Jon Smith used the old-fashioned knocker. The door was heavy and carved, the brass fittings gleaming.
The man who answered the door wore a paratrooper’s uniform with the rank of captain and the insignia of the French general staff. He decided in crisp English, “You must be Lieutenant Colonel Jonathan Smith. You’ve made good time. Please come in.” Short, blond, and compact, he stood aside and gestured Smith to enter. “I’m Darius Bonnard.” He was all business, definitely military style.
“Thank you, Captain Bonnard. I guessed as much.” As instructed, he had called ahead, and Bonnard gave him directions.
“The general’s taking his coffee now. He’s asked that you join him.”
The captain led him through a spacious entry foyer, where a graceful staircase curved upward to the second and third floors. They passed through a European-style doorway that had no frame and was wallpapered in the same French fleur-de-lis pattern as the grand entry. The room Smith entered was large, with a high ceiling on which were painted life-sized nymphs and cherubs on a pale blue background. There were gilded cornices, handsome moldings and wainscoting, and slender, delicate Louis Quatorze furniture. The place looked more like a ballroom than a coffee room.
A hulking man was sitting by the window, sunbeams dancing above his head. Nodding Smith to a simple straight chair with a brocaded seat, he said in good but accented English, “Sit over there, if you will, Colonel Smith. How do you take coffee?”
“Cream, no sugar, sir, thank you.”
General the Count Roland la Porte wore an expensive business suit that would have been large on a defensive end in the NFL, but it fit him perfectly. Besides his great girth, he had a regal bearing, dark, thick hair worn as long and straight as that of a young Napoleon at the siege of Toulon, and a broad Breton face with piercing blue eyes. The eyes were remarkable, as immobile as a shark’s. Altogether, his presence was formidable.
“My pleasure,” he said, smoothly polite. His oversized hands dwarfed the sterling coffee service as he poured and handed a bone-china cup to Smith.
“Thank you, General.” Smith took it and said shamelessly, “It’s a privilege to meet one of the heroes of Desert Storm. Your flanking maneuver with the French Fourth Dragoons was bold. Without it, the allies never would’ve been able to secure the left flank.” Smith silently thanked Fred Klein for the thorough briefing he had received before he flew out of Colorado, because while he was in Iraq patching up the wounded on all sides, he had never heard of La Porte, who had been a lieutenant colonel back in those days.
The general asked, “You were there, Colonel?”
“Yessir. With a surgical unit.”
“Ah, of course.” La Porte smiled at a memory. “Our tanks had not been camouflaged for the western Iraqi desert, so we French stood out like polar bears. But the Dragoons and I held our ground, ate the sand, as we say in the Legion, and turned out to be most lucky.” He studied Smith. “But you understand all that, don’t you? In fact, you have had combat experience, yes? Line command also, I think.”
So La Porte had his people looking into him, as General Henze had warned. “Only briefly, yes. Why do you ask?”
The general’s unblinking blue eyes fixed him like a butterfly on a pin and then retreated, still unblinking, but with a small smile. “Forgive me. It’s an old soldier’s vanity. I pride myself on my judgment of people. I guessed your training and experience from your carriage, your movements, your eyes, and your action at the Pompidou Hospital yesterday.” La Porte’s unmoving gaze peeled layers from his skin. “Few would have your unusual combination of medical and scientific expertise, and the skills and daring of a soldier.”
“You’re far too kind, General.” Also too nosy, but then, as General Henze had said, La Porte was suspicious that something was up, and he had the interests of his country to protect.
“Now to something far more important. Has there been any change in your friend’s condition at the hospital?”
“Not so far, General.”
“And what is your honest prognosis?”
“As a friend or as a doctor?”
A tiny furrow of annoyance appeared between the general’s hard eyes. He did not like fencing or hair-splitting. “As a friend and as a doctor.”
“As a doctor, I’d say that his coma indicates his prognosis must be considered guarded. As a friend, I know he will recover soon.”
