She was almost to the bottom when the floor above exploded in a sheet of flame.
She slid down the rest of the way and ran left through another building to the front where she peered out into the street. Mauritania still stood across the street from the now-burning building. She smiled grimly. He thought he had eliminated a tail. Instead, he had made a mistake.
When he turned and walked away at the first sound of the fire engines, she was not far behind.
Chapter Ten
The Café Deuxième Régiment Étranger was on the rue Afrique du Nord, one of the serpentine streets that circled below the great dome of Sacré-Coeur. Smith unbuttoned his trench coat and sat alone at a small table in the corner, taking a long drink of his demi and eating a roast beef sandwich as he studied the Second Bureau’s dossier on the Black Flame. The café’s owner was a former Legionnaire whose leg Smith had saved in the MASH unit during the Gulf War. Displaying his usual hospitality, he saw to it that no one bothered Smith while Smith read the file from first word to last. Then he sat back, ordered another demi, and mulled what he had learned:
The “small” evidence against the Black Flame was that the Deuxième Bureau, acting on the tip of an informant, had picked up a former member of the terrorist group in Paris just an hour after the Pasteur’s bombing. Less than a year ago, the man had been released from a Spanish prison for his part in long-ago crimes attributed to the Black Flame. After he and his associates were arrested, the Black Flame dropped from sight, apparently no longer active.
When the Bureau grabbed him in France, he was armed but swore he was completely out of politics, working as a machinist in Toledo, Spain. He claimed he was in Paris simply to visit an uncle, knew nothing about the Pasteur’s bombing, and had been with his uncle all day. There was a Xerox of a photo of him. According to the date, the photo was shot when he was taken into custody. He had heavy black brows, thin cheeks, and a prominent chin.
The uncle confirmed the man’s story, and the police’s subsequent investigation failed to turn up evidence that directly connected him to the bombing. Still, there were a few holes, since the man had several hours unaccounted for that day. The Bureau was holding him incommunicado and interrogating him around the clock.
Historically, the Black Flame’s center of operations was always mobile, never settling in any single spot for longer than a week. The organization favored the Basque provinces of the western Pyrenees: Vizcaya, Guipúzcoa, and Álava in Spain, and, only occasionally, Basse-Pyrenees, France. The most frequent choices were in and around Bilbao and Guernica, where the majority of the Black Flame’s sympathizers had lived.
As a movement, the Spanish Basque nationalists had only one goal—separation from Spain into a Basque Republic. Failing that, the more moderate groups had occasionally offered to settle for an autonomous region within Spain. The Basques’ desire for independence was so strong that, despite their extremely devout Catholicism, they fought against the Church during the Spanish Civil War and supported the secular left-wing Republic, since it promised them at least autonomy, while the Catholic fascists would not.
Smith wondered how the bombing of the Pasteur Institute in Paris might figure into that long-standing goal. Perhaps it was to embarrass Spain. No, probably not. None of the Basque terrorist acts had yet shamed Spain.
It could be that the point was to incite friction between Spain and France, which might ultimately make possible convincing the French government to pressure Spain to accede to Basque demands. That made more sense, since it was a tactic that had been used by other revolutionaries, although with only varying degrees of success.
Or had the French Basques decided to unite with their brothers and sisters south of the border, spreading the terrorism into two countries, in the hope that by carving their new country from small areas of both, they would encourage the French, who would lose less, to force the Spanish to make a deal? Of course, there was the added incentive that the involvement of two nations could trigger the United Nations and maybe the European Union to lean on both Spain and France to find a solution.
Smith nodded to himself. Yes, that might work. And a DNA computer would be invaluable to terrorists, giving them a compelling weapon for many purposes, including convincing governments to capitulate to their goals.
But assuming the Black Flame had Chambord’s molecular machine, why attack the United States? It made no sense unless the Basques wanted to force the United States to support their objective and increase the pressure on Spain. But if any of that was true, there should be contact and demands. There had been none.
