The Paris Option

by Robert Ludlum

The instant the guard walked around the rear corner and out of sight, Jon stepped from the thick cover and sprinted to the hidden corner of the house. The door was unlocked. Considering the myriad access points through open windows to what seemed like every room, it was hardly a surprise. Still, he maintained his caution, and he opened the door an inch at a time. Through the widening gap, he saw a polished tile floor, expensive Arab furniture, modern abstract paintings that were far from traditional but would not offend Islamic sensibilities, small curtained alcoves for quiet reading and meditating, and no humans.

  He eased inside, the Walther out in both hands. Another room, similar to the first, was clearly visible through a traditional Moorish archway. In this land, which had been overrun and occupied by a long series of conquerors and settlers, it was the Arabs who had left the most lasting influence. They were also still a majority. Despite the tenacity of the Berber tribes and the power of French bureaucrats and residents, some Arabs were still trying to take Algeria back to full Islamic control, a goal that had proved long, difficult, and particularly bloody. It also accounted for why so many Islamic residents supported and even harbored fundamentalist killers.

  The next room was as empty as the first, and he continued to move cautiously through more cool, shadowed rooms. He encountered no one. Then he heard voices ahead.

  Redoubling his caution, he closed in, the words growing steadily clearer. At last, he recognized a voice—Mauritania’s. He had found a Crescent Shield hideout of some kind. Perhaps even a headquarters. Nervy and excited, he slid into a corner and listened. There was an echoing quality to the voices that told him they were in a large room with a high ceiling, higher than the ones he had passed through.

  He moved again until the voices were obviously coming from the next archway. He flattened back against the wall next to it and peered around at the backs of some dozen men who were gathered in a great room under the building’s soaring dome. They were a wildly disparate group—bedouins in their long robes, Indonesians wearing the latest in Levi’s and designer T-shirts, Afghans in pyjama pants with their trademark long-tailed puggarees wrapped around their heads. All carried weapons, which ranged from the most modern assault rifles to battered old AK-47s. At the front of the room, the small, deceptively mild-looking Mauritania was perched on the edge of an oak library table, dressed in long white robes. He was talking in French. The crowd of men were listening with rapt attention.

  “Dr. Suleiman has arrived and is resting,” he announced. “He will report to me soon, and the moment Abu Auda arrives, the countdown will begin.”

  The gathered terrorists erupted in excited cries of Alahu Akbar and other exclamations in a myriad of languages, most of which Jon did not understand. They waved their weapons overhead and shook them.

  Mauritania continued, “They’ll call us terrorists, but we’re not. We’re guerrillas, soldiers in the service of God, and with God’s help we’ll triumph.” He raised the palms of his hands, silencing the tumult. “We’ve tested the Frenchman’s device. We’ve misdirected attention to America. And now we’ll blind and silence the Americans so they can’t warn their Jewish lackeys when the Russian tactical missile is stolen and sent on its glorious way to wipe the Zionists from our sacred land!”

  The roar this time was so great, the fierce cries so loud and intense, that the dome seemed to shake.

  As the noise subsided, Mauritania’s fair eyes darkened, and his face grew solemn. “It’ll be a great explosion,” he promised. “It’ll destroy them all. But the Great Satan’s reach is long, too, and many of our people will be killed as well. This saddens me. That we’ll lose a single son of Mohammed stabs me to the heart. But it must be done to cleanse the land, to end this bastard nation of Zion. We will erase the heart of Israel. Our people who die will be martyrs and go straight into God’s arms, in glory forever.”

  Shouts burst forth again. Where he crouched in the next room, Jon’s blood was chilled. It was a nuclear attack, and it was not aimed at the United States. The target was Israel. From what Mauritania had said, the DNA computer was going to reprogram an old Soviet medium-range tactical nuclear missile and drop it on Jerusalem, “the heart of Israel,” erasing millions in that country as well as many others in neighboring nations, all Arab countries, sacrificed for Mauritania’s sick dreams.

