Covert One 3 - The Paris Option (47 page)

She was, of course, devastated, and terribly disappointed as well as tearfully guilty: “You poor man. It must be terrible for you. I'm so sorry. Willhellip;willhellip;you be all right? I mean, you were sohellip;sohellip;”

Joachim Bierhof was, after all, an officer and a gentleman. He was forced to soothe her fears, declare he would be fine. She was much more to him than that.

She squeezed his hand and promised to meet him early tomorrow, if she felt up to it, right here in her apartment. “I'll call you tomorrow!” And promptly fell asleep.

There was nothing the lieutenant could do but dress and leave quietly, careful not to awaken her.

The moment the door closed and locked, she jumped out of bed, dressed, and dialed the telephone. She reported, “General Bittrich was in the South of France, just as you suspected. He spent half the night on a French aircraft carrier. Was that all you wanted to know, Peter?”

“You're a wonder, child,” Peter Howell pronounced from Paris.

“You remember that.”

Peter chuckled. “Hope the price wasn't too high, Angie, old girl.”

“Jealous, Peter?”

“At my age, my dear, I'm remarkably flattered.”

“At any age. Besides, you're ageless.”

Peter laughed. “Not all of me seems to know that all the time. But we must talk further.”

“A proposition, Mr. Howell?”

“Angie, you could entice the dead. And thanks again.”

Angela Chadwick hung up, remade the bed, picked up her handbag, and left the apartment to return to her own place on the other side of the Brandenburg Gate.

Paris, France

Marty had a new laptop computer, which Peter had used Marty's credit card to buy. Left alone and on his meds, Marty was curled around it in his room in the clinic, sitting cross-legged on top of his bed's patchwork comforter. He had checked the OASIS Web siteOnline Asperger's Syndrome Information and Supportfifteen times in the last two hours with no results.

Vacillating between despair and determined optimism, depressed in the sticky muck of his meds, Marty did not hear Randi or Peter enter the room until they spoke.

“Anything, Mart?” Randi asked before the door had closed.

Peter interrupted, “MI6 has heard nothing. Bloody irritating.” He added a shade bitterly, “If we knew for whom Jon actually worked, we could contact them directly and maybe get some straight intelligence.”

His gaze solemn, Marty stared at Randi. “What about the CIA, Randi?”

“No news,” she admitted.

Marty frowned, and his fingers pounded the keyboard. “I'll check OASIS again.”

“How long since you last tried?” Peter asked.

Two red spots of indignation appeared on Marty's cheeks. “If you think I'm obsessing, Peter, what about you? All those phone calls you keep making!”

Peter nodded and showed a brief smile.

Marty grumbled under his breath as he entered the OASIS Web site.

As soon as his screen filled with the opening page, he found himself relaxing a bit. It was like going home. Created for those with Asperger's Syndrome and their families, OASIS was full of information, plus there was a Web ring. Marty checked in often when his life was normalwell, normal for him. What the rest of the world considered normal he found painfully boring. He could not imagine why anyone would want to live like that. On the other hand, OASIS seemed to get the point. The folks who ran it knew what they were talking about. What a rarity, he mused to himself. He was looking forward to reading the new book The Oasis Guide to Asperger Syndrome by Patricia Romanowski Bashe and Barbara L. Kirby. It was waiting for him on his desk at home.

He scanned the messages on OASIS, but again there was nothing. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and heaved a big sigh.

“No word?” Peter asked.

“Dam it, no.”

They were silent in their discouragement. When the phone rang, Randi snapped it up. It was Doug Kennedy, her Langley boss. As she listened, her eyes began to flash with excitement. “I know the place. Yes. What great news. Thanks, Doug. Don't worry. I'll handle it.” As soon as she hung up, she turned to Marty and Peter. They were staring at her, waiting.

“Jon's alive. I know where he is!”

Grenoble, France

A cold Alpine wind blasted Jon's hair and chilled his face as he leaned over the parapet of the sixteenth-century Fort de la Bastille with other tourists, high above Grenoble. Despite the rising wind, they appeared to be enjoying the startling amalgam of medieval and ultramodern buildings far below. Known for its high-tech industries and fine universities, Grenoble spread out in a casual array from the confluence of the Drac and Isegrave;re rivers, while the dramatic Alps towered above, their snowy cloaks glinting in the afternoon sunshine.

