The Paris Option Page 18

  Elizondo’s complexion turned as bloodless as the statue. “He’s wrong. He was shot. We shot—”

  “He’s quite certain,” Mauritania interrupted, sounding genuinely puzzled. “Abu Auda came to know Colonel Smith in Paris. In fact, one of Abu’s men was there when you kidnapped the woman. So, you see…”

  Now Elizondo understood. He pulled his knife from his belt and lunged at Mauritania. At the same time, Zumaia yanked out his pistol, and Iturbi spun away to escape.

  But Mauritania whipped his cane up with the speed of a striking snake, and a narrow blade shot out from the tip. It glinted in the dim light of the chapel and then disappeared as Elizondo impaled himself on its point with his frantic charge. Mauritania, his face red with anger, twisted the blade and ripped it up in an arc through the vital organs. Elizondo collapsed, holding his own entrails, staring in surprise at Mauritania. He pitched forward, dead.

  At the same time, Zumaia had managed to half-turn, his pistol firing a single unaimed shot before Abu Auda’s scimitar slashed through his throat. Blood spurted, and he sprawled forward.

  Iturbi tried to run, but Abu Auda smoothly reversed his powerful wrist and thrust the blade backhanded so deep into the fleeing Basque’s back that the point exited through his chest. With both hands, the giant Fulani lifted the sword a few inches and, with it, the dying Basque. Abu Auda’s green-brown eyes flashed with anger as he watched Iturbi wriggle like a rabbit on a spit. When the man slumped dead on the blade, Abu Auda pulled the scimitar out.

  Mauritania wiped his narrow sword on a white altar cloth and touched the button on the cane that retracted the blade. Abu Auda washed his sword in the font of holy water and dried it on his burnoose. His desert robes were now not only dirty but bloody.

  Abu Auda sighed. “It’s been a long time since I’ve washed in the blood of my enemies, Khalid. It feels good.”

  Mauritania nodded, understanding. “We mustn’t linger. There’s still much to do before we strike.”

  The two men stepped over the dead Basques and slipped through the Cathedral and out into the night.

  An hour later, Jon, Randi, and Peter were on the highway, driving away from Toledo. First they had stopped in the city, where Jon had retrieved his laptop and bag from the trunk of his rented Renault. The car was untouched, containing only the cut ropes. With luck, Bixente had escaped back to his life as a shepherd. As Jon loaded his belongings into the touring car, Peter and Randi put the top on it, and they sped away, Peter driving. Now as the spires and towers of the fabled city of El Greco faded in the distance, Peter slowed to just beneath the national speed limit of 120 kilometers an hour. They did not need to attract police attention.

  Randi settled into the rear of the classic touring car, where the old seat still gave off a scent of expensive leather. She listened as Jon and Peter discussed in the front seat which route to take to Madrid, where they would report in and regroup.

  “Just don’t go back the same way Jon drove, in case the Basques were tailing him.” She repressed her irritation as Peter took her advice. Why was she so testy around Jon? At first she had blamed him for her fiancé Mike’s death in Somalia, and later for Sophia’s tragic murder, but she had since grown to respect him. She wanted to put the past behind her, but it nagged like an unfulfilled promise. The odd part was she felt he would like to forget about it, too. They were frozen by too much history between them.

  “God knows what we’ll find next,” Peter said. “Let’s hope it’s the molecular computer.” The “retired” SAS trooper and MI6 spy was muscular and lean, perhaps just a shade too lean under his priest’s costume. His hands were curved brown claws on the steering wheel, and his face was narrow, the color and texture of leather dried out by years of wind and sun. It was so deeply lined that his eyes seemed embedded in canyons. But even in the night, those eyes remained sharp and guarded. Then they suddenly twinkled, amused. “Oh, and Jon, my friend, you seriously owe me for this little scratch. But I suppose I owe you for a bump on your noggin, too.”

  Peter reached up and lifted off his churchly black hat to reveal a bandage wrapped around the top of his head.

