Outstanding Praise for
ROBERT LUDLUM’S
THE PROMETHEUS DECEPTION
“His most ingenious novel yet…a dead-on picture of contemporary corporate strategy.”
—The New Yorker
“Readers will remain in the dark right up until the explosive climax…The Prometheus Deception will not disappoint.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“His best thriller yet.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“This is a rousing thriller with all the trademarks of a Ludlum bestseller…Ludlum delivers again another top-notch international thriller sure to please…heart-pounding chase scenes, devastating double-crosses, gut-wrenching twists, fast-paced action, fierce confrontations, pressure that ratchets up to an explosive conclusion, and, as always, authentic international locales, high-tech gadgetry, and sophisticated spycraft.”
—Library Journal
“A page-turner of nonstop action that should leave his fans begging for more.”
—New York Post
“Reading a Ludlum novel is like watching a James Bond film…slickly paced…all-consuming.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Ludlum’s latest is a spy thriller that should keep even the most experienced readers guessing…The pace is fast, the action plentiful…a must-read.”
—Booklist
“If true mystery—mystery in the plot and mystery as to the true nature of principal characters—is the measure of a great mystery writer, then Ludlum just proved himself one of the best.”
—Austin American-Statesman
“A 1984 for the new millennium…a fast-paced cloak-and-dagger tale. By the end the reader will be left with the chilling feeling that just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.”
—The Commercial Appeal (TN)
“Robert Ludlum continues to jolt his readers with fresh juice…a page-turner of nonstop action that should leave his fans begging for more.”
—New York Post
Overwhelming Acclaim for the Novels of ROBERT LUDLUM
“Ludlum is light years beyond his literary competition in piling plot twist upon plot twist, until the mesmerized reader is held captive…[He] dominates the field in strong, tightly plotted, adventure-drenched thrillers. Ludlum pulls out all the stops and dazzles his readers.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Ludlum stuffs more surprises into his novels than any other six-pack of thriller writers combined.”
—The New York Times
“Welcome to Robert Ludlum’s world…fast pacing, tight plotting, international intrigue.”
—The Plain Dealer
“Robert Ludlum is the master of gripping, fast-moving intrigue. He is unsurpassed at weaving a tapestry of stunningly diverse figures, then assembling them in a sequence so gripping that the reader’s attention never wavers.”
—The Daily Oklahoman
“Don’t ever begin a Ludlum novel if you have to go to work the next day.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“If a Pulitzer Prize were awarded for escapist fiction, Robert Ludlum undoubtedly would have won it. Ten times over.”
—Mobile Register
“An exciting medical-military thriller that moves at a rapid pace to its climax…an exciting new series.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A pop hit…that should bounce right up the bestseller lists.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Gripping…robust writing and a breakneck pace.”
—Boston Herald
Contents
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Part Two
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Part Three
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Paris, France Sunday, May 4
The first warm winds of spring gusted along Paris’s narrow back streets and broad boulevards, calling winter-weary residents out into the night. They thronged the sidewalks, strolling, linking arms, filling the chairs around outdoor café tables, everywhere smiling and chatting. Even the tourists stopped complaining—this was the enchanting Paris promised in their travel guides.
Occupied with their glasses of vin ordinaire under the stars, the spring celebrators on the bustling rue de Vaugirard did not notice the large black Renault van with darkened windows that left the busy street for the boulevard Pasteur. The van circled around the block, down the rue du Docteur Roux, and at last entered the quiet rue des Volontaires, where the only action was of a young couple kissing in a recessed doorway.
The black van rolled to a stop outside L’Institut Pasteur, cut its engine, and turned off its headlights. It remained there, silent, until the young couple, oblivious in their bliss, disappeared inside a building across the street.
The van’s doors clicked open, and four figures emerged clothed completely in black, their faces hidden behind balaclavas. Carrying compact Uzi submachine guns and wearing backpacks, they slipped through the night, almost invisible. A figure materialized from the shadows of the Pasteur Institute and guided them onto the grounds, while the street behind them remained quiet, deserted.
Out on the rue de Vaugirard, a saxophonist had begun to play, his music throaty and mellow. The night breeze carried the music, the laughter, and the scent of spring flowers in through the open windows of the multitude of buildings at the Pasteur. The famed research center was home to more than twenty-five hundred scientists, technicians, students, and administrators, and many still labored into the night.
The intruders had not expected so much activity. On high alert, they avoided the paths, listening, watching the windows and grounds, staying close to trees and structures as the sounds of the springtime gaiety from the rue de Vaugirard increased.
