The Paris Option

by Robert Ludlum

  As they disappeared from sight, Smith continued to wait. And wait. It was only a few seconds, but it seemed like an hour. As a new tune began, the thickset Basque peered around the corner, weapon and face at the same time. Smith squeezed off a silenced round, aimed carefully high; he wanted to hit no innocent bystander. The noise was lost in the loud music, and the bullet bit just where he wanted—into the wall above the Basque’s head.

  With an explosion of smoke, sharp-edged pieces of brick hailed down on the killer. He made a guttural sound and fell back, as if yanked by a leash. Which made Smith smile grimly. Then he ran.

  No gunshots followed him, and he swerved into an intersecting alley. Threw himself back against the wall again, flat. No head or gun followed around the corner. Relieved, he ran again, now steeply uphill, surveying everywhere as he dodged through a jungle of deserted passageways, and his path leveled. As the music faded in the background, the last few notes sounded foreboding, somehow menacing.

  Sweating, he sprinted on, encountered a man who was walking along, kicking a stone ahead of him, weaving as if he’d had too much vino. The man looked up and stared at Smith’s harried appearance as if he were looking at an apparition. He turned abruptly and scrambled away.

  When Smith saw no more of the terrorists, he began to hope he had lost them. He would have to wait, then he would double back to their house. He looked behind once more, expecting the passageway to be empty. Then he heard the distinctive pop-pop of a silenced pistol, and simultaneously a bullet burned past his cheek. Chips burst out from the wall where the bullet struck. Another silenced gunshot followed, and a piercing whine echoed as the bullet ricocheted off walls, hit the cobblestones, and clattered into a corner, trapped.

  By that time, Smith was flat on his belly, raised up on his elbows. He squeezed off two rounds at two indistinct shapes in the night.

  There was a loud, bloodcurdling scream. And he was alone again. The street dark, claustrophobic. He must have hit one.

  But he was not quite alone. A shadow as dark as the night, the walls, and the cobblestones lay on the empty street not a hundred feet away. He rose to his haunches and, staying low, approached cautiously. The thick figure of a man took shape—arms flung wide, blood spreading, making the cobblestones gleam liquidly with moonlight. Blank eyes stared up, sightless. Smith recognized him—the squat, pockmarked man he had seen first in Paris. Now he was dead.

  He heard a faint crunch on the cobblestones and looked up from where he crouched. There were the remaining men. Moving toward him.

  Smith leaped up and ran through another confusion of streets and alleys, up and down among the densely packed buildings, where even the narrowest streets seemed to have to fight their way through architecture for room. He crossed a broader street where tourists craned to look upward, admiring a row of unadorned houses built for ordinary townspeople in the Middle Ages. Near them were two of the terrorists, their gazes sweeping the area. Because they were not looking at the houses, too, they stood out like wolves against the snow.

  Smith turned and ran again. Their shouts followed as he accelerated away along another street just as a car turned into it from the other end. A family group hopped into recessed doorways to let the sporty Fiat pass. The Basques were too close. Desperate, he raised his free hand over his eyes and dashed straight toward the car, its headlights almost blinding him.

  Smith bellowed a warning. He heard brakes screech. The Fiat laid rubber in its effort to halt, the stink nasty in the air. The vehicle slammed to a stop less than ten feet before it would have hit him, and Smith never broke stride. He leaped up onto the hood. His athletic shoes struggled for traction, caught on the shiny paint, and he raced across the roof and over the trunk. He was drenched in sweat when he landed. He kept running.

  Gunshots whined past as the terrorists tried to get a bead on him. He wove back and forth, panting, his whole body straining. Window glass shattered above him from a stray bullet. A woman shouted, and a baby cried. Smith heard the Basques yelling as they stormed up over the Fiat, too, slipping and scrambling. The last sound he heard from the alley was their thundering feet. And he was neither safe, nor had he found out a damn thing about Thérèse Chambord or the molecular computer.

  Angry, he changed direction again, this time weaving through new slumbering streets. He watched frantically all around. Finally he saw an open area of bright light ahead and heard the sounds of people laughing and talking.