  Jon stared at the bandage and shook his head as Peter adjusted the hat back onto his head. “I’ll be damned. So you were the Algerian orderly at the Pompidou who caused all the trouble.” He remembered a flitting sense of familiarity as the orderly had run backward down the hospital corridor, waving a mini-submachine gun in warning to keep everyone at bay. It was Peter’s head that had left the trace of blood on the banister. “So you were there to protect Marty, not to kill him. That’s why when you finally shot, it was high.”

  “All true.” Peter nodded. “Happened to be in the hospital keeping an eye on our friend when I heard he had a ‘family’ visitor. Since Marty has no close family left, if you don’t count the dog we picked up on the Hades thing, I got the wind up and flew up there didi mau with my little Sterling. Saw you spot me and had to bunk or blow my whole pantomime.”

  From the back, Randi said, “Which means SAS or MI6 is watching Marty.”

  “Ah, a trifle old for the Special Air boys, but MI6 does still find me useful from time to time. Whitehall is salivating over this DNA gadget.”

  “They called on you?”

  “I know a bit about the DNA potential, and I’ve worked fairly often with the French, which is not MI6’s best feature. One of the perks of being retired, out of the game, so to speak, is that I get to go my own way a bit. If they think they need me, they have to come to me. Then whenever I don’t want to play, I gather my toys and toddle back to my lair in the Sierras with Stan. Drives them silly, of course.”

  Randi repressed a smile. Peter often referred to his age disparagingly, maybe to distract people from his actual abilities, which would shame many a thirty-something.

  Jon frowned. “But why not identify yourself to me? Why let me chase you? Hell, you made me jump over a gurney!”

  Peter grinned. “That was a pretty sight. Worth anything just to witness that.” He paused. His voice grew serious as he admitted, “Never sure, are we? Couldn’t know why you were there, eh? Downing Street and the Oval Office don’t always back the same pony. Better to find out first who’s doing what.”

  Jon continued to frown. “But after that, I saw you go into General Henze’s pension. The one where he wasn’t supposed to be. Sounds as if you were interested in the same pony there.”

  “You spotted me? Don’t like that very much. Others could have as well.”

  “I didn’t have a clue it was you. Either time, if that helps.”

  Considerable satisfaction was in Peter’s voice as he decided, “That was the idea, wasn’t it?”

  “Especially when you’re visiting an American general,” Jon said, studying his friend.

  “He’s NATO, too, you see. Have to make nice with the EU.”

  “And tell the NATO general what?”

  “Classified, my boy. Strict orders.”

  With that Peter was clearly going to say no more, friends or no friends.

  To those accustomed to the heavy traffic of Madrid, the highway was almost an empty parking lot. A few cars roared past, speeding, but Peter was behaving himself and kept the town car under control. Near the lush, green city of Aranjuez, a former summer retreat for Spain’s kings and queens, he left the N400 and turned the car north toward the A4 and Madrid, which was now fifty kilometers distant. The moon peeked out, spreading a silver glow across fields of newly planted strawberries, tomatoes, sugar beets, and wheat, as Randi leaned forward, resting her forearms on the back of the seat.

  “Okay, Jon, who the hell do you work for?” The moment she said it, she regretted it. Irritable and confrontational. But dammit, she wanted to know. “Tell me it’s not my dear, devious bosses at Langley lying through their teeth again.”

  “I’m here on my own, Randi. Peter believes me, right, Peter?”

  Peter smiled behind the wheel. “It do stink a bit, you know. Not that I especially c
are, but I see Randi’s point about her people. Behind her back and all that. Shouldn’t like it myself.”

  Among Randi’s finer traits was a laserlike focus, and she would worry a bone of contention with the tenacity of a pit bull. He had resisted long enough, it was time to trot out his believable lie.

  “Okay, you’re right,” Jon told her. “There’s something else going on, but it’s not Langley. It’s the army. Army intelligence sent me to find out whether Dr. Chambord actually did create a prototype operational DNA computer. And if he did, whether it and his research notes were stolen and the bombing a coverup.”

  She shook her head. “Langley never found you on the army intelligence roster.”

  “It’s a one-shot. If they go high enough, they’ll find me.” He was confident of Fred Klein’s deviousness.