As Smith continued to consider it all, he turned on his cell phone, hoping to hear a dial tone. There was one. He dialed Klein’s secret, secure number in D.C.
“Klein here.”
“Are all of the wireless systems back up?”
“Yes. What a mess. Discouraging.”
“What exactly did he do?” Smith asked.
“After he took down the Western utilities grid, our phantom hacker got into the key code of one of our telecommunications satellites, and the next thing our people knew, he’d infiltrated the whole spectrum—dozens of satellites. The FBI’s forensics team threw everything they had and knew at him, but he broke every code, figured out every password, acted as if firewalls and key-locks were jokes, and zeroed in on the army’s wireless transmissions. The speed was blinding. Unbelievable. He cracked codes that were supposed to be uncrackable.”
Smith swore. “What in God’s name did he want?”
“Our people think he was just playing, building his confidence. The Western grid came back on after a half hour, and so did the wireless communications. Precisely, as if he timed it.”
“He probably did. Which means you’re right, it was all a test. Also a warning, and to make us sweat.”
“He’s succeeded. Right now, to say our technology’s being outclassed is the understatement of the century. The best defense is to find him and that machine.”
“Not just him. This isn’t the work of a solitary hacker, not considering the attack on the Pasteur and the kidnapping of Thérèse Chambord. There’s still been no contact?”
“None.”
Smith looked at his beer. It was a very good beer, and until he had called Klein, he had been enjoying it. Now he pushed it away. “Maybe they don’t want anything from us,” he said grimly. “Maybe they’re planning simply to do something, no matter what we say or do.”
He could almost see Klein, wherever he was, staring into space, seeing a vision of apocalypse. “I’ve considered that, too. A straightforward, no-warning attack, after they’ve finished testing the prototype enough to get the bugs worked out. It’s my nightmare.”
“What does the Pentagon think?”
“It’s best to serve the brass reality in small doses. But that’s my job. What else have you got on your end?”
“Two things. First is news that the police have matched Émile Chambord’s fingerprints with a hand that came out of the rubble. General La Porte told me about it this morning.”
“Jesus,” Klein breathed. “So he’s dead. Chambord’s really dead. Damnation! I’ll have Justice phone over there to see what else they know.” He hesitated. “Well, that just makes Zellerbach all the more important. How is he?”
Smith filled him in. “I think there’s an excellent chance we’re going to get Marty back whole,” he concluded. “Anyway, that’s the way I’m operating.”
“I hope you’re right. And I especially hope he recovers in a timely fashion. I don’t mean to be crass, Colonel. I know how fond you are of Zellerbach, but what he knows could make all the difference. Is the protection on him secure enough?”
“About as tight as it can be. French special forces guarding, Sûreté watching. Anything tighter, and they’d be tripping over their own feet.” He paused. “I need a reservation on the next flight to Madrid.”
“Madrid? Why?”
“To rent a car and drive to Toledo. Toledo’s
where I pick up the trail of the Black Flame.” He described the report Captain Bonnard had acquired from the Sûreté and copied for him. “Now that you’ve found out the symbol on the handgrip of the gun was for the Black Flame, Toledo’s my best lead. If the Black Flame really is responsible for Thérèse Chambord’s kidnapping, then I’m hoping to use them to find her and the DNA prototype.” He paused. “I’ve been to Toledo several times, but I’d like some help on this. Can you get me the Basque’s home address and a detailed map of the city? Somebody at the Sûreté must have it.”
“I’ll have information, a map, and a flight reservation in your name waiting at De Gaulle.”
Washington, D.C., The White House
President Sam Castilla was leaning back in his executive chair, his eyes closed in the unseasonable spring warmth that had settled into the Oval Office already at this early hour, because he insisted on keeping the air-conditioning off and the French doors open. By his own reckoning (he had sneaked a few surreptitious glances at his watch), the National Security Adviser, the admiral, and the three generals had been talking, pointing at charts, and arguing for an hour and twenty-six minutes. Despite the gravity of the situation, he found himself thinking longingly of how the Apaches would stake their enemies spread-eagled in the fierce sun to die very, very slowly.
