Peter grumbled agreement: "Even if they had the time and technology to tap a cable, would they waste their time listening in to a million long-distance phone calls, give or take, discussing in detail Aunt Sarah's bunions and the Queen Mum's shocking gin intake? I doubt it."
"Exactly," Randi agreed.
As soon as the threesome reached the bare-bones office, Jon tapped his calling card number into the telephone on the desk. Then he entered the number he wanted in Washington. As he waited for it to ring, he pulled out the desk chair and sat. Peter leaned on a nearby desk, and Randi fell into an old, padded rocker.
A brisk female voice answered. "Colonel Hakkim's office."
"It's Jon Smith, Debbie. I need to talk to Newton. It's urgent."
"Hold on."
The strange vacuum of hold, and a man's concerned voice: "Jon? What's up?"
"I'm in Madrid, and I need a favor. Could you send someone over to E block to the Leased Facilities Division and office 2E377, and have him tell the woman there to tell her boss to call Zapata at this number?" He read the number of the safe house phone. "Make sure whoever you send uses that name Zapata. Can you do it?"
"Should I ask what this is all about or who's really in that office?"
"No."
"Then I'll go myself."
"Thanks, Newton."
Newton's voice was cool and calm, but Jon heard anxiety, too. "You'll have to tell me the whole story when you get back."
"Count on it." Jon hung up and checked his watch. "It should take him about ten minutes. E block's a long way from his office. Figure another two minutes for contingencies. Twelve minutes, tops."
Randi said, "Leased Facilities Division? A cover for army intelligence, no doubt?"
"No doubt," Jon said noncommittally.
Peter pressed a finger to his lips and padded to the shuttered front window, which was next to the shuttered door that opened onto the balcony. He angled the slats open a fraction wider and looked down at the dark street. He stood there motionless as the pulsing night sounds of the city drifted up from below the rumble of heavy traffic on the Gran Via, voices calling from windows down to the street, the slam of a car door, a drunk's serenade, a guitar's liquid chords.
Peter left the window and sank onto the sofa, relieved. "False alarm I think."
"What's wrong?" Randi asked.
"I thought I heard an odd sound from the street. It's something I've run across a few times before and learned rather quickly to heed."
"I didn't hear anything unusual," Jon said.
"You're not meant to, my boy. It's a blowing sound, with a tiny whistle at the center. It seems to be far away, the call of a weak whippoorwill, that simply fades away. In reality, it's a muted whistle no one actually hears. Resembles a random night sound the wind, an animal turning in sleep, the earth itself creaking as if it really were set in a three-pronged nest. I heard it more than once in northern Iran on the border of the old Soviet Union's central Asian republics, and in the 1980s I heard it in Afghanistan during that barbarous blowup. It's a signal used by the central Asian Muslim tribes. Rather close to night signals your Iroquois and Apache used."
"The Crescent Shield?" Jon asked.
"Could be. But there was no answer to the call. Since I didn't hear it a second time, I was probably mistaken."
"How often have you been wrong on a matter like that, Peter?" Jon said.
The ring of the telephone made them jump. Jon grabbed the receiver.
Fred Klein's voice said, "We got everything back online, but the computer warfare specialists tell us that all the electronic encryption codes may have been cracked, so no one's to use any electronic communication until further notice. Nothing that goes through the air either, because that would be easy for them to tap into. Meanwhile, they're changing all the codes and developing emergency measures to protect them better. We've told them we think there's a DNA computer out there, and they've got to do more than try. Why Madrid? What did you find in Toledo?"
Without preamble, Jon reported, "The Black Flame was a hired front. The Crescent Shield seems to be the real power behind everything. And Emile Chambord is alive. Unfortunately, the Crescent Shield has both him and his daughter and the DNA computer."
There was a stunned silence. Klein said, "You saw Chambord? How do you know about the computer?"
"I saw and talked to both Chambord and his daughter. The computer wasn't at that site."
