The Paris Option Read online

  “Thank you for seeing me so quickly,” Smith told him. “Tell me about Dr. Zellerbach’s condition.”

  Dr. Dubost nodded. “I have good news. Our friend here seems to be doing better.”

  Immediately Smith felt a smile grow across his face. “What’s happened? I didn’t see anything on his chart from this morning.”

  “Yes, yes. But you see, I wasn’t finished. I had to go around the corner for a moment. Now we’ll talk, and I’ll type at the same time.” The doctor leaned over the computer. “We’re fortunate with Dr. Zellerbach. He’s still in a coma, as you can see, but this morning he spoke a few words and moved his arm. He was responding to stimulation.”

  Smith inhaled with relief. “So it’s less severe than you originally thought. It’s possible he’ll awake and be fine.”

  He nodded as he typed. “Yes, yes.”

  Smith said, “It’s been more than twenty-four hours since the explosion. Of course, anything past that makes it more worrisome that he’ll regain complete consciousness.”

  “Very true. It’s natural to be concerned. I am, too.”

  “You’ll put in an order to have the nurses work with him? Ask him questions? Try to get him to move more?”

  “I’m doing that right now.” He typed a dozen more words and straightened up. He studied Smith. “Don’t worry, Doctor. We know what we’re doing here. Your friend is in excellent hands. A week from now, with luck he’ll be complaining loudly about his aches and pains, the coma completely forgotten.” He cocked his head. “He’s your dear friend, I can see that. Stay as long as you like, but I must continue rounds.”

  Warmed by the hope that Marty would not only emerge from the coma but with all his brain functions intact, Smith sat beside the bed, among the flashing dials and gauges of the monitors, and watched him, thinking all the way back to Council Bluffs and high school, where he and Marty had met and Jon’s uncle had first diagnosed Marty’s Asperger’s Syndrome…to Sophia’s murder and the Hades virus pandemic, when he had needed Marty’s genius with all things electronic.

  He took Marty’s hand and squeezed it. “Did you hear your doctor? He thinks you’re going to be all right. Mart, can you hear me?” He waited, watching the still face. “What in God’s name happened at the Pasteur, Mart? Were you helping Chambord develop his molecular computer?”

  Marty stirred, and his lips trembled as if he was trying to speak.

  Excited, Jon continued, “What is it? Tell me, Mart. Please! We both know you’re never at a loss for words.” He paused, hoping, but when Marty made no other sign, he put an encouraging warmth in his voice and continued, “This is a hell of a way for us to meet again, Mart. But you know how it is, I need you. So here I am, asking you to lend me that extraordinary mind of yours once more….”

  Talking and reminiscing, he stayed with Marty an hour. He squeezed Marty’s hand, rubbed his arms, massaged his feet. But it was only when he mentioned the Pasteur that Marty tried to rouse himself. Smith had just leaned back in the chair and stretched, deciding he had better get on with the investigation into Dr. Chambord’s molecular computer, when a tall man in a hospital orderly’s uniform appeared in the opening to Marty’s cubicle.

  The man was dark, swarthy, with a huge black mustache. He was staring at Smith, his brown eyes hard and cold. Intelligent and deadly. And, in the split second when Smith’s gaze and his connected, he seemed startled. The shock was in the bold eyes only briefly, and then, just before the man turned and hurried away, there seemed a hint of mischief or amusement or perhaps malice…somehow familiar.

  That flitting sense of familiarity stopped Smith for a heartbeat, and then he was up and rushing after the orderly, snatching his Sig Sauer from its holster inside his jacket. It was not only the man’s eyes and expression that had been wrong, but the way he had carried the folded linens, draped over his right arm. He could be hiding a weapon beneath. Was he there to kill Marty?

  Outside the ICU, all eyes were on Smith as he furiously burst through the large swinging doors, his trench coat flapping. Ahead, the orderly knocked people out of the way as he put on a burst of speed and tore off down the corridor, escaping.

  Pounding in pursuit, Smith shouted in French, “Stop that man! He’s got a gun!”