  She seemed to believe him this time, and for a moment he felt guilty. “See?” she said. “That wasn’t so hard. Be careful, though—truth can become addictive.”

  “Never heard it put that way,” Peter said dryly.

  Jon had a clear impression that Peter did not believe a word of his fiction, but at the same time, Peter did not care, either.

  To the Brit, his own assignment came first, and he returned to it. “Let’s get back to the mission. Since Chambord is alive and kidnapped, then something’s not shipshape at the Paris police.”

  “You mean the fingerprint identification,” Jon understood. “I’ve thought about that. The only way I can figure the Black Flame and Crescent Shield made that happen was a simple reverse. They planted a corpse in the Pasteur before they blew it up. Put the corpse right on top of the bomb, except for the lower arms and hands the police found. They must’ve cut those off and planted them far enough away that at least one had a good chance of being recoverable, but close enough to be battered by the explosion. Then they had someone substitute the corpse’s prints for Chambord’s in his file. They also could’ve substituted DNA information, in case less identifiable body parts survived. Once the Paris police had a reason to make an identification one way or the other, they’d be satisfied. They’d have bigger problems to deal with, such as the DNA computer.”

  Randi thought about it. “The terrorists must’ve sweated blood when it took so long for the remains to be found. Not that it mattered much, since the police would assume they hadn’t found his body yet.”

  “Wonder how they managed to sneak a corpse in at all? Could have scuttled their entire plan had they been spotted,” Peter said. “Curious.”

  “I think,” Jon suggested slowly, “the corpse simply walked in with them, unknowing, or maybe he was a dedicated martyr for Islam, counting on a guaranteed place in heaven.”

  “Good God,” Randi breathed.

  “Another type of suicide bomber,” Peter said. “What’s the world becoming?”

  They were silent with the implications. Finally, Jon asked, “We’ve both told you how we got here, Peter. How about you?”

  “Fair enough question. After the bombing, MI6 spotted a known Basque separatist in Paris, Elizondo Ibargüengoitia. The Second Bureau had missed him. MI6 factored that information into what the French told Whitehall about the other Basque that they did pick up, and it seemed like a chance to steal a march on the Second Bureau that was too good to miss. As it happened, I’d crossed berets with Elizondo more than once, so my assignment was to tail the bugger and see what mischief I might uncover.” He stared ahead at the highway. “My nose for chicanery also tells me Whitehall would not be averse to snatching the thingamajig for Queen and country, eh, and my unofficial status could give deniability should the grab go wrong.”

  “As I expect would every other government and military,” Jon observed, “including my own.”

  While Randi and Peter pondered this, Jon leaned back and let his head rest against the leather seat. He gazed out the windshield. The moon was lower in the sky, leaving a vast sweep of stars in the La Mancha sky. When he looked at such a brilliant display, he knew the earth and the universe would always be here. When he dealt with his fellow species, he was not as sure.

  His gaze still up on the stars, he said, “You know, it’s obvious we’re all under the usual strict orders to play it close, tell nothing to anyone, especially agents of any other country on the same quest.” He glanced at Peter and then back at Randi. “All of us have said the insane rivalry, even within our own governments, will destroy us. This one has all the potential for an Armageddon. My guess is that the Crescent Shield is planning a big bang somewhere. Probably against the United States. Maybe against Britain. Don’t you both think it’s time to cooperate? We know we can trust each other.”

  Randi hesitated, then gave a sharp nod. “I agree. Mauritania’s gone to a lot more trouble than usual to cover his tracks, even to using another terrorist group as a cover, and now we know he has both the molecular computer and Chambord. The threat is too enormous to hold back, no matter what Langley or the army thinks.”

  Peter’s careful eyes became less closed. He gave a short nod. “Right, cooperation it is. Bugger Whitehall and Washington.”

  “Good,” Jon said. “Now, Peter, why were you really talking to General Henze?”

  “It wasn’t Henze, it was Jerry Matthias.”

  “The general’s master sergeant?” Jon was surprised.

  Peter nodded. “He used to be special forces. We met in the Iraqi desert some years back, and I wanted to see what I could pump out of him.”