But in his laboratory, all outside activity was lost on Dr. Émile Chambord, who sat working alone at his computer keyboard on the otherwise unoccupied second floor of his building. His lab was large, as befitted one of the institute’s most distinguished researchers. It boasted several prize pieces of equipment, including a robotic gene-chip reader and a scanning-tunneling microscope, which measured and moved individual atoms. But more personal and far more critical to him tonight were the files near his left elbow and, on his other side, a spiral-bound notebook, which was open to the page on which he was meticulously recording data.
His fingers paused impatiently on the keyboard, which was conne
cted to an odd-looking apparatus that appeared to have more in common with an octopus than with IBM or Compaq. Its nerve center was contained in a temperature-controlled glass tray, and through its sides, one could see silver-blue gel packs immersed like translucent eggs in a jellied, foamlike substance. Ultrathin tubing connected the gel packs to one another, while atop them sat a lid. Where it interfaced with the gel packs was a coated metallic plate. Above it all stood an iMac-sized machine with a complicated control panel on which lights blinked like impulsive little eyes. From this machine, more tubing sprouted, feeding into the pack array, while wires and cables connected both the tray and the machine to the keyboard, a monitor, a printer, and assorted other electronic devices.
Dr. Chambord keyboarded in commands, watched the monitor, read the dials on the iMac-sized machine, and continually checked the temperature of the gel packs in the tray. He recorded data in his notebook as he worked, until he suddenly sat back and studied the entire array. Finally he gave an abrupt nod and typed a paragraph of what appeared to be gibberish—letters, numbers, and symbols—and activated a timer.
His foot tapped nervously, and his fingers drummed the lab bench. But in precisely twelve seconds, the printer came to life and spit out a sheet of paper. Controlling his excitement, he stopped the timer and made a note. At last he allowed himself to snatch up the printout.
As he read, he smiled. “Mais oui.”
Dr. Chambord took a deep breath and typed small clusters of commands. Sequences appeared on his screen so fast that his fingers could not keep up. He muttered inaudibly as he worked. Moments later, he tensed, leaned closer to the monitor, and whispered in French, “…one more…one…more…there!”
He laughed aloud, triumphant, and turned to look at the clock on the wall. It read 9:55 p.m. He recorded the time and stood up.
His pale face glowing, he stuffed his files and notebook into a battered briefcase and took his coat from the old-fashioned Empire wardrobe near the door. As he put on his hat, he glanced again at the clock and returned to his contraption. Still standing, he keyboarded another short series of commands, watched the screen for a time, and finally shut everything down. He walked briskly to the door, opened it onto the corridor, and observed that it was dim and deserted. For a moment, he had a sense of foreboding.
Then he shook it off. Non, he reminded himself: This was a moment to be savored, a great achievement. Smiling broadly, he stepped into the shadowy hall. Before he could close the door, four black-clothed figures surrounded him.
Thirty minutes later, the wiry leader of the intruders stood watch as his three companions finished loading the black van on the rue des Volontaires. As soon as the side door closed, he appraised the quiet street once more and hopped into the passenger seat. He nodded to the driver, and the van glided away toward the crowded rue de Vaugirard, where it disappeared in traffic.
The lighthearted revelry on the sidewalks and in the cafés and tabacs continued. More street musicians arrived, and the vin ordinaire flowed like the Seine. Then, without warning, the building that housed Dr. Chambord’s laboratory on the legendary Pasteur campus exploded in a rolling sheet of fire. The earth shook as flames seemed to burst from every window and combust up toward the black night sky in a red-and-yellow eruption of terrible heat visible for miles around. As bricks, sparks, glass, and ash rained down, the throngs on the surrounding streets screamed in terror and ran for shelter.
Part One
Chapter One
Diego Garcia Island, Indian Ocean
At 0654 hours at the vital U.S. Army, Air Force, and Naval installation on Diego Garcia, the officer commanding the shift at the control tower was gazing out the windows as the morning sun illuminated the warm blue waters of Emerald Bay on the lagoon side of the U-shaped atoll and wishing he were off duty. His eyes blinked slowly, and his mind wandered.
The U.S. Navy Support Facility, the host command for this strategically located, operationally invaluable base, kept all of them busy with its support of sea, air, and surface flight operations. The payback was the island itself, a remote place of sweeping beauty, where the easy rhythms of routine duty lulled ambition.
He was seriously contemplating a long swim the instant he was off duty when, one minute later, at 0655 hours, the control tower lost contact with the base’s entire airborne fleet of B-1B, B-52, AWACS, P-3 Orion, and U-2 aircraft, on a variety of missions that included hot-button reconnaissance and antisubmarine and surveillance support.
