The Paris Option Read online

  Denver, Colorado

  In her pent house atop the opulent twenty-story Aspen Towers apartment building, Carolyn Helms, founder and CEO of Saddle Leather Cosmetics for Western Men, was entertaining her business associates at an intimate birthday dinner—her forty-second. It was a joyous occasion. She had made them a lot of money, and they were a great team, anticipating an even more exciting and lucrative future.

  Just as her longtime close friend and executive vice president George Harvey toasted her for the third time, she gasped, clutched her heart, and collapsed. George fell to his knees to check her vital signs. Her treasurer, Hetty Sykes, called 911. George began CPR.

  The paramedic rescue team of the Denver Fire Department arrived within four minutes. But as they rushed into the building, the lights went off and the elevators froze. The building was in complete darkness. In fact, from what they could tell, the whole city was. They searched for the stairs. As soon as they found them, they began the long run up twenty stories to the pent house.

  By the time they arrived, Carolyn Helms was dead.

  Arlington, Virginia

  Phones rang in the secret Virginia headquarters of the cyber crime squad.

  Los Angeles: “What in hell happened?”

  Chicago: “Can you fix it? Are we next?”

  Detroit: “Who’s behind it? Find out pronto, you hear? You’d better not let this happen in our court!”

  One of the FBI team shouted to the room: “The main attack came through a server in Santa Clara, California. I’m tracking back!”

  Bitterroot Mountains on the Border Between Montana and Idaho

  A Cessna carrying a party of hunters home with their meat and trophies landed neatly between the double row of blue lights that marked the rural strip. The Cessna turned and taxied toward a lighted Quonset hut, where hot coffee and bourbon were waiting. Inside the little plane, the hunters were cracking jokes and recounting the successes of their trip when suddenly the pilot swore.

  “What in hell—?”

  Everywhere they could see, all electric lights had disappeared—the runway, the little terminal, the Quonset hut, the shops and garages. Suddenly there was a noise, hard to distinguish over the sound of their own plane’s engine. Then they saw it: A landing Piper Cub, owned by a bush pilot, had veered off course in the darkness. The Cessna pilot pulled hard on his stick, but the Piper was going so fast there was no escape.

  At impact, the Piper burst into flames and ignited the Cessna. No one survived.

  Arlington, Virginia

  A dozen FBI computer forensics specialists were analyzing the initial attack against Cal-ISO, looking for signs of the hacker. The cyber sleuths scanned their screens as their state-of-the-art software analyzed for footprints and fingerprints—the trail of hits and misses all hackers left behind. There were none.

  As they labored, power returned inexplicably, without warning. The FBI team watched their screens with disbelief as the Western states’ massive complex of power plants and transmission lines throbbed back to life. Relief spread through the room.

  Then the chief of the cyber team swore at the top of his lungs. “He’s breaking into a telecommunications satellite system!”

  Paris, France

  Wednesday, May 7

  A harsh buzzing shattered Smith’s instantly forgotten dream. He grabbed his Sig Sauer from under his pillow and sat up, alert, in a pitch-black room filled with alien odors and misplaced shadows. There was a faint spattering of rain outside. Gray light showed around the drapes. Where was he? And then he realized the buzz came from his cell phone, which rested on his bedside table. Of course, he was in his hotel room, not far from the boulevard Saint-Germain.

  “Damnation.” He snatched up the phone. Only one person would call at this hour. “I thought you told me to get some sleep,” he complained.

  “Covert-One never sleeps, and we operate on D.C. time. It’s barely the shank of the evening here,” Fred Klein told him airily. As he continued, his tone grew grave: “I’ve got unfortunate news. It looks as if Diego Garcia wasn’t an atmospheric glitch or any other malfunction. We’ve been hit again.”

  Smith forgot his rude awakening. “When?”

  “It’s still going on.” He told Smith everything that had happened since Cal-ISO went offline. “Six kids are dead in Nevada. A train hit their car because the crossing signal was out. I’ve got a stack of notices here of civilians who were hurt and killed because of the blackout. There’ll be more.”