"Chambord alive explains how quickly they got the machine working, and makes the worldwide danger a hell of a lot worse. Especially if they have the daughter, too. They'll use her to control him."
"Yeah," Jon said.
Another silence. Klein said, "You should've killed Chambord, Colonel."
"The DNA computer wasn't there, Fred. I tried for the save, to get him out of there alive so he could build one for us to fight back. How do we know what they've forced Chambord to tell them? Maybe enough for another scientist to duplicate his work."
"What if you don't get a second chance, Jon? What if we don't find him or the machine in time?"
"We will."
"That's what I tell the president. But we both know there are no miracles, and the next time will be harder."
It was Jon's turn to be silent. Then, "I made a judgment call. That's what you pay me for. If in my judgment I can't pull Chambord out, or destroy the computer, I'll kill him. That make you happy?"
Klein's voice was as flat and hard as poured concrete. "Can I count on you, Colonel? Or do I have to send someone else?"
"There's no one else who knows what I know. Not in the beginning, and especially not now."
If the phone had been a television phone, they would have been staring each other down. Finally there was a slow outlet of breath in the far-off Pentagon. "Tell me about this Crescent Shield. Never heard of them."
"That's because they're newer and have stayed out of sight," Jon told him, repeating what Randi had said. "They're pan-Islamic, apparently pulled together for this specific attack by a man named Mauritania. He's"
"I know who he is, Jon. Only too well. Part Arab, part Berber, and with rage over the fate of his poor country and its starving people to add to his endemic Muslim and Third World rage about corporate globalization."
"Which, in truth, motivates these terrorists more than their religion."
"Yeah," Klein said. "What's your next step?"
"I'm with Randi Russell and Peter Howell now." He filled Klein in on how Randi and Peter had shown up at the farmhouse of the Crescent Shield.
There was another surprised hesitation. "Howell and Russell? CIA and MI6? What have you told them?"
"They're right here," Jon said, letting him know he could say no more.
"You haven't told them about Covert-One?" Klein demanded.
"Of course not." Jon kept the irritation from his voice.
"All right. Cooperate, but keep the confidence. Understood?"
Jon decided to let the admonition pass. "We need anything and everything you can dig up about Mauritania's personal history. Any patterns he's shown. Where he's most likely to hole up, where we should look for him."
Klein regrouped and said, "I can tell you one thing. He'll have chosen a secure hole to hide in and a carefully planned target we won't like one bit."
"How long will the electronic communications be compromised?"
"No way to tell. Could be until we find that computer. Meanwhile, we'll switch to couriers and drops, verbal and manual codes, and a dedicated surface phone line over secure diplomatic fiber-optic phone cables where we can monitor for any break-ins and fix them in seconds. We used to get a lot of intelligence accomplished that way in the old days, and we can do it again. The DNA computer won't help them there. That was smart to get to me through Colonel Hakkim. Here's the new secure private phone number they'll have up as fast as they can, so you can call direct next time."
Klein relayed the number, and Jon memorized it.
Klein continued, "What abo
ut General Henze and that hospital orderly who tried to kill Zellerbach?"
"False alarm. Turns out the 'orderly' was Peter guarding Marty for MI6. He ran because he couldn't taint his operation. He went to Henze's pension to interview Henze's sergeant, not the general." Jon explained what Peter had wanted with Sergeant Matthias.
"A phone call out of NATO headquarters? Damn, that doesn't sound good to me. How do we know Howell isn't lying?"
"He isn't," Jon snapped flatly, "and there are a lot of people at NATO. I'm already wondering about one of them, a Captain Bonnard. The Black Flame expected me in Toledo, so either I was tailed or they were tipped. Bonnard is the personal aide to a French general, Roland la Porte. He's the"
"I know who he is. Deputy supreme commander."
"Right. Bonnard is the one who gave La Porte the data about the fingerprints and DNA analysis in Chambord's file, proving he was dead. He also brought La Porte the file on the Black Flame and Toledo. His position with the general is ideal. Just where anyone would put a spy if they could. He'd have access to just about whatever he wanted in NATO, France, and most of Europe, in the name of the general."
