The Paris Option

by Robert Ludlum

  “And damn carefully,” Jon added. “Abu Auda is suspicious someone followed Suleiman, and he’ll be alert.”

  Aaron and Max grumbled about their own work and a night of lost sleep, but Randi’s mission took top priority.

  Jon got in beside Max, while Randi rejoined Aaron. Moments later, the two cars carrying the terrorists left the dirt road for the country highway. Shortly afterward, Aaron and Max drove their cars out to pursue. They kept back almost out of sight, spotting taillights sporadically. It was difficult surveillance and risky, and they could easily lose their prey. But when the two Langley cars finally reached the A6, the four agents saw the terrorists’ cars clearly. Once on the toll highway, it would be simpler to follow.

  But then one of the cars took the ramp south, the other the ramp north. Aaron and Max separated, following as agreed. Jon settled in next to Max, bone-weary already. It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Washington, D.C.

  The tense meeting that morning of the president, his senior staff, and the Joint Chiefs was interrupted by the abrupt opening of the door between the Oval Office and that of the president’s executive secretary. The secretary—Mrs. Pike, frizzy-haired and known for her brusqueness—gazed questioningly into the room.

  Irritation creased Sam Castilla’s forehead, but if Estelle was interrupting, he knew it had to be important. Still, these last few days had been nerve-racking and his nights sleepless, so he snapped, “I thought I said no interruptions, Estelle.”

  “I know, sir. Sorry, but General Henze’s on the line.”

  The president nodded, smiled a mute apology to Mrs. Pike, and picked up the receiver. “Carlos? How’s everything over there?” He gazed at the cluster of people sitting and standing around the Oval Office. The name “Carlos” told them it was General Henze, and they had grown even more alert.

  “Almost nothing new in Europe, Mr. President,” General Henze reported. His voice was resolute, but the president heard an undertow of anger as well. “There hasn’t been a single breakdown or interruption anywhere on the continent for more than twenty-four hours.”

  The president decided to ignore the anger for the time being. “A bleak ray of sunshine, but at least it’s something. What about locating the terrorists?”

  “Again nothing so far.” Henze hesitated. “May I be frank, sir?”

  “I insist on it. What’s the problem, Carlos?”

  “I had a meeting with Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith—the army doctor you sent over to handle the search. He wasn’t reassuring. He’s shooting in the dark, Mr. President. Not only does he suspect that a trusted aide to General La Porte is mixed up with the crazies, he flat-out said even I wasn’t above suspicion. In short, he knows damn little.”

  Inwardly, the president sighed. “It seems to me his progress has been impressive.”

  “He’s dug up a lot. That’s true, but I don’t see he’s any closer to the damned dingus. I think he’s spinning his turbans. Shooting off half-cocked, and I’m damned concerned. Shouldn’t we put everything we have on this, not just one lone man, no matter how good he may be?”

  From the sound of it, the president decided, the general would be a lot happier sending the entire 82nd Airborne and all of the 1st Air Cav to search the Middle East, house-to-house, for the terrorists. Of course, the downside of that could be World War III, but the general had not thought that far ahead.

  “I’ll take your thoughts and objections under advisement, General, with my thanks,” the president told him. “If I decide to change horses, I’ll let you know. But don’t forget Langley’s on the job, too, as is MI6.”

  There was stony silence. Then: “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  The president nodded to himself. The general would toe the line for a while at least. “Continue to keep me informed. Thank you, Carlos.”

  After he hung up, President Castilla hunched his big shoulders, dropped his chin onto his tented fingers, and peered through his titanium glasses outdoors into the relentless morning storm. The sky was so dismal and gray with rain he could not see beyond the Rose Garden, which did not improve his frame of mind. He was more than uneasy himself, even scared, that Covert-One had not found the molecular computer.

  But he could not let his misgivings show, at least not yet. He turned to focus on the advisers and military leaders who were seated on the chairs and sofa and standing against the mantel, waiting. His gaze lowered to linger on the Great Seal of the United States that was woven into the carpet in the middle of the group, and he told himself the United States of America was not beaten yet, and it would not be beaten.