  Smith thought. “Has the FBI traced the attack back?”

  “Couldn’t. The hacker’s defenses were so swift it seemed as if his computer was learning and evolving.”

  Jon’s chest tightened. “A molecular computer. Can’t be anything else. And they’ve got someone who can operate it. Check whether any computer hackers are missing. Get the other agencies on it.”

  “Already have.”

  “What about Chambord and his daughter? Do you have anything for me?”

  “In my hand. His bio, but it doesn’t seem useful.”

  “Maybe you’ve missed something. Give me the highlights.”

  “Very well. He was born in Paris. His father was a French paratroop officer, killed during the siege at Dien Bien Phu. His mother was Algerian and raised him alone. He showed a genius for math and chemistry early, went through all the best French schools on scholarships, did his doctoral work at Cal Tech, postdoc at Stanford under their leading geneticist, and post-post doc at the Pasteur Institute. After that, he held professional positions in Tokyo, Prague, Morocco, and Cairo, and then returned about ten years ago to the Pasteur. As for his personal life, his mother raised him as a Muslim, but he showed little interest in religion as an adult. Hobbies were sailing, single-malt Scotch whiskies, hiking in the countryside, and gambling, mainly roulette and poker. Not much of Islam in there. That help?”

  Smith paused, thinking. “So Chambord was a risk-taker, but not extreme. He liked his little relaxations, and he didn’t mind change. In fact, it sounds as if he could be restless. Certainly he wasn’t bogged down by a need for stability or continuity, unlike a lot of scientists. He trusted his own judgment, too, and could make big leaps. Just the characteristics one wants in fine theoretical and research scientists. We already knew he didn’t especially follow rules and procedures. It all fits. So what about the daughter? Is she the same type?”

  “An only child, close to her father, especially since her mother’s death. Science scholarships exactly like her father, but not with his early brilliance. When she was about twenty, she was bitten by the acting bug. She studied in Paris, London, and New York, and then worked in provincial French towns until she finally made a splash in live theater in Paris. I’d say her personality’s a lot like Chambord himself. Unmarried, apparently never even been engaged. She’s been quoted as saying, ‘I’m too single-minded about my work to settle down with anyone outside the business, and actors are wrapped up in themselves and unstable, just as I probably am.’ That’s Chambord all over again—modest, realistic. She’s had plenty of admirers and boyfriends. You know the drill.”

  Smith smiled in the dark room at Klein’s primness. It was one of the odd quirks about the lifelong clandestine operative. Klein had seen or done just about everything anyone could, was nonjudgmental, but drew the line at discussing anything remotely graphic about people’s sexual behavior, despite being quite ready to send a Juliet agent to seduce a target, if that’s what had to be done to get what was needed.

  Smith told him, “That fits my assessment of her, too. What it doesn’t fit is her kidnapping. I’ve been thinking about her being able to operate a prototype DNA computer. If she’s been out of science for years and hasn’t seen much of her father in months, then why did they want her?”

  “I’m not cer—” Klein’s voice abruptly vanished, cut off in mid-word.

  The silence in Smith’s ear was profound. A void that almost reverberated. “Chief?” Smith was puzzled. “Chief? Hello! Fred, c
an you hear me?”

  But there was no dial tone, no buzz, no interruption signal. Smith took the cell phone from his ear and examined it. The battery was live. The charge was full. He turned it off, turned it on, and dialed Klein’s private number at Covert-One in Washington, D.C.

  Silence. Again, there was no dial tone. No static. Nothing. What had happened? Covert-One had innumerable backup systems for power failures, enemy interference, satellite blackout, sunspot interference. For everything and anything. Plus, the connection was routed through the top-secret U.S. Army communications system run out of Fort Meade, Maryland. Still, there was nothing but silence.

  When he tried other numbers and continued to be unable to get through, he powered up his laptop and composed an innocent-sounding e-mail: “Weather abruptly changing. Thunder and lightning so loud you can’t hear yourself speak. How are conditions there?”

