The Paris Option c-3

by Ludlum, Robert

  "This isn't religious or even cultural with you, Mauritania," Jon told him. "You're just like every other aspiring dictator. Look at you. This is profoundly personal. And disgusting."

  Mauritania's pale eyes were alight, and his small body bristled with energy. There was an air about him of almost godlike invincibility, as if he alone had seen heaven and had been charged with the mission of not simply spreading God's word, but enforcing it.

  "This from a heathen," Mauritania mocked. "Your greedy nation has turned the Middle East into a series of puppet monarchies. You gorge on our resources while the world struggles to find food for the next meal. That's your pattern everywhere. You're the richest nation the planet's ever known, but you manipulate and hoard and then wonder why no one thanks you, much less likes you. Because of you, one of every three people doesn't have enough to eat, and one billion are actually starving. Are we to be grateful?"

  "Let's talk about all the innocents that'll be killed in your attack on Israel," Jon retorted. "The Koran says, 'You shall not kill any man whom God has forbidden you to kill, except for a just cause.' That's from your sacred writings, Mauritania. There's no justness in your cause, just cold-eyed, selfish ambition. You're fooling no one but the poor souls you've lied to so they'd follow you."

  Thérèse accused, "You're hiding behind a god you've invented."

  Mauritania ignored her. He told Jon, "For us, the man protects his women. They are not to be on public display for all to touch with their eyes."

  But Jon was no longer listening, nor was he watching Thérèse and Mauritania. He was focused on Emile Chambord, who had said nothing since Mauritania, Abu Auda, and their men had rushed in. The scientist stood exactly where he had been when he tried to protect Thérèse. He was silent, looking at no one in particular, not even at his daughter. He seemed almost unconcerned. Perhaps he was in shock, paralyzed. Or maybe his thoughts were no longer here in this room, but somewhere else where there were no worries and the future was safe. Watching Chambord made Jon uneasy.

  "We talk too much," Abu Auda announced and beckoned his men forward. "Take them out and lock them in the punishment cell. If even one should escape," he warned his followers, "I'll have all your eyes."

  Mauritania stopped Abu Auda. "Leave Chambord. We have work to do, do we not, Doctor? Tomorrow will see a changed world, a new beginning for mankind." The little terrorist leader chortled with genuine pleasure.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Randi watched the two armed sentries cross at the front of the villa, followed by another who came out of the entrance. The two who crossed were walking easily, relaxed, laughing to each other. The solitary sentry stopped on the terrace outside the front door and stared appreciatively up at the moonlit night, savoring the citrus-scented breeze and the cool weather and the few clouds that were floating gently across the starry sky.

  There was a laxness about them, as if they had been doing this too long with nothing happening. They were expecting nothing to happen. This told her the Crescent Shield had spotted neither her insertion nor her climb over the wall. As she had hoped, there were no motion detectors, closed-circuit cameras, or optical scanners mounted at the perimeter. The villa itself could be another matter.

  She had reconnoitered the area, finding barracks and a training camp, a road out to the east-west coastal highway, and a helipad with one dark old U.S. Army Huey, and one equally old Hughes OH-6 Loach scout, guarded by a single sleepy terrorist wearing a white turban. Now she circled past the villa's front and through the vegetation, hidden by it from both the arid area of olive trees and the sea. She stopped to study the villa again, which lay like a reclining white phantom, most of its windows dark, only its mosaic dome glowing like some alien spaceship.

  She was looking for a weak point. What she saw was a fourth guard standing outside the rear entrance as relaxed as his three comrades.

  Until a small man wearing American denim jeans, Levi's from the look of them, and a loud checked shirt ran out the rear door. Southeast Asian, probably Malaysian, and in a great hurry. He spoke briefly and sharply to the sentry, who immediately looked around alertly, nervously, and the small man reentered the house at a run. The sentry peered out into the night, his assault rifle up and traversing as he scanned the vegetation at the rear of the villa.

  Something had happened. Were they looking for Jon? Found him?