Still, it was not the panorama on which Jon's attention had been fixed since he arrived at the old fort. It was the cable cars rising up from the city below.

He had been at the parapet several hours, dressed in new jeans, green pullover sweater, a medium-weight bomber jacket, and dark sunglasses. Inside the deep front pockets of his jacket were the Afghan's curved knife and the helicopter's flare gun, his only weapons. He was still savoring the good news that Randi was alive and Marty was awake and fine.

But he was uneasy. She should have been here by now, and he was increasingly aware that Abu Auda and his men could arrive any moment, too. It was inevitable that they would extend their search to Grenoble, the only major city near the Chartreuse villa. Jon knew far too much, and there was always the chance he had not yet made contact with his superiors. They could even have found the M16 rifle and ammunition he had buried under the duff close to the road that led here.

So now he stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the chilly mountain wind with other sightseers, unobtrusive in the lengthening afternoon shadows, as he leaned his arms on the parapet and studied each of the gondolas that regularly carried passengers up to the fort from the station at quay Stephane-Jay. Designed to please tourists who wanted to see the sweeping views, the gondolas were see-through.

This, of course, also pleased Jon, because he could scrutinize each passenger through the gondolas' transparent shells. It was after five o'clock when he finally spotted not Randi, but one of the Crescent Shield killers. His heartbeat sped.

He wanted to attract no attention, so he continued his relaxed pose, a visitor enchanted like any other, while he quickly analyzed and placed the face: A clean-shaved Saudi who had been with the group of terrorists that had escaped from the villa. He was riding at the front of his gondola as it slowly rose to the fort. Although he was the only terrorist whom Jon recognized in the gondola, Jon doubted he was alone. More members of the Crescent Shield would be around somewhere.

Certain of the man's identity, Jon turned, stuck his hands nonchalantly into his jacket pockets where he could grip his weapons, and sauntered off toward the paths that wound down through the Parc Guy Pape to the city. He did not want to leave, in case Randi showed up. But where there was one Crescent Shield, there would be others, and he had to face the fact that Randi might never come.

Once he was beyond sight of the parapet, he walked faster. The number of tourists was decreasing. It was growing late, and the biting wind that whistled through the afternoon shadows had probably discouraged them. No longer noticing the chill, he left the fort, turned toward a downhill path, and broke into a steady trot. Which was when he saw five more Crescent Shield killers.

He fell back around a high hedge. They had been hiking up the route he was about to take down, and in the lead was Abu Auda himself. They were all wearing ordinary Western clothes. Abu Auda had on a beret and looked uncomfortable, a shark trying to walk on land. Jon reversed course and rushed around the rear of the fort to where there was another park area. He slipped behind a tall oak, scanned the area from where he had just come, and then the city and the rivers below.

He listened intently. Yes, he was right. There were quick footsteps behind, descending from a higher elevation. The steps were light but swift. He pulled out the flare gun and knife and whirled.

Randi flinched. She touched her finger to her lips.

“Randi!” he accused.

“Shhh. Be nice now.”

He grinned with relief. “Bossy as ever.”

Tall and athletically slender, she was more than a welcome sight. She had changed into dark trousers and a jacket zipped up only a third of the way, which made reaching for her weapons more convenient. There was a black watch cap on her head again, pulled down to her ears to hide her light-colored hair. She also wore dark, wraparound sunglasses secured at the back so they would not fall off if she had to go into action.

As she slipped into the shadow next to him, her face was alert but composed. “Peter's here, too. Two-person job, you know.” She took out a mini radio and spoke into it: “I've got him. We're on our way.”

“They're coming.” He nodded back toward the Fort de la Bastille, where the clean-shaved Saudi was pointing toward where they were hidden. He was talking excitedly to Abu Auda. The men were showing no weapons. Not yet, at least.

“Come on!”

“Where to?”

“No time to explain.” She sprinted.

The Crescent Shield broke into a run toward them, spreading out as Abu Auda waved them right and left. Jon counted six, which meant there were five or so others somewhere, perhaps around here. As he rushed after Randi across the park and then higher, he wondered where those other two or three could be.