  He slowed, trying to catch his breath. He approached the area cautiously and realized it was the Plaza del Conde. On the other side was the Casa y Museo del Greco. This was the old Jewish quarter, the Judería, in the southwest part of the city, just above the river. Although he saw no one immediately suspicious, he knew the terrorists could not be far away. Elizondo would not give up easily, and in the end, although Toledo was not small, it was compact. No place was all that far from another.

  He needed to slip past the plaza. Hurrying would draw attention. In the end, exhaustion made him decide. He worked his way slowly, trying to be casual as he hugged shadows wherever he could. At last he reached a line of tourists who were staring appreciatively at the closed museum that housed some of El Greco’s famous paintings. It was a reconstruction of a typical Toledan home of the period, and they murmured and pointed out interesting features while he moved past behind them.

  He had caught his breath by the time he reached the Calle San Juan de Dios, where there were fewer tourists, but at the same time he knew he could not continue at this furious pace much longer. Running up and down the hills was brutal even for someone like himself, who kept in shape. He decided he had to risk staying on this larger street. He studied each intersection before he crossed it…and then he had an idea.

  Ahead, a man with a camera slung around his neck and a flash in his hand seemed to be in search of local color. He ambled into one of the alleys, head craning from right to left, up and down, searching for just the right shot. They were about the same height and build.

  It was an opportunity. The fellow headed down another street, this one not much wider than the alley. It was quiet, no one else in sight. At the last second, he seemed to hear Smith come up behind.

  He half-turned. “Hey!” he protested in English. “Who are you? What the…?”

  Smith pressed the silencer into the man’s spine. “Quiet. You’re American?”

  “You’re damned—”

  Smith jammed the pistol again. “Quiet.”

  The man’s voice dropped to a whisper. But his anger did not decrease. “…right I am! You better remember that. You’ll regret—”

  Smith interrupted, “I need your clothes. Take them off.”

  “My clothes? You’ve got to be crazy. Who do…” He turned to face Smith. He stared at the Sig Sauer, and fear flashed across his face. “Jesus, what are you?”

  Smith lifted the silencer to the man’s head. “The clothes. Now.”

  Without another word, his eyes never leaving Smith, the tourist stripped to his underwear. Smith stepped back and took off his own shoes, shirt, and trousers, keeping the man covered with the Sig Sauer the whole time.

  Smith advised him, “Put on only my pants. Your T-shirt will do for a shirt. That way, you won’t look too much like me.”

  The man paled as he zipped up Smith’s trousers. “You’re scaring the hell out of me, mister.”

  Dressed in the man’s running shoes, gray slacks, blue Hawaiian sport shirt, and Chicago Cubs baseball cap, Smith said, “When you walk back to your hotel, use routes where you can see other people. Take pictures. Act normal. You’ll be fine.” He loped off. When he looked back, the man was still standing in the shadows of the buildings, staring after him.

  It was time for the hunted to become the hunter. Smith continued at a slow, even gait that covered territory but did not exhaust him, until again he heard noise. This time he found himself at the Monasterio de San Juan de los Reyes, built as a sacred burial spot for the kings and queens of Castile an
d Aragon. Visitors who had paid for a nighttime tour of the city stood outside the church, fascinated by the exterior, which was bizarrely decorated with chains worn by Christian prisoners held by the Moors until the Reconquista.

  Smith angled around and entered a taberna that had a wide opening onto the street. He took a table just inside where he had a sweeping view, the church dominating part of it. Grabbing a handful of paper napkins, he blotted his sweaty face, ordered café con leche, and settled in to wait. The terrorists knew his general direction of movement, and they would have been guarding against his doubling back. Eventually they would find him.

  He had barely finished his coffee when he saw the wiry older man who wore the red Basque beret walking past in the company of a second man. Their heads moved constantly, scanning for him. Their gazes passed over him. They did not even hesitate. It was the blue Hawaiian shirt, Smith decided with satisfaction.

