He listened intently. Yes, he was right. There were quick footsteps behind, descending from a higher elevation. The steps were light but swift. He pulled out the flare gun and knife and whirled.
Randi flinched. She touched her finger to her lips.
“Randi!” he accused.
“Shhh. Be nice now.”
He grinned with relief. “Bossy as ever.”
Tall and athletically slender, she was more than a welcome sight. She had changed into dark trousers and a jacket zipped up only a third of the way, which made reaching for her weapons more convenient. There was a black watch cap on her head again, pulled down to her ears to hide her light-colored hair. She also wore dark, wraparound sunglasses secured at the back so they would not fall off if she had to go into action.
As she slipped into the shadow next to him, her face was alert but composed. “Peter’s here, too. Two-person job, you know.” She took out a mini radio and spoke into it: “I’ve got him. We’re on our way.”
“They’re coming.” He nodded back toward the Fort de la Bastille, where the clean-shaved Saudi was pointing toward where they were hidden. He was talking excitedly to Abu Auda. The men were showing no weapons. Not yet, at least.
“Come on!”
“Where to?”
“No time to explain.” She sprinted.
The Crescent Shield broke into a run toward them, spreading out as Abu Auda waved them right and left. Jon counted six, which meant there were five or so others somewhere, perhaps around here. As he rushed after Randi across the park and then higher, he wondered where those other two or three could be.
They ran onward, Randi in the lead, putting more and more distance between themselves and the Fort de la Bastille and the cable cars, as well as between themselves and the Crescent Shield. Breathing hard, he glanced back and could no longer see the terrorists. Then he heard a helicopter. Damn.
“It’s their chopper!” he told Randi as he searched the sky. “I knew all of them weren’t in the park.”
“Keep running!” she yelled back.
They raced on, focused on escape, and then Jon saw it—not the Crescent Shield’s Sikorsky, but another Hughes OH-6 Loach scout chopper. It looked like an oversized bumblebee as it settled down into an open spot twenty yards ahead and to their right. Randi swerved toward it, waving, as Peter, dressed in a black jumpsuit, dropped from the door. Next to Randi, Jon figured he had never seen a more welcome sight. Peter wore a black cap and reflecting sunglasses and held a British assault rifle up and ready.
Jon’s relief was short-lived. There was a shout of anger behind them. From the left, one of the terrorists burst out from among the trees. He had somehow managed to circle more quickly than the others. His raised weapon focused on Randi as she closed in on the vibrating chopper. Peter jumped back onboard.
In a single smooth motion, Jon spun, aimed the flare gun, and fired. It made a huge noise, although it was drowned out by the helicopter. The flare burst out in a trail of smoke and hit the terrorist in the middle of his chest.
The projectile landed with such velocity that it flung the man back into the trees. He dropped his rifle and grabbed for the flare, which protruded from beneath his rib cage. He screamed, and the high-pitched noise sent chills up Jon’s spine, because both knew what would happen next. The man’s face was contorted in terror.
The flare exploded. As the terrorist’s torso shattered, Jon dove into the helicopter after Randi. Peter did not wait for the door to be closed. He lifted off. Abu Auda and his men abandoned pretense and loosed a fusillade of pistol and submachine gunfire. The bullets slashed around the helicopter, hitting the landing gear and ripping through the walls as Jon lay on his belly, hanging onto the seat legs, trying not to slide out the open door.
Randi grabbed the back of his waistband. “I’ve got you!”
Jon’s hands were cold and sweaty, and he felt his fingers loosen. Even Randi would not be able to save him if he lost his grip. To make matters worse, Peter banked the chopper sharply to the right, trying to avoid the gunfire and get out of range. But the angle sent Jon sliding back toward the open door and certain death.
Randi swore and grabbed him under the arm with her other hand. Jon’s slide paused. Still, the inexorable pull of gravity and the wind continued. Gunfire trailing, Peter pushed the chopper out over the rivers. Jon could feel his fingers loosening again. His breath was a raw rasp as he frantically tried to tighten his grip.
