The Paris Option

by Robert Ludlum

  Jon whispered a description of what he saw. Then: “Abu Auda’s pushing in the door. They’re all busy with what’s inside the room. Now’s our chance.” He gave them quick instructions, and they ran from their hiding places and into the shadowy passageway.

  He and Randi knelt, while Peter, Marty, and Thérèse stood behind. They opened fire at the Crescent Shield terrorists.

  The volley whined and slammed against the walls and ceiling. One terrorist fell with a scream. Abu Auda and the rest whirled, dropped flat across the corridor, and returned fire. Mauritania crawled from the room and into the hall. He grabbed the fallen man’s weapon and joined in. The din reverberated and magnified along the stone passage.

  As strings of apparently unintelligible numbers, symbols, and letters filled his screen, Dr. Chambord battled to reprogram the old Soviet missile in the faraway Arctic taiga. He did not understand why he was having so much trouble, why the codes were new.

  “We should’ve stayed with the first missile you chose, General,” he said over his shoulder to La Porte, who sat behind him against the far wall. Two soldiers stood guard on either side of the general. “That missile was as simple to break into as the one the Shield wanted to send against Jerusalem. But this one’s codes are different, more difficult. Actually, cutting edge.”

  “You must find a way, Doctor,” the general insisted. “Immediately.”

  Dr. Chambord did not bother to nod. His fingers continued to pound the keyboard. At last, he stopped and worriedly studied the screen. With relief, he announced, “All right. There. It’s done. One reprogrammed ICBM. Aimed, ready, and timed to launch automatically at midnight.”

  He had started to turn toward La Porte, but he stopped as if suddenly paralyzed. He frowned, and, almost in slow motion, his gaze returned to his monitor again. Tormented by fear, he touched a few keys and watched the answer to his question appear on the screen. He was right.

  His hands jerked off the keyboard as if he had received an electric shock. He spun his chair around. His voice rose: “There’s a nuclear warhead on that missile you had me program! It’s not decommissioned. It’s fully armed and operational! That’s why there are new codes on it. My God! How could you make such a mistake? It’s nuclear, General. Nuclear! This is no simple missile strike to make a point!” He whirled back to his keyboard. His breath came in gasps of fear and outrage. He muttered, “There’s still time. I must shut it down…there’s still time—”

  A bullet screamed past Chambord’s ear and chipped stone into his face. “What!” He jumped, turned, and saw the pistol in the general’s hand.

  La Porte’s voice was calm, calculating. “Move away from the keyboard, Doctor.”

  Dr. Chambord inhaled sharply, afraid. He was angry, but he was also beginning to understand that his own life was in danger. “Tell me you didn’t intend this diabolical act, General. A nuclear attack. Unbelievable!”

  From his high-backed, antique chair, La Porte lowered his pistol, allowing it to dangle casually in his big hand. His booming voice said confidentially, “There’s been no mistake, Doctor. A conventional warhead wouldn’t have provided the concussive shock Europe and France needed. This way, there can be no hesitation. They’ll see we must make a new beginning. After this, they’ll vote on Monday the way I wish.”

  Dr. Chambord frowned again. “But you said…you told me—”

  La Porte sighed, bored. “I simply affirmed what your bourgeois conscience wanted to hear. You still have that silly peasant fear to dare the ultimate. Take my advice, Doctor. Always dare. Who dares, wins, my poor Chambord. Even the English and the unfathomable Americans sometimes see the truth in that.”

  Dr. Chambord was an introverted man, unaccustomed to expressing emotion. In fact, he was uncomfortable with both tears and laughter, a characteristic of narrow feelings that his wife had occasionally complained about. He missed her now especially. But then, he had missed her every day since her death. He had always told her that the mind was an infinitely complex system, and even if he did not express his emotions, he felt them as deeply as she.

  As these thoughts occurred to him, he found himself calming. It became clear what he must do.

  He knit his fingers together in front of him and said earnestly, “You’ll murder outright at least a half million with the ICBM. The radiation will kill untold additional millions. It will lay waste to…” He stopped and stared.

  The general’s pistol had risen again, and now it pointed at Chambord’s heart. The general had a haughty expression on his face, and Chambord had a sudden impression that the tall chair on which he sat was no chair. It was a throne.

