Covert One 3 - The Paris Option (37 page)

Outside Algiers, Algeria

After a careful search, Jon found what looked like the bedroom wing of the sprawling villa, where there were actual doors on some of the rooms. The doors were carved, heavy wood, with solid brass fittings that looked as if they might date back to the days of the first Arab and Berber dynasties.

Jon stopped at a side corridor with magnificent mosaics that began their designs on the floor and wrapped completely up the walls and across the ceiling. Every square inch was covered with bits of perfectly placed semiprecious stones and glazed tiles, many with gold leaf. Whatever rooms were off this passage had been set off, secluded, and they must have belonged to someone important. Perhaps they still did.

He moved cautiously down the jewel-like hall. It was like being inside a long treasure box. At the end, he stopped. Here was the only door, and it was not only closed, it was locked from the outside by an antique sliding bolt that looked as sturdy as the day it had been forged. The door itself had filigreed fittings and was intricately carved, elegant, and massive. He pressed his ear to it. What he heard made his heart accelerate the clicks of a keyboard.

He slid open the bolt and turned the handle with slow, steady pressure until he felt rather than heard the door's interior latch open. He pressed the door in a few inches until he could see a room furnished comfortably with Western overstuffed chairs, simple tables, a bed, and a desk. There was also an archway that opened onto a whitewashed corridor.

But the center of gravity, the heart of the room, the point where Jon's gaze was riveted was the long, thin back of Emile Chambord, who was stooped over the desk, working at a keyboard that was connected to a strange, clumsy-looking apparatus. Jon recognized it instantly: The DNA computer.

He forgot where he was, the danger of it all. Transfixed by the science, he studied the machine: There was a glass tray, and inside lay a collection of silvery blue gel packs, which must contain the vital DNA polymers. Connected by ultrathin tubing, the gel packs were submerged in a foam-like jelly, which would prevent vibration and keep the readout stream stable. The tray appeared to be temperature controlled, which was also crucial since molecular interaction was highly temperature sensitive. There was a small digital readout for set-point adjustment.

Nearby, another machine with an open, glass face was linked to the gel packs by more of the thin tubing. Through the glass he could see a series of small pumps and glass canisters. That had to be the DNA synthesizerthe feeder station for the gel packs. Small lights blinked on its control panel.

Excited, Jon drank in the rest of Chambord's miraculous creation. A “lid” sat on top of the tray, and at the interface between it and the packs of DNA was what appeared to be a thin plate of soft metal coated with a biofilmprobably another type of molecular polymer. He deduced it must be a sensor device, absorbing the DNA chemical energy, changing its conformation, and emitting light as a result.

What an ingenious ideaa molecular switch that was based on light. Chambord was using the DNA molecules not only to compute; another class of molecules in the sensor detected the computation. A brilliant solution to what had been an impossible problem.

In awe, Jon forced himself to take a deep breath. He reminded himself of the reason he was here, the danger this machine presented to the world. Considering that it was still in enemy territory, Fred Klein would want him to destroy it instantly. But Chambord's prototype was not only scientifically beautiful, it was ground-breaking. It would revolutionize the future and could make life better and easier for masses of people. It would be years before anyone else came close to approximating what was here right now in this room.

As Jon argued with himself, he eased the door farther open and slid into the room. Using the handle, he held the latch bolt open and closed the door. As the bolt slid gently home, he decided he would give himself one serious chance to get the prototype out safely. If he failed, if he had no other optionhellip;he would wreck it.

Still having made no sound, he looked for a lock on this side of the door, but there was none. He turned and studied the airy room, lighted by electricity even though the villa dated back long before its invention. The windows were open onto the night, and filmy curtains floated in on a light breeze. But the windows were barred.

He focused on the archway, which showed what appeared to be another hallway and the edge of another archway that opened onto yet another room. The layout suggested a complex of rooms reachable from the rest of the house only by the door behind him, locked from the outside. He nodded to himself. This would once have been the quarters of the favorite wife of a Berber noble or perhaps of the queen of a seraglio haremof a Turkish official from the old Ottoman Empire.