  He said calmly, “As you heard, that was General Henze from NATO. Everything’s been quiet over there, too. No attack for twenty-four hours.”

  “I don’t like it,” Chief of Staff Charles Ouray said. “Why would the people with the DNA computer stop harassing us now? Threatening us? Do they have all they wanted?” In his early sixties, he had an almost lineless, triangular face and a low, gruff voice. He crossed his arms and frowned. “I seriously doubt it.”

  “Or perhaps our countermeasures are stopping them,” National Security Adviser Powell-Hill suggested hopefully. Slender, businesslike, and no-nonsense as usual, she was immaculately turned out, this time in a Donna Karan suit. “With luck, all the backup systems we’ve brought online have stumped them.”

  Lieutenant General Ivan Guerrero, army chief of staff, leaned forward and nodded in vigorous agreement. His square-fingered hands were clasped between his knees, and he looked up and around at the group, studying them with a cool, calculating gaze that was more than confident, it radiated the certainty that was too-often prized over intellect in military command. “We’ve got our backups installed down to the onboard targeting systems in our tanks. I think we’ve outwitted the bastards, whoever the hell they are, and their diabolical molecular computer.”

  “I agree,” Air Force General Bruce Kelly said from where he stood beside the fireplace. His florid face was firm as he looked at General Guerrero and then at the others. Although he enjoyed his liquor perhaps too much, he also was shrewd and tireless in the pursuit of a goal.

  The marine chief, Lieutenant General Clason Oda, who had just recently risen to his position and was still in a honeymoon of popularity, chimed in with his confidence that the countermeasures had worked and stymied the terrorists. “Good old-fashioned American know-how at work,” he concluded, beaming at the cliché.

  As his people continued to discuss backup systems, President Castilla listened without joining in, hearing both the voices and the rain outside, drumming an ominous counterpoint to their optimism.

  When their discussion ended, Castilla cleared his throat. “Your efforts and thoughts are encouraging, ladies and gentlemen. Still, I must offer another explanation, one which you won’t like but that we must pay attention to. Our intelligence sources overseas have suggested an entirely different scenario. They believe that rather than our defenses beating off cyber attacks over the last day, there have simply been no attacks.”

  Admiral Brose, the Joint Chiefs’ chairman, frowned. “What does that signify to you, Mr. President? That they’ve backed off? They’ve made their point and are going back into their holes?”

  “I wish it did, Stevens. I truly wish it did. But no. One part of the explanation may be some most welcome successes by our intelligence people themselves. I’m glad to report we now know the name of the group that has the DNA computer. It’s the Crescent Shield. Our people may have delayed their plans.”

  “The Crescent Shield?” NSA Powell-Hill said. “I’ve never heard of them. Arabs?”

  The president shook his head. “Pan-Islamic. No one has heard of them. They appear new, although with many veteran leaders and players.”

  “What’s the second part of the explanation for their inaction, sir?” Admiral Brose asked.

  The president’s expression grew more sober. “That they need no more practice. They’ve t
ested all they’re going to, because they’ve learned whatever it was they wanted to learn about their system and about us. They’ve also put us out of business, since we’re scrambling to put alternate programs into place. In fact, they likely have accomplished exactly what they set out to do by this point. My guess is they’re ready to act. This is the quiet before the killer storm, lulling us before they launch some deadly strike—or strikes, God help us—at our people.”

  “When?” Admiral Brose wanted to know.

  “Probably within the next eight to forty-eight hours.”

  The silence was long and tense. No one made eye contact.

  At last, Admiral Brose admitted, “I see your logic, sir. What do you suggest?”

  The president said forcefully, “That we return to our posts and go the limit. Nothing held back. Not even the most experimental and even potentially dangerous new defense systems. We have to be prepared to stop anything they throw at us, from bacteria to a nuclear bomb.”

  Emily Powell-Hill’s perfect eyebrows shot up. “With all due respect, sir,” she protested, “these are terrorists, not global nuclear powers. I doubt they can inflict anywhere near all that.”

