The Paris Option

Chapter One

At 0654 hours at the vital U.S. Army, Air Force, and Naval installation on Diego Garcia, the officer commanding the shift at the control tower was gazing out the windows as the morning sun illuminated the warm blue waters of Emerald Bay on the lagoon side of the U-shaped atoll and wishing he were off duty. His eyes blinked slowly, and his mind wandered.

The U.S. Navy Support Facility, the host command for this strategically located, operationally invaluable base, kept all of them busy with its support of sea, air, and surface flight operations. The payback was the island itself, a remote place of sweeping beauty, where the easy rhythms of routine duty lulled ambition.

He was seriously contemplating a long swim the instant he was off duty when, one minute later, at 0655 hours, the control tower lost contact with the base's entire airborne fleet of B-1B, B-52, AWACS, P-3 Orion, and U-2 aircraft, on a variety of missions that included hot-button reconnaissance and antisubmarine and surveillance support.

The tropical lagoon vanished from his mind. He bawled orders, pushed a technician from one of the consoles, and started diagnostics. Everyone's attention was riveted on the dials, readouts, and screens as they battled to regain contact.

Nothing helped. At 0658, in a controlled panic, he alerted the base's commanding officer.

At 0659, the commanding officer informed the Pentagon.

Then, oddly, inexplicably, at 0700, five minutes after they had mysteriously disappeared, all communications with the aircraft returned at the precise same second.

As the sun rose over the vast prairie to the east, the rustic Foothills Campus of Colorado State University glowed with golden light. Here in a state-of-the-art laboratory in a nondescript building, Jonathan ("Jon") Smith, M.D., peered into a binocular microscope and gently moved a finely drawn glass needle into position. He placed an imperceptible drop of fluid onto a flat disk so small that it was no larger than the head of a pin. Under the high-resolution microscope, the plate bore a striking and seemingly impossible resemblance to a circuit board.

Smith made an adjustment, bringing the image more clearly into focus. "Good," he muttered, and smiled. "There's hope."

An expert in virology and molecular biology, Smith was also an army medical officer in fact, a lieutenant colonel temporarily stationed here amid the towering pines and rolling foothills of Colorado at this Centers for Disease Control (CDC) facility. On unofficial loan from the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases (USAMRIID), he was assigned basic research into evolving viruses.

Except that viruses had nothing to do with the delicate work he was watching through the microscope this dawn. USAMRIID was the army's foremost military medical research facility, while the CDC was its highly touted civilian counterpart. Usually they were vigorous rivals. But not here, not now, and the work being done in this laboratory had only a peripheral connection to medicine.

Smith was part of a little-known CDC-USAMRIID research team in a worldwide race to create the world's first molecular or DNA computer, therefore forging an unprecedented bond between life science and computational science. The concept intrigued the scientist in Smith and challenged his expertise in the field of microbiology. In fact, what had brought him into his lab at this ungodly early hour was what he hoped would turn out to be a breakthrough in the molecular circuits based on special organic polymers that he and the other researchers had been working night and day to create.

If successful, their brand-new DNA circuits could be reconfigured many times, taking the joint team one step closer to rendering silicon, the key ingredient in the wiring of current computer circuit boards, obsolete. Which was just as well. The computer industry was near the limits of silicon technology anyway, while biological compounds offered a logical though difficult next step. When DNA computers could be made workable, they would be vastly more powerful than the general public could conceive, which was where the army's, and USAMRIID's, interests came in.

Smith was fascinated by the research, and as soon as he had heard rumors of the secret joint CDC-USAMRIID project, he had arranged to be invited aboard, eagerly throwing himself into this technological competition where the future might be only an atom away.

"Hey, Jon." Larry Schulenberg, another of the project's top cell biologists, rolled into the empty laboratory in his wheelchair. "Did you hear about the Pasteur?"

Smith looked up from his microscope. "Hell, I didn't even hear you open the door." Then he noticed Larry's somber face. "The Pasteur," he repeated. "Why? What's happened?" Like USAMRIID and the CDC, the Pasteur Institute was a world-class research complex.

In his fifties, Schulenberg was a tan, energetic man with a shaved head, one small diamond earring, and shoulders that were thickly muscled from years of using crutches. His voice was grim. "Some kind of explosion. It's bad. People were killed." He peeled a sheet from the stack of printouts on his lap.

Jon grabbed the paper. "My God. How did it happen? A lab accident?"

"The French police don't think so. Maybe a bomb. They're checking out former employees." Larry wheeled his chair around and headed back to the door. "Figured you'd want to know. Jim Thrane at Porton Down e-mailed me, so I downloaded the story. I've got to go see who else is here. Everyone will want to know."

"Thanks." As the door closed, Smith read quickly. Then, his stomach sinking, he reread.

Smith's heart seemed to stop. Martin Zellerbach, Ph.D., a computer scientist from the United States, who suffered head injuries. Marty? His old friend's face flashed into Jon's mind as he gripped the printout. The crooked smile, the intense green eyes that could twinkle one moment and skitter off, lost in thought or perhaps outer space, the next. A small, rotund man who walked awkwardly, as if he had never really learned how to move his legs, Marty had Asperger's Syndrome, a rare disorder at the less severe end of the autism spectrum. His symptoms included consuming obsessions, high intelligence, crippling lack of social and communications skills, and an outstanding talent in one particular area — mathematics and electronics. He was, in fact, a computer genius.

A worried ache settled in Smith's throat. Head injuries. How badly was Marty hurt? The news story did not say. Smith pulled out his cell phone, which had special scrambler capabilities, and dialed Washington.

He and Marty had grown up together in Iowa, where he had protected Marty from the taunts of fellow students and even a few teachers who had a hard time believing anyone so smart was not being intentionally rude and a troublemaker. Marty's Asperger's was diagnosed when he was older and at last he was given the medication that helped him function with both feet firmly attached to the planet. Still, Marty hated taking meds and had designed his life so he could avoid them as often as possible. He did not leave his cozy Washington, D.C., bungalow for years at a time. There he was safe with the cutting-edge computers and the software he was always designing, and his mind and creativity could soar, unfettered. Businessmen, academicians, and scientists from around the globe went there to consult him, but never in person, only electronically.

So what was the shy computer wizard doing in Paris?

The last time Marty consented to leave was eighteen months ago, and it was far from gentle persuasion that convinced him. It was a hail of bullets and the beginning of the near catastrophe of the Hades virus that had caused the death of Smith's fiance, Sophia Russell.

The phone at Smith's ear began to ring in distant Washington, D.C., and at the same time he heard what sounded like a cell phone ringing just outside his laboratory door. He had an eerie sense.

"Hello?" It was the voice of Nathaniel Frederick ("Fred") Klein.

Smith turned abruptly and stared at his door. "Come in, Fred."

The chief of the extremely secret Covert-One intelligence and counterintelligence troubleshooting organization stepped into the laboratory, quiet as a ghost, still holding his cell phone. "I should've guessed you would've heard and called me." He turned off his phone.

"About Mart? Yes, I just read about the Pasteur. What do you know, and what are you doing here?"

Without answering, Klein marched past the gleaming test tubes and equipment that crowded the line of lab benches, which soon would be occupied by other CDC-USAMRIID researchers and assistants. He stopped at Smith's bench, lifted his left hip, and sat on the edge of the stone top, arms crossed, face grim. Around six feet tall, he was dressed as usual in one of his rumpled suits, this one brown. His skin was pale; it rarely saw the sun for any length of time. The great outdoors was not where Fred Klein operated. With his receding hairline, wire-rimmed glasses, and high, intelligent forehead, he could be anything from book publisher to counterfeiter.

He contemplated Smith, and his voice was compassionate as he said, "Your friend's alive, but he's in a coma. I won't lie to you, Colonel. The doctors are worried."

For Smith, the dark pain of Sophia's death could still weigh heavily on him, and Marty's injury was bringing it all back. But Sophia was gone, and what mattered now was Marty.

"What the hell was he doing at the Pasteur?"

Klein took his pipe from his pocket and brought out his tobacco pouch. "Yes, we wondered about that, too."

Smith started to speak again then hesitated. Invisible to the public and to any part of the government except the White House, Covert-One worked totally outside the official military-intelligence bureaucracy and far from the scrutiny of Congress. Its shadowy chief never appeared unless something earthshaking had happened or might happen. Covert-One had no formal organization or bureaucracy, no real headquarters, and no official operatives. Instead, it was loosely composed of professional experts in many fields, all with clandestine experience, most with military backgrounds, and all essentially unencumbered without family, home ties, or obligations, either temporary or permanent.

When called upon, Smith was one of those elite operatives.

"You're not here because of Marty," Smith decided. "It's the Pasteur. Something's going on. What?"

"Let's take a walk outside." Klein pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and tamped tobacco into his pipe.

"You can't light that here," Smith told him. "DNA can be contaminated by airborne particles."

Klein sighed. "Just one more reason to go outdoors."

Fred Kleinand Covert-One trusted no one and nothing, took nothing for granted. Even a laboratory that officially did not exist could be bugged, which, Smith knew, was the real reason Klein wanted to leave. He followed the intelligence master out into the hall and locked his door. Side by side, they made their way downstairs, past dark labs and offices that showed only occasional light. The building was silent except for the breathy hum of the giant ventilation system.

Outside, the dawn sunlight slanted low against the fir trees, illuminating them on the east with shimmering light while on the west they remained tarry black, in shadows. High above the campus to the west towered the Rocky Mountains, their rough peaks glowing. The valleys that creased the slopes were purple with night's lingering darkness. The aromatic scent of pine filled the air.

Klein walked a dozen steps from the building and stopped to fire up his pipe. He puffed and tamped until clouds of smoke half-hid his face. He waved some of the smoke away.

"Let's walk." As they headed toward the road, Klein said, "Talk to me about your work here. How's it going? Are you close to creating a molecular computer?"

"I wish. The research is going well, but it's slow. Complex."

Governments around the world wanted to be the first to have a working DNA computer, because it would be able to break any code or encryption in a matter of seconds. A terrifying prospect, especially where defense was concerned. All of America's missiles, secret systems at NSA, the NRO's spy satellites, the entire ability of the navy to operate, all defense plans anything and everything that relied on electronics would be at the mercy of the first molecular computer. Even the largest silicon supercomputer would not be able to stop it.

"How soon before the planet sees an operational one?" Klein wanted to know.

"Several years," Smith said without hesitation, "maybe more."

"Who's the closest?"

"Practical and operational? No one I've heard of."

Klein smoked, tamped down his burning tobacco again. "If I said someone had already done it, who'd you guess?"

Precursor prototypes had been built, coming closer to practicality each year, but an actual, complete success? That was at least five years away. Unless Takeda? Chambord?

Then Smith knew. Since Klein was here, the clue was the Pasteur. "Emile Chambord. Are you saying Chambord is years ahead of the rest of us? Even ahead of Takeda in Tokyo?"

"Chambord probably died in the explosion." Klein puffed on his pipe, his expression worried. "His lab was completely destroyed. Nothing left but shattered bricks, singed wood, and broken glass. They've checked his home, his daughter. Looked everywhere. His car was in the Pasteur parking lot, but they can't find him. There's talk."

"Talk? There's always talk."

"This is different. It comes from top French military circles, from colleagues, from his superiors."

"If Chambord were that near, there'd be more than talk. Someone knew."

"Not necessarily. The military checked in with him regularly, but he claimed he was no farther along than anyone else. As for the Pasteur itself, a senior researcher of Chambord's stature and tenure doesn't have to report to anyone."

Smith nodded. This anachronism was true at the renowned institute. "What about his notes? Records? Reports?"

"Nothing from the last year. Zero."

"No records?" Smith's voice rose. "There have to be. They're probably in the Pasteur's data bank. Don't tell me the entire computer system was destroyed."

"No, the mainframe's fine. It's located in a bomb-proof room, but he hadn't entered any data in it for more than a year."

Smith scowled. "He was keeping longhand records?"

"If he kept any at all."

"He had to keep records. You can't do basic research without complete data. Lab notes, progress sheets. Your records have to be scrupulous, or your work can't be verified or reproduced. Every blind alley, every mistake, every backtrack has to be chronicled. Dammit, if he wasn't saving his data in the computer, he had to be keeping it longhand. That's certain."

"Maybe it is, Jon, but so far neither the Pasteur nor the French authorities have found any records at all, and believe me, they've been looking. Hard."

Smith thought. Longhand? Why? Could Chambord have gotten protective once he realized he was close to success? "You figure he knew or suspected he was being watched by someone inside the institute?"

