Mauritania's small eyes narrowed. "They are nearly passed." He had not raised his voice since he arrived, but that did not dispel the menace that burned from his gaze.
Paris, France
The towering Tour Montparnasse with its complement of other tall, upscale buildings along the boulevard Montparnasse receded as Smith, Randi, and Hakim Gatta, a terrified lab assistant from L'Institut Pasteur, walked deeper into the back streets of Paris, where the new bohemians worked and lived among the spirits of the old. The sun had set, and the last glowing embers of the day gave the sky a somber gray-and-yellow cast. Black shadows stretched across overgrown spring gardens and cobbled streets, and the scents of liquor, marijuana, and oil paints mingled in the air.
At last the nervous little bottle-washer, Hakim, muttered in French, "This is the street. Can I leave now?" He was a little over five feet tall with a mass of curly black hair, soft brown skin, and furtive black eyes. He lived above Dr. Akbar Suleiman.
"Not yet," Randi told him. She pulled him back into the shadows, where Jon followed in three quick steps. "Which building is it?"
"N-number fifteen."
Jon said, "Which apartment?"
"Th-third floor. In back. You promised you'd pay me, and I could go."
"The alley is the only other way out?"
Hakim nodded eagerly. "The front entrance, or the alley. There's no other way."
Jon told Randi, "You take the alley, I'll go in."
"Who put you in charge?"
Hakim started to back away. She grabbed his collar and showed him her gun. He flinched and stopped moving.
Jon watched. "Sorry. You have a better idea?"
Randi shook her head reluctantly. "You're right, but ask next time. Remember that discussion we had about politeness? We'd better move. No telling how long he'll be there if he learns we were inquiring about him at the Pasteur. You've got your walkie-talkie?"
"Of course." Jon patted the pocket of his black trench coat. He hurried off along the narrow sidewalk. The lighted windows of the four-, five-, and six-story apartment houses were beacons above the deep valley of the street. At No. 15, he leaned back casually against the building and watched. Men and women were sauntering off to bars and bistros or perhaps home. A few couples, young and old, held hands, enjoying the spring twilight and each other. Jon waited until no one was close enough to observe him, and he made his move.
The building's outer door was ajar, and there was no concierge. He took out his Walther, slipped inside, and climbed the stairs to the third floor. The door of the rear apartment was closed. He listened and after a moment heard the sound of a radio in a distant room. Somewhere inside, someone had turned on a water tap and he could hear water rushing into a basin. He tried the door, but it was locked. He stepped back and examined it — a standard spring lock. If there were a dead bolt and it was locked, too, he would have a lot harder time getting in. On the other hand, most people were careless, not engaging the dead bolt until they went to bed.
He took out his small case of picklocks and went to work. He was still working when the water stopped running. There was a thunderous noise, and a fusillade from inside tore through the door inches above Jon's head. As needle-like pieces of wood shot through the air, pain seared Jon's side, and he clove to the floor, striking his left shoulder. Damn, he'd been hit. A wave of dizziness swept through him. He scrambled up to a sitting position, leaning back against the wall across from the shattered door, his Walther out and covering it. His side throbbed painfully, but he ignored it. He stared at the door.
When no one came out, he finally unbuttoned his coat and pulled up his shirt. A bullet had torn through his clothes and the flesh above his waist, leaving a purple gouge. It was bleeding, but not badly, and nothing serious had been damaged. He would deal with it later. He left the shirt out; the black fabric of his trench coat hid the blood and bullet holes.
He stood up, the Walther ready, stepped aside, and tossed his case of picklocks against the door. Another fusillade smashed and splintered more of the wood and metal, this time destroying the lock. Screams, shouts, and curses from above and below filled the stairwell.
With his right shoulder, Jon slammed through the door, dove to the side, rolled, and came up with his pistol in both hands. And stared.
A small, attractive woman sat cross-legged on a shabby couch facing the door, a large AK-47 in her hands, the weapon still aimed at the door. In apparent shock, she stared at it as if she had not seen him smash through.
"Put the weapon down!" Jon commanded in French. "Down! Now!"
