Covert One 3 - The Paris Option (48 page)

Heading northwest toward Paris, the helicopter left Grenoble behind. There was an appreciative silence inside as each privately acknowledged how close they had come to death. Alone in the back, Jon was emerging from his exhausted trance. He let out a deep sigh, releasing his mind and body of the stress and near-misses of the last few days. He unsnapped his belt and leaned forward between Peter and Randi, who sat in the twin pilots' seats.

Randi grinned and patted the top of his head. “Nice doggy.”

Jon chuckled. She had an amusing way about her, and right now she seemed the most charming person in the world. There was nothing like friends, and two of his best were right here next to him. She had put earphones on over her watch cap, and her sunglasses moved from side to side as she gazed all around, looking for aircraft that might be following.

Peter wore earphones, too, and was watching his fuel gauge and the directional dials through his dark glasses. The lowering sun was off to their left, a fireball whose slanting rays illuminated the treetops and snowy fields below and ahead. Far ahead they could see the first sweep of the magnificent Rhne Valley, marked with its characteristic patchwork of vineyards.

The old OH-6's cabin was cramped, so with Jon leaning forward, the three of them were a cozy knot. lie raised his voice above the noise of the rotors and announced, “I'm ready to be filled in. How's Marty doing?”

“The lad's not only out of his coma, he's chomping at the bit,” Peter reported cheerfully. He described their escape to the plastic surgery clinic where he had hidden Marty since. “He's in good spirits now, once we told him you were, in fact, alive.”

Jon smiled. “Too bad he wasn't more helpful about the DNA computer and Chambord.”

“Yes,” Randi said. “Now you. Tell us what happened at the villa in Algeria. When I heard the automatic fire, I was sure you'd been killed.”

“Chambord hadn't been kidnapped at all,” he told them. “He was with the Crescent Shield from the beginning. Actually, they'd been with him, or at least that's what he claims. It makes sense, knowing what I know now. He also created the deception that he was a prisoner, for Theacute;regrave;se's benefit. He had no idea Mauritania had taken her, so he was as surprised to see her as she was to see him.”

“Explains a lot,” Peter said. “But how in blazes did they get the prototype out before the missile hit?”

“They didn't,” Jon told them. “The missile destroyed it for certain. What I don't understand is how Chambord could've built another prototype and had it up and running soon enough to take over our satellites.”

“I know,” Randi agreed. “It's baffling. But our people say no other computer has the power, speed, or capacity to reprogram the satellites through all their codes, firewalls, and other defenses. In fact, most of our safeguards are still classified and supposedly impossible to discover, much less breach.”

Peter checked the time, the distance they had come, and the fuel gauge. He said, “Perhaps you're both right. But why couldn't there be a second prototype?”

Jon and Randi exchanged a glance.

“That's an idea, Peter,” Randi said.

Jon said slowly, “One already in existence. One that Chambord either had access to, had set up to be programmed remotely, or had trained someone else to operate on his instructions. Also, one that Mauritania appeared to know nothing about.”

“Swell,” Randi grumbled. “A second DNA computer. Just what we need.”

“It makes a lot of sense, especially when combined with what I haven't brought up yet.”

“That sounds ominous,” Peter said. “Fill us in, Jon.”

Jon stared ahead through the helicopter's windshield at the French countryside, threaded with small rivers and canals and dotted with neat farmhouses. “I told you I learned at the villa that Chambord had been part of the terrorism from the start,” he said, “and that he probably-helped plan the attack on us.”

“Right. And?” Randi prompted.

“Hours ago, before I finally got away from Abu Auda, it began to make sense that not only did the Crescent Shield use the Basques for cover, Chambord and Bonnard have been using the Shield for cover, too. The Shield has a fairly large and flexible organization with terrorist skills, and it could do what Bonnard and Chambord couldn't do by themselves. But I think the Shield gave them something else as wellhellip;it's their stalking horse. A group to blame for whatever horror they're really planning. Who better to pin it on than an Islamic extremist group led by a man who was once a top lieutenant of Osama bin Laden? Which, by the way, is maybe why they took Mauritania with them. They could be planning to make them the fall guy.”