“We’re out of range!” Peter bellowed.
It was none too soon. As Peter began to level the helicopter, Jon’s fingers slipped off the chair struts. He grabbed for them, but all he could find was air. Randi fell on top of him, wrapped her legs around his waist, and seized the struts herself. The helicopter’s angle had improved enough that she was able to stabilize him. He was vaguely aware of her on top of him, her weight firm, reassuring, the muscled legs tight, and somewhere in the back of his mind was the thought that under different circumstances he might enjoy this. And then the moment was gone. Terror returned.
Long seconds passed. Gravity shifted, and the pull was no longer on his feet, but along the length of his body. The helicopter was flying level at last. He remained motionless, stunned.
“Thank God that’s over.” Randi’s voice was a hoarse croak as she clambered up, hopped over him, and slammed shut the door. “I’d rather never do that again.”
The helicopter’s interior was suddenly quieter. Jon’s muscles trembled. Feeling weak, he struggled up and fell into the single rear seat. He looked up and saw Randi’s face for the first time since he dove into the helicopter. Color was returning to it. She must have been white with fear.
“Strap yourself in,” she ordered. And then she smiled a smile so broad and relieved that it lit up her whole face.
“Thank you.” His throat was tight, and his heart was pounding like a jackhammer. “That’s pretty inadequate, but I really mean it. Thank you.” He quickly locked his seat belt.
“Works fine for me. You’re welcome.” As she started to turn back toward the front, her gaze caught his. For a long moment, they looked into each other’s eyes, and understanding and forgiveness passed between them.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Heading northwest toward Paris, the helicopter left Grenoble behind. There was an appreciative silence inside as each privately acknowledged how close they had come to death. Alone in the back, Jon was emerging from his exhausted trance. He let out a deep sigh, releasing his mind and body of the stress and near-misses of the last few days. He unsnapped his belt and leaned forward between Peter and Randi, who sat in the twin pilots’ seats.
Randi grinned and patted the top of his head. “Nice doggy.”
Jon chuckled. She had an amusing way about her, and right now she seemed the most charming person in the world. There was nothing like friends, and two of his best were right here next to him. She had put earphones on over her watch cap, and her sunglasses moved from side to side as she gazed all around, looking for aircraft that might be following.
Peter wore earphones, too, and was watching his fuel gauge and the directional dials through his dark glasses. The lowering sun was off to their left, a fireball whose slanting rays illuminated the treetops and snowy fields below and ahead. Far ahead they could see the first sweep of the magnificent Rhône Valley, marked with its characteristic patchwork of vineyards.
The old OH-6’s cabin was cramped, so with Jon leaning forward, the three of them were a cozy knot. He raised his voice above the noise of the rotors and announced, “I’m ready to be filled in. How’s Marty doing?”
“The lad’s not only out of his coma, he’s chomping at the bit,” Peter reported cheerfully. He described their escape to the plastic surgery clinic where he had hidden Marty since. “He’s in good spirits now, once we told him you were, in fact, alive.”
Jon smiled. “Too bad he wasn’t more helpful about the DNA computer and Chambord.”
“Yes,” Randi said. �
�Now you. Tell us what happened at the villa in Algeria. When I heard the automatic fire, I was sure you’d been killed.”
“Chambord hadn’t been kidnapped at all,” he told them. “He was with the Crescent Shield from the beginning. Actually, they’d been with him, or at least that’s what he claims. It makes sense, knowing what I know now. He also created the deception that he was a prisoner, for Thérèse’s benefit. He had no idea Mauritania had taken her, so he was as surprised to see her as she was to see him.”
“Explains a lot,” Peter said. “But how in blazes did they get the prototype out before the missile hit?”
“They didn’t,” Jon told them. “The missile destroyed it for certain. What I don’t understand is how Chambord could’ve built another prototype and had it up and running soon enough to take over our satellites.”