  With that, all pretense was gone, and the orderly flourished a mini-submachine gun not much bigger than Smith’s Sig Sauer. He turned, expertly trotting backward, and raised the terrorist weapon without panic or haste. He swung it back and forth as if to sweep the corridor clean. The fellow was a professional of some kind, letting the threat of his gun do the work without having to fire a shot.

  Screams erupted as nurses, doctors, and visitors dove to the floor, into doorways, and around corners.

  Smith hurled breakfast carts out of the way and thundered on. Ahead, the man rushed through a doorway and slammed the door. Smith kicked it in and raced past a terrified technician, through another door, and past a hot-therapy tank in which a naked man sat, the nurse hurriedly covering him with a towel.

  “Where is he?” Smith demanded. “Where did the orderly go!”

  The nurse pointed at one of three rooms, her face pasty with fear, and he heard a door bang shut in that direction. He tore onward, punched open the only door in that room, and skidded into another corridor. He looked left and right along the hallway, chrome bright in its newness. Terrified people had pressed themselves against the walls as they gazed right, as if a deadly tornado had just swept past, barely leaving them alive.

  Smith ran in the direction they stared, accelerating, while far down the corridor the orderly hurled an empty gurney lengthwise to block his path. Smith swore. He took a deep breath, demanding his lungs respond. If he had to stop to move the gurney, the man would surely get away. Without breaking stride, Smith summoned his energy. Telling himself he could do it, he leaped over the gurney. His knees felt weak as he landed, but he caught his balance and sprinted onward, leaving behind another trail of frightened people. Sweat poured off him, but at last he was gaining on the orderly, who had been slowed by throwing the gurney into position. Smith accelerated again, hopeful.

  Without a backward glance, the man slammed through yet another door. It had an exit sign above it. The fire stairs. Smith hurtled in after him. But from the corners of his eyes, he caught a glimpse of someone hiding to the left of the door, behind it as he swung it in.

  He had time only to lower a protective shoulder. In the shadowy stairwell, the orderly sprang out and crashed into him. The impact shook him, but he managed to remain on his feet. He smashed his shoulder into the orderly, sending him reeling back toward the stairs.

  The orderly staggered. He hit the back of his head against the steel balustrade. But he had given way with Smith’s thrust and quickly regained his balance, while Smith, meeting less resistance than he had expected, dropped his Sig Sauer and lost his footing. He stumbled and crashed to the cement floor, taking a hard blow to his back where it struck the wall. Ignoring the pain, he stumbled back up to his feet and grabbed for his pistol, just in time to see the man’s shadow loom. Smith lashed out, too late. A searing pain exploded in his skull, and blackness and silence descended.

  Chapter Four

  When the morning express train from Bordeaux pulled in that Tuesday at the Gare d’Austerlitz, Captain Darius Bonnard was the third passenger off, striding through the throngs of arriving and departing Parisians, provincials, and tourists as if he did not know they existed. The truth was, he was watching for the slightest sign of interest directed toward him. There were too many who would try to stop his work if they discovered it, enemies and friends alike.

  He stayed focused, his scrutiny covert, as he headed toward the exit, a compact, vigorous man with blond hair, impeccably attired in his French officer’s uniform. He had spent his entire adult life in the service of France, and his current assignment might be the most important in all the nation’s illustrious history. Certainly it was the most important to him. And the most dangerous
.

  He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, dialed a number, and when the voice answered, he announced, “I’m here.” As soon as he hung up, he dialed a second number and repeated the message.

  Outdoors, he bypassed the ranks of taxis, plus four official and unofficial drivers eager for his business, and climbed into the rogue cab that had just pulled up.

  “Salaam alake koom,” the gravelly voice greeted him from the backseat.

  As he settled in beside the robed man, Captain Bonnard replied with the customary response: “La bahs hamdililah.” He slammed and locked the door.

  In the street, other drivers shouted curses at this breach of taxicab etiquette.

  As the vehicle pulled away, driving southwest into narrow side streets, Captain Bonnard turned to the man who had spoken. In the shadowed interior, shafts of sunlight played intermittently across the hooded, green-brown eyes. Most of the man’s face was cloaked in the voluminous white robes and gold-trimmed kaffiyeh of a desert bedouin, but from what little Bonnard could see, the man had satin-black skin. Bonnard knew his name was Abu Auda and that he was a member of the Fulani tribe from the Sahel region at the southern edge of the Sahara, where the dry, forbidding desert met lush forest and grasslands. The green-brown eyes revealed that a blue-eyed Berber or ancient Vandal was somewhere in his family line.