Randi frowned. “So you're saying the two of them, Chambord and Bonnard, are behind all the electronic attacks on the U.S. But why? What possible motive could a world-renowned scientist and a respected French army officer have?”

Jon shrugged. "My guess is, their goal won't turn out to be dropping a mid-range tactical nuclear missile on Jerusalem or Tel Aviv. That makes political sense for the Crescent Shield, but not for a pair of Frenchmen like Chambord or Bonnard. I figure they're planning something else, most likely against the United States, since they 've now taken out our satellites. But I still haven't been able to figure out why.

As the wind rushed past, and the helicopter's rotors beat a steady tattoo, the three friends fell silent.

“And the Shield knows nothing about what Bonnard and Chambord are planning?” Randi asked.

“From listening to all their talk, I'd say the idea that Bonnard and Chambord weren't their dupes never occurred to the Crescent Shield. That's what happens to fanatics, they see nothing but what they want to see.”

Peter's hands tightened on the controls. “I expect you're right about the stalking horse. Could get nasty for whoever gets the blame for what they've done so far, never mind whatever Armageddon they're planning. Like what happened after the World Trade Center and the Pentagon were attacked. Our soldier and scientist wouldn't want responsibility for something like Afghanistan to come crashing down on their heads.”

“Exactly,” Jon acknowledged. “I think Chambord anticipates nations may converge again to hunt down the perpetrators this time, too. So he wants a patsy, someone the world is ready to believe would do it. Mauritania and the Crescent Shield are perfect for that. It's a little-known terrorist group, so who'll believe their denials, especially if it looks as if they've been caught red-handed? And then, too, all the evidence makes it look as if they kidnapped Chambord, which he'll swear to. He lies well enough that he'll be believed. Take it from me.”

“What about Theacute;regrave;se?” Randi said. “She knows the truth by now, right?”

“I don't know if she knows the whole truth, but she knows about her father. She's learned too much, which must be worrying Chambord. If push comes to shove, he might sacrifice her to save his plan. Or Bonnard will take the decision out of his hands and handle it himself.”

“His own daughter.” Randi shuddered.

“He's either unbalanced or a fanatic,” Jon said. “They're the only reasons I can see for his doing such an about-facefrom illustrious scientist to down-and-dirty terrorist.”

Peter was gazing out at the land, his leathery face intense as he studied roads. “Going to have to pause our discussion a bit.” They were approaching a small city built along a river. “That's Macon, right at the edge of Burgundy. River's called the Sane. Peaceful-looking little place, isn't it? Turns out, it is. Randi and I refueled here on our way to track you down, Jon. No problems, so I'm going to set us down here again. The gas tank's hungry. When was the last time you ate, Jon?”

“Damned if I remember.”

“Then we'd best pick up more than petrol.”

In the long, undulating shadows of late afternoon, Peter landed the OH-6 at the small airport.

Outside Bousmelet-sur-Seine, France

Emile Chambord leaned back in the desk chair and stretched. The stone walls, evil-looking medieval weapons, dusty suits of armor, and high vaulted ceiling of this windowless work area were cheerless, although a thick Berber rug covered the floor, and lamps cast warm pools of light. That he was working here in the armory where there were no windows was the way he wanted it. No windows, no distractions, and whenever worries about Theacute;regrave;se entered his mind, he pushed them far away.

He gazed lovingly at his prototype on the long table. Although he enjoyed everything about it, he was particularly in awe of its speed and power. It tested each possible answer to any problem simultaneously, rather than sequentially, which was how the largest and fastest silicon-chip computers worked. In cyber terms, the world's fastest silicon supercomputers took a long, long time. Still, they were faster than a human brain. But swiftest of all was his molecular machine, its velocity almost incomprehensible.

And the basis was in the gel packs, in the special DNA sequence he had created. The spiral string of DNA that curled inside every living cellthe natural chemistry underlying all living thingshad been his artist's palette. And the result was that intractable problems such as those that cropped up in artificial intelligence systems, in fashioning complex computer networks like the information superhighway, and in conducting intricate games such as three-dimensional chess, which were impossible for the most powerful supercomputer, could easily be digested by his molecular marvel. After all, it was merely a matter of selecting the correct path through an enormous number of possible choices.