"The French, and everyone else, don't know what to think," Klein said.

"He was working alone?"

"He had a low-level lab assistant who's on vacation. The French police are searching for him." Klein stared toward the east, where the sun was higher now, a giant disk above the prairie. "And we think Dr. Zellerbach was working with him, too."

"You think?"

"Whatever Dr. Zellerbach was doing appears to have been completely unofficial, almost secret. He's listed only as a 'general observer' with Pasteur security. After the bombing, the police immediately went to his hotel room but found nothing useful. He lived out of one suitcase, and he made no friends either there or at the Pasteur. The police were surprised by how few people actually recalled him."

Smith nodded. "That's Marty." His reclusive old friend would have insisted on remaining as anonymous as possible. At the same time, a molecular computer that was near fruition was one of the few projects that might have seduced him from his determined isolation in Washington. "When he regains consciousness, he'll tell you what Chambord's progress was."

"If he wakes up. Even then it could be too late."

Jon felt a sudden anger. "He will come out of the coma."

"All right, Colonel. But when?" Klein took the pipe from his mouth and glared. "We've just had a nasty wake-up call that you need to know about. At 7:55 Washington time last night, Diego Garcia Island lost all communications with its aircraft. Every effort to revive them, or trace the source of the shutdown, failed. Then precisely five minutes later, communications were restored. There were no system malfunctions, no weather problems, no human error. Conclusion was it had to be the work of a computer hacker, but no footprints were found, and every expert short of heaven says no existing computer could've pulled it off without leaving a trace."

"Was there damage?"

"To the systems, no. To our worry quotient, one hell of a lot."

"How does the timing compare to when the Pasteur was bombed?"

Klein smiled grimly. "A couple of hours later."

"Could be a test of Chambord's prototype, if he had one. If someone stole it."

"No kidding. The way it stands, Chambord's lab is gone. He's dead or missing. And his work is destroyed or missing."

Jon nodded. "You're thinking the bomb was planted to hide his murder and the theft of his records and prototype."

"An operational DNA computer in the wrong hands is not a pretty picture."

"I was already planning to go to Paris, because of Marty."

"I thought so. It's a good cover. Besides, you'll have a better chance of recognizing a molecular computer than anyone else in Covert-One." Klein raised his anxious gaze to stare out across the enormous prairie sky as if he could see ICBMs raining down. "You've got to find out whether Chambord's notes, reports, and data were destroyed, or whether they were stolen. Whether there really is a functional prototype out there somewhere. We'll work the usual way. I'll be your only contact. Night or day. Whatever you need from any part of the government or military on both sides of the pond, ask. But you must keep a lid on it, understand? We don't want any panic. Worse, we don't want an eager Second or Third World country cutting a unilateral deal with the bombers."

"Right." Half the non advanced nations had little love for the United States. Neither did the various terrorists who increasingly targeted America and Americans. "When do I leave?"

"Now," Klein said. "I'll have other Covert-One experts on it, of course. They'll be following other leads, but you'll be the main thrust. The CIA and FBI have sent people out, too. And as for Zellerbach, remember I'm as concerned as you. We all hope he regains consciousness quickly. But there may be damn little time, and many, many other lives are at stake."

Chapter Two

It was the end of his shift and nearly six P.M. when Farouk al Hamid finally peeled off his uniform and left l'hôpital Européen Georges Pompidou through an employees' entrance. He had no reason to notice he was being followed as he walked along the busy boulevard Victor to the Massoud Caf tucked away on a side street.

Worn out and depressed from his long day of mopping floors, carrying great hampers of soiled linen, and performing the myriad other back-breaking jobs of a hospital orderly, he took a seat at a table neither outside nor inside, but exactly where the series of front glass doors had been folded back and the fresh outside spring air mingled with the aromatic cooking odors of the kitchen.

He glanced around once, then ignored his fellow Algerians, as well as the Moroccans and Saharans, who frequented the caf. Soon he was drinking his second glass of strong coffee and shooting disapproving glances at those who were indulging in wine. All alcohol was forbidden, which was a tenet of Islam ignored by too many of his fellow North Africans, who, once they were far from their homelands, felt they could leave Allah behind, too.

As Farouk began to seethe, a stranger joined him at the table.

The man was not Arabe, not with those pale blue eyes. Still, he spoke in Arabic. "Salaam alake koom, Farouk. You're a hardworking man. I've been watching you, and I think you deserve better. So I have a proposition to make. Are you interested?"

"Wahs-tah-hahb?" he grumbled suspiciously. "Nothing is for free."

The stranger nodded agreeably. "True. Still, how would you and your family enjoy a holiday?"

"Ehs-mah-lee. A holiday?" Farouk asked bitterly. "You suggest the impossible."

The man spoke a higher-class Arabic than Farouk did, if with some odd accent, perhaps Iraqi or Saudi. But he was not Iraqi, Saudi, or Algerian. He was a white European, older than Farouk, wiry and darkly tanned. As the stranger waved for the waiter to bring more coffee, Farouk al Hamid noted that he was well dressed, too, but again from no particular nation he could identify, and he could identify most. It was a game he played to keep his mind from his weary muscles, the long hours of mindless labor, the impossibility of rising in this new world.

"For you, yes," the old stranger agreed. "For me, no. I am a man who can make the impossible possible."

"La. No, I will not kill."

"I haven't asked you to. Nor will you be asked to steal or sabotage."

Farouk paused, his interest growing. "Then how will I pay for this grand holiday?"

"Merely by writing a note to the hospital in your own hand. A note in French saying you're ill and you've sent your cousin Mansour to take your place for a few days. In exchange, I'll give you cash."

"I do not have a cousin."

"All Algerians have cousins. Haven't you heard?"

"That is true. But I have none in Paris."

The stranger smiled knowingly. "He has only now arrived from Algiers."

Farouk felt a leap inside him. A holiday for his wife, for the children. For him. The man was right, no one in Paris would know or care who came into work at the mammoth Pompidou Hospital, only that the work was done and for small money. But what this fellow, or someone else, wanted would not be good. Stealing drugs, perhaps. On the other hand, they were all heathens anyway, and it was none of his affair. Instead, he concentrated on the joy of going home to his family to tell them they would be holidaying where?

"I would like to see the Mediterranean again," Farouk said tentatively, watching the man closely for a sign that he was asking too much. "Capri, perhaps. I have heard Capri's beaches are covered by silver sand. It will be very expensive."

"Then Capri it is. Or Porto-Vecchio. Or, for that matter, Cannes or Monaco."

As the place names rolled off the stranger's tongue, magical, full of promises, Farouk al Hamid smiled deep into his tired, hungry soul and said, "Tell me what you wish me to write."

A few hours later, the telephone rang in a shabby rooming house tucked among the wine warehouses on the banks of the Garonne River outside the southern city of Bordeaux. The only occupant of the room was a small, pasty-faced man in his mid-twenties who sat on the edge of his cot, staring at the ringing phone. His eyes were wide with fear, his body trembling. From the river, shouts and the deep braying of barge horns penetrated the dismal room, and the youth, whose name was Jean-Luc Massenet, jerked like a plastic puppet on a string as each loud noise sounded. He did not pick up the telephone.

When the ringing finally stopped, he took a notepad from the briefcase at his feet and began to write shakily, his speed accelerating as he rushed to record what he remembered. But after a few minutes, he thought better of it. He swore to himself, tore off the sheet of paper, crumpled it into a wad, and hurled it into the wastebasket. Disgusted and afraid, he slapped the notepad down onto the little table and decided there was no other solution than to leave, to run away again.

Sweating, he grabbed the briefcase and hurried toward the door.

But before he could touch the knob, a knock sounded. He froze. He watched the door handle turn slowly right and left, the way a mouse watches the swaying head of a cobra.

"Is that you in there, Jean-Luc?" The voice was low, the French a native's. Surely whoever spoke was no more than an inch from the door. "Captain Bonnard here. Why don't you answer your phone? Let me in."

Jean-Luc shuddered with relief. He tried to swallow, but his throat was as dry as a desert. Fingers fumbling, he unlocked the door and flung it open onto the dreary hallway.

"Bonjour, mon Capitaine. How did you?" Jean-Luc began.

But with a gesture from the brisk, compact officer who strode into the room, he fell silent, respectful of the power of the man who wore the uniform of an elite French paratroop regiment. Captain Bonnard's troubled gaze took in every detail of the cheap room before he turned to Jean-Luc, who was still standing motionless in the open doorway.

"You appear frightened, Jean-Luc. If you think you're in such great danger," he said dryly, "I suggest you close the door." The captain had a square face, reassuring in its strong, clear gaze. His blond hair was clipped short around his ears in the military way, and he exuded a confidence to which Jean-Luc gratefully clung.

Jean-Luc's ashen face flushed a hot pink. "I'm sorry, Captain." He shut the door.

"You should be. Now, what's this all about? You say you're on vacation. In Arcachon, right? So why are you here now?"

"H-hiding, sir. Some men came looking for me there at my hotel. Not just any men. They knew my name, where I lived in Paris, everything." He paused, swallowed hard. "One of them pulled out a gun and threatened the front desk man.I overheard it all! How did they know I was there? What did they want? They looked as if they'd come to kill me, and I didn't even know why. So I sneaked out and got to my car and drove away. I was sitting in a hidden cove I'd found, just listening to the radio and trying to decide whether I could go back to get the rest of my luggage, when I heard the news about the horrible tragedy at the Pasteur. Thatthat Dr. Chambord's presumed dead. Do you have any news? Is he okay?"

Captain Bonnard shook his head sorrowfully. "They know he was working late that night in his lab, and no one's seen him since. It's pretty clear to the investigators that it's going to take at least another week to search through the rubble. They found two more bodies this afternoon."

"It's too terrible. Poor Dr. Chambord! He was so good to me. Always saying I was working too hard. I hadn't had a vacation, and he's the one who insisted I go."

The captain sighed and nodded. "But go on with your story. Tell me why you think the men wanted you."

The research assistant wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Of course, once I knew about the Pasteur and Dr. Chambordit all made sense, why they were after me. So I ran away again, and I didn't stop running until I found this boardinghouse. No one knows me here, and it's not on the usual routes."

"Je comprends. And that's when you called me?"

"Oui. I didn't know what else to do."

But now the captain seemed confused. "They came after you because Emile Chambord was caught in the explosion? Why? That makes no sense, unless you're saying the bombing was no simple matter."

Jean-Luc nodded emphatically. "There's nothing important about me except that I'm I was the laboratory assistant to the great Emile Chambord. I think the bomb was intended to murder him."

"But why, for God's sake? Who would want to kill him?"

"I don't know who, Captain, but I think it was because of his molecular computer. When I left, he was ninety-nine percent certain he'd made an operational one. But you know how he could be, such a perfectionist. He didn't want word to get out, not even a hint, until he was one hundred percent sure it worked. You understand how significant a machine like that would be? A lot of people would kill him, me, and anyone else to get their hands on a real DNA computer."

Captain Bonnard scowled. "We found no evidence of such a success. But then, there's a mountain of debris as high as the Alps. Are you sure of what you say?"

He nodded. "Bien sr. I was with him every step of the way. I mean, I didn't understand a lot of what he did, but. " He hesitated as a new fear made him rigid. "His computer was destroyed? You didn't find his notes? The proof?"

"The lab is rubble, and there was nothing on the Pasteur's mainframe."

"There wouldn't be. He was worried it could be accessed too easily, perhaps even hacked into by spies. So he kept his data in a notebook, locked into his lab safe. The whole project was in the notes in his safe!"

Bonnard groaned. "That means we can never reproduce his work."

Jean-Luc said cautiously, "Maybe we can."

"What?" The captain frowned. "What are you telling me, Jean-Luc?"

"That perhaps we can reproduce his work. We can build a DNA computer without him." Jean-Luc hesitated as he fought back a shudder of fear. "I think that's why those armed men came to Arcachon, looking for me."

Bonnard stared. "You have a copy of his notes?"

"No, I have my own notes. They're not as full as his, I admit. I didn't understand everything he did, and he'd forbidden either me or the strange American helping him to make notes. But I secretly copied down nearly everything from memory up to the end of last week. That's when I left for vacation. I'm sure my record isn't as complete or as detailed as his, but I think it'd be enough for another expert in the field to follow and maybe even improve on."

"Your notes?" Bonnard appeared excited. "You took them with you on vacation? You have them now?"

"Yessir." Jean-Luc patted the briefcase at his feet. "I never let them out of my sight."

