"Was this a year ago, about the same time he quit entering his progress data into the computer?"
Kerns was astonished. "I hadn't heard that. Damn, does that mean we have no idea what he accomplished over the last twelve months?"
"That's what it means. You know what he was working on?"
"Of course, everyone knew. A molecular computer. I heard he was making big strides, too. That he might even get there first, in under ten years. It was no secret, so"
"So?"
Kerns leaned back. "So why the secretiveness? That was what was so different about him. Secretive, withdrawn, distracted, avoiding his colleagues. Come to work, go home, return to work, nothing else. Sometimes he was here for days in a row. I heard he even had a good bed put in there. We just wrote it off to a hot line of research."
Smith did not want to appear too interested in Chambord, or his notes, or the DNA computer. He was in Paris for Marty, after all. Nothing more, as far as Kerns or anyone else was concerned. "He wouldn't be the first to be so wrapped up in his work. A scientist who doesn't feel that compelled doesn't belong in research." He paused and asked casually, "So what's your theory?"
Mike chuckled. "In my wildest moments, stolen research. Spies. Industrial espionage, maybe. Some kind of cloak-and-dagger."
"Did something happen to make you think that?"
"Well, there's always the issue of the Nobel Prize. Whoever creates the first molecular computer will be a shoo-in. Of course, that means not just money but prestige the Mount Olympus of prestige. No one at the Pasteur would turn it down. Probably no one in the world. Under those conditions, any of us might get a little nervous and clandestine, protecting our work until we were ready to go public."
"Good point." But stealing was one thing, mass murder, which the bombing had caused, was quite another. "There must've been something else, though, to make you think Chambord was worried about his work being stolen. Something unusual, maybe even suspicious, that triggered the idea."
"Now that you mention it I wondered sometimes about a few of the people I spotted Chambord with once or twice outside the Pasteur. Also about a car that picked him up here some nights."
Smith allowed only a fraction of his interest to show on his face. "What kind of people?"
"Oh, ordinary enough. French, well dressed. They were always in civvies, or I might've said they were military. But I guess if Chambord was making progress on his DNA computer, that'd make sense. The military would want to keep tabs on everything he was doing, if he'd let them."
"Natural enough. What about the car? Do you remember the year and make?"
"Citron, recent. Don't know the exact year. It was big and black. I'd see it when I was working late. I'd be heading for mine, and a few times it'd drive up. The rear door would swing open, Chambord would duck and climb in he was very tall, you know and it'd drive off. It was odd, because he had his own little Renault. I mean, I'd spot the Renault parked in the lot after the big car drove off."
"You never saw who was with him in the Citron?"
"Never. But at the time, I was tired and was thinking about getting home."
"Did the Citron bring him back?"
"I wouldn't know."
Smith thought it over. "Thanks, Mike. I can see you're busy, and I don't want to take any more of your time. I'm just looking into Marty's activities here in Paris, to get an assessment of his health before the bombing. Sorry to get so far off track with Chambord. Marty's got Asperger's Syndrome, and he's usually fine, but since I haven't talked to him in a while, I just want to make sure. What can you tell me about Chambord's family? They might know more about Marty."
"Emile was a widower. Wife died about seven years ago. I wasn't here then, but I heard it hit him hard. He buried himself in work then, too, was aloof for a while, I'm told. He has one child, a grown-up daughter."
"You have her address?"
Kerns turned to his computer and soon provided it. He cocked his head at Smith. "Her name's Thérèse Chambord. I gather she's a successful actress, stage mostly, but a few French flicks. A stunner, from what I've heard."
"Thanks, Mike. I'll tell you how things go with Marty."
"You do that. And we've got to have a drink together at least, before you go home. With luck, Marty, too."
"Good idea. I'd like that." He stood up and left.