"I'll see what I can dig up on Bonnard and on Sergeant Matthias. Meanwhile, you'd better go back to Henze. NATO's got Europe's most complete data on current terrorist groups and alliances. Whatever I can dig up here, I'll shoot over to Henze."
"That's it?" Jon asked.
"That's all no, wait! Damn. Because of Chambord and the Crescent Shield, I almost forgot. I just got a call from Pans that Marty Zellerbach started talking an hour ago. Out of the blue. Full sentences. Then he fell back asleep. Not much, and he's not completely coherent yet. That could be the Asperger's Syndrome, I suppose. But stop in Paris on your way to Brussels."
Excitement rushed through Jon. "I'll be there in two hours or less." He hung up and turned, almost laughing with relief. "Marty's out of the coma!"
"Jon, that's wonderful!" Randi flung her arms around his neck in a joyous hug.
He hugged back and swung her up off her feet.
From the sofa, Peter cocked his head, listening closely. And jumped up. "Quiet!" He ran back to the window and leaned toward it, listening intently. His thin, muscular body was like a coiled spring, taut, nervous.
"Did you hear it again?" Randi's whisper was tense.
He gave one sharp nod. He whispered back, "That same breathing whistle on the wind in the night. It was there. This time I'm certain. A signal. We'd better"
Above them, there was a faint clink of metal striking stone. Jon padded to the staircase and pressed his ear against the wall, feeling for vibrations.
"Someone's on the roof," he warned.
And then all three heard it: A strange sound, like a breathy whistle through the teeth of someone in restless sleep. Or perhaps from a lonely night bird far away. Not just from below, but from above. They were surrounded.
Chapter Eighteen
The harsh, splintering sound of a door being forced open below signaled the attack.
Randi jerked her head up. "The stairs!"
Her weapon aimed ahead of her, she sprinted from the office, her blond hair flashing with white light as she bolted past Jon.
Peter's leathery face was grim as he sped toward the shutters that covered the balcony door, snapping off lights as he ran. "Check the back windows."
As gloom descended, Jon raced through the bedroom behind the office to the rear, while at the stairwell Randi peered down and opened up with her HK MP5K in careful bursts of three. There was a scream from below, followed by the sound of feet and two wild shots. She held her fire.
In the sudden vacuum of sound, Jon checked out the windows. Beneath the safe house, the back patio appeared inhabited only by benches and plants awash in moonlight and shadows. He studied the area, looking for movement, but then heard a muted shuffle in the office behind him.
As he tore back to investigate, there was a choking gasp. Jon stopped just inside the door. Peter was crouched over the fallen figure of a man in black street clothes, wearing heavy black gloves, and a flat hat like those worn by Afghan mujahedeen. His head and face were completely hidden by a black balaclava.
"Glad you haven't lost your touch." Jon stepped past Peter to check the balcony. It was empty, except for a nylon rope that dangled from the roof. "Not particularly clever, but it got him inside."
Peter wiped the blood from his old Fairbairn-Sykes stiletto on the attacker's pants. "Fellow thought he was quiet as a dormouse." He peeled up the balaclava, revealing brown, sun-dried skin, a beard trimmed short, and an expression of outrage. "I've got a plan. If I'm right about their plan, it should give us a chance."
"And if you're wrong?"
There was another burst of gunfire from Randi on the stairs followed by another cry of pain from below. Eerie silence again settled over the safe house.
Peter shrugged. "Then we're probably cooked, as the goose said to the gander."
Jon hunched down beside him in the shadows. "Tell me what you have in mind."
"We're in a box, true. But they're in a bind, because we've shown sharp teeth, and the gunshots will bring the police. They know that. They must make their move soon. Any forced action leads to carelessness and thus errors. They attacked openly from the street level, which I think was cover to send our dead friend here" he gestured at the corpse at his feet" to hold the balcony, while others would come down from the roof to trap us between them and the bottom assault team."