  Outraged, Dr. Chambord cursed. “That’s it! You intended this all along. That’s why you picked Omaha. It’s not just because it’s the headquarters of the U.S. Strategic Command and a more important military target than even the Pentagon. Or because it’s a hub of information services and telecommunications industries. It’s because it’s the Heartland, as they call it, where people think of themselves as safe because they’re buried in the middle of the continent. The whole United States thinks of the Midwest as safe. With one blow, you show that the safest people in the safest place are unsafe by turning their ‘heartland’ into a wasteland, while you cripple America’s military. So many deaths just to make a point. You’re a monster, La Porte! A monster.”

  General La Porte shrugged. “It’s necessary.”

  “Armageddon.” Chambord could barely breathe.

  “From the ashes, the phoenix of France—of Europe—will rise again.”

  “You’re mad, La Porte.”

  La Porte stood, his size and personality again dominating the armory. “Possibly mad, Doctor. But unfortunately for you, I’m not crazy. When the authorities arrive, they’ll find the bodies of Mauritania, of Captain Bonnard, and of you.”

  “You’ll be gone.” Chambord’s voice sounded dead even to himself. “It’ll be as if you were never here. They won’t know you’re behind all this.”

  “Naturally. I couldn’t hope to explain the use of my castle in your horrible plot, should you and Captain Bonnard survive. I appreciate all your help.”

  “Our dream was a lie.”

  “No lie. Just not as small as you thought.” The general’s two pistol shots exploded in the vaulted room. “Good-bye, Chambord. You’ve served France well.”

  Eyes open, the scientist fell from his chair like a deflated toy.

  At the same moment, a violent fusillade of gunfire seemed to come from everywhere. La Porte stiffened. The Crescent Shield had been at the other end of the castle. How could they be so close now?

  He thundered toward the door, gesturing to the two Legionnaires inside the armory to follow. In the corridor, he paused to bark orders to the two waiting sentries, and all five bolted down the stairs.

  “Back!” Jon warned over the din and flying bullets.

  Noise no longer mattered, so they raced back along the corridor toward the spiral stairway that led up into the east tower. In the confined space of the stone walls, the firing behind them sounded as if it came from an army.

  Above them, the door to the armory slammed open, followed by a shout in rapid French. Meanwhile, from below, there were new noises. Booted feet were pounding upward. The Legionnaires to the rescue.

  Jon, Randi, Peter, Marty, and Thérèse dove into two empty rooms on either side of the hall.

  Breathing hard, Jon cracked open his door and saw Peter inch his open, too. They watched La Porte, out of uniform, and four Legionnaires burst past, heading toward where the Crescent Shield’s cutting-out party was still firing, attacked by Legionnaires, Jon guessed. General La Porte bellowed an order that was lost in a thunderous fusillade.

  Jon and Peter slid out into the passage, followed by the others. They tore onward to the tower stairs while in the distance behind them the Legionnaires and the Crescent Shield continued to battle.

  Jon in the lead, the four others following, they climbed swiftly. At the top,
they paused and looked carefully all around. The door to the armory stood wide open, and there were no sounds from inside. The shadowy landing with its weak electric lights and narrow windows built for the use of archers was abandoned.

  “What does it mean?” Marty wanted to know.

  Jon motioned for silence. With hand signals, he sent Peter and Randi into the armory. “Marty, Thérèse, and I’ll cover the stairs,” he whispered.

  Almost instantly, Randi was back out. “Everybody, come in here.” She beckoned them inside. “Hurry.”

  Marty dashed in after her, looking for the prototype, with Thérèse right behind. Jon brought up the rear, watching for danger. They stopped together, stunned by the sight of Émile Chambord on the carpet beside his desk. He was pitched over onto his face, as if he had fallen forward from his chair.

  Thérèse covered her cheeks with her hands. “Papa! Oh no!” She ran to him.

  “Oh, dear. Oh, dear.” Marty followed and patted her shoulder.

  Thérèse sobbed, dropped to her knees, and rolled her father over. There were two bullet holes in his chest. Blood matted his shirt.

  “Is he alive, Jon? Tell me whether he’s alive!”

