The Paris Option c-3

by Ludlum, Robert

  "Wonder how they managed to sneak a corpse in at all? Could have scuttled their entire plan had they been spotted," Peter said. "Curious."

  "I think," Jon suggested slowly, "the corpse simply walked in with them, unknowing, or maybe he was a dedicated martyr for Islam, counting on a guaranteed place in heaven."

  "Good God," Randi breathed.

  "Another type of suicide bomber," Peter said. "What's the world becoming?"

  They were silent with the implications. Finally, Jon asked, "We've both told you how we got here, Peter. How about you?"

  "Fair enough question. After the bombing, M16 spotted a known Basque separatist in Paris, Elizondo Ibarguengoitia. The Second Bureau had missed him. MI6 factored that information into what the French told Whitehall about the other Basque that they did pick up, and it seemed like a chance to steal a march on the Second Bureau that was too good to miss. As it happened, I'd crossed berets with Elizondo more than once, so my assignment was to tail the bugger and see what mischief I might uncover." He stared ahead at the highway. "My nose for chicanery also tells me Whitehall would not be averse to snatching the thingamajig for Queen and country, eh, and my unofficial status could give deniability should the grab go wrong."

  "As I expect would every other government and military," Jon observed, "including my own."

  While Randi and Peter pondered this, Jon leaned back and let his head rest against the leather seat. He gazed out the windshield. The moon was lower in the sky, leaving a vast sweep of stars in the La Mancha sky. When he looked at such a brilliant display, he knew the earth and the universe would always be here. When he dealt with his fellow species, he was not as sure.

  His gaze still up on the stars, he said, "You know, it's obvious we're all under the usual strict orders to play it close, tell nothing to anyone, especially agents of any other country on the same quest." He glanced at Peter and then back at Randi. "All of us have said the insane rivalry, even within our own governments, will destroy us. This one has all the potential for an Armageddon. My guess is that the Crescent Shield is planning a big bang somewhere. Probably against the United States. Maybe against Britain. Don't you both think it's time to cooperate? We know we can trust each other."

  Randi hesitated, then gave a sharp nod. "I agree. Mauritania's gone to a lot more trouble than usual to cover his tracks, even to using another terrorist group as a cover, and now we know he has both the molecular computer and Chambord. The threat is too enormous to hold back, no matter what Langley or the army thinks."

  Peter's careful eyes became less closed. He gave a short nod. "Right, cooperation it is. Bugger Whitehall and Washington."

  "Good," Jon said. "Now, Peter, why were you really talking to General Henze?"

  "It wasn't Henze, it was Jerry Matthias."

  "The general's master sergeant?" Jon was surprised.

  Peter nodded. "He used to be special forces. We met in the Iraqi desert some years back, and I wanted to see what I could pump out of him."

  "About what?"

  "Some odd shenanigans at NATO."

  "What 'shenanigans'?" Randi demanded. "You're being difficult again."

  Peter sighed. "Sorry, old habit. All right, I uncovered a phone call to Elizondo Ibarguengoitia from inside NATO. When I traced the number, it was from a maintenance office that had supposedly been locked at the time."

  Randi was shocked. "The Black Flame, or Crescent Shield, has a spy inside NATO?"

  "That'd be one answer," Peter agreed.

  "Or someone at NATO," Jon speculated, "was, or is, working with the Black Flame or Crescent Shield to get the molecular computer."

  "That'd be another answer," Peter agreed. "Sergeant Matthias is a former Green Beret and now the majordomo for your General Henze. I'd hoped he'd kept his eyes open from old habit. Unfortunately, he'd seen nothing especially suspicious. Still, the Black Flame was a live lead, so that's when I left to go after them in Toledo."

  "I'll bet the Black Flame's no longer a live lead," Randi said. "Anyone want to give me odds their leadership's dead?"

  "I don't like to bet against a sure thing," Peter said. "The Mauritania Smart bloke like that, he's figured out how you found him, Jon. With luck, he doesn't know about me."

  "The Black Flame is a cover that went bad," Jon agreed. "Mauritania would've kept them in the dark, knowing they could turn on him, extort him, interfere in any number of ways with his plans. What he didn't figure on was that they'd lead someone like me to him. He's got to have killed them by now, and not just for retribution but to make sure they can't hurt him anymore."

