountain of debris as high as the Alps. Are you sure of what you say?"He nodded. "Bien sr. I was with him every step of the way. I mean, I didn't understand a lot of what he did, but . . ." He hesitated as a new fear made him rigid. "His computer was destroyed? You didn't find his notes? The proof?""The lab is rubble, and there was nothing on the Pasteur's mainframe.""There wouldn't be. He was worried it could be accessed too easily, perhaps even hacked into by spies. So he kept his data in a notebook, locked into his lab safe. The whole project was in the notes in his safe!"Bonnard groaned. "That means we can never reproduce his work."Jean-Luc said cautiously, "Maybe we can.""What?" The captain frowned. "What are you telling me, Jean-Luc?""That perhaps we can reproduce his work. We can build a DNA computer without him." Jean-Luc hesitated as he fought back a shudder of fear. "I think that's why those armed men came to Arcachon, looking for me."Bonnard stared. "You have a copy of his notes?""No, I have my own notes. They're not as full as his, I admit. I didn't understand everything he did, and he'd forbidden either me or the strange American helping him to make notes. But I secretly copied down nearly everything from memory up to the end of last week. That's when I left for vacation. I'm sure my record isn't as complete or as detailed as his, but I think it'd be enough for another expert in the field to follow and maybe even improve on.""Your notes?" Bonnard appeared excited. "You took them with you on vacation? You have them now?""Yessir." Jean-Luc patted the briefcase at his feet. "I never let them out of my sight.""Then we'd better move, and fast. They could be tracking you from the village and be only minutes away." He strode to the window and looked down on the nighttime street. "Come here, Jean-Luc. Does anyone look like them? Anyone suspicious? We need to be certain, so we'll know whether to use the inn's front or back door."Jean-Luc approached Captain Bonnard at the open window. He studied the activity below, illuminated in the glow of street lamps. Three men were entering a waterfront bar, and two were leaving. A half dozen others rolled barrels from a warehouse, one barrel after another in a parade, and hoisted them into the open bed of a truck. A homeless man sat with his feet in the street, his head nodding forward as if he were dozing off.Jean-Luc scrutinized each person. "No, sir, I don't see them."Captain Bonnard made a sound of satisfaction in his throat. "Bon. We must move swiftly, before the thugs can find you. Grab your briefcase. My Jeep is around the corner. Let's go.""Merci!"Jean-Luc hurried back to his briefcase, grabbed it, and rushed onward to the door.But as soon as the young man had faced away, Bonnard grabbed a thick pillow from the cot with one hand while, with the other, he reached for the holster at the small of his back and slid out a 7.65mm Le Franccedil;aise Militaire pistol with a specially crafted silencer. It was an old weapon, the manufacture of the line ending in the late 1950s. The serial number, which had been stamped into the right rear chamber area of the barrel, was now filed off. There was no safety device, so anyone who carried the Militaire had to be very careful. Bonnard liked the feeling of that small danger, and so for him, such a gun was merely a challenge.As he followed Ma.s.senet, he called out softly, "Jean-Luc!"His youthful face full of eagerness and relief, Jean-Luc turned. Instantly he saw the weapon and the pillow. Surprised, still not quite understanding, he reached out a protesting hand. "Captain?""Sorry, son. But I need those notes." Before the research a.s.sistant could speak again, could even move, Captain Darius Bonnard clamped the pillow around the back of his head, pushed the silenced muzzle against his temple, and pulled the trigger. There was a popping sound. Blood, tissue, and pieces of skull exploded into the pillow. The bullet burned itself through and lodged in the plaster wall.Still using the pillow to protect the room from blood, Captain Bonnard supported the corpse to the bed. He laid the body out, the pillow beneath the head, and removed the silencer from the gun. He dropped the silencer into his pocket and pressed the gun into Jean-Luc's left hand. As soon as he arranged the pillow just so, he put his hand over Jean-Luc's and squeezed the trigger once more. The noise was thunderous, shocking in the tiny room, even to Captain Bonnard, who was expecting it.This was a rough waterfront area, but still the sound of a gunshot would attract attention. He had little time. First he checked the pillow. The second shot had been perfect, going through so closely to the first hole that it looked like one large perforation. And now there would be powder burns on Jean-Luc's hand to satisfy the medical examiner that he, distraught over the loss of his beloved Dr. Chambord, had committed suicide.Moving quickly, the captain found a notepad with indentations that indicated writing on the previous sheet. From the wastebasket he seized the single crumpled paper and pushed it and the notepad into his uniform pocket without taking the time to decipher either. He checked under the bed and under every other piece of old furniture. There was no closet. He dug the first bullet out of the wall and moved a battered bureau six inches to the left to hide the hole.As he s.n.a.t.c.hed up Jean-Luc's briefcase, the rise-and-fall scream of a police siren began in the distance. His heart palpitating with the rush of adrenaline, he a.n.a.lyzed the sound. Oui, it was heading here. With his usual control, he forced his careful gaze to survey the room once more. At last, satisfied that he had missed nothing, he opened the door. As Captain Bonnard vanished into the gloom of the upstairs hall, the police car screeched to a stop in front of the rooming house.