  As Jon crouched beside her, he looked at his watch. “Mart! The computer. It’s less than two minutes to midnight!”

  Marty shook his round head as if to clear it. “Okay, Jon.” He fell into Émile Chambord’s chair and went to work on the keyboard.

  Peter ran toward the door. “Let’s go, Randi. Somebody has to watch their backs.”

  Nodding agreement, she tore after him. Their dark clothes faded into the landing’s long shadows.

  Jon checked Dr. Chambord. “Looks as if both of the bullets entered your father’s heart. I’m sorry, Thérèse. He died instantly.”

  She nodded and wept.

  Shaking his head, Jon stood up and hurried around to where he could stand behind Marty and be available if needed. At the same time, he surveyed the old armory, with its medieval armaments, shields, and armor hanging from the stone walls and leaning in corners. The room was vast, with quite a bit of furniture, all of it old, heavy wood. The ceiling was high, and the electric lights inadequate to thoroughly illuminate it. In fact, it appeared to him that fully three-quarters of the big room was without light. The fixtures were only in this section near the door. Still, Jon could see far enough back to make out stacks of wood crates, which he assumed held ammunition.

  “Faster, you monster,” Marty exhorted the silent apparatus. “Resist the master, will you? You cannot defeat the Paladin. There, that’s better. Zounds, you slippery beast. Aha! You can squirm, and you can flee all you want, but you can’t hide from—” He jerked and was silent.

  “What is it, Marty?” Jon asked quickly. “What do you see?” He stared at the numbers, symbols, and letters as they scaled the screen, line after line. Although he could do rudimentary programming, he had no idea what any of them meant.

  Marty bounced in the chair as if it were a hot seat. “Snake! Dragon! You cannot defeat the hero, the knight, the warrior. Calm…calm…there now…there…ah! I have you, you filthy jabberwock, you…Oh God!”

  “Something’s happened, Marty. Tell me what it is!”

  He looked up at Jon, his sturdy face pale. “Émile picked an operational Russian ICBM. It’s armed. Nuclear armed. And now it’s…it’s…launched!” He gasped as he returned to translate the information on the screen. “The missile’s in the air. It’s gone!”

  Jon’s chest tightened. His mouth went dry. “Where’s it going, Mart? What’s the target?”

  Marty blinked. “Omaha.” He stared at the monitor and then back up at Jon, his face a mask of misery and alarm. “We’re too late.”

  Chapter Forty

  Air Force One, Landing in Omaha

  Alone in his private quarters, the powerful throb of the four jet engines in his ears, President Castilla stared at his reflection in the window as Air Force One’s wheels touched the runway in a solid landing. Soon he and his people would be safe in the heavily fortified underground bunkers of the U.S. Strategic Command—or STRATCOM as everyone called it—here at Offutt Air Force Base. STRATCOM was the beating heart of the country’s defense, charged with the planning, targeting, and war time deployment of strategic forces. While NORAD monitored the skies, STRATCOM coordinated any retaliatory strikes.

  He adjusted his gaze and looked out the window: Yes, an Air Force One—style jet was speeding down another runway, about to lift off. One of the fleet was always stationed at STRATCOM for emergencies. Now it would be a diversion, attracting the attention of any enemy searching for him.

  The president heaved a deep sigh, feeling guilty for the lives that were put in peril to protect him and his office. He turned from the window. As the big jet slowed and began to taxi, he picked up the microphone of a large shortwave radio.

  “How are you holding up, Brandon?”

  From his bunker in North Carolina, Vice President Brandon Erikson said, “Good, Sam, good. You?”

  “Tolerable. Starting to sweat though. Could use a shower.”

  “I know.”

  “Ready to take over, Brandon?”

  “There won’t be any need for that.”

  The president gave a mirthless chuckle. “Always liked your confidence. I’ll be in touch.” He clicked off. As he adjusted his weight uneasily in the chair, a sharp knocking hammered his door. “Come!”

  Chuck Ouray entered. His face was a gray mask, and his legs appeared wobbly. “It’s STRATCOM command center, sir. The experimental missile defense has crashed. There’s nothing left for us to do. We’re totally helpless. The chiefs are talking to the scientists, trying to get everything back up, but they’re not optimistic.”

  “On my way.”