"So why don't we hear a charge down the stairs from up top? What are they waiting for?"
"I suspect for a signal from the forward reconnoiterer this poor sod here. A weakness in their plan, and now we can take advantage of that weakness." Peter put on the dead man's balaclava and flat Afghan hat. He stepped out onto the balcony.
Seconds later, Jon heard the soft night-whistle signal once more. This time it came from Peter. Soon after, a door creaked upstairs. An old door, warped and damaged by the weather where it opened onto the roof, as was true of so many Madrid buildings.
Peter stepped back into the room. "That should do it."
Jon ran into the room he had chosen as his bedroom, aimed his Sig Saner at his laptop, and fired. He was going on the run, and the laptop could hold him back. He sped back across the landing and told Randi, "Fire a burst, and get in here."
Randi shot one volley, then a second, and bolted back into the office, where she joined Jon on the balcony. Peter was already climbing the rope, while Jon steadied it with both hands, one foot anchoring it.
Randi gazed down warily. The street was deserted, but she could almost feel the eyes of terrified innocents hiding in doorways and behind windows, poised to flee, but also drawn almost hypnotically to witness others' violence and danger. It was that atavistic grip of the hunt, the ancient will to survive that lurked in the Cro-Magnon brain and influenced so many human actions.
Jon looked up and saw that Peter had reached the top. "You next," he breathed into her ear. "Go."
She slung her submachine gun over her back and jumped up onto the balcony railing. She grabbed the rope, and as Jon continued to steady it climbed. She saw Peter extend his head over the roof parapet to make sure she followed safely. He touched his forehead in salute and vanished, his teeth white in a Cheshire cat grin. She climbed harder, faster, worried because Jon was exposed where he stood alone on the balcony, but it could not be helped.
Meanwhile, as Jon held the rope, he surveyed carefully all around for trouble. His Sig Sauer seemed very far away, although it was simply tucked into his holster. He looked up, noting Randi's rapid progress. His chest tight, he saw what an easy target she was for anyone who spotted her. As he was thinking that, footsteps sounded: They were searching the rooms on the floor directly above him. They would be down to this floor any moment. And now the undulating wail of police cars had begun. Yes, they were heading in this direction.
With relief he saw Randi had disappeared onto the roof. He jumped up and climbed, hand over
hand as fast as he could, his fingers and palms burning on the corded nylon. He had been lucky so far, but now he must be on the roof before the terrorists discovered their dead comrade, and before the police arrived. Second only to staying alive was not being caught by the police.
Alarmed oaths in Arabic came from inside the house below as the terrorists found the body of their comrade and the destroyed laptop. At that moment, Jon reached the roof. He gave a powerful final pull, surged over the edge, and flopped onto the shallow slope of red tiles, still holding to the rope to keep from sliding backward. With a tug, the rope moved, dragging him up toward the ridge line. He could see the top of Peter's head. As he slid over headfirst and started to fall, Randi grabbed his shoulders to keep him from nose-diving onto flagstones, He shoulder-rolled up onto his feet and looked around. They were in a small, rooftop garden.
"Nice job." Peter sliced through the rope, and the cut end rushed back over the rooftop. A shout of rage rose from below, followed by a despairing shriek and crash.
Without another word, the three agents leaped, grabbed the peak of the rooftop, and pulled themselves up to their feet Straddling it, they ran carefully, one after the other, Jon in the lead, jumping gaps and dodging birds' nests as fast as they could without slipping and falling the six stories to the ground. They were five attached roofs away from the safe house when their pursuers burst up and out to the rooftop garden behind them.
As a fusillade of shots buzzed, whined, and ricocheted around them, they dropped flat on the other side of the incline, only their fingers exposed to the gunfire as they gripped the rough tiles that crowned the peak. Below, police cars were roaring onto Calle Dominguin There were angry Spanish shouts and running feet.
The Paris Option c-3 Page 19
