“Oh, dear. Those heathens have Émile and Thérèse and the DNA computer! This is worrisome. Yes, Émile and I considered it finished. There were a few minor tests to run before we made a formal announcement. We planned to do them the next morning. This concerns me, Peter. Do you know what someone can do with our prototype, especially if they have Émile to operate it? Oh, my! What will happen to Émile and Thérèse? Too ghastly to consider!”
“We’ve had a graphic demonstration of what the computer can do.” Peter filled in Marty about the various electronic attacks. As he described them, Marty’s face flushed with anger and he clenched his fists, something Peter had never seen Marty, who really did hate violence, do.
“How impossibly awful! I must help. We must save the Chambords! We must get back the prototype! Get me my slacks…”
“Whoa, you’re by no means recovered, my boy. Besides, you don’t have anything here but that darling hospital gown of yours.” As Marty opened his mouth to complain, Peter hurried on. “Now you just lie back again, lad. Perhaps in a few days, right?” He paused. “I have a critical question for you. Can you build a DNA computer, something so we can fight back?”
“No, Peter. I’m sorry. What happened is…I didn’t just hop on a plane and arrive unannounced at Émile’s lab. No, he called me in Washington and intrigued me with his great secret, his molecular computer. He needed me to show him how to make the most out of operating it. So that was my end of our partnership. Émile’s, of course, was creating the machine himself. Everything was in his notes. Do you have his notes?”
“No one’s been able to find them.”
“I was afraid that was the situation.”
After Peter had reassured Marty that everything possible was being done, he made two calls, using the standard phone by Marty’s bedside. That finished, he and Marty talked longer.
As he prepared to leave, Peter said soberly, “You’re in excellent hands here, Marty. Lochiel’s a hell of a doctor and a soldier. He’ll make sure no one can get to you, and he’ll monitor your health. A coma’s nothing to fool around with. Even an overeducated egghead like you knows that. Meanwhile, I have a bit of work to do myself, then I’ll be back before you can say Jack the Ripper.”
“‘Jack the Ripper.’ Very funny.” Marty gave a small nod of the head in tribute. “Personally, I prefer Pete the Sticker.”
“Oh?”
“Much more appropriate, Peter. After all, that nasty, sharp stiletto of yours saved our lives in the hospital. Ergo: Pete the Sticker.”
“There’s that.”
As Peter returned the smile, the two men accidentally looked into each other’s eyes. Both smiled wider. Then they averted their gazes.
“I suppose I’ll be all right,” Marty grumbled. “Goodness knows, I’m safer here than with you and all the trouble you can get yourself into.” Then he brightened. “I forgot. It puzzles me.”
“What puzzles you?”
“The painting. Well, not really a painting…a print copy of a painting. It was Émile’s, and it was missing, too. I wonder why? Why on earth would terrorists want that?”
“What print, Marty?” Peter was impatient. He was already making plans in his mind. “Missing from where?”
“Émile’s laboratory. It was his print of the famous The Grand Army Retreats from Moscow painting. You know it. Everyone does. It’s the one in which Napoleon is riding his white horse, his chin sunk on his chest, with his ragged troops trudging through the snow behind him. They’ve been badly beaten. I think it was after the battle for Moscow. Now, why would terrorists steal that? It wasn’t valuable. Just a print, after all. Not the real painting.”
Peter shook his head. “I don’t know, Marty.”
“Odd, isn’t it?” Marty mused. He stroked his chin, looking for a meaning.
Washington, D.C.
Fred Klein sat in the presidential bedroom, chewing again on the stem of his unlit pipe. There had been moments in the last few days when his jaw had been so tight he had nearly bitten through the stem. He had faced other crises of great magnitude and desperation, but never anything as tense and uncertain as this. It was the sense of impotence, the knowledge that if the enemy wanted to use the DNA computer there would be no defense against it. All their mighty weapons, built so carefully and expensively over the last half century, were useless, although they gave a feeling of security to the uninformed and unimaginative. In the end, all they had were the intelligence services. A few agents following a faint trail, like a single hunter in a planet-sized wilderness.