They ran onward, Randi in the lead, putting more and more distance between themselves and the Fort de la Bastille and the cable cars, as well as between themselves and the Crescent Shield. Breathing hard, he glanced back and could no longer see the terrorists. Then he heard a helicopter. Damn.

“It's their chopper!” he told Randi as he searched the sky. “I knew all of them weren't in the park.”

“Keep running!” she yelled back.

They raced on, focused on escape, and then Jon saw itnot the Crescent Shield's Sikorsky, but another Hughes OH-6 Loach scout chopper. It looked like an oversized bumblebee as it settled down into an open spot twenty yards ahead and to their right. Randi swerved toward it, waving, as Peter, dressed in a black jumpsuit, dropped from the door. Next to Randi, Jon figured he had never seen a more welcome sight. Peter wore a black cap and reflecting sunglasses and held a British assault rifle up and ready.

Jon's relief was short-lived. There was a shout of anger behind them. From the left, one of the terrorists burst out from among the trees. He had somehow managed to circle more quickly than the others. His raised weapon focused on Randi as she closed in on the vibrating chopper. Peter jumped back onboard.

In a single smooth motion, Jon spun, aimed the flare gun, and fired. It made a huge noise, although it was drowned out by the helicopter. The flare burst out in a trail of smoke and hit the terrorist in the middle of his chest.

The projectile landed with such velocity that it flung the man back into the trees. He dropped his rifle and grabbed for the flare, which protruded from beneath his rib cage. He screamed, and the high-pitched noise sent chills up Jon's spine, because both knew what would happen next. The man's face was contorted in terror.

The flare exploded. As the terrorist's torso shattered, Jon dove into the helicopter after Randi. Peter did not wait for the door to be closed.

He lifted off. Abu Auda and his men abandoned pretense and loosed a fusillade of pistol and submachine gunfire. The bullets slashed around the helicopter, hitting the landing gear and ripping through the walls as Jon lay on his belly, hanging onto the seat legs, trying not to slide out the open door.

Randi grabbed the back of his waistband. “I've got you!”

Jon's hands were cold and sweaty, and he felt his fingers loosen. Even Randi would not be able to save him if he lost his grip. To make matters worse, Peter banked the chopper sharply to the right, trying to avoid the gunfire and get out of range. But the angle sent Jon sliding back toward the open door and certain death.

Randi swore and grabbed him under the arm with her other hand. Jon's slide paused. Still, the inexorable pull of gravity and the wind continued. Gunfire trailing, Peter pushed the chopper out over the rivers. Jon could feel his fingers loosening again. His breath was a raw rasp as he frantically tried to tighten his grip.

“We're out of range!” Peter bellowed.

It was none too soon. As Peter began to level the helicopter, Jon's fingers slipped off the chair struts. He grabbed for them, but all he could find was air. Randi fell on top of him, wrapped her legs around his waist, and seized the struts herself. The helicopter's angle had improved enough that she was able to stabilize him. He was vaguely aware of her on top of him, her weight firm, reassuring, the muscled legs tight, and somewhere in the back of his mind was the thought that under different circumstances he might enjoy this. And then the moment was gone. Terror returned.

Long seconds passed. Gravity shifted, and the pull was no longer on his feet, but along the length of his body. The helicopter was flying level at last. He remained motionless, stunned.

“Thank God that's over.” Randi's voice was a hoarse croak as she clambered up, hopped over him, and slammed shut the door. “I'd rather never do that again.”

The helicopter's interior was suddenly quieter. Jon's muscles trembled. Feeling weak, he struggled up and fell into the single rear seat. He looked up and saw Randi's face for the first time since he dove into the helicopter. Color was returning to it. She must have been white with fear.

“Strap yourself in,” she ordered. And then she smiled a smile so broad and relieved that it lit up her whole face.

“Thank you.” His throat was tight, and his heart was pounding like a jackhammer. “That's pretty inadequate, but I really mean it. Thank you.” He quickly locked his seat belt.

“Works fine for me. You're welcome.” As she started to turn back toward the front, her gaze caught his. For a long moment, they looked into each other's eyes, and understanding and forgiveness passed between them.