"Then we'd better move, and fast. They could be tracking you from the village and be only minutes away." He strode to the window and looked down on the nighttime street. "Come here, Jean-Luc. Does anyone look like them? Anyone suspicious? We need to be certain, so we'll know whether to use the inn's front or back door."

Jean-Luc approached Captain Bonnard at the open window. He studied the activity below, illuminated in the glow of street lamps. Three men were entering a waterfront bar, and two were leaving. A half dozen others rolled barrels from a warehouse, one barrel after another in a parade, and hoisted them into the open bed of a truck. A homeless man sat with his feet in the street, his head nodding forward as if he were dozing off.

Jean-Luc scrutinized each person. "No, sir, I don't see them."

Captain Bonnard made a sound of satisfaction in his throat. "Bon. We must move swiftly, before the thugs can find you. Grab your briefcase. My Jeep is around the corner. Let's go."

"Merci!" Jean-Luc hurried back to his briefcase, grabbed it, and rushed onward to the door.

But as soon as the young man had faced away, Bonnard grabbed a thick pillow from the cot with one hand while, with the other, he reached for the holster at the small of his back and slid out a 7.65mm Le Franaise Militaire pistol with a specially crafted silencer. It was an old weapon, the manufacture of the line ending in the late 1950s. The serial number, which had been stamped into the right rear chamber area of the barrel, was now filed off. There was no safety device, so anyone who carried the Militaire had to be very careful. Bonnard liked the feeling of that small danger, and so for him, such a gun was merely a challenge.

As he followed Massenet, he called out softly, "Jean-Luc!"

His youthful face full of eagerness and relief, Jean-Luc turned. Instantly he saw the weapon and the pillow. Surprised, still not quite understanding, he reached out a protesting hand. "Captain?"

"Sorry, son. But I need those notes." Before the research assistant could speak again, could even move, Captain Darius Bonnard clamped the pillow around the back of his head, pushed the silenced muzzle against his temple, and pulled the trigger. There was a popping sound. Blood, tissue, and pieces of skull exploded into the pillow. The bullet burned itself through and lodged in the plaster wall.

Still using the pillow to protect the room from blood, Captain Bonnard supported the corpse to the bed. He laid the body out, the pillow beneath the head, and removed the silencer from the gun. He dropped the silencer into his pocket and pressed the gun into Jean-Luc's left hand. As soon as he arranged the pillow just so, he put his hand over Jean-Luc's and squeezed the trigger once more. The noise was thunderous, shocking in the tiny room, even to Captain Bonnard, who was expecting it.

This was a rough waterfront area, but still the sound of a gunshot would attract attention. He had little time. First he checked the pillow. The second shot had been perfect, going through so closely to the first hole that it looked like one large perforation. And now there would be powder burns on Jean-Luc's hand to satisfy the medical examiner that he, distraught over the loss of his beloved Dr. Chambord, had committed suicide.

Moving quickly, the captain found a notepad with indentations that indicated writing on the previous sheet. From the wastebasket he seized the single crumpled paper and pushed it and the notepad into his uniform pocket without taking the time to decipher either. He checked under the bed and under every other piece of old furniture. There was no closet. He dug the first bullet out of the wall and moved a battered bureau six inches to the left to hide the hole.

As he snatched up Jean-Luc's briefcase, the rise-and-fall scream of a police siren began in the distance. His heart palpitating with the rush of adrenaline, he analyzed the sound. Oui, it was heading here. With his usual control, he forced his careful gaze to survey the room once more. At last, satisfied that he had missed nothing, he opened the door. As Captain Bonnard vanished into the gloom of the upstairs hall, the police car screeched to a stop in front of the rooming house.

Chapter Three

The C-17 cargo jet that had left Buckley Air Force Base near Denver on Monday for a previously scheduled pole route to Munich carried a single passenger whose name appeared nowhere on its personnel roster or manifest. The big jet made an unscheduled stop in Paris in the dark at 0600 hours Tuesday, ostensibly to pick up a package that was needed in Munich. A U.S. Air Force staff car met the cargo jet, and a man in the uniform of a U.S. Army lieutenant colonel carried a sealed metal box, which was empty, on board. He stayed there. But when the aircraft flew off some fifteen minutes later, the nonexistent passenger was no longer aboard.

Not long afterward, the same staff car stopped a second time, now at the side entrance to a detached building at Charles de Gaulle International Airport just north of Paris. The vehicle's back door opened, and a tall man, also wearing the uniform of a U.S. Army lieutenant colonel, emerged. It was Jon Smith. Trim, athletic, somewhere in his early forties, he looked military through and through. He had a high-planed face, and his dark hair, a little longer than usual, was worn neatly smooth under his army cap. As he stood up, his navy blue eyes surveyed all around.

There was nothing particularly unusual about him as he finally walked to the building in the quiet hours before dawn, just another army officer, carrying an overnight bag and an IBM Thinkpad in a heavy-duty aluminum case. A half hour later, Smith emerged again, out of uniform. This time he was wearing the casual clothes he favored a tweed jacket, blue cotton shirt, tan cotton trousers, and a trench coat. He also wore a hidden canvas holster under his sports jacket, and in it was his 9mm Sig Sauer.

He walked briskly across the tarmac and moved with other passengers through de Gaulle customs, where, because of his U.S. Army identification, he was waved through without a search. A private limousine was waiting, back door open. Smith climbed in, refusing to let his limo driver handle either his suitcase or his laptop.

The city of Paris was known for its joie de vivre in all things, including driving. For instance, a horn was for communication: A long blast meant disgust get out of my way. A tap was a friendly warning. Several taps were a jaunty greeting, especially if they were rhythmic. And speed, deftness, and a devil-may-care attitude were necessary, particularly among the world atlas of drivers who manned the city's numerous taxi and limo fleets. Smith's driver was an American with a heavy foot, which was just fine with Smith. He wanted to get to the hospital to see Marty.

As the limo hurtled south on the Boulevard Périphérique around the crowded city, Smith was tense. In Colorado he had successfully handed off his research into molecular circuits. He regretted having had to do it, but it was necessary. On the long flight to France, he had called ahead to check again on Marty's condition. There had been no improvement, but at least there had been no decline either. He had also made other phone calls, this time to colleagues in Tokyo, Berlin, Sydney, Brussels, and London, tactfully sounding them out about their progress in developing molecular computers. But all were cagey, hoping to be first.

After filtering for that, he had gotten the sense that none was close to success. All commented on the sad death of Emile Chambord but without mentioning his project. It seemed to Smith that they were as uninformed as he had been.

The driver turned the limo off onto the avenue de la Porte de Sèvres and soon arrived at the eight-hundred-bed European Hospital Georges Pompidou. A glistening monument to modern architecture with curved walls and a glassy facade, it rose like a giant layered Luden's cough drop, directly across the street from the Parc André Citroën. Carrying his luggage. Smith paid the driver and entered the hospital's glass-topped, marble-lined galleria. He took off his sunglasses, slid them into his pocket, and gazed around.

The galleria was so cavernous more than two football fields in length that palm trees swayed in the internal breeze. The hospital was nearly brand-new, having opened just a couple of years ago amid official fanfare that it was the hospital of the future. As Smith headed toward an information desk, he noted department-store-style escalators that led up to patients' rooms on the floors above, bright arrows pointing to the operating theaters, and, infusing the air, a light scent reminiscent of Johnson's Lemon Wax.

Speaking perfect French, he asked for directions to the intensive care unit where Marty was being treated, and he took the escalator up. There was a subdued bustle as shifts changed and nurses, technicians, clerical help, and orderlies came and left. It was all done smoothly, quietly, and only the most experienced eye would have noticed the exchanges that signaled the handing off of responsibilities.

One of the theories that made this model hospital different was that services were clustered in groups, so that the specialist went to the patient, rather than the reverse. Entering patients arrived at any one of twenty-two different reception points, where they were met by personal hostesses, who guided them to their private rooms. There a computer was positioned at the foot of each bed, case notes existed in cyberspace, and, if surgery were necessary, robots often conducted parts of it. The enormous hospital even boasted swimming pools, health clubs, and cafs.

Beyond the desk that fronted the ICU, two gendarmes stood outside the door into the unit itself. Smith identified himself formally in French to the nurse as the American medical representative of Dr. Martin Zellerbach's family. "I'll need to talk to Dr. Zellerbach's lead physician."

"You wish to see Dr. Dubost, then. He's arrived for rounds and has already seen your friend this morning. I'll page him."

"Merci. Will you take me to Dr. Zellerbach? I'll wait there."

"Bien sr. S'il vous plat?" She offered him a distracted smile and, after one gendarme had examined his army medical identification, took him inside the heavy swinging doors.

Instantly, the hospital noises and the vigorous ambience vanished, and he was moving in a hushed world of soft footsteps, whispering doctors and nurses, and the muted lights, bells, and winking LEDs of machines that seemed to breathe loudly in the silence. In an ICU, machines owned the universe, and patients belonged to them.

Smith anxiously approached Marty, who was in the third cubicle on the left, lying motionless inside the raised side rails of a narrow, machine-operated bed, as helpless among the tubes and wires and monitors as a toddler held by each hand between towering adults. Smith looked down, his chest tight. Frozen in a coma, Marty's round face was waxen, but his breathing was even.

Smith touched the computer screen at the end of the bed and read Marty's chart. Marty was still in a coma. His other injuries were minor, mostly scrapes and bruises. It was the coma that was worrisome, with its potential for brain damage, sudden death, and even worse a permanent suspended state neither dead nor alive. But there were a few good signs, too, according to the cyberchart. All his autonomic responses were working he was breathing unaided, occasionally coughed, yawned, blinked, and showed roving eye movements which indicated that the lower brain stem, the vital part that controlled these activities, was still functioning.

"Dr. Smith?" A small man with gray hair and an olive complexion walked toward him. "I understand you've come from the United States." He introduced himself, and Smith saw the embroidery on the front of his long white physician's coat Edouard Dubost. He was Marty's doctor.

"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 Citron 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 plat," 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 Sret 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. Emile 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."

"I will contact the Sret."

"Good." Smith stood. "Thank you. I've got an appointment, so I'm going to have to leave." That was not exactly the truth, but close.

"Of course. The police will need to speak to you, though, eventually, I expect."

Smith gave Girard the name and number of his hotel and left. At the ICU, there was no change in Marty. He sat beside Marty's bed again, studying the round, sleeping face, worrying. Marty looked so vulnerable, and Smith found his throat tight with emotion.

At last he stood up, pressed Marty's hand once more, and told him he would be back. He left the ICU but stayed on the same floor, returning to the fire stairs. On the landing, he searched for anything the gunman might have dropped, for any clue at all. He found nothing but a trace of blood on the post of the balustrade, evidence he really had wounded the gunman, which could be useful information if the man ever reappeared.

Still on the deserted stair landing, he activated his cell phone with its special scrambler capacity and dialed. "Someone tried to kill Marty in the hospital," he reported.

The head of Covert-One, Fred Klein, answered from across the Atlantic Ocean in his usual growl. "Do we know who?"

"Looks like a pro. It was a good setup. The guy was disguised as an orderly, and if I hadn't been there, he could've gotten away with it."

"The French guards didn't pick up on him?"

"No, but maybe the Sret will do better now," Smith said.

"Better yet, I'll talk to the French myself, ask them to send special forces soldiers to guard Zellerbach."

"I like that. There's something else you need to know. The guy had a mini-submachine gun. He was carrying it hidden under bed linen."

There was an abrupt silence at the other end of the connection. Klein knew as well as Smith that the submachine gun changed the picture. It turned what had appeared a straightforward assassination attempt into something far more complex. When Klein spoke again, he asked the question, "Meaning what exactly, Colonel?"

Smith was sure Klein knew perfectly well what he was thinking, but he said it anyway: "He had the firepower to kill Marty from where he was standing. My being there would've been no deterrent, if he'd been willing to shoot me and maybe everyone else in the ICU, too. His initial plan was probably to go in with a knife, something quiet, so he wouldn't attract attention. The submachine gun was only for last-ditch protection."

"And?"

"And that suggests he realized that if he opened fire and killed a handful of us, his escape from the hospital would've been far more difficult, and that means he didn't want to take any chances that he might be captured, alive or dead. Which, in turn, suggests again that the bombing was no random act or the crazed vindictiveness of some fired employee, but part of a careful plan by people with a specific goal who will go to great lengths to not be discovered."

Klein was silent again. "You think it's clearer now that Dr. Chambord was the target. And therefore Marty, too, because he was working with Chambord."

"Has there been any group or individual claiming credit for the bombing?"

"Not yet."