  He stood up, dropped euros onto the table for his coffee, and followed until he lost them on the other side of the church. Swearing under his breath, he padded onward warily. They could not be far.

  Finally he stepped out onto a grassy slope high above the meandering Río Tajo. He hunched down, low and unobtrusive, allowing his eyes to adjust. Off to his left, back in the town, he could see the silhouettes of the Sinagoga del Transisto and the Sephardic Museum. Across the river, in the more modern part of the city, the lighted rooms of the elegant Parador hotel winked at him. Around him, bushes dotted the grassy bank, while the river, still swollen by winter rains, flowed below, its quiet rushing sound warning of its power.

  His sense of urgency was growing. Where were they? Then to his left and slightly below, he heard a low conversation. Two men. A rattle of small stones beyond the voices, and then another, different, voice joined in. Three men now, and as Smith listened, trying to catch what was being said, he felt both a chill and a surge of excitement—they were speaking Basque. Even at this distance, he recognized his name. They were talking about him, searching for him now. They were a scant hundred feet away on an incline that was relatively open.

  A fourth man scrambled up toward the three from the direction of the river below, and when he reached them, he said Smith’s name again. And conversed in Spanish: “He’s not down there, and I know I saw him leave the taberna and follow Zumaia and Iturbi. He’s got to be here somewhere. Maybe closer to the bridge.”

  There was further discussion, this time in a mixture of Basque and Spanish. Smith was able to gather that the ones called Zumaia and Iturbi had searched through the edge of the city, which was where he had lost them. Their leader, Elizondo, joined them from farther upstream. They decided Smith could still be nearby.

  As they spread out in a pattern to do a thorough search, Smith scrambled across grass and sand and slid under the low branches of a willow tree that curled down over the hill toward the river. His nerves edgy, he lay close to the trunk, barely breathing, holding his Sig Sauer, safe for the moment.

  After eating his dinner at La Venta del Alma, a charming inn across the Río Tajo from the old city, M. Mauritania walked out onto the terrace of Toledo’s most luxurious hotel, the Parador Conde de Orgaz. He checked his watch. He still had time: The departure would not be for nearly an hour.

  Mauritania indulged himself by raising his gaze to marvel at the night view. Old Toledo was perched above the moonlit river in a sparkling display of lights and shadows, so lovely that it might have come to life from a poetic Arabian Nights stanza or a magnificent Persian love poem. The crass Western culture with its narrow concept of God and insipid savior did not understand Toledo. But then, they would turn a woman into a man, corrupting both the truth of woman and the truth of man. Nowhere was this more visible than in the great city of the Prophet, where every monument, every glorious memory, was viewed as a bauble and lie for money.

  He drank in the sight of Toledo, reveled in it. It was a divine place, a living reminder of that glorious era nearly a thousand years ago when Arabs ruled, creating a benevolent center of Muslim learning here in the midst of ignorance and savagery. Scholars had thrived, and Muslims, Christians, and Jews had lived in harmony and cooperation, learned each other’s tongues, and studied each other’s cultures and beliefs.

  But now, he thought angrily, the Christians and the Jews called Islam barbaric and wanted to wipe all traces of it from the earth. They would fail, and Islam would rise again, rule again. He would show them that.

  He turned the collar of his leather jacket up against the growing night chill and contemplated the riches of this city, now decadent. Everyone came to photograph it and buy cheap relics of its past because they had more money than soul. Few came to learn from it, to contemplate what Toledo had been, to understand what the light of Islam had brought here when Christian Europe was going through its intolerant Dark Ages. He thought bitterly of his own poor, starving country today, where the sands of the Sahara were slowly smothering the life out of the land and the people.

  And the infidels wondered why he hated them, planned to destroy them, wanted to bring back the enlightenment of Islam. Bring back a culture where money and greed were nothing. Bring back the power that had ruled here for centuries. He was no fundamentalist. He was a pragmatist. First he would teach the Jews a lesson. Then the Americans. While the Americans waited, they would sweat.