  “You’ve brought them?” the Fulani asked in Arabic.

  “Naam.” The French captain nodded. He unbuttoned his tunic, opened his uniform shirt, and took out a letter-sized, zippered leather portfolio. Abu Auda’s gaze followed each of the movements as Bonnard handed over the portfolio and reported, “Chambord’s assistant is dead. What of the American, Zellerbach?”

  “We found no notes, as was expected, although we searched thoroughly,” Abu Auda told him.

  The man’s strange eyes bored into Bonnard as if they could reach the Frenchman’s soul. Eyes that trusted no one and nothing, not even the god to whom he prayed five times daily without fail. He would worship Allah, but he would trust no one. As Captain Bonnard’s face held steadfastly impassive under the heat of the bedouin’s examination, the hard eyes finally turned their attention to the portfolio.

  Abu Auda felt it all over with long, scarred fingers, then pushed it inside his robes. His voice was strong and measured as he said, “He’ll be in touch.”

  “No need. I’ll see him soon.” Bonnard gave a curt nod. “Stop the taxi.”

  The desert bedouin gave the command, the vehicle pulled to the curb, and the Frenchman stepped out. As soon as the door clicked closed behind him, the taxi peeled away.

  Captain Bonnard walked to the nearest corner, speaking into his cell phone again. “You followed?”

  “Oui. No problems.”

  Seconds later, a large Citroën with darkened windows slowed as it neared the corner. Its rear door opened, and the captain stepped inside. The expensive car made a U-turn, taking him to his office where he had phone calls to make before he met with Abu Auda’s boss.

  As Jon Smith regained consciousness in the stairwell at the huge Pompidou Hospital, an image lingered in his mind. It was a face, leering at him. Swarthy, a thick black mustache, brown eyes, and a triumphant smile that faded away like the grin of the Cheshire Cat. But the eyes…He concentrated on the eyes that accompanied the smile down the stairs, fading, fading…Voices speaking, what? French? Yes, French. Where the devil was he…?

  “…are you all right? Monsieur?”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Who was the man who attacked you? Why was he—?”

  “Stand back, you idiots. Can’t you see he’s still unconscious? Give me room so I can examine—”

  Smith’s eyes snapped open. He was lying on his back on hard concrete, a gray cement ceiling overhead. A ring of concerned faces peered down—female and male nurses, a doctor kneeling over him, a gendarme and uniformed security people above and behind.

  Smith sat up and his head swam with pain. “Damn.”

  “You must lie back, monsieur. You’ve had a nasty blow to the skull. Tell me how you feel.”

  Smith did not lie down again, but he allowed the white-coated doctor to aim his penlight into his eyes. He endured the examination with little patience. “Great. I feel absolutely great.” Which was a lie. His head pounded as if someone were in there with a sledgehammer. Abruptly, he remembered. He grabbed the doctor’s hand in a vise grip, pushed away the light, and gazed all around. “Where is he?” he demanded. “That Arab orderly. Where is he! He had a submachine gun. He—”

  “He wasn’t the only one with a gun.” The gendarme held up Smith’s Sig Sauer. His expression was severe, distrustful, and Smith sensed he was very close to being arrested. The gendarme continued, “Did you buy this here in Paris? Or did you, perhaps, find some way to sneak it into the country?”

  Smith patted his suit jacket pocket. It was empty, which meant his identification was gone. “You’ve got my ID?” When the gendarme nodded, Smith continued, “Then you know I’m a U.S. Army colonel. Pull the ID out of its case. Under it is a special permit to bring my gun in and carry it.”

  The policeman did as asked, while around Smith the hospital crew watched suspiciously. At last the gendarme gave a slow nod and returned the identification case.

  “My Sig Sauer, too. S’il vous plaît.” A security guard handed it down, and Smith said, “Now tell me about the ‘orderly’ with the submachine gun. Who was he?”