Suddenly the woman snarled, leaped up, and swung the Kalashnikov toward him. He kicked, knocking the assault rifle from her hands. Grabbing her arm, he turned her around and pushed her ahead of him as he searched the apartment room by room.
There was no one else there. He put the Walther to the tiny woman's head and snarled in French, "Where is Dr. Suleiman?"
"Where you won't find him, chien!"
"What is he, your boyfriend?"
Her eyes snapped. "Jealous?"
Jon took a walkie-talkie two-way radio from his trench coat pocket and spoke low, "He's not here, but he was. Be careful."
He returned the walkie-talkie to his pocket, ripped up a bedsheet to tie the woman securely to a kitchen chair, and hurried from the apartment, letting the door lock behind him. He ran down the stairs and out into the street.
In the cobbled alley behind the apartment building that stank of urine and old wine, Randi stared up at the darkened windows of the third floor, her Beretta ready. Beside her, Hakim Gatta shifted nervously from foot to foot, a frightened rabbit eager to bolt for cover. They were waiting beneath a linden tree where the shadows were pitch-black. Above them, a slice of the night sky was visible, the stars just beginning to show, distant pinpricks among the clouds.
Randi prodded him with the Beretta. "You're sure he was up there?"
"Yes. I told you. He was there when I left." He ran the fingers of one hand, then the other through his mop of curly black hair. "They shouldn't've of told you I lived in the same building."
Randi ignored him, calculating. "And you're positive this is the only way out?"
"I told you!" Hakim almost screamed.
"Quiet." She looked down, shooting him a fierce look.
He lowered his voice and was complaining to himself when the violent fusillade of shots from above reverberated through the alley.
"Down!"
The little man collapsed to the cobblestones, whimpering. She dropped down, too, and strained to hear more movement from inside the building. There was nothing, and then a second noisy volley echoed from upstairs, followed by what sounded like wood exploding.
Randi glared at the cowering Hakim. "There'd better not be another way out."
"I told you the truth! I swear, I"
At the sound of pounding feet, Randi looked up. The apartment building's rear door burst open, and a man blasted out at full speed. But within four steps he slowed to a fast walk, a 9mm pistol in his hand but held low to his side where it would be less noticeable. He was jumpy, and his head turned constantly as he looked for danger up and down the alley.
Randi's radio crackled. She pulled Hakim close, clamped her hand over his mouth, and listened as Jon reported, "He's not here, but he was. Be careful."
"I've got him. Meet me in front if you can."
Chapter Twenty-two
As Randi watched, the man turned and hurried toward the far end of the alley, braking occasionally as if he seemed to realize that rushing would draw attention. He was escaping, but not running in panic. Randi handed euros to Hakim and warned him to stay down and silent until she and the man were gone. He nodded eagerly, his eyes wide with fear.
She stood up, and as she padded forward, she pulled her miniature walkie-talkie from her jacket pocket. She carried it in her left hand. In her right was her Beretta.
The fleeing man stopped where the alley met the street. He scanned left and
right. Randi flattened back against the wall, not breathing. In the light of passing headlights, she saw that he was short and slender, with straight black hair worn down to his shoulders. In his late twenties, she guessed. Well-dressed in a blue Western blazer, white shirt, striped tie, gray slacks, and black oxfords. He had alert, intelligent dark eyes and the longer, high-checked Filipino-Malaysian face that was typical of the Moros of Mindanao. So this was Dr. Akbar Suleiman, worried and scared. He continued his patient surveillance, but he did not leave the mouth of the alley.
Randi spoke into her walkie-talkie: "He's waiting for something. Get as close to the rue Combray as you can."
She had barely closed the walkie-talkie when a small, black Subaru sedan screeched to a halt in front of Dr. Suleiman. A rear door swung open, and he leaped inside. Before the door could slam, the Subaru drove off. Randi ran down the alley and arrived just as a second car, an equally black Ford Crown Victoria, skidded to a stop. Jon ran from the front of the building and around to the street side of the car. He and Randi jumped into the backseat together.
The driver sped off in the same direction as the Subaru. Randi leaned forward behind the driver. "Has Max got the Subaru?"