  Moving faster, she continued through the vegetation to the western side of the grounds, where she discovered that the villa had a wing. It jutted out of the otherwise symmetrical building and was blocked from viewing on the east by the villa itself. The wing had no exterior doors, and the windows were barred elaborate, wrought-iron bars that appeared centuries old. The only entrance to the wing must be from inside the house, and Randi felt a sudden physical sensation, a small, involuntary shudder that combined both anticipation and disgust. She recognized what the wing had been the female quarters of the old villa, the harem. The bars and lack of doors were not only to keep intruders out, but to keep the women locked in, prisoners.

  As she slipped closer, she heard voices from somewhere inside. She circled on and saw light in three windows. The voices came from behind the lighted windows, and they were angry, speaking both French and Arabic. The words were indecipherable, but one of the voices belonged to a woman. Thérèse Chambord? If it were her, she would know her from the briefing photograph she had been shown. As soon as she reached the first window, she eagerly raised up and peered in past the bars.

  Mauritania, Abu Auda, and two armed terrorists were standing in the room, all pointing weapons. Even from outside, she could feel the tension. Mauritania was speaking to someone, but she could not see who it was. Ducking low, she crawled to the next window and again arose. Excited, she saw that it was Thérèse Chambord and her father. She angled a bit and, with relief, spotted Jon, too. But the joy of finding them disappeared in the terrible danger in which all three were, under the guns of Mauritania and his men.

  As she watched, Abu Auda gestured violently and announced in French, "We talk too much. Take them out and lock them in the punishment cell. If even one should escape, I'll have all your eyes."

  Abu Auda's men herded the three toward the door.

  Mauritania said, "Leave Chambord. We have work to do, do we not, Doctor? Tomorrow will see a changed world, and a new beginning for mankind."

  The terrorist's laughter sent chills along Randi's spine. But not as great a chill as a decision she knew she had to make. With Jon and Thérèse Chambord taken away, only Mauritania and Dr. Chambord, who stood near an apparatus that might or might not be the DNA computer, remained in the room. She examined the bars on the window. They were as substantial as they had appeared from the distance.

  She knew her job. In seconds, she considered her options: She had a clear shot at both men but a difficult one at the apparatus. The moment she killed one man, the other would drop to the floor out of sight. Even Chambord would know to do that. A burst from her weapon might damage the apparatus, but she had heard nothing to confirm to her that it was the actual prototype, and she did not know enough science to be confident this was it.

  If it really were the computer, there was the chance Chambord could repair or rebuild it quickly. Which meant the logical choice was to kill Chambord. On the other hand, Mauritania might have someone else with enough scientific training to operate the DNA computer, even if he could not build one. Then the choices would be between killing Mauritania and damaging the prototype.

  Which was the best course? Would give the best outcome?

  Chambord alive might eventually mean the world would have the DNA computer, or perhaps the United States alone would. Much would depend on who rescued Chambord. Langley really wanted the computer.

  On the other hand, any attack by her could sign Thérèse Chambord's and Jon's death warrants. And if the apparatus really was not the molecular machine, her gunfire would call everyone down on her and end whatever chance she had to save the situa
tion or them.

  She lowered her MP5K. She had, after all, a backup plan that was dangerous but would take care of all contingencies. It would eliminate the computer, wherever it was in the villa. The problem was, it might mean the deaths of everyone.

  She had to take the chance. Watching for sentries, she ran low, toward the front of the villa. In the distance, she could hear the surf pounding the sand. It seemed to echo the pounding of her heart. At the corner, she peered around at the front terrace and entry. Abu Auda and two of his men were marching Jon and Thérèse across the terrace and down to the bare ground in the direction of the distant barracks. When they were far enough ahead, she followed.

  Jon surveyed the dark trees, looking for a way to break Thérèse and himself free. Abu Auda and his men had taken them through a tangerine grove to a square wooden building in a clearing some fifty yards behind the barracks. The scent of citrus seemed cloying, overpowering.