  As he thought that, Jon's mind returned to Marty. He realized that the better part of a day had passed since he had checked on him. The welfare of his oldest friend preyed upon his mind, and he pulled out his cell phone.

  Randi looked across at him. "Who're you calling?"

  "The hospital. Maybe Marty's awake."

  Peter gave a curt nod of agreement. "With, one hopes, an earful to tell us that will help with the daunting task of relocating Mauritania and his Crescent Shield."

  But the word from the Pompidou Hospital was not what Jon had hoped: little change in Marty's condition. They continued to be hopeful, but Dr. Zellerbach's progress had not accelerated.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gibraltar

  Disturbed, Lieutenant General Sir Arnold Moore sat alone in the backseat of the Royal Air Force station commander's staff car and pondered the secret meeting in the conference room aboard the Charles de Gaulle that he had just left. What was going on? Why had his old ally and friend Roland la Porte really assembled them? As the bright lights of planes landing and taking off from the crown colony's airport streaked past, he stared ahead unseeing, worriedly analyzing the evening's discussion. Ultimately, it all ended up on the shoulders of General La Porte.

  Everyone recognized that the French had a strong nostalgia for past glory, but everyone also knew that they were a practical lot, and that, at La Porte's lofty government level at least, la gloire was something of a joke. Although La Porte, both privately and as NATO's second in command, favored the combined European Rapid Reaction Force, Sir Arnold had always believed it was for rational reasons that it would ease the pressure on NATO, which depended so heavily on the United States when intervening in disagreements small and large around the planet. In fact, La Porte was known to emphasize that reasoning with Washington.

  But now the French general had shifted to overt anti-Americanism. Or had he? Was the European integrated military that he proposed simply a logical extension of his desire to relieve Americans of the burden to do most of the job? Sir Arnold fervently hoped so, because the other justification could be the first salvo in a dangerous vision of Europe as a second and rival superpower to the Americans in this new, post-Cold War, terrorist-filled world. It was never wise to divide one's fronts, which both Hitler and Napoleon had learned to their chagrin. Now, more than ever, it seemed to Sir Arnold that the civilized world must stand united.

  Despite the anti-American rhetoric, Sir Arnold would certainly have accepted the former view had it not been for what appeared to have been La Porte's fleeting suggestion that America could soon face an electronic-attack that would shut down all its command and communication controls. Of course horrifyingly that would make the U.S. military helpless, as well as any European force that depended on it.

  Taken together with the scattered electronic crashes in those secret systems that were already occurring which Sir Arnold should have been the only one there to know about he was more than startled. He was deeply alarmed.

  Had La Porte learned about them, too? If so, how was that possible?

  Sir Arnold had the information only because President Castilla had personally informed the prime minister, explaining that the U.K. was the only ally he was alerting, while the only NATO official he was telling was its supreme European commander, General Henze.

  So how had French General La Porte learned of the terrifying electronic atta
cks?

  Sir Arnold dug his knuckles into his forehead. He had a dreadful headache, and he knew the cause: He was worried that La Porte was somehow connected to whoever was causing the electronic crashes, and that was why and how he had the information.

  The British general could barely consider the possibility. The whole thing was unthinkable, preposterous, and yet he could not ignore the logic of it. He could not escape his worried conclusions about La Porte. He must not speak of them to anyone but the PM himself. And it must be in person.

  This kind of speculation, which might be wrong but would still tarnish a good man's reputation, could be trusted to not just anyone. Which was why he sat alone in the backseat of the dark command car, waiting for his personal driver and pilot to oversee the servicing and refueling of the Tornado F3 jet that would speed them to London.

  As he waited, he continued to mull the entire bizarre meeting. Had he been mistaken? Was he overreacting? But every time he raised those questions, he was more convinced: He was worried about what La Porte's hints implied, and the ghastly danger they suggested.

  He was rehearsing the words he would use to communicate these conclusions to the PM when Stebbins tapped on the closed car window. He opened the door.

  Sir Arnold looked up. "We ready, George?"