"There won't," Smith decided.

Klein gave a cold chuckle. "I always thought you were wasted in medicine and research, Jon. Very well, we think the same, but so far everyone else is whistling in the dark in hopes Chambord's death was collateral to the bombing, an accident." There was a deep sigh at the far end. "But that part's my job. Yours is to dig deeper and turn up those notes and any type of prototype computer he developed." His voice grew hard. "And if you can't grab them, you've got to destroy them. Those are your orders. We can't run the risk of that kind of power staying in the wrong hands."

"I understand."

"How's Zellerbach doing? Any change in his condition?"

Smith reported the improvement. "It's good, but there's still no guarantee it means a full recovery."

"Then we'll hope."

"If he knows anything, or took notes, he could've stored the data on his mainframe back in D.C. You'd better send a Covert-One computer expert."

"Already did, Colonel. Had a hell of a time getting in, and when he did, he found nothing. If Zellerbach kept notes, he followed Chambord's lead and didn't put them into his computer."

"It was an idea."

"Appreciated. What do you plan next?"

"I'm going to the Pasteur. There's an American biochemist I've worked with there. I'll see what he can tell me about Chambord."

"Be careful. Remember, you have no official position in this. Covert-One has to remain hidden."

"It's just friend going to friend, nothing more," Smith reassured him.

"All right. Another thing I want you to meet General Carlos Henze, the American who commands NATO forces in Europe. He's the only person over there who knows you're assigned to investigate, but he thinks you're working for army intelligence. The president called him personally to set this up. Henze's got his contacts at work, and he'll fill you in on what he's found out over there. He doesn't know anything about me or Covert-One, of course. Memorize this: Pension Cézanne, two p.m. sharp. Ask for M. Werner. The password is Loki."

Chapter Five

It was early morning, and a spring breeze blew the scent of cherry blossoms across the Tidal Basin and in through the open French doors of the Oval Office, but President Samuel Adams Castilla was too distracted to notice or care. He stood up behind the heavy pine table he used as a desk and glared at the three people who sat waiting for him to continue. He was just a year into his second term, and the last thing Castilla needed was a military crisis. Now was the time to solidify his accomplishments, get the rest of his programs through a fractious Congress, and build his historical image.

"So this is the situation," he rumbled. "We haven't got enough evidence yet to determine whether a molecular computer actually exists, and if it does, who has it. What we do know is that it's not in our hands, dammit." He was a big man with thick shoulders and a waist that had spread as wide as Albuquerque. Usually genial, he glared through his titanium glasses and worked at controlling his frustration. "The air force and my computer experts tell me they have no other explanation for what happened on Diego Garcia. My science adviser says he's consulted top people in the field, and they claim there could be many reasons for the blip in communications out there, starting with some rare atmospheric anomaly. I hope the science folks are right."

"So do I," Admiral Stevens Brose agreed promptly.

"So do all of us," added National Security Adviser Emily Powell-Hill.

"Amen," said Chief of Staff Charles Ouray from where he leaned against the wall near the fireplace.

Admiral Brose and National Security Adviser Powell-Hill were sitting in leather chairs facing the president's desk, which he had brought with him from Santa Fe. Like all presidents, he had chosen his own decor. The current furnishings reflected his rural Southwestern taste, now modified by five years of the cosmopolitan sophistication he had unexpectedly found he enjoyed in this loftiest seat of federal government, plus all the official trips to capitals, museums, and banquets around the planet. The ranch furniture from the New Mexico governor's residence had been thinned and joined with elegant French side tables and a comfortable British club chair before the fireplace. The red-and-yellow Navajo drapes and the Amerindian vases, baskets, and headdresses now blended with Senegalese masks, Nigerian mud prints, and Zulu shields.

Restless, the president walked around the desk. He leaned back against it, crossed his arms, and continued, "We all know terrorist attacks tend to be by people whose main goal is to get attention for their cause and expose what they consider evil. But this situation has at least two kinks so far: This bomb wasn't against the usual symbolic target an embassy, a government building, a military installation, a famous landmark and it wasn't some lone suicide bomber taking out a crowded bus or busy nightclub. Instead, the target was a research and teaching facility. A place that helps humanity. But specifically, the building where a molecular computer was being built."

Emily Powell-Hill, a former U.S. Army brigadier general, raised her perfect eyebrows. In her fifties, she was slender, long-legged, and highly intelligent. "With all due respect, Mr. President, the information you have about a DNA computer's being completed appears to be largely speculation, projection from insufficient data, and plain old guesswork. It's all based on a rumor about what might easily have been a random bombing with random victims. Is it possible your source's disaster scenario comes from paranoia?" She paused. "In an attempt to put it delicately everyone knows the counterintelligence mentality tends to jump at the smallest shadow. This sounds like one of their knee-jerk ideas."

The president sighed. "I suspect you've got something else you'd like to say on the subject."

"As a matter of fact, Mr. President, I do. My science people assure me DNA computer technology is stuck in the early developmental stages and treading water. A functional unit isn't expected for at least a decade. Maybe two decades. Which is just one more reason to cast a very suspicious eye on what may be an overreaction."

"You could be right," the president said. "But I suspect you'll find your scientists also agree that if anyone could make such a leap, Chambord would be at the top of the list."

Charles Ouray, the president's chief of staff, was frowning. "Can anyone explain in words an old political warhorse like me can understand exactly what makes a DNA machine so special and such a big threat?"

The president nodded at Emily Powell-Hill, and she focused on Ouray. "It's all about switching from silicon, the foundation of computers, to carbon, the foundation of life," she told him. "Machines are slavishly fast and precise, while life's ever-changing and subtle. DNA computers will integrate the most powerful lessons from both worlds in a technology that's far superior to anything most people can imagine today. And in large part, it'll be because we've figured out how to use DNA molecules in place of microchips."

Ouray grimaced. "Integrating life and machinery? Sounds like something you'd read in a comic book."

"At one time, you probably did," the president agreed. "A lot of technologies we take for granted now appeared early on in science fiction and comic books. The truth is, researchers have been working for years to figure out how to take advantage of DNA's natural ability to reorganize and recombine quickly in complex, predictable patterns."

"You've lost me, Mr. President," Ouray said.

The president nodded. "Sorry, Chuck. Say you want to mow a lawn like out there on the Mall." He waved his big hand vaguely in that direction. "The electronic solution would be to use a few giant lawn mowers, and each would cut thousands of blades of grass every second. That's the way supercomputers operate. Now, the DNA solution's just the opposite. It'd use billions of tiny mowers that'd each cut just one blade. The trick is that all those little DNA mowers would cut their blades at the same time. That's the key nature's massive parallelism. Take it from me, a molecular computer's going to dwarf the power of today's biggest supercomputer."

"Plus, it'll use almost no energy and be a lot cheaper to operate," Emily Powell-Hill added. "When one's created. If one's created."

"Swell," growled Admiral Stevens Brose, chairman of the Joint Chiefs, from the second leather chair, where he had been listening quietly. lie was sitting awkwardly, his ankles crossed, his big chin jutting forward. Confidence and worry battled on his square face. "If that DNA thing really exists, and it's controlled by someone who doesn't like us, or maybe they want something we're not going to give, and that's the case with probably half the world right now I don't even want to think about the future. Our military moves, fights, lives, and breathes on electronics, command codes, and communications codes. Hell, computers run everything now, including ordering liquor supplies for the Joint Chiefs' cocktail parties. The way I see it, railroads were the key to the Civil War, aircraft to World War Two, and encrypted and protected electronics are going to be the big decider in future wars, God help us."

"Defense implications are your responsibility, Stevens," the president told him. "So of course that's what you think of first. Me, I've got to take into account other problems, too. Civilian situations."

"Like what?" Chuck Ouray asked.

"I'm told a DNA computer can shut down oil and gas pipelines, and there goes our fuel supply. It can cut off air traffic control operations at hubs across the continent, everywhere from New York City to Chicago and Los Angeles. The number of deaths we could expect from that is catastrophic. Of course, it can access funds-transfer networks at the Federal Reserve, which means our treasury could be emptied in a heartbeat. It can also open the gates to the Hoover Dam. With that, we can expect the drowning deaths of hundreds of thousands of people."

Chuck Ouray's complexion paled. "You're not serious. Tell me you're not serious. Even the Hoover Dam's floodgates are accessible?"

The president said simply, "Yes. They're computerized, and the computer's connected to the Western utilities power grid."

There was an appalled silence in the room.

The president adjusted his weight. His solemn gaze swept over his three advisers. "Of course, as Emily said earlier, we still aren't certain there is a fully functioning DNA computer. We'll take it one step at a time. Chuck, see what the CIA and NSA can tell us. Contact the Brits and find out what they know, too. Emily and Stevens, get the latest from your people. We'll meet again later today."

As soon as the door closed behind the NSA director, the head of the Joint Chiefs, and the chief of staff, the side door that led into the president's private study opened. Fred Klein stepped into the Oval Office, wearing a rumpled gray suit and chewing on his empty pipe.

Klein took the pipe from his mouth and pronounced dryly, "I thought that went well."

The president sighed and returned to his big leather desk chair. "It could've been worse. Sit down, Fred. Don't you know something more than your intuition and Diego Garcia about this mess?"

Klein took the seat that Admiral Brose had vacated. He ran a hand over his receding hairline. "Not much," he admitted. "But I will."

"Has Jon Smith found out anything yet?"

Klein told the president about the attack on Martin Zellerbach that Smith interrupted. "When we hung up, Smith was going to the Pasteur to interview a colleague. After that, he'll see General Henze."

The president pursed his lips. "Smith's obviously good, but a few more people over there might be better. You know I'll authorize whatever or whoever you need."

Klein shook his head. "A terrorist cell is small and moves fast. It'll spot a large effort, which means that if the CIA and MI6 kick up any of their usual dust, their usefulness is over. We designed Covert-One for surgical situations just like this. Let's give Smith a chance to be the fly on the wall, a piece of the scenery no one notices. Meanwhile, as you know, I've got other Covert-One operatives on special leads and tasks. If Smith needs help, I'll let you know, and we'll act accordingly."

"We need something from him from someone soon, dammit." The president's brows knit together with worry. "Before we get a taste worse than Diego Garcia."

Private and nonprofit, L'Institut Pasteur was one of the great scientific centers of the world, with some twenty branches located on five continents. It had been at least five years since Smith had been to its headquarters here in Paris for a WHO conference on molecular biology, one of the Pasteur's prime areas of research. He was thinking about that and what he would find now as he stopped his taxi at 28 rue du Docteur Roux, named for one of the institute's earliest researchers. He paid the driver and walked toward the annex's kiosk.

Located in the eastern part of the Fifteenth Arrondissement, the Pasteur Institute stretched into the distance on both sides of the heavily trafficked street. In one of life's ironies, the grounds on the east were called simply the institute or the old campus, while the grounds on the west, although significantly larger, were known as the annex. The whole leafy place gave off the feel of a gracious college, and Smith could see many of its buildings everything from nineteenth-century ornate to twenty-first-century sleek rising among the trees on either side of the street. He could also see French soldiers on patrol on the institute's streets and sidewalks, an unusual sight but no doubt in response to the horrific bombing.

Smith showed his identification to the Pasteur security guard at the annex's kiosk, where one of the soldiers stood sentry, a 5.6mm FAMAS assault rifle in his arms. Behind the man, gray tendrils of smoke rose above the rooftops.

As Smith put away his ID, he nodded at the smoke and asked the Pasteur guard in French, "Is that where Dr. Chambord's lab was?"

"Oui. Little's left. A few exterior walls and heartbreak." The man gave a sad, Gallic shrug.

Smith felt like walking. There was much to sort through, and Marty's condition preyed on his mind. He looked up. As if echoing his thoughts, the day had grown somber, the sun lost behind a thick cloud cover that cast a monochromatic pall. He waited for a car to drive into the annex, then he crossed the street to the sidewalk, heading toward the smoke, which was the first physical sign of the disastrous attack. Soon he saw the second sign pewter-gray ash and soot that dusted vegetation and structures. An alkaline stink stung his nose. Finally there were the corpses of wild birds sparrows, hawks, jays which lay scattered on the lawns, broken dolls flung from the sky, killed by the blast or resulting fire.

The farther he went, the heavier the ash grew, a ghostly blanket over buildings, trees, bushes, signs everything and anything. Nothing was spared, left unsullied. At last he turned a corner and the site itself appeared large, haphazard mounds of blackened brick and debris, above which three exterior walls towered precariously, dismal skeletons against the gray sky. He shoved his hands deep into his trench-coat pockets and halted where he was to study the dispiriting scene.