  Château la Rouge

  Tension filled the dank old armory. Jon peered anxiously over Marty’s shoulder at the computer screen. The room was cold and quiet. The only sounds were of muted gunfire and the clicking of the keyboard as Marty frantically worked.

  Jon did not want to interrupt Marty. Still: “Can you abort the missile?”

  “I’m trying.” Marty’s voice was hoarse, as if he had forgotten how to talk. He glanced up. “Darn it, I did too good a job teaching Émile. He’s done a lot of damage…and I’m to blame!” His gaze returned to the monitor, and he pounded the keyboard, searching for a way to stop the missile. “Émile learned fast…I’ve found it. Oh no! The missile’s at its apogee—halfway across the Atlantic!”

  Jon felt himself tremble. His nerves were as taut as a violin string. He took a breath to relax and clamped a reassuring hand on Marty’s shoulder. “You’ve got to find some way…any way…to stop that nuclear warhead, Mart.”

  Captain Darius Bonnard leaned against the stone wall, his bloody left arm dangling useless, a wadded shirt pressed against his bleeding side, as he struggled to maintain consciousness. Most of the men were behind a barricade of heavy medieval furniture around the corner. He could hear the general calling orders and encouraging them. Bonnard listened with a small smile on his face. He had expected to die in some glorious Legion battle against a powerful enemy of France, but this apparently small contest might be even more worthy, and the enemy the most crucial of all. After all, this was a clear-cut struggle for the future.

  As he comforted himself with those thoughts, he saw a sweaty soldier of the Second Legion Regiment rushing toward him, heading for the barricade.

  Bonnard held up his hand. “Stop. Report.”

  “We found Maurice, tied and gagged. He was guarding the Chambord woman. He says his attackers were three men and an armed woman. The Islamics wouldn’t have a female soldier.”

  Bonnard staggered upright. It had to be that CIA witch, which meant Jon Smith and his people were here. Leaning on the Legionnaire’s shoulder, he stumbled around the corner, fell behind the barricade, and crawled to where La Porte was crouched and firing at the wall of furniture at the distant end of the passage.


  Bonnard panted. “Colonel Smith’s here, General. In the castle. He’s got three people with him.”

  La Porte frowned and checked his watch. It was seconds before midnight. He gave a brief, satisfied smile. “Do not concern yourself, Darius. They’re too late—” He paused, realizing the number was significant. Four. There should be only three—Smith, the Englishman Howell, and the CIA woman. “Zellerbach! They must have brought Zellerbach, too. If anyone can interfere with the attack, it’s him.” He bawled orders. Then: “Retreat! To the armory. Go!”

  As the men raced away, La Porte gazed at his longtime aide, who looked badly wounded. With luck, he would die. Still, it was a risk to wait. He checked to make certain the Legionnaires’ backs were turned.

  “What is it, mon Général?” Bonnard was watching him weakly, puzzled.

  La Porte felt a moment of sentiment. “Thank you for all your good services.” Then he shrugged and whispered, “Bon voyage, Darius.” He shot him in the head, jumped to his feet, and trotted after his soldiers.

  Omaha, Nebraska

  The president and his entourage were packed into three heavily armored SUVs, speeding across Offutt’s tarmac. Inside his SUV, the president’s radio crackled. He picked it up and listened as a disembodied voice from the command center reported, “We’re not making any headway, Mr. President.” The man’s tones hinted at barely controlled panic. “The codes keep readjusting. We can’t imagine how they did this. It’s impossible for a computer to react so fast…”

  “Not impossible for this computer,” Chief of Staff Ouray muttered.

  The president and Emily Powell-Hill ignored him as the radio voice crackled on, “…it’s got to be reacting automatically to a random pattern like a boxer in a ring. Wait…dammit, no…”

  Abruptly a new radio-transmitted voice interrupted. A woman. “We’ve got a bogie on the radar, sir. It’s a missile. Incoming. Russian ICBM. Nuclear. My God. It’s…what? Say that again? You’re sure?” Her tone changed, grew authoritative and calm, strong and responsible. “Mr. President. It’s aimed at Omaha, sir. I don’t think we’re going to be able to stop it. It’s too late. Get down below, or leave the air space immediately.”