  As soon as he sent it off, he pulled back the drapes and opened the shutters. Immediately, the fresh scent of the rain-washed city filled the room, while pale, pre-dawn light formed a backdrop for the dramatic skyline. He wanted to stay and enjoy the view, the sense of newness, but too much was preying on his mind. He pulled on his bathrobe, dropped the Sig Sauer into the pocket, and returned to the computer, where he sat again at the desk. An error message stared at him from his screen. The server was down.

  Shaking his head, worried, he dialed his cell phone again. Silence. He sat back, his anxious gaze moving around the room and then back to his laptop’s screen.

  Diego Garcia’s communications.

  The Western power grid.

  Now the U.S. military’s ultrasecret, ultrasecure wireless communications.

  All had failed. Why? The first salvos from whoever had Chambord’s DNA computer? Tests to make certain it worked, and that they, whoever “they” were, could control the machine? Or perhaps, if the world was lucky, this shutdown was caused by an exceptionally good hacker on an ordinary silicon computer.

  Yeah. He really believed that.

  If those who had the DNA computer were suspicious of him, then they might be able to track him here through his cell phone conversation with Fred Klein.

  He jumped up, dressed, and threw clothes into his overnight bag. He repacked his laptop, holstered his Sig Sauer, and, grabbing his luggage, he left. As he trotted down the stairs, he watched and listened, but there was no sign anyone else in the hotel was awake so early. He sped past the deserted front desk and slipped out the door. Paris was beginning to awaken. He moved quickly along the narrow side street. He scanned every doorway, studied the dark windows that watched him like the hundred eyes of a Greek monster, and finally blended into the growing traffic and few pedestrians on the boulevard Saint-Germain.

  Eventually he was able to hail a sleepy taxi driver who delivered him to the Gare du Nord rail station, where he checked his suitcase and laptop. Still watching all around, he took a different taxi to the Pompidou Hospital to visit Marty. As soon as the wireless communications were up and running again, he knew Fred Klein would be in touch.

  Chapter Nine

  In her usual battered flat shoes and dowdy clothes, the dark-haired woman walked timidly along the exotic Paris street, redolent in the early morning with the odors of North Africa and the Middle East.

  As she peered up, Mauritania stepped from his building’s vestibule. The diminutive terrorist was dressed in a loose raincoat and light corduroy trousers, looking like any Parisian workman. He glanced at her, and in that glance was the eagle eye of two decades of on-the-run experience. It missed little. Since her clothes were properly faded and cared-for, the flat shoes patched by a cheap repair shop, and the battered handbag that of a woman three times her age, as would be expected in a young but frightened soul, Mauritania was reassured. In his usually cautious way, he rounded several corners and doubled back, but the woman never appeared again. Satisfied, he entered the métro.

  The woman had followed Mauritania through the first few turns, until his maneuvers convinced her he would be gone long enough for her purposes. She hurried back to his building, where the windows remained unlighted and showed no sign of activity. She picked the front-door lock, climbed the stairs to the third-floor apartment where Mauritania was staying, and picked that lock as well.

  She stepped into what first appeared to be a tent in the wilds of Arabia or the heart of the Sahara. The rugs seemed to shift under her feet as if resting on sand. Carpets on the walls and ceiling closed claustrophobically in on her, and the rugs over the windows explained the dark windows at all times of the day and night. Amazed, she remained unmoving for some time, taking it all in, until she finally shook her head and went to work. Listening to be certain she was alone, she methodically searched every square inch of the rooms.

  In the Pompidou Hospital, Smith sat beside the still-unconscious Marty, who lay small and frail in the muted light of the ICU. Outside the cubicle, a man in plainclothes had joined the pair of uniformed gendarmes. Marty’s sheets and blankets were still smooth, as if he had not stirred in days. But that was far from true. Marty was occasionally moving on his own, and meanwhile therapists were coming in regularly to work with him.

  Smith knew all this, because as soon as he had arrived, he checked Marty’s computer chart. The chart also showed that his physical condition was continuing to improve. In fact, Marty would likely be moved from the ICU soon, even though he remained in a coma.