The building must have been spacious, about the size of a warehouse. Dogs sniffed the ruins. Rescue workers and firemen dug grimly, and armed soldiers patrolled. The charred remains of two cars stood at the curb. Beside them, some kind of metal sign had been melted into a distorted fist of steel. Nearby, an ambulance waited, in case another survivor was found or one of the workers injured.

Heart heavy, Smith waited as a soldier with a careful face approached and demanded identification. As he handed it over, he asked, "Any sign of Dr. Chambord?"

"I can't talk about it, sir."

Smith nodded. He had other ways to find out, and now that he had seen the devastation, he knew there was nothing he could learn here. It was lucky anyone had survived. Lucky Marty had. As he left, he thought about the monsters who had done this. Anger built in his chest.

He returned to the rue du Docteur Roux and crossed the street to the old campus. Calming himself, he showed his identification at the kiosk there, where another Pasteur security guard and armed soldier controlled access. After a thorough check, they gave him directions to the office and lab of his old friend and colleague Michael Kerns.

As he headed off past the old building where Louis Pasteur had lived and worked and was now buried, he was struck by how good it was to be back in this cradle of pure science, despite the circumstances. After all, this was where Pasteur had conducted his brilliant nineteenth-century experiments in fermentation that had led not just to pioneering research in bacteriology but to the principle of sterilization, which had forever changed the world's understanding of bacteria and saved untold millions of lives.

After Dr. Pasteur, other researchers here had gone on to produce critical scientific breakthroughs that had led to the control of virulent diseases like diphtheria, influenza, the plague, polio, tetanus, TB, and even yellow fever. It was no wonder the institute boasted more Nobel Prize winners than most nations. With more than a hundred research units and labs, the complex housed some five hundred permanent scientists while another six hundred from all corners of the globe worked temporarily on special projects. Among those was Michael Kerns, Ph.D.

Mike's office was in the Jacques Monod Building, which housed the department of molecular biology. The door was open. When Smith stepped inside, Mike looked up from his desk, where a mass of papers covered with calculations were spread before him.

Kerns took one look at Smith and jumped up. "Jon! Good Lord, man. What are you doing here?" White lab coat flapping, Kerns came around the desk with the athletic grace of the Iowa Hawkeye running back he had once been. A few inches under six feet and sturdy, he pumped Smith's hand vigorously. "Damn, Jon, how long's it been?"

"Five years, at least," Smith reminded him with a smile. "How's the work going?"

"So near and yet so far." Kerns laughed. "As usual, right? What brings you to Paris? More viruses for USAMRIID to hunt down?"

Taking the opening, Smith shook his head. "It's my friend Marty Zellerbach. He was hurt in the bombing."

"The Dr. Zellerbach who they say was working with poor Chambord? I never met him. I'm so sorry, Jon. How is he?"

"In a coma."

"Damn. What's the prognosis?"

"We're hopeful. But he had a nasty cranial injury, and the coma's hanging on. Still he's showing signs he may come out of it." Smith shook his head again, his expression glum. "Is there any news about Chambord? Have they found him yet?"

"They're still looking. The blast really shattered the building. It's going to take days for them to dig through it all. They've found some body parts that they're trying to identify. Very sad."

"Did you know Marty was working with Chambord?"

"Actually, no. Not until I read it in the paper." Kerns returned behind his desk and waved Smith to an aged armchair in the cluttered office. "Just chuck those files onto the floor."

Smith nodded, moved the pile of folders, and sat.

Kerns continued, "I said I never met Zellerbach, right? But it'd be more accurate to say I never even heard he was here. Fie had no official appointment to the staff, and I never saw his name listed as being on loan or visiting. I'd have known about that. It must've been some private arrangement with Chambord." Kerns paused. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but I was concerned about Emile. This last year, he was acting strange."

Smith came alert. "Chambord was acting strange? In what way?"

"Well" Kerns pondered, then leaned forward like a conspirator, his hands clasped in from of him, resting on his papers. "He used to be a happy guy, you know what I mean? Convivial, outgoing, one of the boys, if you like, for all his seniority and fame. A hard worker who didn't seem to take his work all that seriously, despite its importance. A very level head. Oh, eccentric enough, like most of us, but in a different way from last year. He had the right attitude his ego was never oversized. In fact, once when a dozen or so of us got together for drinks, he said, 'The universe will go on fine without us. There's always someone else to do the work.' "

"Self-effacing, and in many ways true. And it was after that he changed?"

"Yes. It was almost as if he vanished. In the corridors, at meetings, in the cafs, at bull sessions, staff parties, all that. And it happened just like that." He snapped his fingers. "He seemed to cut us all off, sharp as a slice with a knife. He'd disappeared, as far as most of us were concerned."

"Was this a year ago, about the same time he quit entering his progress data into the computer?"

Kerns was astonished. "I hadn't heard that. Damn, does that mean we have no idea what he accomplished over the last twelve months?"

"That's what it means. You know what he was working on?"

"Of course, everyone knew. A molecular computer. I heard he was making big strides, too. That he might even get there first, in under ten years. It was no secret, so"

"So?"

Kerns leaned back. "So why the secretiveness? That was what was so different about him. Secretive, withdrawn, distracted, avoiding his colleagues. Come to work, go home, return to work, nothing else. Sometimes he was here for days in a row. I heard he even had a good bed put in there. We just wrote it off to a hot line of research."

Smith did not want to appear too interested in Chambord, or his notes, or the DNA computer. He was in Paris for Marty, after all. Nothing more, as far as Kerns or anyone else was concerned. "He wouldn't be the first to be so wrapped up in his work. A scientist who doesn't feel that compelled doesn't belong in research." He paused and asked casually, "So what's your theory?"

Mike chuckled. "In my wildest moments, stolen research. Spies. Industrial espionage, maybe. Some kind of cloak-and-dagger."

"Did something happen to make you think that?"

"Well, there's always the issue of the Nobel Prize. Whoever creates the first molecular computer will be a shoo-in. Of course, that means not just money but prestige the Mount Olympus of prestige. No one at the Pasteur would turn it down. Probably no one in the world. Under those conditions, any of us might get a little nervous and clandestine, protecting our work until we were ready to go public."

"Good point." But stealing was one thing, mass murder, which the bombing had caused, was quite another. "There must've been something else, though, to make you think Chambord was worried about his work being stolen. Something unusual, maybe even suspicious, that triggered the idea."

"Now that you mention it I wondered sometimes about a few of the people I spotted Chambord with once or twice outside the Pasteur. Also about a car that picked him up here some nights."

Smith allowed only a fraction of his interest to show on his face. "What kind of people?"

"Oh, ordinary enough. French, well dressed. They were always in civvies, or I might've said they were military. But I guess if Chambord was making progress on his DNA computer, that'd make sense. The military would want to keep tabs on everything he was doing, if he'd let them."

"Natural enough. What about the car? Do you remember the year and make?"

"Citron, recent. Don't know the exact year. It was big and black. I'd see it when I was working late. I'd be heading for mine, and a few times it'd drive up. The rear door would swing open, Chambord would duck and climb in he was very tall, you know and it'd drive off. It was odd, because he had his own little Renault. I mean, I'd spot the Renault parked in the lot after the big car drove off."

"You never saw who was with him in the Citron?"

"Never. But at the time, I was tired and was thinking about getting home."

"Did the Citron bring him back?"

"I wouldn't know."

Smith thought it over. "Thanks, Mike. I can see you're busy, and I don't want to take any more of your time. I'm just looking into Marty's activities here in Paris, to get an assessment of his health before the bombing. Sorry to get so far off track with Chambord. Marty's got Asperger's Syndrome, and he's usually fine, but since I haven't talked to him in a while, I just want to make sure. What can you tell me about Chambord's family? They might know more about Marty."

"Emile was a widower. Wife died about seven years ago. I wasn't here then, but I heard it hit him hard. He buried himself in work then, too, was aloof for a while, I'm told. He has one child, a grown-up daughter."

"You have her address?"

Kerns turned to his computer and soon provided it. He cocked his head at Smith. "Her name's Thérèse Chambord. I gather she's a successful actress, stage mostly, but a few French flicks. A stunner, from what I've heard."

"Thanks, Mike. I'll tell you how things go with Marty."

"You do that. And we've got to have a drink together at least, before you go home. With luck, Marty, too."

"Good idea. I'd like that." He stood up and left.

Once outside, Smith gazed across the big campus toward the smoke, blowing thin against the clouds. He shook his head and turned away, heading back to the street, his mind on Marty. Using his cell phone, he called the Pompidou Hospital and talked to the ICU head nurse, who reported that Marty remained stable, fortunately still showing an occasional sign that he might wake up. It was not a lot, but Smith held close the hope that his longtime friend would pull through.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Me?" He remembered the blow to his head when he fell. Now it all seemed a long time ago and, compared to the devastation at the Pasteur, unimportant. "I'm doing fine. Thanks for asking."

As he hung up, he reemerged onto the rue du Docteur Roux and considered what he had learned from Mike Kerns: For the past year, Emile Chambord had acted like a man in a hurry, like someone with a secret. And he had been seen with well-dressed men who could have been military types out of uniform.

Smith was mulling that when he had a feeling he was being watched. Call it what you will training, experience, a sixth sense, a subliminal impression of an image, paranoia, or even parapsychology. But there was that tingle on the back of his neck, the slight shrinking of the skin.

They were out there, the eyes observing him. It had begun the instant he had stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Chapter Six

Captain Darius Bonnard could almost smell the camels, the dates rotting in the sun, the goat-fat stink of couscous, and even the rank but miraculous odor of stagnant water. He had changed out of his captain's uniform and was now wearing a civilian suit, lightweight but still too heavy for the apartment where he had just arrived. He was already sweating under his blue pin-striped shirt.

He gazed around. The place looked like the inside of every bedouin tent in which he had sat miserable and cross-legged from the Sahara to all the godforsaken desert outposts of the former empire where he had served in his time. Moroccan rugs covered every window and lay two deep in a cushion on the floor. Algerian, Moroccan, and Berber hangings and artifacts decorated the walls, and the leather and wood furniture was low and hard.

With a sigh, the captain lowered himself to a chair inches off the floor, grateful that at least he was not expected to sit cross-legged on the floor. For a moment of déjà vu, he half-expected hot sand to gust from under the tent's walls and burn around his ankles.

But Bonnard was not in the Sahara, nor in a tent, and he had more pressing matters on his mind than an illusion of camel dung and blowing sand. His expression was fierce as he warned in French, "Sending that man to kill Martin Zellerbach in the hospital was a stupid move, M. Mauritania. Idiocy! How did you think he'd pull it off and escape successfully? They'd have caught him and flayed the truth out of him. And with Zellerbach's doctor friend there, too. Merde! Now the Sret has doubled their alert, and it'll be ten times more difficult to eliminate Zellerbach."

As Captain Bonnard ranted, the second man in the room, whom the captain had called M. Mauritania, the only name by which he was known in the international underworld of spies and criminals, remained expressionless. He was a stocky figure, with a round face and soft, well-manicured hands below the cuffs of a white shirt impeccably shot from the sleeves of a pearl-gray English suit direct from some custom tailor on Savile Row. His small features and bright blue eyes contemplated Bonnard and his outrage with the long-suffering patience of someone forced to listen to the incessant barking of a dog.

When the captain finally finished his tirade, Mauritania, who wore a French beret, tucked a lock of brown hair behind his ear and answered in French, in a voice as hard as his hands were soft. "You underestimate us, Captain. We're not fools. We sent no one to assassinate Dr. Zellerbach at the hospital or anywhere else. It would've been stupid to do at any time, and more than stupid to do now, when it's quite possible he'll never regain consciousness anyway."

Bonnard was taken aback. "But we decided there was no way we could take the chance of letting him live. He might know too much."

"You decided. We decided to wait. That's our choice to make, not yours," Mauritania said in a tone that ended the matter. "In any case, you and I have more important matters to consider."

"Such as, if you didn't send that assassin, who did? And why?"

Mauritania inclined his small, neat head. "I wasn't thinking of that. But, yes, it's a concern, and we'll discover all we can in the matter. Meanwhile, we've studied the notes of the research assistant, which you gave us. We find they coincide precisely, if sketchily, with Chambord's own data and reports. Nothing appears to have been forgotten or lost. Now that we have them, there should be no trouble from that direction. They've already been destroyed."

