Inside the main house, General the Count Roland la Porte was holding court. Like his pedigreed estate, La Porte appeared large and magnificent where he stood before the walk-in fireplace in the baronial main room. Around him, period weapons, heraldic coats-of-arms, and the canvases of great Dutch and Flemish painters everyone from Jan van Eyck to Peter Brueghelhung from the dark, paneled walls.
EU Commissioner Enzo Ciccione, recently arrived from Rome, was giving his opinion in English: "These satellite problems of the Americans are frightening and have made many of us rethink our views, General La Porte. Perhaps we have indeed become too dependent upon the United States and its military. After all, NATO is essentially the same animal as the United States."
"Still, our relationship with the United States has been useful," La Porte responded in French, despite knowing that Ciccione did not speak the language. He paused as Ciccione's translator, who sat just behind him, finished his nearly simultaneous translation. "We weren't ready to assume our own destiny. Now, however, we've gained much-needed military experience in NATO operations. The point isn't simply to challenge the Americans, but to acknowledge our own growing power and importance. Which, of course, the Americans themselves have been urging us to do."
"Military strength also translates into economic clout in the international competition for markets," pointed out Commissioner Hans Brecht, who did speak French but chose to answer in English in deference to Ciccione. Brecht was from Vienna. "Again, as you've said, General, we're already competitors with the United States for world markets. It's unfortunate that we're so often constrained from going all out because of strategic political and military concerns."
"Your views are encouraging," La Porte acknowledged. "There are times when I fear we Europeans have lost the will to greatness that fueled our conquest of the world. We must never forget that we created not only the United States but all the other nations of the Western Hemisphere. Sadly, they now find themselves locked in the American sphere of ownership." He sighed and shook his large head. "There are times, gentlemen, when I think we, too, will soon be owned by the Americans. Vassal states. To my mind, Britain already is. Who will be next? All of us?"
The others had been listening carefully. Besides the Italian and Austrian commissioners, there were also Belgian and Danish members of the Council of European Nations as well as the same NATO military leaders who had gathered on the Charles de Gaulle just a few nights ago: Spanish general Valentin Gonzalez, with his cautious eyes and the jaunty tilt to his army cap. Italian General Ruggiero Inzaghi of the flinty gaze and no-nonsense mouth. And German General Otto Bittrich, rawboned and thoughtful. Absent, of course, was British General Arnold Moore, whose untimely death had shaken them. Those who made the military their life found accidents offensive; if a soldier did not have the good luck to die at war, then he should be at least at home in his own bed with his medals and memories.
As General La Porte finished, they burst out with both agreements and objections.
General Bittrich was sitting apart, his bony face thoughtful as usual, but there was high intensity in his silence. He was watching no one but La Porte, and he had chosen a chair out of his easy line of sight for that reason. Under his thick, near-white hair, his ruddy face was so focused that he might be peering through a microscope at a specimen he was preparing to dissect.
But La Porte did not notice. He was concentrating on the speakers as they moved closer to seeing what he saw a United States of Europe, or, as the EU organization called itself, Europa. Once more, he made his point: "We can argue forever, but in the end we all know that Europe, from the Baltic to the Mediterranean, from the Atlantic to, yes, the Urals and possibly beyond, must take charge of its future. We must have an independent, united military. We are Europa, we must be Europa!"
The giant room rang with the stirring call, but in the end it fell on wary, pragmatic ears.
Commissioner Ciccione lifted his chin as if his collar were too tight. "In a few years, you'll have my vote, General La Porte. But not now. The EU has neither the wealth nor the will for such an immense step. Besides, it's dangerous. Considering the political instabilities we're facing the Balkans' quagmire, the continuing terrorist assaults everywhere, the shakiness of the Middle East, the problems in the various — stans we can afford no such large risk."
There was a general murmur of agreement, although it was clear that, among some of the other council members and all of the generals, there was more than a little regret about not pursuing the idea.