Once outside, Smith gazed across the big campus toward the smoke, blowing thin against the clouds. He shook his head and turned away, heading back to the street, his mind on Marty. Using his cell phone, he called the Pompidou Hospital and talked to the ICU head nurse, who reported that Marty remained stable, fortunately still showing an occasional sign that he might wake up. It was not a lot, but Smith held close the hope that his longtime friend would pull through.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Me?" He remembered the blow to his head when he fell. Now it all seemed a long time ago and, compared to the devastation at the Pasteur, unimportant. "I'm doing fine. Thanks for asking."
As he hung up, he reemerged onto the rue du Docteur Roux and considered what he had learned from Mike Kerns: For the past year, Emile Chambord had acted like a man in a hurry, like someone with a secret. And he had been seen with well-dressed men who could have been military types out of uniform.
Smith was mulling that when he had a feeling he was being watched. Call it what you will training, experience, a sixth sense, a subliminal impression of an image, paranoia, or even parapsychology. But there was that tingle on the back of his neck, the slight shrinking of the skin.
They were out there, the eyes observing him. It had begun the instant he had stepped out onto the sidewalk.
Chapter Six
Captain Darius Bonnard could almost smell the camels, the dates rotting in the sun, the goat-fat stink of couscous, and even the rank but miraculous odor of stagnant water. He had changed out of his captain's uniform and was now wearing a civilian suit, lightweight but still too heavy for the apartment where he had just arrived. He was already sweating under his blue pin-striped shirt.
He gazed around. The place looked like the inside of every bedouin tent in which he had sat miserable and cross-legged from the Sahara to all the godforsaken desert outposts of the former empire where he had served in his time. Moroccan rugs covered every window and lay two deep in a cushion on the floor. Algerian, Moroccan, and Berber hangings and artifacts decorated the walls, and the leather and wood furniture was low and hard.
With a sigh, the captain lowered himself to a chair inches off the floor, grateful that at least he was not expected to sit cross-legged on the floor. For a moment of déjà vu, he half-expected hot sand to gust from under the tent's walls and burn around his ankles.
But Bonnard was not in the Sahara, nor in a tent, and he had more pressing matters on his mind than an illusion of camel dung and blowing sand. His expression was fierce as he warned in French, "Sending that man to kill Martin Zellerbach in the hospital was a stupid move, M. Mauritania. Idiocy! How did you think he'd pull it off and escape successfully? They'd have caught him and flayed the truth out of him. And with Zellerbach's doctor friend there, too. Merde! Now the Sret has doubled their alert, and it'll be ten times more difficult to eliminate Zellerbach."
As Captain Bonnard ranted, the second man in the room, whom the captain had called M. Mauritania, the only name by which he was known in the international underworld of spies and criminals, remained expressionless. He was a stocky figure, with a round face and soft, well-manicured hands below the cuffs of a white shirt impeccably shot from the sleeves of a pearl-gray English suit direct from some custom tailor on Savile Row. His small features and bright blue eyes contemplated Bonnard and his outrage with the long-suffering patience of someone forced to listen to the incessant barking of a dog.
When the captain finally finished his tirade, Mauritania, who wore a French beret, tucked a lock of brown hair behind his ear and answered in French, in a voice as hard as his hands were soft. "You underest
imate us, Captain. We're not fools. We sent no one to assassinate Dr. Zellerbach at the hospital or anywhere else. It would've been stupid to do at any time, and more than stupid to do now, when it's quite possible he'll never regain consciousness anyway."
Bonnard was taken aback. "But we decided there was no way we could take the chance of letting him live. He might know too much."
"You decided. We decided to wait. That's our choice to make, not yours," Mauritania said in a tone that ended the matter. "In any case, you and I have more important matters to consider."
"Such as, if you didn't send that assassin, who did? And why?"
Mauritania inclined his small, neat head. "I wasn't thinking of that. But, yes, it's a concern, and we'll discover all we can in the matter. Meanwhile, we've studied the notes of the research assistant, which you gave us. We find they coincide precisely, if sketchily, with Chambord's own data and reports. Nothing appears to have been forgotten or lost. Now that we have them, there should be no trouble from that direction. They've already been destroyed."