  As one of his bedouins opened the heavy door, Abu Auda kicked Jon into a dark room. "You've caused us too much trouble, American. Usually I would've killed you by now. Be grateful to Khalid, for he thinks greater than I. You'll cause us no more trouble in here, and the female can think upon her sins."

  The guards pushed Thérèse in after Jon and slammed the door. The key turned in the lock, and there was a clang as an additional iron bar was slid home and then a click as it was padlocked.

  "Mon Dieu." Thérèse sighed.

  Jon said in English, "This wasn't how I pictured our next time alone together." He gazed around the single cell. Moonlight slanted in from a barred window high in the wall, sending a rectangular pattern across the concrete floor. Its color was pale, indicating recently poured cement. There were no other windows, and the wood door was massive.

  "No," she agreed. Despite her torn white suit and dirty face, there was a beauty and dignity to her that remained untouched. "I'd hoped you would come to the theater to sec me work, and then we'd have a late dinner."

  "I would've liked that."

  "Seeing me work, or the late dinner?"

  "Both the dinner and drinks and later, the most." He smiled.

  "Yes." She smiled back, and then her expression grew solemn. "It's odd how life can change so quickly, so unexpectedly."

  "Isn't it?"

  She cocked her head and gazed at him curiously. "You say that as if you're a man who's lost much."

  "Do I?" He did not want to talk about Sophia. Not here, not now. The shadowy cell smelled dry, almost sandy, as if the Algerian heat had baked the moisture forever from the wood structure. "We have to get out of here. We can't leave the computer or your father in their hands."

  "But how?"

  There was nothing in the room to stand on. The single cot was fastened to the wrong wall, and there was no other furniture. He looked up at the window again, and calculated its height as no more than nine feet. "I'll boost you up so you can test the bars. Maybe one or two are loose. That'd be a happy piece of luck."

  He made a stirrup of his hands and hoisted her up to his shoulders.

  She strained at the bars, examined them, and announced in a discouraged voice, "They've been sunk through three horizontal boards bolted together, and then bolted to iron plates. They're not new."

  Old bars in a prison built long ago, perhaps to punish Arab slaves or the prisoners of the pirates who once ruled here along with what was once a local bey of the Ottoman Empire.

  "You don't feel even a creak?" he asked hopefully.

  "No. They're solid."

  Jon helped her down, and they turned their attention to the wood door. Its advanced age might help. But it, too, showed no weakness, and it was double locked from the outside. Even its hinges were outside. The slave owners and the pirates had apparently been worried more about a prisoner breaking out than anyone breaking in to free someone. And now, without outside help, he and Thérèse would not get out either.

  Then he heard a faint, odd sound like tiny chewing. A small animal tentatively biting into wood. He listened, but could not pinpoint the source.

  "Jon!"

  The whisper was so low at first he thought he was hallucinating, hearing voices conjured up by his own desperate thoughts of escape.

  "Jon, dammit!"

  He whirled and looked up at the window. All he saw was the dark sky.

  The whisper came again. "Idiot! The back wall."

  Then he knew the voice. He hurried across the cell and crouched low against the back wall. "Randi?"

  "Who did you expect, the marines?"

  "I could hope. Why are we whispering?"

  "Because Abu Auda and his men are all around. It's a trap, you're the bait, and I'm the quarry. Me or anyone else who comes to rescue you at this dinkus little jail."

  "Mow did you manage to get through?" Once again he found himself admiring her abilities, her tradecraft skills.

  The whisper came after a hesitation. "I had to kill two of Abu Auda's men. The night's dark, and that helped. But Abu Auda will miss them soon, and then we're cooked."

  "In here, I don't have a lot of options. I'm open to suggestions."

  "The padlock on the door's good, but the lock's a piece of junk. The hinges are old, but not rusted enough to do us much good. The hinges are oiled, and I can take them off. The screws holding the bar are outside. If I remove them, I think you can push the door out from the backside."

  "Sounds like a possibility. Traditional, but good."

  "Yeah. That's what I thought, until I had to kill the two guys. They're in the grove near the front. So I've had to come up with an alternate plan. There's a lot of wood rot back here."