  Jon spun away from the wall. He had no more time. He had to find Dr. Chambord and destroy the DNA computer. They must be somewhere in this sprawling, whitewashed building. Peter, Marty, and Thérèse might be here, too. Hoping he would find all of them, he circled through more empty rooms, searching.

  The Naval Base, Toulon, France

  In the spring twilight, Maître Principal Marcel Dalio left the Toulon naval base through the security gate. He was a nondescript man in many ways, of average height and weight, and circumspect in his demeanor. But his craggy face made him a standout. Although he was a virile fifty-year-old, he looked a good twenty years older. It came from the years at sea in the constant sun, wind, and salt air. The elements had etched his face into a Grand Canyon of ravines, crevices, and mesas.

  As he walked along, his great face, handsome in its dramatic character, turned to take in all the sights of the Toulon harbor with its fishing boats, private yachts, and cruise ships, which were just beginning the season. Then his gaze swept out to sea where his own ship, the mighty carrier Charles de Gaulle, rode at anchor. He was proud to be a maître principal, similar to a chief petty officer in the American navy, and even prouder to serve on the grand De Gaulle.

  Soon Dalio reached his favorite bistro, on a narrow back street off the quai Stalingrad. The proprietor greeted him by name, bowed, and ceremoniously led him to his favorite secluded table at the rear.

  “What is best today, César?” Dalio asked.

  “Madame has outdone herself with the daube de boeuf, Maître Principal.”

  “Then bring it, by all means. And a nice Côte du Rhône.”

  Dalio sat back and glanced around the provincial bistro. As the naval petty officer had expected, since the season was spring the restaurant was not yet crowded. No one showed interest in him or his uniform. Tourists tended to stare at a uniformed Frenchman in Toulon, since many came principally to see the naval base, hoping to have a good view of the warships and, if very lucky, an onboard tour.

  When his food and wine arrived, Dalio ate his daube de boeuf slowly, savoring the heavy flavor of the mutton stew as only the proprietor’s wife could create it. He made short work of his Côte du Rhône, its lovely mulberry color glistening like blood in his wineglass. He finished with a tarte au citron and lingered over his demitasse coffee. At last he left for the pissoir at the rear. Like all those near the quai Stalingrad, this bistro catered to tourists most of the year. For the sensibilities of the well-paying American crowd, it had not only installed separate facilities for men and women, it also included stalls in both.

  Inside the door, Dalio noted with relief that the pissoir appeared empty. He bent over to check that all the stalls were, too. Satisfied, he locked himself inside the one he had been told to use, lowered his trousers, and sat. He waited.

  Moments later, another man entered the next stall and spoke softly in French. “Marcel?”?

  “Oui.”

  “Relax, old friend, you’ll be revealing no state secrets.”

  “You know I wouldn’t do that anyway, Peter.”

  “True,” Peter Howell acknowledged. “What did you discover?”

  “Apparently—” Dalio paused as a man entered the men’s room. As soon as the fellow washed his hands and left, Dalio continued, “The official word was that we had orders from NATO to demonstrate our drill for running dark to a committee of EU and NATO generals.”

  “Which NATO generals?”

  “One was our Deputy Supreme Commander, General Roland la Porte.”

  “The others?”

  “Didn’t recognize them,” the maître principal told him, “but by their uniforms, they were German, Spanish
, English, and Italian.”

  Two more men pushed into the facility, laughing raucously while holding a loud, half-drunken conversation. In the stalls, Peter and Marcel Dalio remained silent while they endured the stumbling, slurring inanity. In Peter’s mind, he was gauging whether their behavior was real or an act for his and Marcel’s benefit.

  When the pair left, having at last worked out who would attempt to seduce the redhead on the barstool next to them, Peter sighed. “Bloody boors. Very good, Marcel. You’ve given me the official line. What’s the unofficial?”

  “Yes, I thought you might ask about that. A couple of the stewards told me the generals never went out on deck. They spent their whole time in a closed meeting below, and then they left the ship right after the meeting ended.”