La Porte's pale eyes flashed fire at the suggestion that he was too soon. "And I say we cannot not afford it! We must take our place militarily, economically, and politically. And now is the time. Soon you must vote. It's a grave responsibility, one that can make life better for everyone. I know when you face that moment of truth and must vote, you'll agree with me. You'll feel the destiny of Europa not as it has been for the past sixty years, but as it can be. Must be."
Ciccione looked around the room, meeting the others' gazes, until at last he shook his head. "I think I can speak for all of us when I say nothing can convince us yet, General. I regret it, but the hard truth is that the continent is simply not ready."
All eyes turned to General Bittrich, who was still studying La Porte. The German general said, "As for this recent attack on U.S. satellites that seems to concern the commissioners and our General La Porte so much, I think we'll find the Americans well prepared to resist and dispose of whoever is behind it."
As another murmur of agreement hummed through the room, General La Porte only smiled. He said mildly, "Perhaps, General Bittrich. Perhaps."
At that instant, the Prussian's gray eyes hardened into points of steel. As the others filed from the room into the sumptuous dining hall adjacent, Bittrich did not move.
Alone with La Porte, he stood and walked toward the Frenchman. "A tragic event, the death of General Moore."
La Porte nodded solemnly. His unblinking eyes studied the German. "I feel most guilty. Such a waste to lose him. If he hadn't come to our meeting on the De Gaulle?" He gave a Gallic shrug of fate.
"Ah, so. Ja. But what was it Moore said before we disbanded? Now I recall. He wondered whether you knew something we did not."
"I believe he expressed a passing thought of that nature. He was, as I told him then, quite wrong." La Porte smiled.
"Of course." Bittrich smiled, too, and murmured as he walked away toward the dining hall with its table groaning with Flemish gourmet dishes, "Perhaps."
The Chartreuse Region of France
The chalet was modern, with a sharply pitched roof and a half-timbered exterior that blended into the majestic scenery beneath the snow-capped Alps. Nestled against sweet-smelling pines, the chalet was perched on a steep slope at the edge of broad fields and meadows in sight of La Grande Chartreuse, a famous Carthusian monastery. From one side of the house, the view was panoramic across the open area that dropped south, still spotted with winter snow and the fresh footprints of deer. The first blades of pale spring grasses were just beginning to show. To the north, thick pine forest rose up the mountainside, embracing the chalet.
All of this was important to Thérèse Chambord, who was locked in a room on the second floor. She gazed up at the only windows, which were placed high, as she pushed an old-fashioned frame bed beneath. Miserable and outraged, she dragged an empty bureau to the bed and wrestled it up onto it. She stepped back, put her hands on her hips, and shook her head, disgusted. Even with the bureau on top of the bed, the windows were still too far above to reach. She was carrying a thronelike chair toward the bed when she heard the door unlock.
Her father entered with a tray of food and stared dumbfounded as she stood up on the bed, preparing to hoist the chair atop the bureau. He set the tray on a side table and closed the door before she could climb down.
He shook his head. "That will do you no good, Thérèse. This house is on the edge of the mountainside, and your room overlooks a steep slope. Even s
hould you manage to get through those windows, the drop is more than three stories. It alone could kill you. In any case, the windows are locked."
Thérèse glared down at him. "Smart of you. But I'll get away yet, and then I'll go to the police."
Chambord's lined face was sad. "I'd hoped you'd understand. That you'd trust me and join us in this crusade, child. I had expected to have time to explain all of this, but then this Jon Smith interfered and forced me to reveal myself. Selfish of me, I suppose, but" He shrugged. "Even though you won't join us, I still can't let you escape. I brought you food. You'd better eat. We'll be leaving again soon."
Thérèse jumped down in fury. "Join your crusade? How can I be with you? You won't tell me what in the devil you're doing even now. All I see is that you're working with criminal terrorists who are planning a massacre using your computer. Murder! Mass murder."