President Castilla came in from his sitting room, shed his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and flopped into a heavy leather armchair. “That was Pat Remia over at 10 Downing. Seems they’ve lost a top general—General Moore—and they think it’s the doing of our terrorists.” He leaned back, resting his head against the chair, his eyes closed.
“I know,” Klein said. The light behind him reflected on his face, emphasizing the receding hairline and the deepening ravines in his face.
“Did you hear what General Henze thinks of our tactics? Our progress?”
Klein nodded.
“And?”
“He’s wrong.”
The president shook his head and pursed his lips. “I’m worried, Fred. General Henze says he’s unimpressed by Smith’s prospects for finding these people again, and I have to admit from what you’ve told me I’m concerned myself.”
“In clandestine operations, Sam, progress is sometimes hard to see. We’ve got all our intelligence resources out there working on various aspects of this. Plus, Smith’s teamed up with a couple of highly seasoned fellow agents. One from CIA, and one from MI6. It’s unofficial, of course. But through them he can tap directly into CIA and MI6 resources. Because of all the communications problems, I haven’t been as much help to him as I’d ordinarily be.”
“Do they know about Covert-One?”
“Absolutely not.”
The president crossed his hands over his wide girth. The room filled with silence. At last he looked across at Klein. “Thanks, Fred. Stay in touch. Close touch.”
Klein stood up and headed toward the door. “I will. Thank you, Mr. President.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Es Caló, Isla de Formentera Friday, May 9
From where he lay on the low, sun-bleached hill, Jon raised his head just enough to see the Far de la Mola light house, which loomed to the east on the highest point of this windswept island. All around spread pristine beaches that led down to clear, unspoiled waters. Since the island was not only largely undeveloped but essentially flat, he and Max had used every possible rock and thicket of the tough native brush for cover as they crawled closer to the three terrorists whom they had been following through the long night.
The trio—Dr. Akbar Suleiman, the other man from the Hôtel St-Sulpice, and one of the armed guards from the lodge—had parked their car above a narrow strip of sand, where they paced impatiently and stared out at a large, fast-looking motorboat that swung at anchor a hundred yards offshore.
In the small hours of the morning, the terrorists’ Mercedes had crossed south into Spain, with Jon and Max tailing. It had been a long drive. By dawn, they were heading past Barcelona, the tips of the towers of the great Gaudi church of the Sagrada Familia to the right, and the seventeenth-century castle on the hill of Montjuic to the left. The extremists’ car continued on, approaching El Prat Airport, and then past the major terminals. Finally it slowed and turned into an area of corporate, private, and charter facilities, where it parked in front of a helicopter charter service.
As the terrorists entered the heliport terminal, Jon and Max waited, their car far back, its motor idling. There was still no sign of the second car or of Abu Auda.
Jon asked, “The Company has a presence in Barcelona, right?”
“Possibly,” Max acknowledged.
“Then get a chopper here and fast,” Jon told him.
Soon after that, Dr. Suleiman and
the others lifted off in a chartered civilian Bell 407. When a Seahawk helicopter arrived, Jon and Max had pursued the Bell across the Mediterranean to here, the southernmost main Balearic Island, where they were now lying among rocks and brush above the strip of beach.
As Jon watched, a large rubber raft splashed over the side of the motorboat that was anchored offshore. Jon had only minutes to decide what to do. If he lost the terrorists, it could take days, maybe weeks, to track the destination of the fast craft, which looked like a converted PT boat. Tailing a helicopter in another helicopter was not in itself inherently suspicious. After all, that was how they had followed the extremists here. More than one chopper could be going to the same place, and the tailing craft could hang far enough back in a clear sky to be almost invisible. Plus, the noise of distant engines would be drowned out by the quarry’s own engines, and the question of fuel would not come up. But a helicopter following a boat, forced to fly circles because of its far greater speed, would instantly cause alarm. And there was no certainty the tracking helicopter would have enough fuel.