  Peter came alert. “How’d they get off the ship?”

  “Helicopters.”

  “They flew to the ship on their own choppers and left in them, too?”

  Dalio nodded. Then he remembered Peter could not see him. So he said, “That’s what the stewards thought. I was below most of the cruise so didn’t see any of it.”

  So that’s where General Moore was, Peter thought. But why? “Did any of the stewards know what the meeting was about?”

  “Not that they mentioned.”

  Peter stroked his nose. “See if you can find out, and if you do, contact me through this phone number.” Under the partition he slid a card on which he had written the phone number of an MI6 contact drop.

  “All right,” Dalio agreed.

  “Merci beaucoup, Marcel. I owe you.”

  “I’ll remember that,” the maître principal said. “I hope I never have to collect.”

  Peter left first, and then Dalio, who returned to his table to enjoy a second pot of demitasse coffee. He glanced idly around the entire restaurant once more. He saw no one he knew or anyone who looked suspicious. Peter himself, of course, was nowhere to be seen.

  The Western Mediterranean, Aboard Missile

  Cruiser USS Saratoga

  The combat information center of the AEGIS Weapons System cruiser was a dark, cluttered cave. It had the almost-odorless, highly filtered smell of all U.S. government locations where millions of taxpayer dollars in electronic equipment were at work. Randi sat behind a communications technician, watching mechanical hands sweep across luminous radar and sonar screens, while she listened to Max’s voice on the radio shout above the throb of the Seahawk helicopter’s rotors.

  The chopper was patrolling along the Algerian coast, and Max had radioed to let her know he had found the boat on which Jon had stowed.

  “It’s the same boat,” he bellowed.

  “You’re sure?” Randi pursed her lips and considered the tiny blip on the radar screen relayed from the Seahawk.

  “Definite. I spent a lot of time studying it while Jon was swimming out to it and then after he boarded.”

  “Any sign of people? Of Jon?”

  “No one and nothing,” Max’s voice shouted.

  “It’s getting dark out there. How far away are you?”

  “Over a mile, but I’m using binoculars, and I can see it clear. No raft or dinghy on the boat.”

  “Where could they have gone?”

  “There’s a big villa on a finger of land that juts out into the Mediterranean. About a half mile inland are a bunch of low buildings that could be barracks. Looks like there’s a parade ground, too. The whole thing’s pretty isolated. The main road turns off before it gets near the place, and then it passes far south.”

  “You can’t see any people? Any activity?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Okay, come on back.” Randi mulled the information. At last, she turned to the young petty officer who had been assigned to help her. “I need to talk to the captain.”

  She found Captain Lainson having coffee in his quarters with his executive officer, Commander Schroeder. They had been ordered to detach from their carrier group to shepherd what appeared to be a minor clandestine CIA mission, and this had put neither officer in a good mood. But they sat straighter and listened with obvious interest as Randi described her plans and needs.

  “I think we can insert you and stand ready easily enough, Agent Russell,” Commander Schroeder assured her.

  “This is cleared with Washington and NATO, I presume?” Captain Lainson questioned.

  She said firmly, “Langley assures me it is.”

  The captain nodded, his face noncommittal. “We’ll insert you, that’s fine. But I’ll have to go through the Pentagon for the rest.”

  “Do it fast. We don’t know yet exactly what kind of disaster we’re facing, but it won’t be minor. If we don’t end the threat, the loss of just a carrier battle group could look like a victory.” Randi could see skepticism vie with uneasiness in the officers’ eyes. She left them to their work and returned to her makeshift quarters to change.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Outside Algiers, Algeria

  After a careful search, Jon found what looked like the bedroom wing of the sprawling villa, where there were actual doors on some of the rooms. The doors were carved, heavy wood, with solid brass fittings that looked as if they might date back to the days of the first Arab and Berber dynasties.

  Jon stopped at a side corridor with magnificent mosaics that began their designs on the floor and wrapped completely up the walls and across the ceiling. Every square inch was covered with bits of perfectly placed semiprecious stones and glazed tiles, many with gold leaf. Whatever rooms were off this passage had been set off, secluded, and they must have belonged to someone important. Perhaps they still did.