  “Really, Emily? Are you willing to stake the lives of possibly millions of Americans on that as well as you and your family’s lives?”

  “Yes. I am, sir,” she said stubbornly.

  The president tented his fingers again, rested his heavy chin on the tips, and smiled a quiet but thin smile. “Brave woman, and brave security adviser. I made a good choice. But I’m the president, Emily, and I don’t have the luxury of blind courage or of rolling the dice. The potential costs are simply too high.” His gaze swept the room, including all of them, no matter the differences of opinion. “It’s our country, and we’re all in this together. We’ve got the burden, but we also have some opportunities here to defend and fight back. We’d be irresponsible and mule-stupid to do less than everything we can. Now, let’s go to work.”

  As they filed out, already discussing the steps they would take, Admiral Brose stayed behind. Once the door was closed, he spoke wearily across the room: “The media’s getting suspicious, Sam. There’ve been leaks, and they’re sniffing around hard. With the possibility of an imminent strike, shouldn’t we have the press in and start briefing them? If you want, I can do it. That way you can keep out of it. You know the drill—‘an informed government source.’ We can test the public’s response, and prepare them for the worst, too, which isn’t a bad idea.”

  The admiral studied the president, who suddenly looked as exhausted as the admiral felt. The president’s broad shoulders were slumped, and jowls seemed to have come from nowhere to age his face ten years. Worried not only about the future but about his leader, Stevens Brose waited for an answer.

  Sam Castilla shook his head. “Not yet. Give me another day. Then we’ll have to do it. I don’t want to start a panic. At least not yet.”

  “I understand. Thank you for hearing us out, Mr. President.”

  “You’re welcome, Admiral.”

  Looking doubtful, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs opened the door and left. As soon as President Castilla was alone, he stood up behind his pinetable desk and paced. Outside on the colonnade, a Secret Service sentry gazed back once, his attention attracted by the movement. As soon as he saw that there was no danger, his gaze swept back over the White House grounds and the rainy sky above.

  The president noted the attention, the approving look that indicated normalcy, and shook his head grimly. Nothing was normal. Everything had gone to hell in a pretty wicker handbasket. In the eighteen months since he had established Covert-One, Fred Klein and his team had never failed him. Was this to be the first time?

  Paris, France

  Tucked away on the short rue Duluth in the Sixteenth Arrondissement, the building looked like a typical town mansion of Baron Haussmann’s Paris. But the elegant, if unremarkable, facade concealed one of the most exclusive and expensive private hospitals in Paris. Here the rich and infamous came for cosmetic surgery, less to fight the scoring of age than to recapture an imagined youth. Discreet and accustomed to the demands of the elite for the utmost secrecy and security, it was the perfect place to hide, if you knew the right people to convince.

  Marty Zellerbach’s private room was airy and comfortable, with a vase of fresh pink peonies on a low table before the window. Peter Howell sat beside the bed where Marty lay propped up. Marty’s eyes were open and clear, but a bit dulled, as was to be expected when he was on a fresh dose of Mideral, the quick-acting wonder drug that enabled him to sit quietly through onerous tasks like changing lightbulbs, paying bills, or visiting with a friend. Asperger’s sufferers were often written off as “nerds” and “geeks,” oddballs and eccentrics, or behaviorally disturbed. Some scientists estimated that as many as one in two hundred fifty people had at least a mild case. There was no cure for Asperger’s, and the only help for people with more severe cases like Marty’s was medication, usually in the form of stimulants for the central nervous system, such as Mideral.

  The shock of events had worn off, and now Marty was acting courtly but gloomy. His soft, chubby frame was collapsed back like a weary rag doll against the white mountain of pillows. There were bandages on his forehead and arms from scrapes he had received as a result of the explosion at the Pasteur.

  “My goodness, Peter.” Marty’s eyes skittered around the room, avoiding Peter. “It was dreadful. All that gore in the hospital room. If our lives hadn’t been at stake, I would’ve been even more horrified.”

  “You could say thank you, Marty.”

