“Merci beaucoup, Hector.”
In the pleasant although far-from-modern hotel room, he slung his bag and laptop onto the bed. Using his cell phone with its built-in scrambler, he dialed Fred Klein, waiting as the call bounced off innumerable relays around the world to finally be picked up wherever Fred was.
“So?” Fred Klein said.
“They’ve kidnapped Thérèse Chambord.”
“I just got the news. One of her neighbors saw quite a bit of it, including some crazy man who tried to stop the kidnapping. The French police relayed the information. Fortunately, the neighbor didn’t get a good look at the man’s face.”
“Fortunately,” Smith agreed dryly.
“The police have no clue who the kidnappers are, or why, and it’s got them mighty unhappy. Why kill Chambord but only kidnap his daughter? If the bombers have full data for the molecular computer, why kidnap her at all? Was she taken by the same people who blew up the Pasteur and killed Chambord, or by other people entirely? Are there two groups involved—one that has the data and another that wants it, so they’ve snatched Mlle. Chambord in the hope she has something to tell them?”
“That’s an unpleasant thought. A second group. Damn.”
“Hope I’m wrong.” Klein sounded frustrated.
“Yeah. Swell. But we’ve got to keep it in mind. What about the police report about me and Thérèse Chambord? Do I need to take a new cover?”
“So far you’re clear. They’ve questioned a taxi driver who took a man fitting your description to the Champs Élysées, where he got out and went into a nightclub. Luckily for us, no one in the nightclub recalls exactly what you look like, and of course you didn’t give your name. The police have no other leads. Nice work.”
“Thanks,” Smith said tiredly. “I need some help with the meaning of a symbol I found: It’s a tree with a broad canopy, and there are three flames burning at its base as if fire is about to consume it.” He explained how he had found the picture tooled lightly into the kidnapper’s leather pistol grip.
“I’ll check on the image. How did your meetings with Mike Kerns and General Henze go?”
Smith relayed what he had learned from both men, including the black Citroën that periodically was seen picking up Chambord. “And there’s something else you need to know. I hope it’s not what it could be.” He told the head of Covert-One about the “hospital orderly” who had been welcomed by the master sergeant into the highly secure pension where General Henze was staying.
Klein swore under his breath. “What the devil’s going on? It can’t mean the general’s mixed up in anything. Not with his record. If it’s anything more than some bizarre coincidence, I’d be shocked. But it’s got to be looked into. I’ll handle it from my end.”
“Could the sergeant be a security problem? A mole of some kind?”
Klein’s voice hardened. “That’s unthinkable, too. You stay away from it. We don’t want anything to hurt your cover. I’ll have Sergeant Matthias investigated from this end, too, and I’ll find out about that tree symbol.” Klein clicked off.
Smith sighed, exhausted. He hoped an explanation of the tree graphic would lead him to Thérèse. With luck, the terrorists would not be far away. He moved his suitcase from the bed and pushed down on the familiar mattress. The bed was springy but firm in the French way, and he looked forward to spending some quality time in it, sleeping.
In the bathroom, he stripped off his clothes and plunged into the shower. It had been installed in the ancient tub since he was here last. Once he had washed off the trip and the exertions of the day, he wrapped himself in a terrycloth robe, sat at the window, and pushed open the shutters so he could gaze out across the steepled rooftops of Paris.
As he sat there, his mind wandering and weary, the black sky suddenly split open with a bright bolt of lightning. Thunder crashed, and rain poured down. The storm that had threatened all day had finally arrived. He lifted his face outside his window and let the cool raindrops splash him. It was difficult to believe that only yesterday he had been in his laboratory at Fort Collins, the dawn rising over the sweeping prairies of eastern Colorado.
Which made him think of Marty. He closed the shutters. As the rain made a rhythmic tattoo, he dialed the hospital. If anyone was listening in, they would hear the concerned friend they expected, using the phone innocently. No suspicions nor subterfuge.