The tropical lagoon vanished from his mind. He bawled orders, pushed a technician from one of the consoles, and started diagnostics. Everyone’s attention was riveted on the dials, readouts, and screens as they battled to regain contact.
Nothing helped. At 0658, in a controlled panic, he alerted the base’s commanding officer.
At 0659, the commanding officer informed the Pentagon.
Then, oddly, inexplicably, at 0700, five minutes after they had mysteriously disappeared, all communications with the aircraft returned at the precise same second.
Fort Collins, Colorado
Monday, May 5
As the sun rose over the vast prairie to the east, the rustic Foothills Campus of Colorado State University glowed with golden light. Here in a state-of-the-art laboratory in a nondescript building, Jonathan (“Jon”) Smith, M.D., peered into a binocular microscope and gently moved a finely drawn glass needle into position. He placed an imperceptible drop of fluid onto a flat disk so small that it was no larger than the head of a pin. Under the high-resolution microscope, the plate bore a striking—and seemingly impossible—resemblance to a circuit board.
Smith made an adjustment, bringing the image more clearly into focus. “Good,” he muttered, and smiled. “There’s hope.”
An expert in virology and molecular biology, Smith was also an army medical officer—in fact, a lieutenant colonel—temporarily stationed here amid the towering pines and rolling foothills of Colorado at this Centers for Disease Control (CDC) facility. On unofficial loan from the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases (USAMRIID), he was assigned basic research into evolving viruses.
Except that viruses had nothing to do with the delicate work he was watching through the microscope this dawn. USAMRIID was the army’s foremost military medical research facility, while the CDC was its highly touted civilian counterpart. Usually they were vigorous rivals. But not here, not now, and the work being done in this laboratory had only a peripheral connection to medicine.
Smith was part of a little-known CDC-USAMRIID research team in a worldwide race to create the world’s first molecular—or DNA—computer, therefore forging an unprecedented bond between life science and computational science. The concept intrigued the scientist in Smith and challenged his expertise in the field of microbiology. In fact, what had brought him into his lab at this ungodly early hour was what he hoped would turn out to be a breakthrough in the molecular circuits based on special organic polymers that he and the other researchers had been working night and day to create.
If successful, their brand-new DNA circuits could be reconfigured many times, taking the joint team one step closer to rendering silicon, the key ingredient in the wiring of current computer circuit boards, obsolete. Which was just as well. The computer industry was near the limits of silicon technology anyway, while biological compounds offered a logical—although difficult—next step. When DNA computers could be made workable, they would be vastly more powerful than the general public could conceive, which was where the army’s, and USAMRIID’s, interests came in.
Smith was fascinated by the research, and as soon as he had heard rumors of the secret joint CDC-USAMRIID project, he had arranged to be invited aboard, eagerly throwing himself into this technological competition where the future might be only an atom away.
“Hey, Jon.” Larry Schulenberg, another of the project’s top cell biologists, rolled into the empty laboratory in his wheelchair. “Did you hear about the Pasteur?”
&n
bsp; Smith looked up from his microscope. “Hell, I didn’t even hear you open the door.” Then he noticed Larry’s somber face. “The Pasteur,” he repeated. “Why? What’s happened?” Like USAMRIID and the CDC, the Pasteur Institute was a world-class research complex.
In his fifties, Schulenberg was a tan, energetic man with a shaved head, one small diamond earring, and shoulders that were thickly muscled from years of using crutches. His voice was grim. “Some kind of explosion. It’s bad. People were killed.” He peeled a sheet from the stack of printouts on his lap.
Jon grabbed the paper. “My God. How did it happen? A lab accident?”
“The French police don’t think so. Maybe a bomb. They’re checking out former employees.” Larry wheeled his chair around and headed back to the door. “Figured you’d want to know. Jim Thrane at Porton Down e-mailed me, so I downloaded the story. I’ve got to go see who else is here. Everyone will want to know.”
“Thanks.” As the door closed, Smith read quickly. Then, his stomach sinking, he reread…
Labs at Pasteur Institute Destroyed
Paris—A massive explosion killed at least 12 people and shattered a three-story building housing offices and laboratories at the venerable Pasteur Institute at 10:52 p.m. here last night. Four survivors in critical condition were found. The search continues in the rubble for other victims.
Fire investigators say they have found evidence of explosives. No person or group has claimed responsibility. The probe is continuing, including checking into recently released employees.
The Paris Option Page 1