Chapter Three.

Paris, France Tuesday, May 6The C-17 cargo jet that had left Buckley Air Force Base near Denver on Monday for a previously scheduled pole route to Munich carried a single pa.s.senger whose name appeared nowhere on its personnel roster or manifest. The big jet made an unscheduled stop in Paris in the dark at 0600 hours Tuesday, ostensibly to pick up a package that was needed in Munich. A U.S. Air Force staff car met the cargo jet, and a man in the uniform of a U.S. Army lieutenant colonel carried a sealed metal box, which was empty, onboard. He stayed there. But when the aircraft flew off some fifteen minutes later, the nonexistent pa.s.senger was no longer aboard.Not long afterward, the same staff car stopped a second time, now at the side entrance to a detached building at Charles de Gaulle International Airport just north of Paris. The vehicle's back door opened, and a tall man, also wearing the uniform of a U.S. Army lieutenant colonel, emerged. It was Jon Smith. Trim, athletic, somewhere in his early forties, he looked military through and through. He had a high-planed face, and his dark hair, a little longer than usual, was worn neatly smooth under his army cap. As he stood up, his navy blue eyes surveyed all around.There was nothing particularly unusual about him as he finally walked to the building in the quiet hours before dawn, just another army officer, carrying an overnight bag and an IBM Thinkpad in a heavy-duty aluminum case. A half hour later, Smith emerged again, out of uniform. This time he was wearing the casual clothes he favoreda tweed jacket, blue cotton s.h.i.+rt, tan cotton trousers, and a trench coat. He also wore a hidden canvas holster under his sports jacket, and in it was his 9mm Sig Sauer.He walked briskly across the tarmac and moved with other pa.s.sengers through de Gaulle customs, where, because of his U.S. Army identification, he was waved through without a search. A private limousine was waiting, back door open. Smith climbed in, refusing to let his limo driver handle either his suitcase or his laptop.The city of Paris was known for its joie de vivre in all things, including driving. For instance, a horn was for communication: A long blast meant disgustget out of my way. A tap was a friendly warning. Several taps were a jaunty greeting, especially if they were rhythmic. And speed, deftness, and a devil-may-care att.i.tude were necessary, particularly among the world atlas of drivers who manned the city's numerous taxi and limo fleets. Smith's driver was an American with a heavy foot, which was just fine with Smith. He wanted to get to the hospital to see Marty.As the limo hurtled south on the boulevard Peacute;ripheacute;rique around the crowded city, Smith was tense. In Colorado he had successfully handed off his research into molecular circuits. He regretted having had to do it, but it was necessary. On the long flight to France, he had called ahead to check again on Marty's condition. There had been no improvement, but at least there had been no decline either. He had also made other phone calls, this time to colleagues in Tokyo, Berlin, Sydney, Brussels, and London, tactfully sounding them out about their progress in developing molecular computers. But all were cagey, hoping to be first.After filtering for that, he had gotten the sense that none was close to success. All commented on the sad death of Emile Chambord but without mentioning his project. It seemed to Smith that they were as uninformed as he had been.The driver turned the limo off onto the avenue de la Porte de Segrave;vres and soon arrived at the eight-hundred-bed European Hospital Georges Pompidou. A glistening monument to modern architecture with curved walls and a gla.s.sy facade, it rose like a giant layered Luden's cough drop, directly across the street from the Parc Andreacute; Citron. Carrying his luggage. Smith paid the driver and entered the hospital's gla.s.s-topped, marble-lined galleria. He took off his sungla.s.ses, slid them into his pocket, and gazed around.The galleria was so cavernousmore than two football fields in lengththat palm trees swayed in the internal breeze. The hospital was nearly brand-new, having opened just a couple of years ago amid official fanfare that it was the hospital of the future. As Smith headed toward an information desk, he noted department-store-style escalators that led up to patients' rooms on the floors above, bright arrows pointing to the operating theaters, and, infusing the air, a light scent reminiscent of Johnson's Lemon Wax.Speaking perfect French, he asked for directions to the intensive care unit where Marty was being treated, and he took the escalator up. There was a subdued bustle as s.h.i.