  Jon heard the noise in the wall again, muffled. "Are you digging into it?"

  "Right. I tested with my knife, and the rot goes deep enough that I think I can cut a nice exit hole. It'll be a lot quieter and maybe quicker."

  Inside the room, Jon and Thérèse listened to the noises that sounded like some small animal chewing. The noises went on, faster and faster.

  Randi whispered at last, "Okay, big man, shove from your side. Shove hard."

  Thérèse knelt beside him, and together they strained against the wall where they had heard Randi work. For several seconds, nothing happened. Then the wood gave under their hands in a cloudburst of sawdust. Dry wood, riddled with termite and other insect tunnels, turned into dust, and the rotten boards shot out. Randi caught them and lowered them silently to the ground.

  Jon and Thérèse slipped through and into the languid night air. Jon looked quickly around. The grove of tangerine trees rustled with wind, and the moon was just rising low in the sky.

  Randi was crouching just inside the citrus grove, her expression tense, her MP5K held at the ready. She was gazing past the jail and across the grassy open ground to the grove on the other side. The open area was dusky and vague in the night, and the distant trees impenetrable. She motioned them to follow.

  She rolled over onto her belly and elbows, her MP5K cradled in the crooks of her arms, and crawled off into the grass. Imitating Randi, Thérèse followed. Jon brought up the rear. Their progress was silent, maddeningly slow. The moon was rising higher, already beginning to shine low through the grove that surrounded the jail.

  At last they reached the shadows of the forward trees. They did not pause to rest but crawled on past the dead body of one of the terrorists Randi had killed, and then the second one, until finally they reached a growth of date palms well past where Abu Auda had set his trap.

  Randi sat up against a palm trunk. "We should be safe here a couple of minutes. No longer. They've got people out everywhere."

  Somewhere nearby, insects made a clicking sound. Above them, stars glittered occasionally through the palm fronds.

  "Nice save." Jon rose to his haunches.

  "Merci beaucoup." Thérèse sat cross-legged.

  As the three faced one another, Randi smiled at Thérèse. "At last we meet. I'm glad you're alive."

  "I, too, as you can imagine," Thér�
�se said with gratitude. "Thank you for coming. But we must get my father. Who knows what terrible things they're planning for him to do!"

  Jon gave Randi an innocent smile. "I don't suppose you have an extra gun for me?"

  Randi looked disapproving. Jon noted her black eyes, the sculpted face, a fringe of blond hair peeking out from beneath her black watch cap.

  She said, "I still don't know who you're really working for, but in the Company we come prepared." She produced a 9mm Sig Sauer of the exact model Jon had been forced to leave in the trash basket at Madrid airport, complete with silencer.

  "Thank you," he said sincerely. As he checked the cartridges and saw that it was fully loaded, he told the two women what he had overheard in the dome room.

  "Mauritania's planning a nuclear strike against Jerusalem?" Randi was shocked.

  Jon nodded. "It sounds like a Russian medium-range tactical warhead, probably to minimize damage to the Arab countries around, but they're going to be hurt, too. Bad. The fallout will probably be worse than at Chernobyl."

  "Mon Dieu," Thérèse whispered, horrified. "All those poor people!"

  Randi's eyes glinted. "I was inserted here from a missile cruiser out there about seventy miles. The USS Saratoga. I've got a dedicated radio, and they're standing by for my call. That's because we've got a real plan here. It's not pretty, but it'll stop these guys from any nuclear strikes, whether it's against Jerusalem, New York City, or Brussels. We can go a couple of ways with it. If we can rescue Chambord and the computer, then they'll come in and extract all of us. We like that option most." She asked for confirmation that the apparatus she had seen in the room with Jon, Mauritania, Abu Auda, and the Chambords was the molecular prototype. When Jon said it was, she nodded. "If worse comes to worst" She hesitated and looked at Thérèse.

  "It can't be any more unpleasant than what we've already been through, or what Mauritania plans, Mile. Russell."