“I’m getting aboard that boat,” he told Max. “You cover me, and wait for Randi to show. If she doesn’t, fly back to Barcelona and contact her wherever she is. Tell her what I’m doing, and that she should throw out a dragnet for the boat. If she can’t find it, sit tight, and I’ll contact her.”
Max gave a short nod. Then he resumed studying the speedboat swinging lazily on the swell of the blue water. “It looks damn chancy to me.”
“Can’t be helped.”
Jon crawled backward until out of sight of the shore. Running, he circled to the far side of a rocky promontory, stripped to his shorts, and tied his trousers, Walther, and stiletto around his waist with his belt. From there, he trotted down to the sand and out into the shimmering sea. The water was cool, not yet as warm as it would be in summer. He dove in and swam underwater as far as he could, surfaced carefully, and looked around. The raft was to his left, halfway to shore, with a single crew member steering the small outboard motor toward the waiting trio on the beach. From what Jon could see, the deck of the old PT boat appeared deserted. He took a deep breath and submerged.
As he swam below the blue surface, came up, and submerged again, he considered options. The boat would be operated by no more than a crew of five, plus a captain. At least one crew member was on his way ashore, and no one else had appeared on deck. Where were the others? He had to get aboard and find clothes and a safe hiding place. It was not going to be easy, but there was no alternative.
He surfaced beside the boat, its white hull rising and falling with the swell. The stern slapped the water as it came down again, the power of it creating a small wake that pushed Jon off. He took a deep breath, dove again, and came up on the vessel’s ocean side, hidden from shore. He paddled to where a rope-and-board ladder hung and treaded water as he strained to hear voices or movement aboard, but the only sounds anywhere were the excited cries of seagulls heading in to the island and the regular slapping of the boat’s stern.
His nerves were on edge. Although there was no indication anyone was on the boat, he had no guarantee of that. His stiletto in his teeth, he timed the rhythm of the swell and caught the ladder as the boat slammed down. It was a balancing act, but he scrambled up the ladder, reached the deck, and raised his head.
No one was visible. He listened to his heart thunder, and then he climbed higher, crawled onto the deck, and fell prone, trying to be unnoticeable both on the boat and from the island. As he waited, he took his bearings. What he noted first was that not only was the large rubber raft gone, so was the usual dinghy. That was good news.
Watching and listening, he crab-walked, bare feet padding quietly on the wood, to the main hatch, where he slipped below. In the dim light, he worked his way forward along a narrow gangway between small rooms like the officers’ quarters on a submarine. He was aware of every creak of the boat, of every groan of a joist, as he waited for the sound of a human voice or footstep.
There were five identical cubicles, one for each crewman, and a sixth at least twice as large for the captain. He found a pair of athletic shoes that would fit him. By the personal items lying around, all the cubicles appeared occupied. Individual quarters were a luxury afforded to few on a small, narrow boat built for speed. This many could mean long periods at sea and hazardous duty. Which also could mean a laundry. Even terrorists needed to wash their clothes, especially Muslims, for whom cleanliness was a commandment.
All the way forward, Jon found a tiny laundry with a compact washer and dryer and a pile of dirty garments. Clothes lost here were less likely to be missed. He grabbed a shirt and socks to go with the pants he had brought. He dressed quickly and worked his way back aft, where he discovered another necessity for a long time spent at sea—stacked barrels of diesel fuel. And farther back an answer—a large hold with wall brackets and straps to keep cargo steady in heavy seas. There were traces of white powder on the slats of floorboards designed to keep cargo dry even if the sea washed aboard. The powder looked like heroin or cocaine. Most likely, this boat smuggled drugs and, from the heavy straps, maybe guns, too.
All of this told him a great deal, but the emptiness of the cargo compartment revealed more: Today’s trip was special, not usual business.
He froze. There was the faint but definite noise of a boat’s motor, and it was approaching. He needed a hiding place. He could not use the cargo hold, since it was empty. The tiny cabins were out, since men were assigned there. He had passed the galley aft, which was a possibility. Still, someone would probably get hungry even on a short trip. Thinking rapidly, he hurried back along the narrow passage. Above him, the noise of feet landing on the deck made his pulse accelerate. Voices sounded uncomfortably close above his head.