  "Sir!" Staff Sergeant George Stebbins inclined his head to signal the affirmative.

  "A simple yes would do nicely, George. You're not a company sergeant major in the Grenadiers now, you know." He climbed out of the car, briefcase in hand.

  "Nossir. Thank you, sir."

  Sir Arnold sighed and shook his head. You could get the man out of the guards, but you could almost never get the guards out of the man. "You think, former Sergeant Major Stebbins, that when your warrant is final, you could forget the household brigade, just a little?"

  Stebbins finally smiled. "S'pose I could try, sir."

  Sir Arnold chuckled. "All right, Stebbins. I appreciate a straight answer and an honest effort. So what do you say to our finding out if you remember how to fly that thing out there?"

  They entered the station ready room to put on their insulated suits and helmets for the high-level flight, and twenty minutes later, Stebbins, in the pilot's seat, was taxiing the sleek jet across the dark airfield to the runway. In the navigator's seat directly behind Stebbins sat Sir Arnold, who continued to rehearse the shocking news that he must deliver to the PM, certainly to the defense minister as well, and probably to old Colin Campbell, who was commander in chief now.

  The supersonic Tornado took off and soon left behind Gibraltar, the southernmost point of Europe. It streaked high through the sky, far above the clouds. The dramatic panorama of stars against the black velvet sky always made Sir Arnold choke up, because he believed in God. Surely no other force could have created such beauty. He was alternately thinking about that and worrying what General La Porte was up to when, out of hearing of anyone on earth, the aircraft exploded in a massive burst of flame. From below, the fireball looked simply like another shooting star.

  Madrid, Spain

  Madrid had a vibrant energy all its own, and residents and visitors alike reveled in it, particularly at night. Palpitating music and a festive spirit infused the air. From rushing taxis to unrepentant fun, Madrilnes were a tolerant people, occasionally known to flaunt their anarchist streak in a search for a wild time amid the cobbled streets and pretty fountains under big, old trees.

  Peter left the borrowed touring car in the garage of its owner, a trusted friend, then led Jon and Randi onto the metro. Carrying their few pieces of luggage, they kept careful watch everywhere, fighting off the conflicting emotions of urgency and mental exhaustion, although Randi and Jon had each taken good naps during the drive, while Peter, the stalwart Brit, had already had more sleep than either of them and so had driven them on in to Madrid.

  With relief, they disembarked at the San Bernardo metro station and entered the Malasana, known to locals as the Barrio de Maravillas, or District of Miracles. Here in the city's colorful bohemian quarter, nightlife was in abundance, and they passed bars, restaurants, and clubs, some a bit decayed but always charming. But then, this was a haven for not only artists and writers but expatriate yuppies who toted their dreams and assumptions with them around the world. Everywhere Jon, Randi, and Peter walked, lively music vibrated out into the streets.

  The MI6 safe house was on Calle Dominguin, not far from Plaza del Dos de Mayo, the hub of this spirited area. It was a six-story stone building in a row of identical attached and semi-attached stone buildings, with painted wood shutters, shuttered doors that opened onto traditional iron balconies, and shops and restaurants on the street level below. The odors of liquor and cigarette smoke drifted along the street as Jon, Randi, and Peter arrived at the address. Advertisements for Langostino Plancha and Gambas al Ajillo showed in the dark windows of the first-floor shop.

  They stopped at an inconspicuous door, and Jon and Randi kept watch as Peter unlocked it. With a final look all around, they slipped inside and upstairs.

  The place was decorated with comfortable furniture that had seen better days, but then, a safe house's purpose had nothing to do with being a decorator's showplace. They chose bedrooms, changed into casual trousers and shirts, and met in the second-floor living room.

  Jon announced, "I'd better contact army intelligence." He used his cell phone to dial Fred Klein. As the phone's electronic codes and numbers were scanned and cleared, there were the usual clicks, silences, and hums.

  Finally, Fred's voice announced simply: "Not a word. Hang up. Now."

  The line went dead, and Jon quickly switched off the phone. Startled, dismayed, he muttered, "Damn. There's more trouble." He repeated what his "army contact" had said.