“Your sentiments as a friend are, I’m sure, shared by all. But I fear it’s your medical opinion we value most. And that doesn’t give me confidence we can rely on Dr. Zellerbach to help us with information about Dr. Chambord.”
“I think that’s wise,” Smith agreed regretfully. “Tell me, is there any news about Dr. Chambord? I checked the newspaper as I rode over in the taxi, but it said that as of last night, there were no new facts.”
The general grimaced. “Unfortunately, they have found a part of his body, alas.” He sighed. “I understand there was an arm with an attached hand. The hand wore a ring his colleagues sadly identified, and the fingerprints have been confirmed as a match with those on file at the Pasteur. That won’t be in the newspapers for a few days. The officials are still investigating, and they’re keeping as much to themselves as they can for now. They hope to find the perpetrators without giving away everything. I’d appreciate your keeping that information to yourself.”
“Of course.” Smith contemplated the sad confirmation that Émile Chambord was indeed dead. What a pity. Despite every sign to the contrary, he had held out hope that the great scientist had survived.
The general had been silent, as if considering the frailty of the human condition. “I had the honor of meeting your Dr. Zellerbach. Such a shame that he’s injured. I’d be devastated if he doesn’t recover. I’d appreciate your conveying that to his family in America, should the worst occur.”
“I’d be happy to. May I ask how you met Dr. Zellerbach, General? I wasn’t aware myself that Marty was even in France or at the Pasteur.”
The general seemed surprised. “Didn’t you think our military would be interested in Dr. Chambord’s research? Of course they were. Intensely interested, in fact. Émile introduced Dr. Zellerbach to me during my last visit to his lab. Naturally, Émile would not allow any of us to just drop by. He was a dedicated and busy man, so an invitation was a grand event. That was two months ago or so, and your Dr. Zellerbach had just arrived. It’s a pity about Émile’s work being destroyed in that wretched bombing. Do you think any of it survived?”
“I have no personal knowledge, General. Sorry.” Two could play the fishing game. “I suppose I’m surprised you’d involve yourself personally. After all, you’ve got a great many important responsibilities at NATO.”
“I’m still French, no? Besides, I knew Émile personally for many years.”
“And was he close to success?” Smith asked, careful to keep his voice neutral. “A practical, working DNA computer?”
La Porte tented his fingers. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
“It could be the key to who planted the bomb and why. No matter what happens to Marty, I want to do what I can to help catch the bastard who injured him.”
“A true friend.” La Porte nodded. “Yes, I’d like the miscreant punished, too. But, alas, I can be of little help to you there. Émile was close-mouthed about his work. If he had made a—how do you Americans say it?—‘breakout,’ he didn’t inform me. Nor did Dr. Zellerbach or poor Jean-Luc Massenet tell me or anyone else, as far as we know.”
“The research assistant? That was terrible. Have the police formed an opinion of why he killed himself?”
“A tragedy, too, to have lost that young man. Apparently, he was devoted to Émile, and when Émile died, he was cast adrift. He could not face life alone. At least that’s what I’ve been told. Knowing the charismatic power of Émile’s personality, I can almost understand the lad’s suicide.”
“So what’s your take on the bombing, General?”
&nb
sp; La Porte gave the Gallic gesture of confusion—a shrug with hands spread and head tilted. “Who knows what raving lunatic would do such a thing? Or perhaps it was some perfectly sane man with some personal hatred of science, or of L’Institut Pasteur, or even of France, to whom the bombing of a crowded building seemed a thoroughly reasonable response.” La Porte shook his large head, disgusted. “There are times, Colonel, when I think the patina of civilization and culture we all profess to share is cracking. We return to the barbarians.”
“The French police and Secret Service know no more than that?”