+fts changed and nurses, technicians, clerical help, and orderlies came and left. It was all done smoothly, quietly, and only the most experienced eye would have noticed the exchanges that signaled the handing off of responsibilities.One of the theories that made this model hospital different was that services were cl.u.s.tered in groups, so that the specialist went to the patient, rather than the reverse. Entering patients arrived at any one of twenty-two different reception points, where they were met by personal hostesses, who guided them to their private rooms. There a computer was positioned at the foot of each bed, case notes existed in cybers.p.a.ce, and, if surgery were necessary, robots often conducted parts of it. The enormous hospital even boasted swimming pools, health clubs, and cafeacute;s.Beyond the desk that fronted the ICU, two gendarmes stood outside the door into the unit itself. Smith identified himself formally in French to the nurse as the American medical representative of Dr. Martin Zellerbach's family. "I'll need to talk to Dr. Zellerbach's lead physician.""You wish to see Dr. Dubost, then. He's arrived for rounds and has already seen your friend this morning. I'll page him.""Merci.Will you take me to Dr. Zellerbach? I'll wait there.""Bien sr. S'il vous plat?"She offered him a distracted smile and, after one gendarme had examined his army medical identification, took him inside the heavy swinging doors.Instantly, the hospital noises and the vigorous ambience vanished, and he was moving in a hushed world of soft footsteps, whispering doctors and nurses, and the muted lights, bells, and winking LEDs of machines that seemed to breathe loudly in the silence. In an ICU, machines owned the universe, and patients belonged to them.Smith anxiously approached Marty, who was in the third cubicle on the left, lying motionless inside the raised side rails of a narrow, machine-operated bed, as helpless among the tubes and wires and monitors as a toddler held by each hand between towering adults. Smith looked down, his chest tight. Frozen in a coma, Marty's round face was waxen, but his breathing was even.Smith touched the computer screen at the end of the bed and read Marty's chart. Marty was still in a coma. His other injuries were minor, mostly sc.r.a.pes and bruises. It was the coma that was worrisome, with its potential for brain damage, sudden death, and even worsea permanent suspended state neither dead nor alive. But there were a few good signs, too, according to the cyberchart. All his autonomic responses were workinghe was breathing unaided, occasionally coughed, yawned, blinked, and showed roving eye movementswhich indicated that the lower brain stem, the vital part that controlled these activities, was still functioning."Dr. Smith?" A small man with gray hair and an olive complexion walked toward him. "I understand you've come from the United States." He introduced himself, and Smith saw the embroidery on the front of his long white physician's coatEdouard Dubost. He was Marty's doctor."Thank you for seeing me so quickly," Smith told him. "Tell me about Dr. Zellerbach's condition."Dr. Dubost nodded. "I have good news. Our friend here seems to be doing better."Immediately Smith felt a smile grow across his face. "What's happened? I didn't see anything on his chart from this morning.""Yes, yes. But you see, I wasn't finished. I had to go around the corner for a moment. Now we'll talk, and I'll type at the same time." The doctor leaned over the computer. "We're fortunate with Dr. Zellerbach. He's still in a coma, as you can see, but this morning he spoke a few words and moved his arm. He was responding to stimulation."Smith inhaled with relief. "So it's less severe than you originally thought. It's possible he'll awake and be fine."He nodded as he typed. "Yes, yes."Smith said, "It's been more than twenty-four hours since the explosion. Of course, anything past that makes it more worrisome that he'll regain complete consciousness.""Very true. It's natural to be concerned. I am, too.""You'll put in an order to have the nurses work with him? Ask him questions? Try to get him to move more?""I'm doing that right now." He typed a dozen more words and straightened up. He studied Smith. "Don't worry, Doctor. We know what we're doing here. Your friend is in excellent hands. A week from now, with luck he'll be complaining loudly about his aches and pains, the coma completely forgotten." He c.o.c.ked his head. "He's your dear friend, I can see that. Stay as long as you like, but I must continue rounds."Warmed by the hope that Marty would not only emerge from the coma but with all his brain functions intact, Smith sat beside the bed, among the flas.h.i.+ng dials and gauges of the monitors, and watched him, thinking all the way back to Council Bluffs and high school, where he and Marty had met and Jon's uncle had first diagnosed Marty's Asperger's Syndromeh.e.l.lip;to Sophia's murder and the Hades virus pandemic, when he had needed Marty's genius with all things electronic.He took Marty's hand and squeezed it. "Did you hear your doctor? He thinks you're going to be all right. Mart, can you hear me?" He waited, watching the still face. "What in G.o.d's name happened at the Pasteur, Mart? Were you helping Chambord develop his molecular computer?"Marty stirred, and his lips trembled as if he was trying to speak.Excited, Jon continued, "What is it? Tell me, Mart. Please! We both know you're never at a loss for words." He paused, hoping, but when Marty made no other sign, he put an encouraging warmth in his voice and continued, "This is a h.e.l.l of a way for us to meet again, Mart. But you know how it is, I need you. So here I am, asking you to lend me that extraordinary mind of yours once moreh.e.l.lip;."Talking and reminiscing, he stayed with Marty an hour. He squeezed Marty's hand, rubbed his arms, ma.s.saged his feet. But it was only when he mentioned the Pasteur that Marty tried to rouse himself. Smith had just leaned back in the chair and stretched, deciding he had better get on with the investigation into Dr. Chambord's molecular computer, when a tall man in a hospital orderly's uniform appeared in the opening to Marty's cubicle.The man was dark, swarthy, with a huge black mustache. He was staring at Smith, his brown eyes hard and cold. Intelligent and deadly. And, in the split second when Smith's gaze and his connected, he seemed startled. The shock was in the bold eyes only briefly, and then, just before the man turned and hurried away, there seemed a hint of mischief or amus.e.m.e.nt or perhaps maliceh.e.l.lip;somehow familiar.That flitting sense of familiarity stopped Smith for a heartbeat, and then he was up and rus.h.i.