  "Maybe it'll be different with Langley," Randi said, and dialed her cell phone. The phone in far-off Virginia rang for a long time, and she grimaced and shrugged at Jon and Peter. "Nothing yet."

  At last there was a short, sharp series of clicks. "Russell?"

  "Who did you expect?"

  "Hang up."

  Randi clicked the cell phone off. "What the hell could it be?"

  "Sounds to me as if someone's compromised your secure dedicated electronic intelligence communications systems," Peter decided. "Which could also mean those at SIS in London, including MI5 and MI6."

  Randi swallowed hard. "Good God. At least they didn't learn anything from us."

  "Ah," Peter told her, "but I'm afraid they might have."

  "Yes," Jon said, understanding. "They could know now where you and I both are, Randi, assuming they're interested, know who they're tracking, and have the DNA computer up and running."

  "That's a lot of 'ifs,' Jon. You said the machine wasn't at the farmhouse, and the last we saw of Mauritania's people, they were taking off in helicopters."

  "All too true," Peter said. "But I doubt the prototype's ever far away from Mauritania, which makes me think they had a second safe house nearby and used that farmhouse to meet and pay off Elizondo and his Basques and store the Chambords. Which is why I will not call London. Too bloody close to Madrid. I think we need to assume for the time being that all our electronics are under siege. Which means it's entirely possible they have a bead on you two now. They don't necessarily know about me, but if I whip out my cell phone and report into MI6, there's the chance they'll figure out about me faster than a hare across the highlands, and about MI6."

  "It's ridiculous to have to hop on planes and fly home to report in person," Randi decided. "But it's true we used to do business this way, with messengers hand-carrying information back and forth. Good Lord, we could be going back to the Dark Ages in intelligence."

  "Goes to show how dependent we've become on our oh-so-convenient electronic communications," Peter said. "Still, we must somehow figure out how to contact our superiors about the Crescent Shield, Mauritania, the DNA machine, and the Chambords. They must be told."

  "True." Jon pushed his cell phone back int
o his pocket with a gesture of finality. "But until we can, we're going to have to operate on our own. Looks to me as if Mauritania himself is our best hope to track. Where he likes to operate, hide out. What his mental quirks are." In intelligence, quirks, patterns, and habits were often a fugitive's weak spots, revealing to experienced analyses far more than anyone might guess. "And then there's the elusive Captain Darius Bonnard. As General La Porte's aide, he's got damned high access and cover. And he of course could've made the phone call from NATO."

  Peter's leathery face showed deep worry lines. "All true. And Randi's probably right about the wisdom of getting back to old-fashioned intelligence communications." He suggested, "London's a lot closer than Washington. If need be, I can flog myself over there to cheek in."

  "Our embassies in Madrid will have fully coded communications," Randi said. "But considering the last assault when every code was cracked, the embassies' communications are probably compromised, too."

  "Right. Anything electronic is out," Peter said.

  Jon paced in front of a stone fireplace that looked as if it'd had no fire in years. "Maybe they didn't disrupt everything everywhere," he said cautiously.

  Peter looked at him sharply. "You have an idea, Jon?"

  "Is there a real phone in this house? Nothing electronic."

  "On the third floor, in the office. That just might work."

  Randi glared from one to the other. "You two mind telling me what you're talking about?"

  Jon was halfway up the stairs as Peter said, "Regular phone wires. A direct call. Fiber-optics, don't you know."

  "Of course." She followed Jon, Peter close behind. "Even if the Crescent Shield had the technology or the time to tap a cable, they'd still have all the problems of sorting through the dreck. A technician told me once that so much data went through fiber-optics lines that to tap into it was like getting sprayed in the face by a high-pressure hose." She had been told a cable as narrow as her wrist could carry an astronomical forty thousand phone conversations all at once, comparable to the entire trans-Atlantic voice traffic handled by satellites back in Cold War days. The way fiber-optics worked was to translate phone calls, faxes, e-mail messages, and data files into beams of light that traveled through a single strand of glass as thin as a human hair. Most undersea cables contained eight such strands, or fibers. But extracting the data required gaining access to the minute light beams in the ocean's black, high-pressure depths a dangerous, almost impossible task.