He started across the room to Chambord, when the scientist suddenly turned. A pistol was in his bony hand, pointed at Jon.

A cry in French came from the archway: “No, Papa! You know who this is. It's our friend, Dr. Smith. He tried to help us escape in Toledo. Put down the gun, Papa!”

The pistol held steady, still aimed across the room at Jon. Chambord frowned, his cadaverous face suspicious.

“Remember?” Theacute;regrave;se continued. “He's Dr. Zellerbach's friend. He visited me in Paris. He was trying to find out who bombed the Pasteur.”

The pistol relaxed a hair. “He's more than a doctor. We saw that at the farmhouse in Toledo.”

Jon smiled and said in French, “I really am a medical doctor, Dr. Chambord. But I'm also here to rescue you and your daughter.”

“Ah?” A puzzled wrinkle appeared between Chambord's eyes, but his great, bony face still peered suspiciously. “You could be speaking lies. First, you tell my daughter you're just a friend of Martin's, and now you say you're here to save us.” The pistol jerked up again. “How could you find us? Twice! You're one of them. It's a trick!”

“No, Papa!”

As Theacute;regrave;se ran between Jon and her father, Jon dove behind a large-couch covered with an Oriental rug and came up with his Walther in both hands. Theacute;regrave;se stared unbelieving at Jon.

“I'm not one of them, Dr. Chambord, but I wasn't totally honest with Theacute;regrave;se in Paris, and for that I apologize. I'm also a U.S. Army officer. It's Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, M.D., and I'm here to help you. Just as I was trying to help you in Toledo. It's the truth, I swear. But we must move quickly. Almost everyone's in the dome room, but I don't know for how long.”

“An American lieutenant colonel?” Theacute;regrave;se said. “Then . . .”

Jon nodded. “Yes, my real missionmy assignmentwas to find your father and his computer. To stop his kidnappers from using his work.”

Theacute;regrave;se turned on her father. Her slender, dirt-smudged face was insistent. “He came to help us!”

“Alone?” Chambord shook his head. “Impossible. How can you help us alone?”

Jon stood up slowly. “We'll figure out how to get out of here together. I'm asking you to trust me.” He lowered his pistol. “You're safe with me.”

Chambord considered him. He glanced at his daughter's determined expression. At last he let his pistol fall to his side. “You have some proof, I suppose?”

“Afraid not. Too chancy.”

“That's all very well, young man, but all she can tell me is that you're a friend of Martin's, which is what you told her. That doesn't give me much confidence you can help us escape. These people are dangerous. I have Theacute;regrave;se to consider.”

Jon said, “I'm here, Dr. Chambord. That's got to be worth something. Plus, as you pointed out, I've found you twice. If I got in here, I can get you out. Where did you find that pistol? That may come in handy.”

Chambord gave a humorless smile. “Everyone thinks I'm a helpless old man. They think that. So they're not as alert as they should be. In one of the many cars they used to transport me, someone left a gun. Naturally, I took it. They've had no reason to search me since.”

Theacute;regrave;se put a hand over her mouth. “What were you going to do with it, Papa?”

Chambord avoided her gaze. “Perhaps we shouldn't talk about that. I have the gun, and we may need it.”

Jon said, “Help me dismantle your computer and answer some questions. Quickly.”

As Chambord turned the machine off, Jon asked, “How many are in the villa? What's the access like? Is there a road out? Cars? What kind of security in addition to the guards outside?”

Analyzing information was familiar territory for Chambord. As they disengaged wires and tubes, he said, “The only access I saw was a gravel road that connected with the coast highway. The highway runs between Algiers and Tunisia, but it's more than a mile inland. The road ends at what appears to be a small training camp for new recruits. The car that brought us here is parked there with some former British military vehicles. I saw a helipad near the training center, and I believe there were two old helicopters parked on it. I can't say exactly how many men are in the house. At least a half dozen are guarding it, probably more. They're always arriving and departing. Then, of course, there are the new recruits as well as a cadre at the training facility.”

As Jon listened, he controlled his frustration with Chambord, who was working slowly, methodically as they took apart the prototype. Too slowly.