  “Hi, Marty.” Smith smiled at him, took his hand, which was warm and dry, and again reminisced, recalling their childhoods, the years growing up together, and college. He covered the same territory as before, but with more details, because as he recounted the past, it grew more vivid in his own mind. As he was chatting, filling the time while, more important, trying to stimulate Marty’s brain, he had an idea.

  “The last time we had a good long talk,” Smith said, “you were still at home in Washington.” He studied the sleeping features. “I heard you boarded an airplane and flew over here by yourself. Man, was I impressed. The only way I could convince you to even get near a plane was when we had trigger-happy gunmen on our tails. Remember? And now here you are, in Paris.”

  He waited, hoping the name of the city would elicit a response. But Marty’s face remained listless.

  Smith continued, “And you’ve been working at the Pasteur.”

  For the first time, he saw Marty rouse. It was almost as if a wave of energy passed through him when he heard the word Pasteur. His eyelids fluttered.

  “I’ll bet you wonder why I know all this,” Smith continued, hope growing inside him. “The daughter of Émile Chambord—”

  Marty’s chin quivered at the mention of the scientist’s name.

  “—told me you arrived unannounced at her father’s lab. Just walked right in and volunteered to help.”

  Marty’s lips seemed to shape a word.

  Excited, Smith leaned close. “What is it, Marty? I know you want to tell me something. It’s about the Pasteur and Dr. Chambord, isn’t it? Try, Marty. Try. Tell me what happened. Tell me about the DNA computer. You can do it!”

  Marty’s mouth opened and closed. His chubby face flushed. He was struggling to assemble thoughts and words, the effort straining his whole body. Smith had seen this in other coma victims. Sometimes they awoke quickly, all their faculties intact; other times it was a rebuilding process. For some, it was slow, for others, faster, much as if they were retraining a muscle that had been weakened by lack of use.

  Just then, Marty gave Smith’s hand a squeeze. But before Smith could squeeze back, Marty went limp, his face exhausted. It was all over in seconds, the struggle valiant but apparently too overwhelming for the injured man. Smith silently cursed the bomber, cursed whoever was behind all the violence. Then, as he sat there holding Marty’s hand, he resumed talking again. The antiseptic quiet of the room was broken only by his low voice and the inhuman clicks and whirs of machines, the blinking and flashing of LEDs and gauges. He continued on, working the ke
y words into his conversation: Émile Chambord. The Pasteur Institute.

  A woman spoke behind him. “M. Smith?”

  He turned. “Oui?”

  It was the nurse from the ICU front desk, and she held out a plain but expensive white envelope. “This is for you. It arrived not long ago, but I’ve been so busy I forgot you were here. I’m sorry. If I’d remembered, you could’ve spoken to the messenger yourself. Apparently, whoever wrote you has no idea where you’re staying.”

  Smith thanked her and took the envelope. As she returned to the front desk, he tore it open. The message was simple and to the point:

  Lt. Col. Dr. Smith,

  General the Count Roland la Porte will be at his Paris home this morning. He requests you report to him at your convenience. Please call me at the following telephone number to name the hour you will arrive. I will give you directions to the general’s home.

  Captain Darius Bonnard

  Aide-de-Camp to the General

  Smith remembered that General Henze had told him to expect an invitation to talk with the French general. This polite summons must be it. From what Henze had said, it sounded as if General La Porte was in the loop with the local police and the Deuxième Bureau about both the bombing and Émile Chambord. With luck, he might be able to throw more light on Dr. Chambord and the elusive DNA computer.

  A large part of the grandeur of Paris arose from its magnificent private residences, many of which were tucked on side streets under branching trees near the boulevard Haussmann. One of those fine houses, it turned out, belonged to General Roland la Porte. Built of gray stone, it was five stories tall, fronted by a baronial columned entrance, and surrounded by balustrades and fine decorative stonework. It looked as if it had been built in the 1800s, during the sweeping imperial reconstruction of Paris by Baron Georges-Eugène Haussmann. In those days, it would have been called a town mansion.