"Which will keep our activities nicely secret, as I told you," Bonnard said, a touch of colonial condescension in his certainty. He heard it and did not care. "But I'm not at all sure about allowing Zellerbach to live. I'd suggest"

"And I," Mauritania cut him off, "suggest you leave Zellerbach to us. You must pay attention to greater dangers, such as the police investigation into the 'suicide' of Chambord's assistant. Under the circumstances, more than the police will be asking questions. How is the official probe into the suicide proceeding?"

The Mauritania had pulled Bonnard back, and for a moment the captain fought his disgust. But on the other hand, the reason he was doing business with the underworld leader was that he needed someone tough and savvy, as relentless as himself. So what else should he expect? Besides, he saw the logic of the question.

He forced himself to sound more accommodating. "I've heard nothing. But after the assistant ran away when he spotted your men, he stopped for petrol. The people at the station reported the assistant had heard about Emile Chambord's death and was distraught, actually in tears. Devastating grief. That should give the motivation. He couldn't go on without his mentor."

"You know nothing more? Not even from your French army headquarters?"

"Not a word."

Mauritania considered. "That doesn't worry you?"

"No news is good news." Bonnard gave a cold smile at the clich.

Mauritania's nose wrinkled with disgust. "That's a Western proverb as dangerous as it's stupid. Silence in a matter such as this is far from golden. A suicide is difficult to fake well enough to fool police detectives with any brains or experience, to say nothing of the Deuxième Bureau. I suggest you or your people find out what the police and secret service actually know about the assistant's death, and find out quickly."

"I'll look into it," Bonnard agreed grudgingly. He adjusted his weight, preparing to stand.

But Mauritania raised his small hand, and, with a sigh, Bonnard sank back down onto the low, hard chair.

"One more thing, Captain Bonnard. This friend of Zellerbach's What do you know about him?"

Bonnard would soon be missed from work and wanted to leave. He controlled his impatience and said, "The man's name is Lieutenant Colonel Jonathan Smith. He's an old friend of Zellerbach's, a medical doctor, and was sent here by Zellerbach's family. At least that's what Smith told the hospital, and from what I've been able to learn from my other sources, it's accurate. Zellerbach and Smith grew up together in some place called Iowa." He had trouble pronouncing it.

"But from what you've also told me about the assassination attempt on Zellerbach at the hospital, this Dr. Smith acted more like a man with combat or police experience. You say he came to the hospital armed?"

"He did, and I agree his actions were far from medical."

"Possibly an agent? Placed in the hospital by someone who's unconvinced by our charade?"

"If Smith is, he's not CIA or MI6. I'm familiar with all their people in Europe and on the European desks at Langley and London SIS. He's definitely American, so unlikely Mossad or a Russian. And he's not one of ours. That I'd definitely know. My sources within American intelligence say he's simply an army research scientist assigned to a U.S. military medical research facility."

"Absolutely American?"

"The clothes, the manner, the speech, the attitude. Plus the confirmation by my contacts. My reputation on it."

"Perhaps he could be a Company man whom you don't know? Langley lies about such things. Their business is to lie. They've grown rather good at it."

"My contacts don't lie. Plus, he's in none of our files at military intelligence."

"Could he be an agent from an organization you don't know, or don't have sources to?"

"Impossible. What do you take us for? If the Second Bureau doesn't know any such organization, it doesn't exist."

"Very well." Mauritania nodded. "Still, we'd better continue to watch him, your people and mine." He rose in a single fluid motion.

With relief, Captain Bonnard struggled to his feet from the low chair. His legs felt nearly paralyzed. He had never understood why these desert people were not all cripples. "Perhaps," he said, massaging behind his knee, "Smith is nothing more than what he appears. The United States thrives on a culture of guns, after all."

"But he'd hardly be allowed to carry one to Europe on a commercial flight without some predetermined reason, and a very important one at that," Mauritania pointed out. "Still, perhaps you're right. There are ways to acquire guns here, too, including for foreigners, yes? Since his friend was the victim of violence, Smith may have come for revenge. In any case, Americans always seem to feel less vulnerable when they have a weapon. Rather silly of them."

Which left Captain Bonnard with the distinct impression that the enigmatic and occasionally treacherous terrorist chief did not think Bonnard was right at all.

On high alert, Jon Smith strolled toward the boulevard Pasteur, all the while pretending to look for a taxi to hail. He kept turning his head left and right, apparently studying the traffic for a potential ride, but really probing for whoever was out there watching him.

Automotive exhaust filled the air. He looked back toward the institute's entrance, where the guards were checking identifications. Finally he decided on three potentials: A youngish woman, mid-thirties or so, dark-haired, no figure to speak of, lumpy face. Altogether unremarkable in a dull black skirt and cardigan. She had stopped to admire the gloomy brick-and-stone church of Saint-Jean Baptiste de la Salle.

The second potential was a middle-aged, equally colorless man, wearing a dark blue sports coat and corduroy jeans, despite the warm May weather. He stood before a street vendor's cart, poring over the items as if he were looking for a lost masterpiece. The third person was a tall old man, leaning on a black ebony cane. He was standing in the shadow of a tree near the curb, watching the smoke at the Pasteur drift upward.

Smith had close to two hours before the meeting President Castilla had arranged with General Henze, the NATO commander. It would probably not take that long to lose whoever was interested in him, which meant maybe he could get some information first.

All this time, he had continued to pretend to be looking for a taxi. With a dramatic shrug of disgust, he walked onward toward the boulevard Pasteur. At the intersection, he turned right, sauntering toward the bustling Hotel Arcade with its glass, steel, and stucco facade. He glanced into store windows, checked his watch, and finally stopped at a caf, where he chose an outside table. He ordered a demi, and when the beer arrived, he sipped and watched the passing parade with the relaxed smile of a recently arrived tourist.

The first of the trio to appear was the tall old man who had been leaning on his cane in the shadow of a tree, watching the smoke from the bombed building, which could be suspicious in itself. Criminals were known to be drawn back to the scene of an attack, although this man looked too old and disabled to have taken on the duties of a sneak bombing. He limped along, using the cane expertly, and found a seat at a caf directly across the street from Smith. There he took a copy of Le Monde from his pocket and, after the waiter brought coffee and pastry, unfurled it. He read as he sipped and ate, apparently with no interest in Smith. In fact, he never looked up from his newspaper again.

The second to arrive was the lumpy-faced young woman with the dark hair and nondescript appearance, who suddenly was walking past the caf not five feet from where Smith sat. She glanced directly at him and continued on without showing the faintest interest, as if he were simply empty space. Once past, she paused as if considering stopping for a drink, too. She seemed to dismiss the thought and moved on, disappearing into the crowded Hotel Arcade.

The third person, the man who had been shopping with such concentration at the street vendor's cart, did not appear.

As he finished his beer, Smith replayed his observations of the tall old man and the nondescript woman their facial features, the rhythm of their movements, the way they held their heads and used their hands and feet. He did not leave until he was certain he had memorized them.

Then he paid and moved briskly back along the boulevard toward the Pasteur metro station at the intersection with the rue de Vaugirard. The old man with the cane soon appeared behind, moving well for his age and apparent infirmity. Smith had seen him instantly. He monitored the fellow with his peripheral vision and continued to watch for anyone else who appeared suspicious.

It was time to use an old tradecraft trick: He ducked into the metro, watching. The man with the cane did not follow. Smith waited until a train pulled into the station, and then he joined the stream of passengers that was exiting back to the street. A block away, under the leaden sky, the old fellow was still walking along. Smith hurried after, keeping just close enough to observe, until the man turned into a bookstore with a gone to lunch sign in French posted in the glass door. Key in hand, he unlocked the door. Once inside, he turned the sign around to open, dropped his cane into a stand by the door, and shrugged out of his suit coat.

There was no point in pressing the situation, Smith decided. After all, the fellow did have a key. On the other hand, he wanted to make certain. So he stopped outside the big plate-glass window and watched as the man shoved his arms into a beige sweater-vest and methodically buttoned it from the top down. When the man finished, he took a seat on a high stool behind the counter, looked up, saw Smith, and smiled and gestured for him to come in. He obviously either owned or worked at the bookstore. Smith felt a stab of deep disappointment.

Still, someone had been surveilling him, and he had narrowed the potentials to the dark-haired woman or the man who had been checking out the street vendor's wares. In turn, whichever of the two it was, he or she had also recognized Smith's suspicions and exited the chase.

He gave the bookseller a friendly wave and hurried back to the metro station. But then, with a sinking feeling, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise again. Someone was still nearby, studying him. Frustrated, worried, he stood outside the station and gazed all around. He saw nothing. He had to lose his tail. He could not lead them to his meeting with the general. He turned and rushed down into the station.

In a doorway partially shielded by a bush, the dull-looking woman in the shopkeeper's black outfit scrutinized Smith as he carefully surveyed the area. Her hiding place was recessed and dark, which was perfect, since it allowed her dusky clothing to disappear into the gloom. She took care to keep her face far back in the shadow, because although she was tan, the paler color of her skin might reflect just enough light for the very-observant Smith to notice.

He looked uneasy and suspicious. He was handsome, with almost American Indian features high cheekbones, a planed face, and very dark blue eyes. Right now the eyes were hidden behind black sunglasses, but she remembered the color. She shivered.

At last he seemed to make a decision. He hurried into the metro. There was no further doubt in her mind: He had realized he was being followed, but he did not know it was specifically she, or he would have followed after she passed his table outside the caf and stared straight at him.

She sighed, irritated by the situation. It was time to report in. She pulled her cell phone from a pocket beneath her heavy black skirt. "He figured out he was being tailed, but he didn't make me," she told her contact. "Otherwise, he appears to be here really because he's worried about his injured friend. Everything he's done since he arrived is consistent with that." She listened and said angrily, "That's your call. If you think it's worthwhile, send someone else to tail him. I've got my own assignment.No, nothing definite so far, but I can smell something big. Mauritania wouldn't have come here unless it was imperative. Yes, he's got it."

She clicked off the cell phone, looked carefully around, and slipped out of the shadows. Jon Smith had not reappeared from the metro, so she hurried back to the caf where he had sat. She searched the pavement beneath the chair he had used. She nodded to herself, satisfied. There was nothing.

Smith made four changes of trains, returned rapidly to the street, and plunged back down again at two of the stations. He watched everywhere until, finally, after an hour of this, he was confident he had lost his tail. Relieved but still wary, he caught a taxi to the address Fred Klein had given him.

It turned out to be a private pension in an ivy-covered, three-story brick building on a small courtyard off the rue des Renaudes, secluded from the street and the bustle of the city. At her post inside the elegant front door, the concierge was as discreet as the building itself. A matronly woman with steel-trap eyes and a face that revealed nothing, she showed no reaction when he asked for M. Werner, but she came from behind her counter to lead him up the stairs with decidedly unmatronly movements. He suspected that more metal than just her house keys was hidden under her cardigan and apron.

He did not have to guess about the bantamweight sitting on a chair in the second-floor corridor, reading a Michael Collins detective novel. The concierge vanished back down the stairs like a magician's rabbit, and the small ramrod on the chair studied Smith's ID without getting up. He wore a dark business suit, but there was a bulge under his armpit that, all things considered, looked to Smith to be an old regulation-issue 1911 Colt semiautomatic. The man's stiff and precise mannerisms hinted at an invisible uniform that was all but tattooed to his skin. Obviously, he was a career enlisted man; an officer would have stood. In fact, he was a privileged enlisted man, to still be carrying the old Colt.45— probably a master sergeant for the general.

He returned Smith's ID, gave a slight nod of his bullet head as a salute to rank, and said, "What's the word, Colonel?"

"Loki."

The bullet head pointed. "The general's waiting. Third door down."

Smith walked to it, knocked, and when a guttural "Come in" sounded, he opened the door and stepped into a sunny room with a large window and a view of tangled, blooming gardens that Monet would have liked to paint. Standing inside was another bantamweight, but ten years older and forty pounds lighter than the one in the hallway. He was rail thin, his back turned to Smith as he stared out at the watercolor-perfect gardens.

As Smith closed the door, the general demanded, "What's going to happen with this new technology that's supposed to be out there somewhere, Colonel? Are we looking for a result on the order of a nuclear bomb, or is it more like a peashooter? Or maybe nothing at all? What are they planning?" Small as he was, his voice was six feet tall and should have belonged to a heavyweight. It was as rough as redwood bark and hoarse, probably from a youth spent bellowing orders over gunfire.

"That's what I'm here to find out, sir."

"You have a gut hunch?"

"I've been in Paris just a few hours. A would-be assassin has threatened me and Dr. Martin Zellerbach, who worked with Dr. Chambord, with an automatic weapon."