The ICU nurse told him Marty’s condition was basically unchanged, but he was still showing small signs of progress. Feeling grateful, he said bonsoir, hung up, and dialed the hospital’s security office. The chief was gone for the day, but an assistant reported nothing alarming or suspicious had happened involving either Marty or the ICU since the attempt on his life this morning. Yes, the police had increased the security.
Smith was beginning to relax. He hung up, shaved, and was about to climb into bed when his cell phone gave off its low buzz. He answered it.
Without preamble, Fred Klein reported: “The tree and fire are the emblem of a defunct Basque separatist group called the Black Flame. They were supposedly broken up years ago in a shootout in Bilbao where all their leaders were killed or, later, imprisoned. All but one of those locked up committed ‘suicide’ in prison. They haven’t been heard from for years, and Basque terrorists usually claim responsibility for their acts. However, the more violent groups don’t always. They’re more focused on real change, not just propaganda.”
“So am I,” Smith said, and he added, “And I’ve got one advantage.”
“What would that be?”
“They didn’t really try to kill me. Which means they don’t know what I’m actually doing here. My cover’s holding.”
“Good point. Get some sleep. I’ll see if I can come up with anything more on your Basques.”
“One more favor? Dig deeper into Émile Chambord’s past, will you? His whole history. I’ve got a hunch something’s missing somewhere, and maybe it’s there. Or maybe it’s something vital that he could tell us, if he were alive. Thérèse might know it, too, without realizing it, and that could be why she’s been taken. Anyway, it’s worth a shot.” He hung up.
Alone in the darkened room, he listened to the sound of the rain and of tires on the wet street below. He thought about an assassin, a general, and a band of Basque fanatics who might be back in action with a vengeance. Fanatics with a purpose. With a deep sense of disquiet, he wondered where they would strike next, and whether Thérèse Chambord was still alive.
Chapter Eight
The hypnotic rhythms of a classical Indian raga floated on the hot, heavy air, trapped by the thick carpets and wall hangings that lined Mauritania’s apartment. Seated cross-legged in the exact center of the main room, he swayed like a sinuous Buddha to the gentle yet strident sound. His eyes were closed, and a beatific smile wreathed his face. He sensed rather than saw the disapproving look of his lieutenant, Abu Auda, who had just entered.
“Salaam alake koom.” Mauritania’s eyes remained closed as he spoke in Arabic while continuing to weave back and forth. “Forgive me, Abu Auda, it’s my only vice. The classical Indian raga was part of a rich culture long before the Europeans developed what they claim to be classical music. I enjoy that fact nearly as much as the raga itself. Do you think Allah will forgive me for such indulgence and hubris?”
“Better him than me. All it is to me is distracting noise.” Large and powerful-looking, Abu Auda snorted contemptuously. He was still in the same white robes and gold-trimmed kaffiyeh he had worn in the taxi when Captain Bonnard turned over to him the research notes of the dead lab assistant. Now, alas, the robes were not only dirty from too many days in the grime of Paris, but wet from the rainstorm. None of his women was in Paris to take care of him, which was irritating but could not be helped. He pushed back his kaffiyeh to reveal his long black face, strong, bony chin, small, straight nose, and full mouth set in stone. “Do you wish my report, or are you going to continue to waste my time?”
Mauritani
a chuckled and opened his eyes. “Your report, by all means. Allah may forgive me, but you won’t, yes?”
“Allah has more time than we,” Abu Auda responded, his expression humorless.
“So he does, Abu Auda. So he does. Then we’ll have this oh-so-vital report of yours, shall we not?” Mauritania’s eyes were amused, but beneath the surface was a glint that turned his visitor from complaints to the business at hand.
Abu Auda told him, “My watcher at the Pasteur Institute reports your person, Smith, appeared there. Smith spoke to Dr. Michael Kerns, apparently an old comrade. My man was able to hear only part of the conversation, when they were speaking of Zellerbach. After that, Smith left the Pasteur, drank a small beer at a café, and then took the métro, where our miserable incompetent lost him.”
Mauritania interrupted, “Did he lose Smith, or did Smith lose him?”