+ng after the orderly, s.n.a.t.c.hing his Sig Sauer from its holster inside his jacket. It was not only the man's eyes and expression that had been wrong, but the way he had carried the folded linens, draped over his right arm. He could be hiding a weapon beneath. Was he there to kill Marty?Outside the ICU, all eyes were on Smith as he furiously burst through the large swinging doors, his trench coat flapping. Ahead, the orderly knocked people out of the way as he put on a burst of speed and tore off down the corridor, escaping.Pounding in pursuit, Smith shouted in French, "Stop that man! He's got a gun!"With that, all pretense was gone, and the orderly flourished a mini-submachine gun not much bigger than Smith's Sig Sauer. He turned, expertly trotting backward, and raised the terrorist weapon without panic or haste. He swung it back and forth as if to sweep the corridor clean. The fellow was a professional of some kind, letting the threat of his gun do the work without having to fire a shot.Screams erupted as nurses, doctors, and visitors dove to the floor, into doorways, and around corners.Smith hurled breakfast carts out of the way and thundered on. Ahead, the man rushed through a doorway and slammed the door. Smith kicked it in and raced past a terrified technician, through another door, and past a hot-therapy tank in which a naked man sat, the nurse hurriedly covering him with a towel."Where is he?" Smith demanded. "Where did the orderly go!"The nurse pointed at one of three rooms, her face pasty with fear, and he heard a door bang shut in that direction. He tore onward, punched open the only door in that room, and skidded into another corridor. He looked left and right along the hallway, chrome bright in its newness. Terrified people had pressed themselves against the walls as they gazed right, as if a deadly tornado had just swept past, barely leaving them alive.Smith ran in the direction they stared, accelerating, while far down the corridor the orderly hurled an empty gurney lengthwise to block his path. Smith swore. He took a deep breath, demanding his lungs respond. If he had to stop to move the gurney, the man would surely get away. Without breaking stride, Smith summoned his energy. Telling himself he could do it, he leaped over the gurney. His knees felt weak as he landed, but he caught his balance and sprinted onward, leaving behind another trail of frightened people. Sweat poured off him, but at last he was gaining on the orderly, who had been slowed by throwing the gurney into position. Smith accelerated again, hopeful.Without a backward glance, the man slammed through yet another door. It had an exit sign above it. The fire stairs. Smith hurtled in after him. But from the corners of his eyes, he caught a glimpse of someone hiding to the left of the door, behind it as he swung it in.He had time only to lower a protective shoulder. In the shadowy stairwell, the orderly sprang out and crashed into him. The impact shook him, but he managed to remain on his feet. He smashed his shoulder into the orderly, sending him reeling back toward the stairs.The orderly staggered. He hit the back of his head against the steel bal.u.s.trade. But he had given way with Smith's thrust and quickly regained his balance, while Smith, meeting less resistance than he had expected, dropped his Sig Sauer and lost his footing. He stumbled and crashed to the cement floor, taking a hard blow to his back where it struck the wall. Ignoring the pain, he stumbled back up to his feet and grabbed for his pistol, just in time to see the man's shadow loom. Smith lashed out, too late. A searing pain exploded in his skull, and blackness and silence descended.

Chapter Four.

When the morning express train from Bordeaux pulled in that Tuesday at the Gare d'Austerlitz, Captain Darius Bonnard was the third pa.s.senger 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 a.s.signment might be the most important in all the nation's ill.u.s.trious 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 bypa.s.sed 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 gra.s.slands. 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 unb.u.t.toned his tunic, opened his uniform s.h.i.+rt, 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 a.s.sistant 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 G.o.d to whom he prayed five times daily without fail. He would wors.h.i.+p Allah, but he would trust no one. As Captain Bonnard's face held steadfastly impa.s.sive 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 Ches.h.i.+re Cat. But the eyesh.e.l.lip;He concentrated on the eyes that accompanied the smile down the stairs, fading, fadingh.e.l.lip; Voices speaking, what? French? Yes, French. Where the devil was heh.e.l.lip;?"h.e.l.lip; 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. "d.a.m.n.""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 order