His chest tight, he finally located a large storage locker all the way forward. It was crammed with ropes, chains, canvas, hatch covers, engine parts, and other supplies needed to maintain a seagoing boat under hard use. As he monitored the noises of the boarding crew, he shoved matériel around until he had a snug hole. Feet sounded in the corridor outside his hiding spot. He scrambled into the hole and pulled a hatch cover over to roof it. He crossed his legs and sank down, nerves pulsing, his back against the bulkhead. His trousers were wet and clammy.
Voices shouted above, and two pairs of feet stopped outside his door. A conversation commenced in Arabic. Suddenly one of the men laughed, then the other, and with relief he listened to the pair move away. As their voices faded, the boat’s powerful engines—oversized, he judged—roared into throbbing life, shaking the entire craft. The anchor rose and clanged against the side, and he felt the boat swing.
The momentum threw him into a coil of rough ropes at his side, and then acceleration slammed him back against the bulkhead. As the boat leaped ahead, gaining speed, he was already beginning to ache. Still, he smiled. He was alive, his Walther was in his hand, and there was promise that on the other side of the ride he would find answers.
Randi stood below the light house of Far de la Mola, the statue of the famous French author Jules Verne nearby, and stared out across the sea to where the faint shape of the sleek motorboat rode steadily south. “He got on the boat okay?”
“He did,” Max told her. “After everyone was aboard, and she weighed anchor, I saw nothing going on. No big disturbance or fight, so I’d say he found a place to hide. What happened to the SUV you were tailing?”
“They led us to Barcelona, too, but we lost them in the city.”
“You think they lost you deliberately?”
“Yes. We were made.” She grimaced with disgust. “Then Salinger, the station chief in Madrid, relayed the information that you’d called for a helicopter. It took us time to pin down the right charter service and squeeze the destination out of them. Then we flew here.”
“This could be bad for Jon.”
Randi nodded anxiously as she stared out to sea where the speeding boat had disappeared into the gray mis
ts on the horizon. “I know. Even if Jon arrives safely all the way to wherever they’re going, he’s in trouble.”
“What the hell do we do?”
“Get the Seahawk refueled so we can fly to North Africa.”
“It’s got extra tanks, so it can make it the way it is. But if we try to follow the boat, they’ll spot us for sure.”
“We won’t follow,” Randi decided. “We’ll locate them and fly straight on to Africa. They’ll see us. No doubt about it. But when we fly past without showing interest, they’ll figure we’re just another chopper on a trip.”
“Why fly over them at all?”
“To make sure they’re heading for Africa and not Spain, or even Corsica.”
“Then what?” Max waited.
“Then we send out everything we can to find them.” Her dark eyes turned worriedly back out to sea.
Marseille, France
The fisherman’s bar stood among other weather-beaten buildings above the ranked fishing vessels that were moored along the quays. Twilight had fallen, and the waterfront was crowded with the usual roistering throngs that signaled the boats had come in and the fish market was in full swing. Inside the old bar, French and Arabic were the primary languages in the cacophony of loud talk.
A short, stocky man threaded through shifting gray curtains of cigarette smoke. He had the rolling gait of a seaman who had just stepped ashore. He wore jeans, a stained T-shirt revealing muscular arms, and a merchant sailor’s cap with a soft white crown, a black rim, and a shiny black peak.
When he reached the copper-topped bar, he leaned toward the bartender and spoke in broken French: “I’m supposed to meet a boat captain named Marius.”
The bartender scowled at the bad French. He looked the stranger up and down and finally announced, “Englishman?”
“Oui, yes.”
“Off that container ship come in yesterday from Japan?”
“Yes.”
“You should learn better French, you come in here.”
“I’ll take that under consideration,” the Englishman said, undisturbed. “What about Marius?”
The Paris Option Page 27