  He moved cautiously down the jewel-like hall. It was like being inside a long treasure box. At the end, he stopped. Here was the only door, and it was not only closed, it was locked from the outside by an antique sliding bolt that looked as sturdy as the day it had been forged. The door itself had filigreed fittings and was intricately carved, elegant, and massive. He pressed his ear to it. What he heard made his heart accelerate—the clicks of a keyboard.

  He slid open the bolt and turned the handle with slow, steady pressure until he felt rather than heard the door’s interior latch open. He pressed the door in a few inches until he could see a room furnished comfortably with Western overstuffed chairs, simple tables, a bed, and a desk. There was also an archway that opened onto a whitewashed corridor.

  But the center of gravity, the heart of the room, the point where Jon’s gaze was riveted was the long, thin back of Émile Chambord, who was stooped over the desk, working at a keyboard that was connected to a strange, clumsy-looking apparatus. Jon recognized it instantly: the DNA computer.

  He forgot where he was, the danger of it all. Transfixed by the science, he studied the machine: There was a glass tray, and inside lay a collection of silvery blue gel packs, which must contain the vital DNA polymers. Connected by ultrathin tubing, the gel packs were submerged in a foam-like jelly, which would prevent vibration and keep the readout stream stable. The tray appeared to be temperature controlled, which was also crucial since molecular interaction was highly temperature sensitive. There was a small digital readout for set-point adjustment.

  Nearby, another machine with an open, glass face was linked to the gel packs by more of the thin tubing. Through the glass he could see a series of small pumps and glass canisters. That had to be the DNA synthesizer—the feeder station for the gel packs. Small lights blinked on its control panel.

  Excited, Jon drank in the rest of Chambord’s miraculous creation. A “lid” sat on top of the tray, and at the interface between it and the packs of DNA was what appeared to be a thin plate of soft metal coated with a bio-film—probably another type of molecular polymer. He deduced it must be a sensor device, absorbing the DNA chemical energy, changing its conformation, and emitting light as a result.

  What an ingenious idea—a molecular switch that was based on light. Chambord was using the DNA molecules not only to compute; another class of m
olecules in the sensor detected the computation. A brilliant solution to what had been an impossible problem.

  In awe, Jon forced himself to take a deep breath. He reminded himself of the reason he was here, the danger this machine presented to the world. Considering that it was still in enemy territory, Fred Klein would want him to destroy it instantly. But Chambord’s prototype was not only scientifically beautiful, it was ground-breaking. It would revolutionize the future and could make life better and easier for masses of people. It would be years before anyone else came close to approximating what was here right now in this room.

  As Jon argued with himself, he eased the door farther open and slid into the room. Using the handle, he held the latch bolt open and closed the door. As the bolt slid gently home, he decided he would give himself one serious chance to get the prototype out safely. If he failed, if he had no other option…he would wreck it.

  Still having made no sound, he looked for a lock on this side of the door, but there was none. He turned and studied the airy room, lighted by electricity even though the villa dated back long before its invention. The windows were open onto the night, and filmy curtains floated in on a light breeze. But the windows were barred.

  He focused on the archway, which showed what appeared to be another hallway and the edge of another archway that opened onto yet another room. The layout suggested a complex of rooms reachable from the rest of the house only by the door behind him, locked from the outside. He nodded to himself. This would once have been the quarters of the favorite wife of a Berber noble or perhaps of the queen of a seraglio—harem—of a Turkish official from the old Ottoman Empire.

  He started across the room to Chambord, when the scientist suddenly turned. A pistol was in his bony hand, pointed at Jon.

  A cry in French came from the archway: “No, Papa! You know who this is. It’s our friend, Dr. Smith. He tried to help us escape in Toledo. Put down the gun, Papa!”

  The pistol held steady, still aimed across the room at Jon. Chambord frowned, his cadaverous face suspicious.