  The doctor looked up at the security man. “The other man was an orderly?”

  “Must’ve been Farouk al Hamid,” the guard said. “This is his section.”

  Another guard disagreed. “That wasn’t Farouk. I saw him running, and it wasn’t Farouk.”

  “Had to be. It’s his section.”

  A nurse chimed in, “I know Farouk. That man was too tall to be Farouk.”

  “While they try to sort through the mystery, I’m going to finish my examination,” the doctor announced to Smith. “This will take only a moment.” He shone the light in one of Smith’s eyes, then the other.

  Smith struggled to contain his frustration. “I’m okay,” he said again and this time meant it. His head was clearing, the pain subsiding.

  The doctor removed the light and sat back on his heels. “Are you dizzy?”

  “Not a bit.” Which was the truth.

  The doctor shrugged and got up. “I understand you’re a physician, so you know the dangers of head injuries. But you seem like something of a hothead.” He frowned and peered worriedly at Smith. “You’re obviously eager to be out of here, and I can’t stop you. But at least your eyes are clear and tracking, your skin color’s good, and you may actually be thinking rationally, so I’ll just warn you to take care of yourself and avoid further injuries. And if you start feeling worse or lose consciousness again, come back straightaway. You know the dangers of a concussion. You may have one.”

  “Yes, Doctor.” Jon struggled to his feet. “Thanks. I appreciate your concern.” He decided to ignore the comment about his being a hothead. “Where’s the hospital’s chief of security?”

  “I’ll take you,” one of the guards told him.

  He led Smith down the emergency stairs to a tucked-away office of several rooms, all equipped with the latest in electronic surveillance and computers. The security chief’s office looked out over a parking area, and on the wall were several framed photographs that were personal. One was a black-and-white photo of five exhausted, hollow-eyed men with defiant faces in field uniforms. They were sitting on wooden crates with thick jungle all around. Smith studied the photo for a moment, then recognized Dien Bien Phu, where in 1954 the French were defeated in a brutal, humiliating siege that proved the end of France’s longtime control of the region.

  The guard explained, “Chief, this is the gentleman who tried to stop the armed orderly.”

  Smith held out his hand. “Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, U.S. Army.”

  “Pierre Girard. Have a seat, Colonel.”
/>   Girard did not get up from behind the clean lines of his modern desk or shake Smith’s hand, but nodded to one of the straight chairs. A thick, burly man of medium height, the security chief wore a stained gray suit and loosened tie. He looked more like a longtime Sûreté CID detective than a private security man.

  Smith sat. “The orderly, or whoever he was, and there appears to be some doubt, came to the ICU to kill Martin Zellerbach, I think.”

  Girard glanced toward the guard. “The man wasn’t an orderly as reported?”

  “It’s Farouk al Hamid’s station,” the guard explained, “but some witnesses say it wasn’t him.”

  The chief reached for his telephone. “Get me personnel.” He waited, his face neutral. A former detective, no doubt of it, accustomed to bureaucracy. “You have an orderly named Farouk al Hamid who works the…yes, ICU. He did? I see. Thank you.” Girard hung up and told Smith, “He wrote a note saying he was sick, his cousin would do his job, and he sent the note with the cousin, who, it seems, was our tall orderly with the gun.”

  “And who,” Smith said, “was no orderly, and maybe not even Algerian.”

  “A disguise.” Girard nodded to himself. “Possibly. May I ask why someone would want to assassinate Mr. Zellerbach?” The security chief made the usual hash of the French trying to pronounce a German name.

  “It’s Dr. Zellerbach. He’s a computer scientist. He was working with Dr. Émile Chambord at the Pasteur the night of the bombing.”

  “A great pity to lose Chambord.” Girard paused. “Then it’s possible your Dr. Zellerbach saw or heard something incriminating there. Perhaps now the bombers are trying to stop Dr. Zellerbach from awakening and giving us the information.”

  It was a policeman’s answer, and Smith saw no reason to elaborate further. “I’d say that it was more than possible.”

  “I’ll alert the police.”

  “I’d appreciate you or the police doubling the guard on him in the ICU and, if he’s moved, posted wherever he’s sent.”