"I heard about that," the general admitted.

"I've also been tailed by someone who knows their job. Plus, of course, there's the incident at Diego Garcia. I'd say it's definitely not nothing."

The general turned. "That's all? No theories? No educated guesses? You're the scientist. An M.D. to boot. What should I be worrying about? Armageddon in the hands of sweet damn all, or just a schoolboy's bloody-nose and our vaunted American ego bruised?"

Smith gave a dry smile. "Science and medicine don't teach us to theorize or make wild guesses in front of generals, sir."

The general brayed a laugh. "No, I suppose not."

General Carlos Henze, U.S. Army, was the Supreme Allied Commander of Europe (SACEUR) for NATO's combined forces. As wiry as a coiled spring, Henze wore his graying hair short, which, of course, was expected in the military. But it was not the boot-camp buzz affected by marine generals and other stiff-necks to show they were plain, no-nonsense soldiers who slogged through the muck like any other hero. Instead, his hair grew down to an inch above the collar of his immaculately tailored, charcoal-brown, two-piece suit, which he wore with the easy familiarity of the CEO of a Fortune 500 corporation. He was the new breed of general, integrated and fully prepared for the twenty-first century.

The general gave a crisp nod. "All right, Colonel. What say I tell you what I know, okay? Have a seat. That couch will do."

Smith sat on the ornate velvet couch from the time of Napoleon III, while the general returned to his window and bucolic view, his back again to Smith, who found himself wondering if this was Henze's way of focusing a roomful of division and regimental commanders on the matter at hand. It was a good trick. Smith thought he might try using it in one of the meetings with his notoriously disorganized fellow research scientists.

The general said, "So we've maybe got some kind of new machine that can access and control all the world's electronic software and hardware, including any country's codes, encryptions, electronic keys for launching missiles, command structures, and instructions. That about sum up what the gizmo will be able to do, assuming it exists?"

"For military purposes, yes," Smith agreed.

"Which is all that concerns me and, right now, you. History can handle the rest." His back still facing Smith, the general raised his gaze to the steely clouds that hid the May sky, as if wondering whether the sun would ever shine again. "Every sign is that the man who built it is dead, and his records are ash. No one claims responsibility for the bomb that killed him, which is unusual among terrorists but not unheard of." This time Henze simply stopped speaking, an almost imperceptible stiffening of his back and shoulders indicating he expected a response, either yes or no.

Smith repressed a sigh. "Yes, sir, except that we can add the probable assassin, affiliation unknown, who attempted to kill Dr. Zellerbach in the hospital this morning."

"Right." Now Henze turned. He stalked to a brocade chair, dropped into it, and glared at Smith as only a general could. "Okay, I've got some information for you, too. The president said I was to extend all help, and keep mum about you, and I'm not in the habit of ignoring orders. So this is what my people and the CIA have found out: The night of the explosion, a black van was seen parked behind the Pasteur annex on the rue des Volontaires. Just minutes before the explosion, it left the area. You know Chambord had a research assistant?"

"Yes. Last I heard, the French authorities were looking for him. He's been found?"

"Dead. Suicide. He killed himself last night in a miserable little hotel outside Bordeaux. He'd been vacationing in a village on the coast, painting the fishermen, of all fool things. According to one of the kid's Paris friends, Chambord had told him he was working too hard, take a vacation, and that's his idea of fun. These French. So what was he doing in a fleabag on the wrong side of the Garonne?"

"They're sure it was suicide?"

"So they say. The CIA tells me the owner of the fleabag remembers the assistant was carrying a briefcase when he checked in. He noticed, because it's more luggage than most of his so-called guests have. You know what I mean it's that kind of 'hotel.' The deal was that the assistant was alone, no girlfriend, no boyfriend. And if he did have a briefcase, it's missing now."

"You figure the bombers hit again, made the murder look like a suicide, and then took the briefcase and whatever was in it."

Henze jumped up, paced, and marched back to his favorite post at the window. "Thinking about it is, the president tells me, your job. But I will say the CIA is of the opinion the suicide has a rank odor, even though the Sret seems satisfied."

Smith pondered. "The research assistant would've known Chambord's progress, but that alone wouldn't necessarily have been enough reason to kill him. After Chambord's death, and the rumors of success, we'd have to act as if Chambord built a working molecular machine anyway. So I'd say there had to be more reason. Most likely, the briefcase, as you suspect. The assistant's notes maybe Chambord's own notes something inside that they considered dangerous or critical."

"Yeah," Henze growled, and turned to give Smith a baleful stare. "So, because Diego Garcia happened, it looks like the bombers have the data for whatever Chambord created, which you think's an honest-to-God working molecular supercomputer"

"A prototype," Smith corrected.

"What does that mean?"

"It's probably bulky, not easily portable. Glass and tubes and connections. Not yet the sleek commercial models we'll see in the future."

The general frowned. "The important question is, will it do the job?"

"With a competent operator, it sure looks like it."

"Then what's the difference? They have this damn thing, and we have bubkes. Now, ain't that a kick in the eye."

"Yessir. In fact, I'd say that was a serious mule kick."

Henze nodded soberly. "So get it out of my eye, Colonel."

"I'll do my best, General."

"Do better. I'm going to have my Deputy Commander at NATO that's General La Porte to you get in touch. He's a Frenchman. Their military is naturally concerned. Since this is their country, the White House wants to keep them feeling happy, but not give them any more than we absolutely have to, understand? La Porte has already been sniffing around about you and Dr. Zellerbach. I get the impression he senses he's being left out of the loop everywhere that's the French again. I told him you're here as a friend of Dr. Zellerbach, but I can see he's skeptical. He's heard about that little fracas at the Pompidou Hospital, so be prepared for a bunch of personal questions, but stick to your story." Henze crossed to the door, opened it, and held out his hand. "Keep in touch. Whatever you need, call. Sergeant Matthias over there will walk you out."

Smith shook the iron hand. Out in the corridor, the short, stocky sergeant was not happy to leave his post. He opened his mouth to argue with the general a career master sergeant, for sure but caught his boss's eye and thought better of it.

Without a word, he escorted Smith down the stairs and past the concierge, who was smoking a Gitane behind her counter. As Smith passed, he spotted the butt of a 9mm pistol in the waistband of her skirt. Someone was taking no chances with the security around General Carlos Henze, U.S.A.

The sergeant stopped at the door, watching until Smith walked safely across the courtyard, through the archway that led to the street, and on out to the sidewalk. Smith paused beside a tree and gazed all around at the thick traffic, the few pedestrians and his heart seemed to stop. He whirled.

He had caught a glimpse of a face in the backseat of a taxi as it turned from the street to the courtyard. Chilled, Smith counted to five and slipped back around to where he could get a view of the pension's entrance through bushes.

Although the fellow wore a hat, Smith had recognized the dark features, the thick mustache, and now he recognized the lean figure as well. It was the fake orderly who had gone to the hospital to kill Marty. The same man who had knocked Smith unconscious. He had just reached the pension's door. The same door through which Smith had left. The sergeant was still standing there. He stepped politely aside to let the killer enter. An utter professional, the sergeant looked protectively around, stepped back, and closed the door.

Chapter Seven

A heavy spring twilight settled like a darkening blanket on Seine-St-Denis on the north side of Paris, beyond the boulevard Périphérique. Smith paid his taxi driver and got out, smelling the metallic odor of ozone. The warm air was close, almost stifling with humidity, threatening rain.

Pausing on the sidewalk, he jammed his hands into his trench-coat pockets and studied a narrow, three-story beige brick apartment building. This was the address Mike Kerns had given him for Thérèse Chambord. The place was quaint, picturesque, with a peaked roof and decorative stonework, and it stood in a row of similar structures that had probably been constructed in the late fifties or early sixties. Her building appeared to be divided into three apartments, one to a floor. There were lights on in windows in each story.

He turned and surveyed the street, where cars were parked with two wheels up on the curbs in the French way. A sporty Ford cruised past, its headlights shooting funnels of white light into the dusk. The block was short, porch lights and street lamps glowed, and at the end, near an elevated rail service, rose an ultramodern, eight-story hotel of poured concrete, also painted beige, perhaps to blend in with the lower apartment buildings.

Wary, Smith turned on his heel and walked to the hotel. He stood in the lobby a half hour, cautiously watching through the glass walls, but no one followed him onto the street or into the hotel. No one went into or left Thérèse Chambord's building either.

He searched through the hotel until he found a service entrance that opened onto a cross street. He slipped out and hurried to the corner. Peering around, he saw no sign of surveillance at the lobby entrance or anywhere else in the neighborhood near Thérèse Chambord's apartment. There were few, if any, places to hide, except for the cars parked on both sides. But all appeared empty. With a nod to himself, he moved briskly-back to Mile. Chambord's address, still surveying all around.

In the recessed entryway, there was a white calling card with her name engraved on it, slid into the address slot for the third floor. He rang her bell and announced his name and purpose.

He rode the elevator up, and when it opened, she was standing in her open doorway, dressed in a slim white evening suit, a high-necked, off-white silk blouse, and high-heeled, ivory pumps. It was as if she were an Andy Warhol painting, white on white, with a violent and focusing touch of blood red in a pair of long, dangling earrings and again at her full lips. Then there was the contrast of her hair, satin black, suspended in an ebony cloud above her shoulders, theatrical and appealing. She was an actress all right. Still, her dramatic flair could also be the simple reflex of talent and experience.

A large black handbag hung over her left shoulder as if she were about to go out. He walked toward her.

She spoke flawless English, no trace of an accent. "I don't know what I can tell you about my father, or that poor man in the hospital they say might've been in his lab with him when when the bomb exploded, Mr.Smith, is it?"

"Dr. Jon Smith, yes. Can you give me ten minutes? Dr. Zellerbach is a very old and close friend. We grew up together."

She studied her watch, biting her lower lip with small, incredibly white teeth, as she calculated in her head. At last she nodded. "All right, ten minutes. Come in. I have a performance tonight, but I'll forgo a few minutes of yoga."

The apartment was not what he expected from the building's quaint facade. Two walls were composed entirely of glass, giving it a very modern feel. On a third wall, tall glass doors opened onto a wraparound balcony with a railing of stark, geometric wrought-iron patterns.

On the other hand, the rooms were large but not enormous, with elegant period furniture from Louis Quatorze to Second Empire, haphazardly mixed and heavily packed into the room in the Parisian fashion that never seemed cluttered and somehow ended up being totally, and improbably, harmonious. Smith glimpsed two bedrooms through half-open doors as well as a small but efficient kitchen. Regal, warm, comfortable, and contemporary.

"Please." Her swift glance looked him up and down, and she motioned to a sturdy Second Empire love seat.

He smiled. She had weighed him in that glance and seated him accordingly. She leaned back in a more delicate Louis Quinze armchair. At a distance, standing in the doorway, she had seemed tall, a large and imposing woman, but once she was up close and seated, he realized she was barely five foot six. It was her presence that was large. She filled a doorway and a room. He guessed that on stage she could appear any size she wanted, as well as coarse or delicate, young or old. She projected an image that was larger than she, a sense of self that could control a stage as it did a living room.

He thanked her and asked, "Did you know Marty Dr. Zellerbach was working with your father?"

"Not for sure, no. My father and I were close, but we lived such busy and separate lives that we didn't see each other as much as we would've liked. We talked often on the telephone, though, and I recall he mentioned once he'd gotten the oddest and most wonderful collaborator an eccentric recluse from America who suffered from an obscure autistic disorder. But the fellow was also a computer genius. He implied that this Dr. Z, as he called him, had simply walked in one morning, fresh from the airport, and volunteered to be part of the research. When Dad realized who he was, and what he could do, he showed him everything. Dr. Z was soon advancing Dad's work with the most original innovations. But that's all I know about your friend." She added, "I'm sorry."

She was sorry. Smith could hear it in her voice. Sorry for Marty, for her father, for herself, and for Smith. It was in her eyes, too, the impact of her father's shocking disappearance, the conclusion that it must mean he had been killed. An impact that left her walking in a mental limbo neither in the present nor in the past, but suspended between.

He saw pain in her eyes. "It's a lot harder for you," he said. "At least Marty has a good chance."

"Yes." She gave a vague nod. "I suppose that's true."

"Did your father say anything that led you to think someone might've wanted to murder him? Someone whom he was afraid might try to steal his work?"

"No. As I said, Dr. Smith, we saw each other infrequently, but even less so these last twelve months. In fact, we talked on the telephone less often, too. He was deeply immersed in his lab."

"Did you know what he was working on?"