He was also fascinated by his brainchild's ability to continually alter its identity while using only one-hundredth of its power. It simply maintained a firewall that changed its access code faster than any conventional computer could crack it. In essence, his molecular machine “evolved” while being used, and the more it was used, the more it evolved. In the cold stone room, he smiled as he recalled the first image he had seen in his mind when he conceived this attribute. His prototype was like the Borg on the American television show Star Trek, which evolved instantly to find a fresh defense against any attack. Now he was using his constantly unfolding machine to counter the most insidious attack of allon the soul of France.

For inspiration, he gazed again at the reproduction of the noble painting above his desk, and then with a determined heart, he resumed searching for clues to where Marty Zellerbach was hiding. He had easily entered Marty's computer system at his home in Washington and waltzed in seconds through the computer geek's specially designed software defenses. Unfortunately, Marty had not visited it since the night of the Pasteur attack, so Chambord found no clue to his whereabouts there. Disappointed, he left a little “gift” and moved on.

He knew the name of Marty's bank, so it was a simple matter to check his records. But again, there was no new activity. He thought for a moment and had another ideaMarty's credit card.

As a record of Marty's purchases appeared on the screen, Chambord's austere face smiled, and his intense eyes flashed. Oui! Yesterday, Marty had bought a laptop in Paris. He picked up the cellular telephone on the table beside him.

Vaduz, Liechtenstein

Carved out of the lush countryside between Switzerland and Austria, the small principality of Liechtenstein was often overlooked by ordinary tourists, while prized by foreigners who needed a safe place to transport or hide money. Liechtenstein was known for both its breathtaking scenery and absolute secrecy.

In the capital, Vaduz, twilight had cast dark shadows across the thoroughfare that edged the Rhine River. This suited Abu Auda. Still dressed in his Western clothes, he moved briskly along, avoiding eye contact, until he arrived at the door to the small, undistinguished private residence that had been described to him. He knocked three times, waited, and knocked four times.

He heard a bolt disengage inside, and the door cracked open.

In Arabie, Abu Auda spoke into the small space: “Breet bate.” I want a room.

A man's voice answered, “May-fah-hem-tiksh.” I don't understand.

Abu Auda repeated the code and added, “They have Mauritania.”

The door swung open, and a small, dark man stared worriedly up. “Yes?”

Abu Auda pushed his way in. This was a major European stop for hwalala, an underground Arab railroad for moving, banking, laundering, and investing money. Unregulated and completely secret, with no real accounts that regulators could track, the network financed not only individuals but causes. This past year, nearly a billion U.S. dollars had moved through the European system alone.

“Where did Mauritania get his money?” Abu Auda continued in Arabic. “The source. From whose purse did the financing come?”

“You know I can't tell you that.”

Abu Auda removed the pistol from the holster under his arm. He pointed it, and as the man stepped backward, Abu Auda followed. “Mauritania is being held by the people with the money. They are not of our Cause. I know the money was paid by a Captain Bonnard or a Dr. Chambord. But I do not believe they are alone in this. So now you will speak, and you will be thorough.”

Aloft over France

A half hour after taking off again from Macon, Jon, Peter, and Randi finished the sandwiches they had bought at the small airport, and continued their analysis and discussion of the situation.

Peter said, “Whatever we decide to do to find Chambord and Bonnard, we'd best do it quickly. Time's not on our side. Whatever they're planning, they'll want to make it happen very, very soon.”

Jon nodded. “Mauritania had planned to attack Israel this morning. Now that we know there's still a working molecular computer out there somewhere, and that Chambord and Bonnard are free and traveling, my guess is that we've bought ourselves some time, but not much.”

Randi shivered. “Maybe not enough.”

The sun had set, and darkness was creeping across the land. Ahead, an ocean of lights sparkled in the gray twilight. Paris. As they stared at the great city's sprawl, Jon's mind went back to the Pasteur Institute and the initial bombing that had brought him to Paris and Marty. It seemed a long time ago, although it was just last Monday that Fred Klein had appeared in Colorado to ask him to take on this assignment, which had led across two continents.