La Porte repeated his mannerism of tenting his long fingers. His unblinking blue eyes regarded Smith as if they could dissect his thoughts. “The police and the Second Bureau do not confide everything to a mere general, especially one who is, as you pointed out, on duty at NATO. However, my aide, Captain Bonnard, heard rumors that our police have evidence that the attack on the Pasteur could’ve been the work of an obscure Basque separatist group thought wiped out years ago. As a rule, the Basques confine their ‘events’ to Spain, but I’m sure you know there are many Basque people who live in three small regions of Basse-Pyrenees on the Spanish border with France. It was probably inevitable something would spill over across the border, even to Paris, sooner or later.”
“Which group, do you think?”
“I believe they were called the Black Flame.” He picked up what appeared to be a TV remote control, pressed a button, and Captain Bonnard stepped into the grand room through a side door. “Darius, would you be so kind as to prepare a copy of the file the Sûreté sent over about the bombing for Colonel Smith?”
“It will be waiting for him whenever he leaves, mon général.”
“Thank you, Darius. What would I do without you, eh?”
Saluting, but smiling, the aide left the gilded room. General La Porte picked up the coffeepot. “Now, a second cup, Colonel, and tell me more about your friend. He is, I’m told, a genius, but with some sort of unfortunate affliction.”
The general refilled their cups while Smith described Marty’s history. “Asperger’s Syndrome makes it difficult for him to function in our world. He tends to avoid people, is terrified of strangers, and lives alone in D.C. Still, he’s an electronic genius. When he’s off his medication and in his manic state, he has insights and leaps of creativity that are dazzling. But if he stays off the meds too long, he borders on incoherence, and eventually he simply starts raving. The medicine allows him to function with people in daily practicalities, but he tells me it feels to him as if he’s underwater, and his thinking, while still brilliant, is slow and painful.”
General La Porte seemed genuinely affected. “How long has he had this affliction?”
“All his life. It’s not a well-known condition, often misdiagnosed and misunderstood. Marty’s happiest when he’s off his meds, but that’s difficult for other people to be around. That’s one reason he lives alone.”
La Porte shook his head. “Still, he’s also a great treasure, eh? But in the wrong hands, a potential danger.”
“Not Marty. No one could get him to do what he didn’t want to. Especially since they wouldn’t know what he was actually doing.”
La Porte chuckled. “Ah, I see. That’s reassuring.” He glanced at a clock in the shape of a temple that stood on a sideboard—green stone and gilded columns and cherubs. He stood up, towering over Smith. “You’ve been most illuminating, Colonel, but I have a meeting and must leave. Finish your coffee. Then Captain Bonnard will give you that copy of the Black Flame file and see you out.”
As Smith watched the massive general leave, his gaze was drawn to all of the paintings, mostly of French landscapes, hung around the room. Many appeared to be of museum quality. He recognized two fine late Corots and a muscular Théodore Rousseau, but he had never seen the large painting of a massive castle built of dark red stone. The painter had rendered it in intense and brooding shades of red and purple, where bright afternoon sunshine illuminated the angles in the stone walls and towers. Smith could not place the painting, and he did not recognize the style of any nineteenth-century French landscapist. Something about it, though, was unforgettable.
He stood up, raising his shoulders to stretch, not bothering to finish his coffee. Instead, he was already thinking about the rest of his day. He had not heard from Fred Klein, so it was time to check whether his cell phone worked.
He started for the doorway through which he had entered, but before he had taken two steps, Captain Bonnard appeared in it, file folder in hand, as quiet and unobtrusive as a wraith. The captain’s accurate anticipation that he was leaving gave Smith a chill. Had Captain Bonnard been eavesdropping on the entire conversation? If so, he was a much more trusted employee than Smith had realized, or he wanted to know himself what Smith had told the general.
From the high, paned-glass window of the general’s study, Darius Bonnard watched Smith climb into a taxi. He continued to watch until the vehicle blended into traffic and disappeared. Then he walked across the room, through the rectangles of morning sunlight that patchworked the parquet floor. He sat at his ornate desk, dialed his telephone, and tugged impatiently on his lower lip.
Finally a quiet voice answered. “Naam?”
“Smith’s gone. He’s got the file. And the general is off to one of his meetings.”