"Which will keep our activities nicely secret, as I told you," Bonnard said, a touch of colonial condescension in his certainty. He heard it and did not care. "But I'm not at all sure about allowing Zellerbach to live. I'd suggest"
"And I," Mauritania cut him off, "suggest you leave Zellerbach to us. You must pay attention to greater dangers, such as the police investigation into the 'suicide' of Chambord's assistant. Under the circumstances, more than the police will be asking questions. How is the official probe into the suicide proceeding?"
The Mauritania had pulled Bonnard back, and for a moment the captain fought his disgust. But on the other hand, the reason he was doing business with the underworld leader was that he needed someone tough and savvy, as relentless as himself. So what else should he expect? Besides, he saw the logic of the question.
He forced himself to sound more accommodating. "I've heard nothing. But after the assistant ran away when he spotted your men, he stopped for petrol. The people at the station reported the assistant had heard about Emile Chambord's death and was distraught, actually in tears. Devastating grief. That should give the motivation. He couldn't go on without his mentor."
"You know nothing more? Not even from your French army headquarters?"
"Not a word."
Mauritania considered. "That doesn't worry you?"
"No news is good news." Bonnard gave a cold smile at the clich.
Mauritania's nose wrinkled with disgust. "That's a Western proverb as dangerous as it's stupid. Silence in a matter such as this is far from golden. A suicide is difficult to fake well enough to fool police detectives with any brains or experience, to say nothing of the Deuxième Bureau. I suggest you or your people find out what the police and secret service actually know about the assistant's death, and find out quickly."
"I'll look into it," Bonnard agreed grudgingly. He adjusted his weight, preparing to stand.
But Mauritania raised his small hand, and, with a sigh, Bonnard sank back down onto the low, hard chair.
"One more thing, Captain Bonnard. This friend of Zellerbach's What do you know about him?"
Bonnard would soon be missed from work and wanted to leave. He controlled his impatience and said, "The man's name is Lieutenant Colonel Jonathan Smith. He's an old friend of Zellerbach's, a medical doctor, and was sent here by Zellerbach's family. At least that's what Smith told the hospital, and from what I've been able to learn from my other sources, it's accurate. Zellerbach and Smith grew up together in some place called Iowa." He had trouble pronouncing it.
"But from what you've also told me about the assassination attempt on Zellerbach at the hospital, this Dr. Smith acted more like a man with combat or police experience. You say he came to the hospital armed?"
"He did, and I agree his actions were far from medical."
"Possibly an agent? Placed in the hospital by someone who's unconvinced by our charade?"
"If Smith is, he's not CIA or MI6. I'm familiar with all their people in Europe and on the European desks at Langley and London SIS. He's definitely American, so unlikely Mossad or a Russian. And he's not one of ours. That I'd definitely know. My sources within American intelligence say he's simply an army research scientist assigned to a U.S. military medical research facility."
"Absolutely American?"
"The clothes, the manner, the speech, the attitude. Plus the confirmation by my contacts. My reputation on it."
"Perhaps he could be a Company man whom you don't know? Langley lies about such things. Their business is to lie. They've grown rather good at it."
"My contacts don't lie. Plus, he's in none of our files at military intelligence."
"Could he be an agent from an organization you don't know, or don't have sources to?"
"Impossible. What do you take us for? If the Second Bureau doesn't know any such organization, it doesn't exist."
"Very well." Mauritania nodded. "Still, we'd better continue to watch him, your people and mine." He rose in a single fluid motion.
With relief, Captain Bonnard struggled to his feet from the low chair. His legs felt nearly paralyzed. He had never understood why these desert people were not all cripples. "Perhaps," he said, massaging behind his knee, "Smith is nothing more than what he appears. The United States thrives on a culture of guns, after all."
"But he'd hardly be allowed to carry one to Europe on a commercial flight without some predetermined reason, and a very important one at that," Mauritania pointed out. "Still, perhaps you're right. There are ways to acquire guns here, too, including for foreigners, yes? Since his friend was the victim of violence, Smith may have come for revenge. In any case, Americans always seem to feel less vulnerable when they have a weapon. Rather silly of them."