Jon weighed options. Those cars parked near the helipad would work, if they could sneak out to them without being detected. Jon told them both, “Okay, here's what we're going to dohellip;”

Under the high dome of the villa's great hall, spotlights bathed the mosaics in a warm glow as Mauritania interrogated an exhausted Dr. Akbar Suleiman. They spoke in French, since the Filipino did not know Arabic. While Suleiman stood in front of him, Mauritania remained seated on the large table, his short legs dangling and swinging like those of a boy sitting on the limb of a tree. He enjoyed his small size, his deceptive softness, the stupidity of those who believed in the superficiality of physical strength.

“Then what you're saying is that Smith broke into your apartment without warning?”

Suleiman shook his head. “No, no! A friend at the Pasteur alerted me, but only a half hour earlier. I had to make my emergency calls, tell my girlfriend what to do, and there was no time to escape sooner.”

“You should've been more prepared. Or at least called us, not handled it yourself. You knew the risks.”

“Who would've thought they'd locate me at all?”

“How did they?”

“I don't know for sure.”

Mauritania said thoughtfully, “The address in your hospital file was incorrect, as instructed?”

“Of course.”

“Then someone knew where you lived and sent them to you. You're sure there was no one else? He was wholly alone?”

“I neither saw nor heard anyone else,” Suleiman repeated wearily. The trip had been long, and he did not sail well.

“You're certain no one followed you once you escaped your apartment?”

Suleiman grumbled, “Your black man asked me that, and I told him the same as I tell you. My arrangements were foolproof. No one could follow.”

There was a sudden commotion, and Captain Darius Bonnard entered angrily, with two armed bedouins and the towering Abu Auda himself immediately after. Mauritania saw Bonnard's rage and Abu Auda's fierce gaze, which bored across the great room and into Dr. Akbar Suleiman.

Abu Auda snarled, “His 'black man' asks you no more, Moro. A car followed me all the way to Barcelona, where I was able to lose it at last, but only with difficulty. No one had followed me until then. So where did the car come from, eh? From you, Suleiman. You must've been surveilled when you ran away from Paris, which meant you led them to me at the lodge. And you, fool, didn't even know it!”

Bonnard's anger had built even higher. His face was violent red as he told Mauritania, “We have evidence Suleiman brought them from Barcelona to Formentera to here. At the very least, he's compromised us!”

As Suleiman blanched, Mauritania asked quickly, “Here? How do you know this?”

“We don't speak idly, Khalid.” Abu Auda scowled at Suleiman.

Captain Bonnard switched to French. “One of your men is dead on the motor launch, and he didn't die by stabbing himself. Suleiman brought an extra passenger, who's no longer on the boat.”

“Jon Smith?”

Bonnard shrugged, but his face remained furious. “We'll know soon. Your soldiers are searching.”

“I'll send more.” Mauritania snapped his fingers, and all of the men poured out of the hall.

In the dark night, the lightless SH-60B Seahawk helicopter hovered low over an open area near plastic greenhouses and citrus groves a mile from the villa. The air whipped Randi's face as she stood in the open doorway and hooked the rescue cable onto her harness. She was wearing night combat camos with a black watch cap covering her blond hair. She carried equipment attached to her mesh belt and wore a backpack with more equipment. She gazed down, thinking about Jon, wondering where he was and whether he was all right. Then her mind moved to the mission itself, because in the end that was most important. More important than either hers or Jon's life. The DNA computer must be destroyed so that whatever madness the terrorists planned was stopped.

She gripped her harness and nodded her readiness. The crewman at the hoist watched the pilot, who finally nodded that he had the chopper in position, hovering. The signal given, Randi jumped into the dark void. The crewman let out the hoist as she descended. She fought the terror of falling, of the failure of equipment, blocked all her fears from her mind until, at last, she bent her knees and rolled onto the ground. Quickly she unhooked the harness. There was no need to bury it. They would know she was here soon anyway.

She bent to the small transmitter. “Saratoga, do you read me? Come in Saratoga.”

With a clean, clear sound, a voice from the cruiser's combat information center responded, “We read you, Seahawk 2.”

“This could take an hour, maybe more.”