"Our goal is good, child," Chambord said quietly, "and I'm not with these criminal terrorists, as you call them. As I told your friend Colonel Smith, they're with me. Captain Bonnard and I have a far different purpose than they."
"What purpose? Tell me! If you want me to trust you, you've got to trust me."
Chambord stepped to the door, looked back, and seemed to X-ray his daughter with his quick, sharp eyes. "Perhaps later, after it's all over and we've changed the future. Then you'll see, understand, and applaud. But not now. You aren't ready. I was mistaken."
He opened the door and left quickly, closing and locking it behind.
Thérèse swore and returned to the bed. She climbed up onto the bureau and then onto the chair. As the pyramid of furniture wobbled, she steadied herself against the wall. She stopped breathing, waiting for the pile beneath her to grow more solid. At last she summoned courage and straightened. Success. Her head reached the windows.
She looked out and, with a gasp, down. He had told the truth: The ground was too far below, and it dropped precipitously farther down from there. She glanced briefly at the breathtaking view across sweeping meadowlands and sighed. She pulled on the first window sash, but it was secure, with small padlocks attached to latches. Perhaps she could break the padlocks, but even if she did and managed to open a window, the drop was too far. She could not escape this way.
She peered out longingly at the beauty of the pastoral landscape that stretched out before her. In the distance, she could see the eleventh-century Chartreuse monastery, a lovely landmark in a green, beckoning land. Somewhere nearby, she had heard, was the city of Grenoble. It all made her feel like a caged bird, her wings clipped.
But she was no bird. She was a practical woman. She would need all her strength to stop her father from whatever he was planning. Besides, she was hungry. Carefully she climbed down to the bed, jumped to the floor, and carried the tray to another of the old throne chairs with its carved wood and tapestry upholstery. She ate a bowl of some kind of heavy peasant stew, thick with potatoes, cabbage, rabbit, and pork. She dipped dense slices of country bread into the stew and washed it all down with a carafe of red wine. It was light and pleasant, Beaujolais from the taste.
Only when she had finished and was sipping her last glass did she suddenly feel sad. What was her father doing? The terrorists clearly intended to attack Israel somehow, using his DNA computer. But why was he involved? His mother had been a Muslim, but he had never been religious, had never even visited Algeria that she knew, hated terrorists, and had nothing against Jews or Israel. He was a scientist, for heaven's sake. It was all he had ever been. Pure reasoning, logic, and clear thinking were his life. In his world, there was never room for social boundaries, racial barriers, or ethnic or religious distinctions. There was only truth and hard facts.
Then what? What had happened, and what was this great future for France he saw? She was still trying to puzzle it out when she heard what sounded like a pickup arriving. Captain Bonnard and that sinister man they called Mauritania had left in one. Maybe they were returning now. Thérèse did not know where they had gone or why, but when they reappeared, it would be time to leave. Or so her father had told her.
Moments later, the key turned again in the lock, and Captain Bonnard entered. He was dressed in full uniform now, the staff-duty uniform of the French Foreign Legion complete with ribbons and regimental insignia and colors. His square face was grim, the firm chin high, his gaze clear, and his clipped blond hair hidden beneath his cap. He held his service pistol.
"He sent me, mademoiselle, because I'll shoot where he couldn't, you comprehend? I won't, of course, shoot to kill, but I'm an excellent marksman, and you can believe I won't allow your escape, oui?"
"You strike me as a man who would happily shoot a woman, Captain. Or a child, for that matter. The Legion is known for such things, oui?" she mocked him.
Bonnard's eyes went flat, but he made no response. Instead, he gestured with the pistol for her to precede him from the room. They went down the stairs to the chalet's timbered living room where Mauritania was leaning over a map spread out on a large table in the corner of the room. Her father stood behind, watching. There was a strange expression on his face that she could not place as well as a subdued excitement she had never seen, even when he made a research breakthrough.
Mauritania continued, "Please show me where this other hideout of yours is. I'll have more of my men meet us there."