  Mauritania was aware he was an enigma to Westerners. He counted on it, with his delicate hands and face, his round body, apparently so weak and ineffectual. But inside, to himself, he knew the truth: He was heroic.

  For some time he stood silent in the night on the terrace of the palatial hotel, studying the spire of the great Christian Cathedral and the hulking mass and stubby towers of the al-Qasr, built nearly fifteen hundred years ago by his own desert people. While his face remained impassive, he raged inwardly. His fury burned and grew, banked by centuries of outrage. His people would rise again. But slowly, carefully, in small steps that would begin with the blow, he would strike soon against the Jews.

  Chapter Thirteen

  On the slope above the moonlit Río Tajo, Smith lay hidden beneath the willow tree, listening. The terrorists had quit talking, and behind him, the city was growing quiet. Below, a waterbird shrieked, and something splashed in the river.

  Smith swung the Sig Sauer toward the river as a swimmer emerged and scrambled up, a gray wraith in the moonlight. Another was patrolling past on the hill below Smith. The one from the river muttered something in Basque, joined his comrade, and the pair continued out of earshot.

  Smith slowly let out his breath, rose to his haunches, and followed, staying low to the ground as the men continued to search the slope. There were a half dozen of them now, heading in the general direction of the Puente de San Martin bridge. When the man at the top of the slope neared the bridge road, the group exchanged a series of hand signals, and all turned abruptly and swept down toward the moving water. Smith rolled behind boulders, scraping his elbows, before they could spot him.

  At the riverbank, they crouched, consulting. Smith heard the names Zumaia, Iturbi, and Elizondo. He could see none of their faces. They were speaking quietly in rapid Basque and Spanish, and Smith caught the gist: Elizondo decided that if Smith had been here, he had somehow evaded them and was now heading back into the city, where he might contact the local police. That would be bad for them. Although Smith was a foreigner, the police would be less friendly to a Basque group.

  Zumaia was not convinced. All argued the point and eventually compromised. Because of the time factor, Zumaia, a man called Carlos, and the others would stake out various places around the city in hopes of spotting Smith. Elizondo would give up the chase, since he was supposed to be at some farm house across the river for a meeting that was vital.

  It was two words about the appointment that riveted Smith—Crescent Shield. If he understood correctly, Elizondo was going to that farm house to meet the group’s representatives. He would walk, since their cars were too distant now to fetch.

>   Smith’s luck had improved. Lying motionless, he tried to control his impatience as the men made their final plans and moved up toward the city. If he tried to follow Elizondo across the bridge, which was well lighted by street lamps, he would likely be seen. He had to find another way. He could tail at a distance, but that risked losing the terrorist leader, and he was in no position to ask too many questions of the locals. The solution was to be on the other side of the river before Elizondo crossed.

  As the terrorists moved off, Smith stripped off the shirt and trousers he had taken from the American tourist. He jumped up and ran down to the shore as he rolled the clothes into a tight bundle. Using his belt, he tied the roll to the back of his head and waded in, careful to avoid splashing. The water was cold, and it smelled of mud and rotting vegetation.

  He slipped into the black river. Head held high, he struck out in a powerful breaststroke. His hands dug in, pushed back water, and he thought about Marty lying unconscious in the Pompidou Hospital. About the men and women who had died at the Pasteur. About Thérèse Chambord. Was she even still alive?

  Angry and worried, he pulled the water in mighty strokes. When he looked up at the bridge, he could see Elizondo, illuminated by the street lamps, his red beret easy to spot. He and Elizondo were making about the same speed. Not good.

  Smith was weary, but there was no getting around it. He needed to go faster. The molecular computer was out there somewhere. Adrenaline jolted him. He pulled and kicked harder, slicing through the murky river, battling a slow current. He glanced up. The terrorist was still there, walking steadily but not so rapidly as to call attention to himself.

  Smith was ahead. He continued his sprint, working his muscles, until at last he stumbled up onto the shore, panting, his legs rubbery. But there was no time to rest. He shook off the worst of the water, yanked on his clothes, and combed his fingers through his hair as he ran up onto the street and across. He ducked between two parked cars.