“I know,” Randi agreed. “It’s baffling. But our people say no other computer has the power, speed, or capacity to reprogram the satellites through all their codes, firewalls, and other defenses. In fact, most of our safeguards are still classified and supposedly impossible to discover, much less breach.”
Peter checked the time, the distance they had come, and the fuel gauge. He said, “Perhaps you’re both right. But why couldn’t there be a second prototype?”
Jon and Randi exchanged a glance.
“That’s an idea, Peter,” Randi said.
Jon said slowly, “One already in existence. One that Chambord either had access to, had set up to be programmed remotely, or had trained someone else to operate on his instructions. Also, one that Mauritania appeared to know nothing about.”
“Swell,” Randi grumbled. “A second DNA computer. Just what we need.”
“It makes a lot of sense, especially when combined with what I haven’t brought up yet.”
“That sounds ominous,” Peter said. “Fill us in, Jon.”
Jon stared ahead through the helicopter’s windshield at the French countryside, threaded with small rivers and canals and dotted with neat farm houses. “I told you I learned at the villa that Chambord had been part of the terrorism from the start,” he said, “and that he probably helped plan the attack on us.”
“Right. And?” Randi prompted.
“Hours ago, before I finally got away from Abu Auda, it began to make sense that not only did the Crescent Shield use the Basques for cover, Chambord and Bonnard have been using the Shield for cover, too. The Shield has a fairly large and flexible organization with terrorist skills, and it could do what Bonnard and Chambord couldn’t do by themselves. But I think the Shield gave them something else as well…it’s their stalking horse. A group to blame for whatever horror they’re really planning. Who better to pin it on than an Islamic extremist group led by a man who was once a top lieutenant of Osama bin Laden? Which, by the way, is maybe why they took Mauritania with them. They could be planning to make them the fall guy.”
Randi frowned. “So you’re saying the two of them, Chambord and Bonnard, are behind all the electronic attacks on the U.S. But why? What possible motive could a world-renowned scientist and a respected French army officer have?”
Jon shrugged. “My guess is, their goal won’t turn out to be dropping a mid-range tactical nuclear missile on Jerusalem or Tel Aviv. That makes political sense for the Crescent Shield, but not for a pair of Frenchmen like Chambord or Bonnard. I figure they’re planning something else, most likely against the United States, since they’ve now taken out our satellites. But I still haven’t been able to figure out why.”
As the wind rushed past, and the helicopter’s rotors beat a steady tattoo, the three friends fell silent.
“And the Shield knows nothing about what Bonnard and Chambord are planning?” Randi asked.
“From listening to all their talk, I’d say the idea that Bonnard and Chambord weren’t their dupes never occurred to the Crescent Shield. That’s what happens to fanatics, they see nothing but what they want to see.”
Peter’s hands tightened on the controls. “I expect you’re right about the stalking horse. Could get nasty for whoever gets the blame for what they’ve done so far, never mind whatever Armageddon they’re planning. Like what happened after the World Trade Center and the Pentagon were attacked. Our soldier and scientist wouldn’t want responsibility for something like Afghanistan to come crashing down on their heads.”
“Exactly,” Jon acknowledged. “I think Chambord anticipates nations may converge again to hunt down the perpetrators this time, too. So he wants a patsy, someone the world is ready to believe would do it. Mauritania and the Crescent Shield are perfect for that. It’s a little-known terrorist group, so who’ll believe their denials, especially if it looks as if they’ve been caught red-handed? And then, too, all the evidence makes it look as if they kidnapped Chambord, which he’ll swear to. He lies well enough that he’ll be believed. Take it from me.”
“What about Thérèse?” Randi said. “She knows the truth by now, right?”
“I don’t know if she knows the whole truth, but she knows about her father. She’s learned too much, which must be worrying Chambord. If push comes to shove, he might sacrifice her to save his plan. Or Bonnard will take the decision out of his hands and handle it himself.”