  “About what?”

  “Some odd shenanigans at NATO.”

  “What ‘shenanigans’?” Randi demanded. “You’re being difficult again.”

  Peter sighed. “Sorry, old habit. All right, I uncovered a phone call to Elizondo Ibargüengoitia from inside NATO. When I traced the number, it was from a maintenance office that had supposedly been locked at the time.”

  Randi was shocked. “The Black Flame, or Crescent Shield, has a spy inside NATO?”

  “That’d be one answer,” Peter agreed.

  “Or someone at NATO,” Jon speculated, “was, or is, working with the Black Flame or Crescent Shield to get the molecular computer.”

  “That’d be another answer,” Peter agreed. “Sergeant Matthias is a former Green Beret and now the major-domo for your General Henze. I’d hoped he’d kept his eyes open from old habit. Unfortunately, he’d seen nothing especially suspicious. Still, the Black Flame was a live lead, so that’s when I left to go after them in Toledo.”

  “I’ll bet the Black Flame’s no longer a live lead,” Randi said. “Anyone want to give me odds their leadership’s dead?”

  “I don’t like to bet against a sure thing,” Peter said. “The Mauritanian. Smart bloke like that, he’s figured out how you found him, Jon. With luck, he doesn’t know about me.”

  “The Black Flame is a cover that went bad,” Jon agreed. “Mauritania would’ve kept them in the dark, knowing they could turn on him, extort him, interfere in any number of ways with his plans. What he didn’t figure on was that they’d lead someone like me to him. He’s got to have killed them by now, and not just for retribution but to make sure they can’t hurt him anymore.”

  As he thought that, Jon’s mind returned to Marty. He realized that the better part of a day had passed since he had checked on him. The welfare of his oldest friend preyed upon his mind, and he pulled out his cell phone.

  Randi looked across at him. “Who’re you calling?”

  “The hospital. Maybe Marty’s awake.”

  Peter gave a curt nod of agreement. “With, one hopes, an earful to tell us that will help with the daunting task of relocating Mauritania and his Crescent Shield.”

  But the word from the Pompidou Hospital was not what Jon had hoped: little change in Marty’s condition. They continued to be hopeful, but Dr. Zellerbach’s progress had not accelerated.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gibraltar

  Disturbed, Lieutenant General Sir Arnold Moore sat alone in the backseat of the Royal Air Force
station commander’s staff car and pondered the secret meeting in the conference room aboard the Charles de Gaulle that he had just left. What was going on? Why had his old ally and friend Roland la Porte really assembled them? As the bright lights of planes landing and taking off from the crown colony’s airport streaked past, he stared ahead unseeing, worriedly analyzing the evening’s discussion. Ultimately, it all ended up on the shoulders of General La Porte.

  Everyone recognized that the French had a strong nostalgia for past glory, but everyone also knew that they were a practical lot, and that, at La Porte’s lofty government level at least, la gloire was something of a joke. Although La Porte, both privately and as NATO’s second in command, favored the combined European Rapid Reaction Force, Sir Arnold had always believed it was for rational reasons…that it would ease the pressure on NATO, which depended so heavily on the United States when intervening in disagreements small and large around the planet. In fact, La Porte was known to emphasize that reasoning with Washington.

  But now the French general had shifted to overt anti-Americanism. Or had he? Was the European integrated military that he proposed simply a logical extension of his desire to relieve Americans of the burden to do most of the job? Sir Arnold fervently hoped so, because the other justification could be the first salvo in a dangerous vision of Europe as a second—and rival—superpower to the Americans in this new, post–Cold War, terrorist-filled world. It was never wise to divide one’s fronts, which both Hitler and Napoleon had learned to their chagrin. Now, more than ever, it seemed to Sir Arnold that the civilized world must stand united.

  Despite the anti-American rhetoric, Sir Arnold would certainly have accepted the former view had it not been for what appeared to have been La Porte’s fleeting suggestion that America could soon face an electronic attack that would shut down all its command and communication controls. Of course—horrifyingly—that would make the U.S. military helpless, as well as any European force that depended on it.