"Square in his sights," Aaron Isaacs told her.
"Great. Follow them."
Aaron nodded. "That Smith with you, or Howell?"
She introduced them. "Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, M.D., at the moment attached to army intelligence. Jon, meet Aaron Isaacs, our chief in Paris."
Jon could feel Isaacs's eyes studying him, trying to analyze what he saw, assess the truth of his story. Suspicion was the CIA's trade.
Isaacs's radio crackled, and a disembodied male voice reported, "The Subaru's stopping in front of the Hotel St-Sulpice, near Carrefour de L'Odon. Two men are getting out and entering the hotel. The Subaru's driving off. Instructions?"
Randi leaned over the seat, and Aaron handed her his mike. "Follow the Subaru, Max."
"You got it, little lady."
"Go to hell, Max."
Aaron glanced back. "The hotel?"
"You read my mind," she told him.
Three minutes later, the Crown Victoria pulled to a stop a half block from the Hotel St-Sulpice. Randi studied the building. "Tell me about it, Aaron."
"Cheap. Eight floors. Used to cater to the usual bohemian crowd of the quarter, then to North Africans, now mostly to low-rent tourists. No side or rear exits or entrances. Front only."
The car's built-in radio crackled again, and Max's voice reappeared: "The Subaru is a rental from a chauffeur service. Reservation made by-phone. No info on the passenger or the pickup."
"Come back here to the hotel to get Aaron. We'll keep his Crown Victoria."
Max said instantly, "Does that mean no date tonight, Randi?"
Randi was losing patience. "Talk like a good boy, or I'll tell your wife."
"Oh, yeah. You're right. I'm married." And the radio went dead.
Randi shook her head. While she and Aaron talked over their respective assignments, Jon was thinking about Marty. He broke into the CIA dialogue: "Marty should be awake by now, Randi. Plus we could use Peter with us on this."
"Dr. Suleiman could come out anytime," she objected.
"True, but if Max drives me to the hospital, I can get there and back quickly. In case of trouble, you and Max can use the radios to confer, and I'll take a walkie-talkie so he can call in the hospital."
"What about not using anything wireless?" Randi objected.
Jon shook his head. "Wherever they have the DNA computer, it's not likely to be focused on local Paris police calls that don't use a satellite. For one thing, they can't have any idea Suleiman's on the run yet. No, it's almost impossible we'd be overheard or tracked. So if Suleiman moves before I get back, let me know. Peter, Max, and I'll join you there."
Randi agreed, and Aaron announced he would stay on the job with Randi until Jon and Max returned. The two Langley agents continued their discussion, and when Max arrived in a Chrysler Imperial, Jon said good-bye and climbed into the front passenger seat next to Max.
"You got a med kit here?" Jon asked as the car wove through traffic, heading southwest toward the hospital.
"Sure. Glove compartment. Why?"
"Nothing much. Just a scratch." He cleaned the bullet wound on his side and applied antibiotic cream to it. He taped a bandage to his side, made sure it was secure, then packed the med supplies back into the kit. He returned it to the glove compartment as they neared the hospital.
Jon moved quickly through the cavernous galleria of the mammoth Pompidou Hospital, past the palm trees and gift shop, and up the escalators to the ICU. He was eager to see Marty, feeling optimistic. Surely by now Marty would be awake, perhaps even feeling like his usual stubborn self. At the desk that guarded the ICU, Jon identified himself to a nurse he had not seen before.
"Your name's on the list, Doctor, but Dr. Zellerbach has been moved to a private room on the fourth floor. Didn't anyone tell you?"
"I've been out of the city. Is Dr. Dubost still here?"
"Sorry, Doctor. He's gone for the night. Unless there's an emergency, of course."
"Of course. Then give me Dr. Zellerbach's room number."
On the fourth floor, the first sight he had of the door to Marty's new private room made his stomach drop. There was not a single guard outside. He glanced all around, but saw no sign of anyone else watching the room from anywhere. Where were the Sret? MI6? He slid his hand inside his coat, grabbed his Walther, and held it at the ready just inside his trench coat. Fearing the worst, he passed nurses, doctors, attendants, and patients, his gaze blotting them from his mind as he closed in on Marty's door.