Abu Auda shrugged. “I wasn’t there. He did report a curious fact. Smith appeared to wander aimlessly until he reached a bookshop, where he watched for a time, smiled at something, continued on to the métro, and went down into the station.”
“Ah?” Mauritania’s blue eyes grew brighter. “As if, perhaps, he noticed he was being watched when he left the Pasteur?”
The green-brown eyes snapped. “I’d know more if my idiot hadn’t lost him at the métro station. He waited too long to follow him down. By Allah, he’ll pay!”
Mauritania scowled. “What then, Abu?”
“We didn’t find Smith again until tonight, when he arrived at the daughter’s home. Our man there saw him, but we don’t believe Smith knew. Smith was upstairs in her apartment nearly fifteen minutes, and then they rode down in the elevator together. As soon as she stepped outside, four assailants attacked. Ah, the fine quality of their work! Would to God they were ours. They eliminated Smith from the action first inside the door, separating him from the woman, and then they dragged the woman away. By the time Smith recovered and came after them, they had her inside the van, even though she fought them hard. He killed one, but the rest escaped. Smith inspected the dead man, took his pistol, and left before the police arrived. He found a taxi at a nearby hotel. Our man trailed him to the Champs Élysées, where he also lost him.”
Mauritania nodded, almost with satisfaction. “This Smith doesn’t want to become involved with the police, is suspicious of being followed, skilled at eluding a tail, is calm under attack, and can use a pistol well. I’d say our Dr. Smith is more than he seems, as we suspected.”
“At the very least, he’s got military training. But is Smith our main concern? What of the daughter? What of the five men, for there must’ve been a driver in the van? Weren’t you concerned about the daughter before this happened? Now people we don’t know, and who are experienced and well trained, have kidnapped her. It’s disturbing. What do they want? Who are they? What danger are they to us?”
Mauritania smiled. “Allah has answered your wish. They’re ours. I’m glad you approve of their skills. Obviously, it was wise of me to hire them.”
Abu Auda frowned. His gaze narrowed. “You didn’t tell me.”
“Does the mountain tell the wind everything? You had no need to know.”
“With time, even the mountain can be destroyed by the elements.”
“Calm yourself, Abu Auda. This was no reflection on you. We have a long and honorable history together, and now, at last, we’re in a position to show the world the truth of Islam. Who else would I want to share that with? But if you’d known about these men I hired, you would’ve only wanted to be with them. Not with me. I need you, as you well know.”
Abu Auda’s frown disappeared. “I suppose you’re right,” he said grudgingly.
“Good. Of course I am. Let’s return to the American, Jon Smith. If Captain Bonnard is correct, then Smith belongs to no known secret service. For whom, precisely, does he work?”
“Could our new allies have sent him? Some plan of their own they haven’t bothered to tell us? I don’t trust them.”
“You don’t trust your dog, your wives, or your grandmother.” Mauritania gave a small smile and contemplated his music. He closed his eyes a moment as the raga rhythm subtly altered. “But you’re right to be careful. Treachery is always possible, often inevitable. Not only a wily desert Fulani can be devious.”
“There’s another thing,” Abu Auda went on as if he had not heard. “The man I assigned to watch the Pasteur Institute says he can’t be certain, but he thinks there was someone else watching not only Smith but him. A woman. Dark-haired, young, but unattractive and poorly dressed.”
Mauritania’s blue eyes snapped open. “Watching both Smith and our man? He has no idea who she was?”
“None.”
Mauritania uncoiled and stood up. “It’s time to leave Paris.”
Abu Auda was surprised. “I don’t like going away without knowing more about Smith and this unknown female who watches us.”
“We expected attention, didn’t we? We’ll observe and be careful, but we must also move. Relocation is the best defense.”
Abu Auda smiled, displaying a dazzling set of white teeth against his black skin. “You sound like a desert warrior yourself. Perhaps you learn after all these years.”