“His own daughter.” Randi shuddered.
“He’s either unbalanced or a fanatic,” Jon said. “They’re the only reasons I can see for his doing such an about-face—from illustrious scientist to down-and-dirty terrorist.”
Peter was gazing out at the land, his leathery face intense as he studied roads. “Going to have to pause our discussion a bit.” They were approaching a small city built along a river. “That’s Mâcon, right at the edge of Burgundy. River’s called the Saône. Peaceful-looking little place, isn’t it? Turns out, it is. Randi and I refueled here on our way to track you down, Jon. No problems, so I’m going to set us down here again. The gas tank’s hungry. When was the last time you ate, Jon?”
“Damned if I remember.”
“Then we’d best pick up more than petrol.”
In the long, undulating shadows of late afternoon, Peter landed the OH-6 at the small airport.
Outside Bousmelet-sur-Seine, France
Émile Chambord leaned back in the desk chair and stretched. The stone walls, evil-looking medieval weapons, dusty suits of armor, and high vaulted ceiling of this windowless work area were cheerless, although a thick Berber rug covered the floor, and lamps cast warm pools of light. That he was working here in the armory where there were no windows was the way he wanted it. No windows, no distractions, and whenever worries about Thérèse entered his mind, he pushed them far away.
He gazed lovingly at his prototype on the long table. Although he enjoyed everything about it, he was particularly in awe of its speed and power. It tested each possible answer to any problem simultaneously, rather than sequentially, which was how the largest and fastest silicon-chip computers worked. In cyber terms, the world’s fastest silicon supercomputers took a long, long time. Still, they were faster than a human brain. But swiftest of all was his molecular machine, its velocity almost incomprehensible.
And the basis was in the gel packs, in the special DNA sequence he had created. The spiral string of DNA that curled inside every living cell—the natural chemistry underlying all living things—had been his artist’s palette. And the result was that intractable problems such as those that cropped up in artificial intelligence systems, in fashioning complex computer networks like the information superhighway, and in conducting intricate games such as three-dimensional chess, which were impossible for the most powerful supercomputer, could easily be digested by his molecular marvel. After all, it was merely a matter of selecting the correct path through an enormous number of possible choices.
He was also fascinated by his brainchild’s ability to continually alter its identity while using only one-hundredth of its power. It simply maintained a firewall that changed its access code faster than any conventional computer could cr
ack it. In essence, his molecular machine “evolved” while being used, and the more it was used, the more it evolved. In the cold stone room, he smiled as he recalled the first image he had seen in his mind when he conceived this attribute. His prototype was like the Borg on the American television show Star Trek, which evolved instantly to find a fresh defense against any attack. Now he was using his constantly unfolding machine to counter the most insidious attack of all—on the soul of France.
For inspiration, he gazed again at the reproduction of the noble painting above his desk, and then with a determined heart, he resumed searching for clues to where Marty Zellerbach was hiding. He had easily entered Marty’s computer system at his home in Washington and waltzed in seconds through the computer geek’s specially designed software defenses. Unfortunately, Marty had not visited it since the night of the Pasteur attack, so Chambord found no clue to his whereabouts there. Disappointed, he left a little “gift” and moved on.
He knew the name of Marty’s bank, so it was a simple matter to check his records. But again, there was no new activity. He thought for a moment and had another idea—Marty’s credit card.
As a record of Marty’s purchases appeared on the screen, Chambord’s austere face smiled, and his intense eyes flashed. Oui! Yesterday, Marty had bought a laptop in Paris. He picked up the cellular telephone on the table beside him.
Vaduz, Liechtenstein
Carved out of the lush countryside between Switzerland and Austria, the small principality of Liechtenstein was often overlooked by ordinary tourists, while prized by foreigners who needed a safe place to transport or hide money. Liechtenstein was known for both its breathtaking scenery and absolute secrecy.
The Paris Option Page 38