Bonnard caught Thérèse's attention and pointed to a chair far from where Chambord and Mauritania stood. "Sit," he told her. "And remain there."
Thérèse settled uneasily into the chair, puzzled, as Bonnard approached the two men. She watched her father draw the same pistol she had seen in the villa. With surprise, she saw him make a quick movement and turn it on Mauritania.
His face and voice were as hard as granite. "You won't need that information, Mauritania. We know where it is. Come along. We're leaving now."
Mauritania had not looked up. "We can't go, Doctor. Abu Auda and my other men aren't here yet. There isn't space for all of us in the Bell helicopter, so we'll have to use their aircraft as well."
"That won't be necessary," Chambord said. "We won't be waiting for them."
Mauritania raised his gaze slowly from where he had been bent over, studying the map. He straightened and turned. When he saw the pistol in Chambord's hand, he went very still. He looked at Captain Bonnard, whose gun was now pointed at him as well.
"So?" Mauritania's brows raised a fraction, betraying only mild surprise at the two Frenchmen.
"You're an intelligent man, Mauritania. Don't attempt something you'll regret."
"I never do anything I'll regret, Doctor. May I ask what you think you're accomplishing?"
"Dispensing with your services. You've been useful. We thank you for all your good work, but from this moment on, you and your people will complicate the situation."
Mauritania seemed to consider that. "I take it you have a different plan. One you suspect we won't like."
"You'd agree to the initial stage. In fact, your brethren in other groups would be enthusiastic. But you, as you have often pointed out, are really guerrillas, not simple terrorists. You have concrete political goals, a narrow focus. Realistically, our focus is not yours, and therefore we need to dispense with you. To be more exact, with your men. You yourself will continue on with us, but as our 'guest' only. Eventually you will be of help to us."
"I doubt it." Mauritania's smooth facade cracked. "And who is to fly the helicopter? My pilot will do nothing unless I order it."
"Naturally. We expected that." Emile Chambord glanced at the French captain. "Bonnard, take Thérèse with you."
Bonnard grabbed her arm, pulled her up, and prodded her out the door.
Mauritania's light-colored eyes followed them. When the door closed, he looked up at Chambord.
Chambord nodded. "Yes, Captain Bonnard is a trained helicopter pilot. He'll fly us out of here."
Mauritania said nothing, but when two gunshots sounded in quick succession outside, he flinched.
C
hambord showed no reaction at all. "After you, Mauritania."
He marched Mauritania to the chalet's entry, out the front door into the hazy mountain sunlight, and to a clearing among the pines where the Hughes scout helicopter was parked. Lying on the ground next to it was the body of the Saudi pilot, Mohammed. There were two bullet holes in his chest, and blood was thick on his clothes. Standing above him was Bonnard, who was now pointing his gun at Thérèse. A stricken look on her face, she held her hand over her mouth as if she were going to be sick.
Chambord studied her, searching for a sign that now she understood the seriousness of his purpose. He nodded to himself, satisfied, and turned to Bonnard. "The helicopter is refueled and serviced?"
"He had just finished."
"Bon. We'll be on our way." He smiled, a dreamy expression on his face. "By tomorrow, we will have changed history."
Bonnard climbed in first, followed by the stoic Mauritania and an ashen-faced Thérèse. Chambord entered last. As they buckled themselves in, and the rotors whined and turned, the scientist gave a final searching look across the sky. Moments later, the helicopter lifted off.
Chapter Thirty-one
Aloft Somewhere over Europe
The key was the hands. Escaping without free hands was possible only under exceptional and desperate circumstances. For the best odds, free hands were necessary. So when the terrorists had bound Jon's wrists behind him in the truck on the road to Tunis, he had placed them side by side in as straight a line as he could manage. In the fanatics' haste to escape the villa, they had not repositioned his wrists, and although they had bound them tight, the ruse had been partly successful. Since then, he had been twisting his arms and hands, expanding and contracting against the rope, over and over. Still, he had not gained enough slack. And time was running out.
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