  “I didn’t? That’s remiss of me. But then, Peter, you’re a fighting machine. You’ve said so yourself. I suppose I simply took you at your word. Just another day of work for you and your sort.”

  Peter straightened. “My sort?”

  Marty ignored Peter’s glare. “I suppose the civilized world does need you, although I often cannot imagine why—”

  “Marty, old boy, don’t tell me you’re a pacificist.”

  “Ah, yes. Bertrand Russell, Gandhi, William Penn. Very good company. Interesting, too. Men who really thought. I could quote you passages of their speeches. Long passages.” He glanced at Peter with teasing green eyes.

  “Don’t bother. Need I remind you that you now know how to use a weapon? An automatic rifle, at that.”

  Marty shuddered. “Caught.” Then he smiled, ready to give Peter his due. “Well, I suppose there are times when fighting is appropriate.”

  “Bloody damn right. I could’ve trotted on out and abandoned you for those two goons in the hospital to carve up into dainty morsels. But you’ll notice that I didn’t.”

  Marty’s expression changed completely. He stared, appalled. “You have a point, Peter. Thank you.”

  “Well done. Now should we get to business?”

  Peter exhibited a bandaged cheek, left arm, and left hand, the result of the grim, quiet battle in Marty’s room at the Pompidou Hospital. Marty had awakened in time to witness it all. After Peter had dispatched the two attackers, he’d located an attendant’s uniform and a laundry basket on wheels, convinced Marty to crawl inside, and piled linens on top of him. Then he’d donned the attendant’s uniform. The Legionnaire guards on the door had disappeared, and Peter deduced they must have been bribed, or murdered, or were themselves terrorists. But where were MI6 and the Sûreté? He had no time to think about that.

  Fearing more of the extremists could be nearby, he had wheeled Marty out of the hospital and straight to his rental car for the trip to this private clinic, which was run by Dr. Lochiel Cameron, an old friend of Peter’s from the Falkland Wars.

  “Of course. You asked what happened in the lab.” Marty clasped his cheeks with both hands, remembering. “Oh, my. Such a terrible experience. Émile—you know, Émile Chambord?”

  “I know who he is. Go on.”

  “Émile said he wouldn’t be working that night. So I hadn’t planned to go into t
he lab either. Then I remembered I’d left my paper on differential equations there, so I had to return for it.” He paused, and his plump face quivered. “Appalling!” His eyes widened in a strange mixture of fear and elation. “Wait! There was something else. Yes. I want to tell you about…about everything. I’ve been trying to tell you…”

  “We know, Marty. Jon’s been with you nearly every day. Randi came to see you, too. What was it you wanted to tell us?”

  “Jon? And Randi as well?” Marty clutched Peter’s arm and pulled him close. “Peter, listen. I must tell you. Émile wasn’t in the lab, but of course I expected that. But neither was the prototype! Worst of all, there was a body on the floor. A corpse! I ran out and almost got to the stairs, when”—his eyes grew haunted—“there was this ear-shattering noise, and a hand seemed to lift me, throw me…I screamed. I know that I screamed…”

  Peter grabbed the little genius in a bear hug. “It’s okay, Marty. It’s over. You’re fine. Perfectly safe now. It’s all over. You’re all right.” Perhaps it was the hug, or his reassuring words, or just that Marty had finally been able to relate what he had been trying to say for four days, but Peter felt Marty calm.

  At the same time, Peter was deeply disappointed. Marty had told him nothing new, only that Chambord and the DNA computer had not been in the lab when the bomb exploded, but a corpse was, all of which they had figured out. But at least Marty was alive and recovering, and for that Peter was more than grateful. He released him and watched him sink back.

  Marty gave a wan smile. “I guess the trauma affected me more than I realized. One never knows how one will react, does one? You say I’ve been in a coma?”

  “Since the bombing, lad.”

  Marty’s face spread in worry. “Where’s Émile, Peter? Did he visit me, too?”

  “Bad news there. The terrorists who blew up the Pasteur kidnapped him and took the DNA computer. They also kidnapped his daughter. Can you tell me whether the prototype actually works? We figured it does. True?”