“A compliment, Abu?” Mauritania laughed. “An honor indeed. Don’t worry about Smith. We know enough, and if he’s actually searching for us, we’ll deal with him on our terms. Report to our friends that Paris has become too crowded, and we’re moving early. It may be necessary to adjust our timetable forward. Beginning now.”
The giant warrior nodded as he followed the small terrorist, who glided from the room, his feet seeming barely to touch the carpet, soundless.
Folsom, California
The attack began at six p.m. in the headquarters of the California Independent System Operator (Cal-ISO) in the small prison town of Folsom, east of Sacramento. Cal-ISO was an essential component of the state’s power system and integral to the movement of electricity throughout California. Although it was May, Californians were already worrying that summer might bring the return of rolling blackouts.
One of the operators, Tom Milowicz, stared at the dials of the big grid. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed.
“What is it?” Betsy Tedesco glanced his way.
“The numbers are spinning south. Into the toilet!”
“What are you saying?”
“It’s too much, too fast. The grid’s going to crash! Get Harry!”
Arlington, Virginia
In a secret installation across the Potomac River from the nation’s capital, the elite computer specialists of the FBI cyber team quickly determined the catastrophe to be the work of a hacker, country of origin still undetermined. Now they battled to bring the California power grid back online and stop the hacker’s progress. But as the team discovered, it was already too late.
The hacker had written—“compiled”—software that allowed him or her to shatter the tough firewalls that usually protected the most sensitive parts of the Cal-ISO power system. He had bypassed trip wires, which were intended to alert security personnel to unauthorized entry, had bypassed logs that pinpointed intruders while they were committing an illegal infiltration, and had opened closed ports.
Then the extraordinarily adept hacker had moved on, invading one power supplier after another, because Cal-ISO’s computers were linked to a system that controlled the flow of electricity across the entire state. In turn, the California system was tied into the transmission grid for the whole Western United States. The invader hacked from system to system with phenomenal speed. Unbelievable, to anyone who did not witness it.
Lights, stoves, air conditioners, heaters, cash registers, computers, ATMs, breathing devices—all machines, from luxury to life-giving, as long as they required electricity—went dead as power to Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego, and Denver suddenly ceased.
Outside Reno, Nevada
The battered old Chrysler Imperial of Ricky Hitomi rock
ed with the shrieks and laughter of his five best friends as it powered down the rural blacktop through the night. They had met at his girlfriend Janis Borotra’s house and smoked a few joints in the barn before all piling into Ricky’s heap. Now they were heading for more fun at Justin Harley’s place. They were high-school seniors and would graduate in a week.
Occupied with their wild partying, their minds dulled with weed, none saw or heard the fast-moving freight train in the distance. Nor did they notice that the gate at the crossing was still up, the warning lights dark, and the alarm bells silent. When Janis finally heard the screaming train whistle and shrieking brakes, she shouted at Ricky. It was too late. Ricky was already driving onto the rail crossing.
The freight train blasted into them and carried the car and their battered bodies a mile before it could stop.
Arlington, Virginia
Panic spread in the secret FBI cyber installation across the Potomac River from the nation’s capital. A decade ago, the nation’s telephones, power grids, and emergency 911 number and fire dispatches had been separate systems, individual, unique. They could be hacked, but only with great difficulty, and certainly the hacker could not get from one system to another, except under very unusual circumstances.
But deregulation had changed all that. Today hundreds of new energy firms existed, as well as online power traders, and everything was linked through the multitude of telephone companies, whose interconnections also had resulted from deregulation. This vast number of electronically joined entities looked a lot like the Internet, which meant the best hackers could use one system as a door to another.
Defeated by the power and speed of the hacker, the FBI experts watched helplessly as switches flipped and the violent mischief continued. The velocity at which firewalls were breached and codes blown shocked them. But the worst aspect of the nightmare was how quickly the hacker could adjust his access code.
In fact, it seemed almost as if their counterattack caused his code to evolve. The more they fought him and his computer, the smarter his computer became. They had never seen anything like it. It was impossible…horrifying. A machine that could learn and evolve far faster than a human thought.
The Paris Option Page 9