He finally opened his eyes. “Gentlemen, it’s a well-known fact that only an egomaniacal idiot would run for this job that I happen to have, so is there anyone who can tell me in a few words, which I won’t need The New York Times or my science advisers to interpret, what’s happened now and what it means?”
“Of course, sir.” National Security Adviser Emily Powell-Hill took the challenge. “After the break-in to the Western power grid and the shutdown of the army’s wireless communications system, the hacker went on to steal all of our command and electronic-surveillance codes. Every one. Nothing is left for us to hide behind. Nothing is left to protect our hardware, software, or people. We can be paralyzed for God knows how long. Completely unable to defend against attack. Blind, deaf, dumb, and toothless.”
Despite his earlier levity, the president was stunned by the enormity of the consequences. “I expect that’s as bad as it sounds?”
“So far,” she said, “what the hacker’s done has been of relatively short duration. Hit and run, rather than a sustained attack. But by stealing the codes, he’s proved he’s capable of not only an attack, but of war. Until the codes are changed, we’re no longer in a position to fight or defend. Even after we change the codes, he can steal them again.”
President Castilla inhaled sharply. “Exactly what did we lose while he was in our systems?”
“All military wireless communications systems routed through Forts Meade and Detrick,” Admiral Stevens Brose explained. “NSA’s worldwide surveillance center at Men-with Hill in Britain, FBI communications, CIA’s worldwide photographic and electronic surveillance. The NRO was literally blind. And of course, Echelon went down.”
“None was out of commission for long, sir,” Emily Powell-Hill said, rushing to give the president the only good news. “But—”
The silence in the Oval Office was thicker than a New Mexico brush patch. NSA’s Powell-Hill, the four military leaders, and the president sat silently, contemplating their private arrays of dark thoughts. Anger, panic, determination, worry, and sober calculation played across their faces.
The president fixed each of them in turn with his quiet, too-sober gaze. “To use one of my famous, colorful homespun metaphors…so far all we’ve seen are smoke signals in the Diablos, but the Apache can cut the wires at any time.”
Stevens Brose nodded. “I’d say that about sums it up, sir. If we assume they have the DNA computer, the questions are: Why are they doing this? What are they planning? It seems to me there’s no reason to hope they’re simply applying pressure to make someone do what they want, because they haven’t asked for anything. Considering the military and communications targets they’ve invaded, it seems clear they wanted that molecular computer for some kind of strike on someone or something. Since we’ve been the major target so far, and we seem to be number one on just about everyone else’s hit list, too, then I’d say the odds greatly favor that they’re after us.”
“We need to know who they are,” NSA’s Powell-Hill decided.
Admiral Brose shook his head. “At the moment, Emily, in all due respect, that’s about the least important question. They could be anyone from the Iraqi government to a Montana militia, from any country or terrorist gang in between. What matters first is to stop them. Later we can exchange calling cards.”
“This is all about the DNA computer,” the president said, “and it started when the Pasteur lab was bombed. Now we think there’s going to be an attack on us, but we don’t know what, when, or where.”
Admiral Brose said promptly, “Right, sir.”
“Then we’d better find the DNA computer.” That was Klein’s idea. The president had fought him on it, but in the end had acquiesced. With so few options now, it made even more sense.
The military men exploded in talk, Army Lieutenant General Ivan Guerrero in the lead. He complained, “That’s ridiculous, not to mention insulting. We’re not helpless. We command the most powerful military force on earth.”
Air Force General Kelly agreed, “And the most advanced weaponry.”
“We can give you ten divisions to root those bastards out, for God’s sake,” Marine Lieutenant General Oda insisted.