Which left Captain Bonnard with the distinct impression that the enigmatic and occasionally treacherous terrorist chief did not think Bonnard was right at all.
* * *
On high alert, Jon Smith strolled toward the boulevard Pasteur, all the while pretending to look for a taxi to hail. He kept turning his head left and right, apparently studying the traffic for a potential ride, but really probing for whoever was out there watching him.
Automotive exhaust filled the air. He looked back toward the institute's entrance, where the guards were checking identifications. Finally he decided on three potentials: A youngish woman, mid-thirties or so, dark-haired, no figure to speak of, lumpy face. Altogether unremarkable in a dull black skirt and cardigan. She had stopped to admire the gloomy brick-and-stone church of Saint-Jean Baptiste de la Salle.
The second potential was a middle-aged, equally colorless man, wearing a dark blue sports coat and corduroy jeans, despite the warm May weather. He stood before a street vendor's cart, poring over the items as if he were looking for a lost masterpiece. The third person was a tall old man, leaning on a black ebony cane. He was standing in the shadow of a tree near the curb, watching the smoke at the Pasteur drift upward.
Smith had close to two hours before the meeting President Castilla had arranged with General Henze, the NATO commander. It would probably not take that long to lose whoever was interested in him, which meant maybe he could get some information first.
All this time, he had continued to pretend to be looking for a taxi. With a dramatic shrug of disgust, he walked onward toward the boulevard Pasteur. At the intersection, he turned right, sauntering toward the bustling Hotel Arcade with its glass, steel, and stucco facade. He glanced into store windows, checked his watch, and finally stopped at a caf, where he chose an outside table. He ordered a demi, and when the beer arrived, he sipped and watched the passing parade with the relaxed smile of a recently arrived tourist.
The first of the trio to appear was the tall old man who had been leaning on his cane in the shadow of a tree, watching the smoke from the bombed building, which could be suspicious in itself. Criminals were known to be drawn back to the scene of an attack, although this man looked too old and d
isabled to have taken on the duties of a sneak bombing. He limped along, using the cane expertly, and found a seat at a caf directly across the street from Smith. There he took a copy of Le Monde from his pocket and, after the waiter brought coffee and pastry, unfurled it. He read as he sipped and ate, apparently with no interest in Smith. In fact, he never looked up from his newspaper again.
The second to arrive was the lumpy-faced young woman with the dark hair and nondescript appearance, who suddenly was walking past the caf not five feet from where Smith sat. She glanced directly at him and continued on without showing the faintest interest, as if he were simply empty space. Once past, she paused as if considering stopping for a drink, too. She seemed to dismiss the thought and moved on, disappearing into the crowded Hotel Arcade.
The third person, the man who had been shopping with such concentration at the street vendor's cart, did not appear.
As he finished his beer, Smith replayed his observations of the tall old man and the nondescript woman their facial features, the rhythm of their movements, the way they held their heads and used their hands and feet. He did not leave until he was certain he had memorized them.
Then he paid and moved briskly back along the boulevard toward the Pasteur metro station at the intersection with the rue de Vaugirard. The old man with the cane soon appeared behind, moving well for his age and apparent infirmity. Smith had seen him instantly. He monitored the fellow with his peripheral vision and continued to watch for anyone else who appeared suspicious.
It was time to use an old tradecraft trick: He ducked into the metro, watching. The man with the cane did not follow. Smith waited until a train pulled into the station, and then he joined the stream of passengers that was exiting back to the street. A block away, under the leaden sky, the old fellow was still walking along. Smith hurried after, keeping just close enough to observe, until the man turned into a bookstore with a gone to lunch sign in French posted in the glass door. Key in hand, he unlocked the door. Once inside, he turned the sign around to open, dropped his cane into a stand by the door, and shrugged out of his suit coat.
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