He tested it to see whether it was fully closed. It was. With his left hand, he slowly turned the knob until he felt it click open. Holding his weapon in both hands, he used his foot to nudge open the door just enough so he could slip inside, the Walther extended in front, sweeping the room.
His breath seemed to catch in his throat. The room was empty. The bed's covers were thrown back, the bottom sheet rumpled as if by a restless patient. No Marty. No Peter. No guards. No plainclothes or MI6 in disguise. His nerves almost vibrating with alertness, he walked deeper into the room and stopped. On the far side of the bed lay two corpses. Jon did not have to examine them to know they were beyond his or anyone's help. Blood had pooled around them. Although it appeared to be thickening at the edges, it was relatively fresh. Both were dressed in doctors' scrubs, complete with booties and masks. He could tell by their body shapes that neither man was Marty or Peter.
He exhaled and knelt. Each had been stabbed once by a two-edged knife handled by an expert. This could easily be Peter's work. But where were he and Marty? Where were the guards? Jon rose slowly. Clearly no one in the hospital was aware of what had happened. No panic, no alarm, no hint Marty was not where he was supposed to be. The guards were gone, two men were murdered, and Peter and Marty had vanished, all without causing a stir, or, apparently, being noticed at all.
His walkie-talkie beeped on his belt. He switched it on. "Smith. What's up, Max?"
"Randi reports the bird has a companion and is moving. She and Aaron are going after them. She says we should hit the road. She'll direct us to wherever they follow the guy."
"On my way."
His distraught gaze took in the silent private room once more. Peter was good, even good enough to have pulled off all of this without anyone's knowing, although Jon had no idea exactly how he had done it and managed to hide and escape with a sick patient like Marty. But what had happened to the two Legionnaires at the door? To all the plainclothes people who should have been here?
Just as Peter could have accomplished all this, so could the terrorists. The terrorists could have lured away the sentries and guards, killed and hidden them, captured Peter and Marty, and killed them somewhere else. For a long moment, he did not move.
He could not lose a quarry who could lead them to the DNA computer. He
would alert the Pans police, the CIA, and Fred Klein to what he had found here and hope they could track Marty and Peter.
He jammed the walkie-talkie back into his pocket, sheathed his gun, and ran out to where Max waited with the Chrysler door open.
The small black bakery van turned right onto the boulevard St-Michel. At the wheel of the Crown Victoria, Aaron slowed, let the van pull ahead while still keeping it in sight. It continued steadily south.
Randi guessed, "He's heading for the Périphérique." It was the broad road that circled inner Paris. She relayed her guess to Max, Jon, and Peter, who were, she hoped, already on the road and closing in.
"I think you're right," Aaron agreed. He tightened the distance between his car and the van, beginning to worry he might miss a sudden turn.
They had been following this new lead perhaps ten minutes. It had all begun when the bakery van had pulled up outside the Hotel St-Sulpice. The driver had jumped out and opened the side doors as if to unload a delivery of bread. Instead, Dr. Akbar Suleiman and a second man ran from the hotel entrance and climbed inside. The driver looked both ways as he slammed the doors shut. Then he carefully walked around, checking, climbed inside, and drove off.
"Damn," Randi swore.
Aaron tensed. "What do you want to do?"
"No choice. We've got to follow."
When the van reached the boulevard Périphérique, it turned onto it and headed west. Aaron kept it in sight, while Randi radioed each change of direction to Max, who was driving the other car. Soon the van blended onto the A10 toll road, and many miles later when the A11 split off west to Chartres and the distant sea, the van remained on the A10, now heading south.
The night sky was a foreboding canopy of black, the stars hidden by clouds, as the van continued at a constant pace past the ancient city of Orlans and over the legendary Loire River. Hours had passed. It veered suddenly west again, this time onto a two-lane local road, the D51. Abruptly, without bothering to slow, it turned sharply again onto an unnumbered back road, which it followed for several miles until it finally sped into a drive hidden by dense trees and brush.
The Paris Option c-3 Page 24