“And none of your divisions, ships, tanks, or aircraft can protect your electronic codes and systems,” the president said quietly. “Fact is, anyone with a working DNA computer now, before we’ve had a chance to even begin developing adequate defenses, makes us impotent.”
Admiral Brose shook his head. “Not entirely. We haven’t been idle, Mr. President. Each of us has developed backup systems for our services that operate outside the normal command structures and electronics networks. We planned it for an emergency, and this sure as hell is one. We’ll deploy them separately and install the most advanced firewalls. We’re already changing all the command and communication codes.”
“With the help of our British friends, we’ve got similar backups in place at NSA,” Powell-Hill added. “We can be operational within hours.”
The president gave a grim smile. “From what I understand, at best that will simply slow this new enemy of ours down. All right, change your codes, military first. Make your tactical electronics systems as self-contained as you can. Also, contact the other NATO governments and coordinate defenses and data with them. Meanwhile, our intelligence community must concentrate on finding the computer. Finally, for God’s sake, take our offensive missiles offline as fast as you can, before they start launching them!”
With everyone agreed, they filed out of the Oval Office.
President Castilla waited impatiently until everyone was gone. At last Fred Klein stepped out from behind the closed door that led into the study. Klein looked tired, large circles under his eyes. His suit was even more wrinkled than usual.
The president heaved a worried sigh. “Tell me the truth, Fred. Will any of what they’re planning help?”
“Probably not. As you said, we might slow the attackers down. But once they know what they’re doing with the DNA computer, there’s little we can do. It’s simply too powerful. For instance, if you’ve got a modem on a computer and you e-mail your grandkids once a month, that’s enough for a molecular computer to break into your machine, steal every piece of data on it in seconds, and wipe the hard drive clean.”
“Seconds? E-mail from grandchildren? Good Lord. No one’s safe.”
“No one,” Klein echoed. “As you and Stevens Brose said, our best chance is to find it. Once we have it, we’ll have them. But we’ve got to do it before they put into effect whatever their master plan is.”
“This is like wrestling a grizzly with both arms tied behind your back. The odds stink.” The president studied
the Covert-One chief. “How are they planning to hit us? How and where?”
“I don’t know, Sam.”
“But you will, won’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I will.”
“And in time.”
“I hope so.”
Chapter Eleven
Toledo, Spain
Smith drove out of Madrid on the N401 express highway, heading south toward Toledo. As promised, the Basque’s home address, a map, and directions had been waiting for Smith at De Gaulle airport. The little rented Renault ran smoothly as he drove among green, rolling fields, drenched in the long shadows of afternoon. Sheep grazed in the lacy shade of poplar trees.
Smith rolled down his window, rested his arm on the frame, and a warm wind blew through, rustling his hair. The La Mancha sky, where Miguel de Cervantes’s melancholy knight had tilted at his windmills, was wide and blue. But Smith’s mind soon turned from the pastoral scenery and the deluded Don Quixote. He had his own windmills to charge, and his were very real.
As he drove, he was constantly aware that a tail might have picked him up. But as time passed, and the few other cars on the road came and went as one would expect, he began to think not. He turned his mind to the newspaper stories of the electronic shutdowns, which he had studied on the flight from Paris. Compared to the details Fred Klein had related, the news articles were cursory and gave no hint that the massive problems appeared to be the result of a futuristic computer at work. So far, the U.S. government had been successful in keeping that under wraps.
Even without the whole story, the articles were shocking and depressing, particularly since Smith knew what they meant. As he thought about them and wondered what he would find in Toledo, the ancient city came into view, rising on the plain ahead, the towers of the Cathedral and the Alcázar standing majestically above the roof tiles of the rugged skyline. He had read that Toledo’s origins were so old they were lost in the pre-Roman days of the Celts. When the Romans arrived in the second century b.c., they had made it their city for seven hundred imperial years, until the barbarian Visigoths moved in and took over for the next two hundred, ending in a.d. 712.
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