“Good,” Mauritania said. “Did you learn anything new from the general’s interview with Smith? Do we have any indication of who Smith truly is and why he’s in Paris?”
“He stuck to his story that he was here merely to take care of his friend.”
“Is that what you believe?”
“I know Smith’s not CIA or NSA.”
There was a pause at the other end of the line, and the sounds of a large, echoing space full of hurrying people indicated that Mauritania was on a cell phone. “Perhaps. Still, he’s been a bit busier than that, wouldn’t you say?”
“He could simply be concerned about avenging his friend, as he told the general.”
“Well, I suppose we’ll know soon enough.” There was a cold smile in the terrorist’s voice as he continued, “By the time we’ve discovered the truth of Jon Smith, it’ll no longer matter. He—everything—will be as irrelevant as a few more grains of sand upon the Sahara. Whoever he is—whatever he or any of them intend—will be too late.”
The dark-haired woman had slowly and meticulously searched Mauritania’s entire silent apartment and found nothing. The terrorist and the others she had seen come and go were careful. In fact, she found nothing of a personal nature. It was as if no one actually lived here.
As she turned toward the door to leave, a key turned in the lock. Her heart pounded, and she sprinted away. Across the living room, she slipped into the narrow space behind the rug that covered the far window and listened as the door opened and someone entered. The footsteps stopped abruptly just inside the doorway and remained unmoving for some seconds, as if the newcomer sensed something wrong.
To the woman, it seemed that the breathing of the unseen person was like the slow switch of a rattlesnake’s tail. She drew a 9mm Beretta from under her skirt, careful not to touch the rug that hid her. She must not make it move.
She heard a careful footstep. And a second. Coming toward the windows. A man, and small. Mauritania himself? In her narrow space, she listened. Mauritania was good, she had known that all along, but not as good as he thought. A quick, normal walk would have been quieter and more deadly. Harder to react to. He had guessed the best places to hide, but he moved too slowly, giving her time to prepare.
Looking warily around, M. Mauritania studied the room, an old Russian-made Tokarev TT-33 7.62mm pistol in his hand. He heard nothing, saw nothing unusual, but he was sure someone either was here or had been here, because he had seen marks of tampering on the locks to the doors to the building and apartment.
He glided delicately to the first window and quickly drew back a corner of the heavy rug covering it. The space beh
ind was empty. He repeated the maneuver on the second and last carpet, the Tokarev ready to fire. But that space was also empty.
The woman looked down and saw it was Mauritania. Her Beretta was in her hand, ready in case he gazed up. She was hanging in a compact ball from a single titanium hook she had carried under her skirt and, once she realized her danger, had silently implanted over the top frame of the high window. There was no way he could react fast enough to raise his pistol to shoot her before she killed him. She held her breath that he would not look up, as her muscles strained to keep herself in a tight knot. She did not want to kill him, it could be a setback for her investigation, but if she had to—
A suspended few seconds passed. One…two…and he stepped back and allowed the rug to drop into place.
She analyzed his retreating steps, quick now, into the other two rooms. Then there were a few moments of silence, and she heard something heavy being dragged. It sounded as if a floor rug was being pulled back. When a board creaked and clattered, she suspected he had decided whoever had broken into the apartment was gone, and it was safe to retrieve something from a secret hiding place in the floor she had missed.
There were two soft clicks as the apartment door opened and closed. She waited, listening for another sound. For a sense of movement. There was nothing.
She dropped down to the windowsill. Her body was cramped from hanging in the clenched ball, but as she straightened she glanced out the window—Mauritania stood alone across the street, watching the building, waiting.
Why was he still here? Why was he watching the building? She did not like that. If he really believed his “visitor” had left, he would be gone, too…unless he was particularly security-conscious right now because of whatever he was up to.
She had a sudden, chilling insight: He had retrieved nothing; he had left something behind.
Stiff as she was, she did not hesitate. She raced across the living room to the back room of the bizarre apartment, pulled a rug down to expose the rear window, hurled the window up, and climbed out on the fire escape.
The Paris Option Page 11