"Yes, the DNA computer. Everyone knew what the project was. He hated secrets in science. He always said there was no place for such ego-centered nonsense."

"From what I've heard, that was true up until last year. Any idea what happened to change him?"

"No." There was no hesitation.

"What about new friends? Women? Envious colleagues? A need for money?"

She almost smiled. "Women? No, I think not. Of course, a child, especially a daughter, never knows for certain, but my father barely had time for my mother when she was alive, even though he was devoted to her. She knew that, and it enabled her to put up with her giant rival his laboratory. Dad was, as you Americans would say, a workaholic. He had no need for money and never even spent his large salary. He had few friends, only colleagues. None was new or particularly envious that I knew about. But then, they had no reason to be. All his associates had great reputations of their own."

Smith believed her. The profile was prevalent among world-class scientists, especially the workaholic part. Enormous envy was unusual their egos were far too big to envy anyone. Compete, yes. Competition was fierce, and nothing delighted them more than the false starts, wrong lines of reasoning, and errors of their rivals. But if a competitor got ahead on the same project, they would be far more likely to applaud and then go to work improving on the other person's success.

He asked, "When you did talk to him, was there a hint he was close to the goal? A working prototype?"

She shook her head, and the cloud of long black hair resettled on her shoulders. "No. I'd remember that."

"How about your intuition? You say you and he were close."

She thought about it long enough to glance nervously at her watch. "There was a sense about him a feeling of elation the last time we had lunch. We were at a bistro near the Pasteur."

"When?"

"Oh, perhaps three weeks ago, probably less." She looked at the watch again and stood up. "I really must go." She smiled at him, a bold, direct smile. "Would you like to come to the theater tonight? See the performance and perhaps talk over dinner later?"

Smith smiled in return. "I'd like nothing better, but not tonight. Rain check, as we Americans say?"

She chuckled. "You'll have to tell me the derivation of that phrase sometime."

"It'll be my pleasure."

"Do you have a car?"

Smith admitted he did not.

"May I drive you? I'll take you wherever you want." She locked the apartment door behind them, and they rode down in the elevator together.

In the intimate space, she smelled of spring lilacs. At the apartment building's front door, Smith pushed it open and gallantly held it.

In appreciation, Thérèse Chambord gave him a dazzling smile of the perfect white teeth. "Merci beaucoup." She walked through.

Smith watched her step into the dark night, elegant and composed in her white evening suit. It was one of those moments of personal enjoyment that he would not have minded lasting. He repressed a sigh, smiled at himself, and started to follow. He felt the motion before it actually registered. The door slammed back into him. Hard. Caught completely off guard, he skidded back and landed awkwardly on the floor.

Outside in the night somewhere, Thérèse Chambord screamed.

He yanked out his Sig Sauer, jumped back up to his feet, and rammed into the door, knocking it aside as if it were not there at all.

He hit the dark sidewalk running, looking everywhere for Thérèse. Beneath his feet, glass crunched. His head jerked up. Above him, the entry lights were shattered, and out along the curb, the street lamps had also been shot out. Whoever they were, they were thorough. They must have used silencers, or he would have heard the noise.

Gathering rain clouds blocked all moonlight and starshine. The whole street was dark, full of impenetrable shadows.

As his heart thudded against his ribs, Smith spotted four figures. From ski masks to athletic shoes, they were clothed completely in black and therefore almost invisible. They were heaving and wrestling a violently resisting Thérèse Chambord into an equally black van. She was a streak of white, tape across her mouth, as she valiantly tried to fight them off.

He altered course and put on a burst of speed, heading for the van and Thérèse. Faster, he told himself. Faster!

But as he neared, a single, silenced gunshot made a loud pop in the quiet night. A bullet whined past so close that it singed his cheek. His ear rang, and a for a long moment he thought his head was going to crack open with pain. He blinked furiously as he dove to the street, made himself roll and then spring up, the Sig Sauer poised out in front of him, ready to fire. A wave of nausea wracked him. Had he reinjured his head?

He blinked harder, forced himself to concentrate, and saw they had forced Thérèse Chambord into the van. He ran again, his feet pounding, fury shaking him. He raised his Sig Sauer and fired a warning shot into the ground at the feet of one of the men who were trying to kidnap Thérèse.

"Stop!" Smith bellowed. "Stop, or I'll kill you all!" His head throbbed. He kept blinking his eyes.

Two of the attackers spun expertly, crouched, and squeezed off rounds, forcing Smith to hit the ground again.

As he raised up, aiming the Sig Sauer, the pair leaped into the van next to Thérèse, while the third jumped into the passenger seat. The man in the passenger seat struggled to close the door as the van ground gears and sped backward out of the driveway. The side door was still open.

Smith aimed for the tires, squeezing off careful rounds. But there was a fourth man. As he ran alongside the van, preparing to leap inside through the open sliding door, the man fired back at Smith.

Two of the kidnapper's shots bit into the pavement, sending chunks of concrete thudding into the back of Smith's head. He swore, rolled away, and fired. His bullet hit the fourth man in the back just as he had turned to jump inside the van. Blood sprayed out into the dark air, and the man's body arched in a bow. His hand slid off where he gripped the door handle, and he fell screaming as the rear wheel powered over him.

Tires screeching, the van sped on out into the street and away. Smith chased after it, panting. As his feet hammered, his muscles began to ache. He ran and ran until his heart thundered and the van turned the corner and disappeared, a pair of red taillights the only sign that it existed and had not been part of some twisted nightmare.

He stopped and leaned over, gasping for breath. He propped his empty hand and his gun hand on his thighs as he tried to fill his lungs. He hurt all over. And Thérèse Chambord was gone. At last he caught his breath. He filled his lungs and stood upright in a pool of yellow lamplight. His gun hand dangled at his side. He closed his eyes and inhaled, mentally testing his head. His mind. It did not hurt, and he was no longer dizzy.

He was beginning to think he did have a mild concussion from the gunman this morning at the hospital. He would have to be more careful, but he was not going to stop.

Cursing, he ran back to where the fourth attacker lay face down and unmoving on the dark Seine-St-Denis driveway, blood oozing out beneath. Smith checked him. He was dead.

Sighing, he searched the man's pockets. He found French coins, a wicked-looking clasp knife, a package of Spanish cigarettes, and a wad of loose facial tissues. No wallet, no identification. The dead man's pistol lay on the pavement near the curb. It was a battered, old-model Glock, but well oiled and cared for. He examined it, focusing on the butt. A leather skin had been shrunk around the original grip, for comfort or silence, or maybe just as a mark of individuality. Smith looked closer. A design had been tooled faintly into the leather: It was a spreading tree with three points of flame rising over the base of the trunk, consuming it.

Smith was studying it when police klaxons began to wail in the distance. He lifted his head, listening. He must not be found here. Pocketing the dead man's Glock, he hurried away.

The Hotel Gilles was on the Left Bank, not far from the colorful shops and restaurants of the boulevard Saint-Germain. A discreet little hotel, it was where he had stayed many times when visiting Paris. He entered the tiny lobby and headed to the nineteenth-century registration desk, set in a hand-crafted, wrought-iron gilt cage. With every step, he worried more about Thérèse Chambord.

The manager greeted him with a Gallic cry of recognition, an emotional hug, and a stream of rapid English. "Colonel Smith! So much delight! I am without speech. You will be with us for long?"

"It's good to see you, too, Hector. I may be here for weeks, but I'll be in and out. Keep the room in my name whether I'm here or not until I officially check out. Okay?"

"It is done. I refrain from examining the reservations, they are as nothing for you."

"Merci beaucoup, Hector."

In the pleasant although far-from-modern hotel room, he slung his bag and laptop onto the bed. Using his cell phone with its built-in scrambler, he dialed Fred Klein, waiting as the call bounced off innumerable relays around the world to finally be picked up wherever Fred was.

"So?" Fred Klein said.

"They've kidnapped Thérèse Chambord."

"I just got the news. One of her neighbors saw quite a bit of it, including some crazy man who tried to stop the kidnapping. The French police relayed the information. Fortunately, the neighbor didn't get a good look at the man's face."

"Fortunately," Smith agreed dryly.

"The police have no clue who the kidnappers are, or why, and it's got them mighty unhappy. Why kill Chambord but only kidnap his daughter? If the bombers have full data for the molecular computer, why kidnap her at all? Was she taken by the same people who blew up the Pasteur and killed Chambord, or by other people entirely? Are there two groups involved — one that has the data and another that wants it, so they've snatched Mile. Chambord in the hope she has something to tell them?"

"That's an unpleasant thought. A second group. Damn."

"Hope I'm wrong." Klein sounded frustrated.

"Yeah. Swell. But we've got to keep it in mind. What about the police report about me and Thérèse Chambord? Do I need to take a new cover?"

"So far you're clear. They've questioned a taxi driver who took a man fitting your description to the Champs Élysées, where he got out and went into a nightclub. Luckily for us, no one in the nightclub recalls exactly what you look like, and of course you didn't give your name. The police have no other leads. Nice work."

"Thanks," Smith said tiredly. "I need some help with the meaning of a symbol I found: It's a tree with a broad canopy, and there are three flames burning at its base as if fire is about to consume it." He explained how he had found the picture tooled lightly into the kidnapper's leather pistol grip.

"I'll check on the image. How did your meetings with Mike Kerns and General Henze go?"

Smith relayed what he had learned from both men, including the black Citron that periodically was seen picking up Chambord. "And there's something else you need to know. I hope it's not what it could be." He told the head of Covert-One about the "hospital orderly" who had been welcomed by the master sergeant into the highly secure pension where General Henze was staying.

Klein swore under his breath. "What the devil's going on? It can't mean the general's mixed up in anything. Not with his record. If it's anything more than some bizarre coincidence, I'd be shocked. But it's got to be looked into. I'll handle it from my end."

"Could the sergeant be a security problem? A mole of some kind?"

Klein's voice hardened. "That's unthinkable, too. You stay away from it. We don't want anything to hurt your cover. I'll have Sergeant Matthias investigated from this end, too, and I'll find out about that tree symbol." Klein clicked off.

Smith sighed, exhausted. He hoped an explanation of the tree graphic would lead him to Thérèse. With luck, the terrorists would not be far away. He moved his suitcase from the bed and pushed down on the familiar mattress. The bed was springy but firm in the French way, and he looked forward to spending some quality time in it, sleeping.

In the bathroom, he stripped off his clothes and plunged into the shower. It had been installed in the ancient tub since he was here last. Once he had washed off the trip and the exertions of the day, he wrapped himself in a terry-cloth robe, sat at the window, and pushed open the shutters so he could gaze out across the steepled rooftops of Paris.

As he sat there, his mind wandering and weary, the black sky suddenly split open with a bright bolt of lightning. Thunder crashed, and rain poured down. The storm that had threatened all day had finally arrived. He lifted his face outside his window and let the cool raindrops splash him. It was difficult to believe that only yesterday he had been in his laboratory at Fort Collins, the dawn rising over the sweeping prairies of eastern Colorado.

Which made him think of Marty. He closed the shutters. As the rain made a rhythmic tattoo, he dialed the hospital. If anyone was listening in, they would hear the concerned friend they expected, using the phone innocently. No suspicions nor subterfuge.

The ICU nurse told him Marty's condition was basically unchanged, but he was still showing small signs of progress. Feeling grateful, he said bonsoir, hung up, and dialed the hospital's security office. The chief was gone for the day, but an assistant reported nothing alarming or suspicious had happened involving either Marty or the ICU since the attempt on his life this morning. Yes, the police had increased the security.

Smith was beginning to relax. He hung up, shaved, and was about to climb into bed when his cell phone gave off its low buzz. He answered it.

Without preamble, Fred Klein reported: "The tree and fire are the emblem of a defunct Basque separatist group called the Black Flame. They were supposedly broken up years ago in a shootout in Bilbao where all their leaders were killed or, later, imprisoned. All but one of those locked up committed 'suicide' in prison. They haven't been heard from for years, and Basque terrorists usually claim responsibility for their acts. However, the more violent groups don't always. They're more focused on real change, not just propaganda."

"So am I," Smith said, and he added, "And I've got one advantage."

"What would that be?"

"They didn't really try to kill me. Which means they don't know what I'm actually doing here. My cover's holding."

"Good point. Get some sleep. I'll see if I can come up with anything more on your Basques."

"One more favor? Dig deeper into Emile Chambord's past, will you? His whole history. I've got a hunch something's missing somewhere, and maybe it's there. Or maybe it's something vital that he could tell us, if he were alive. Thérèse might know it, too, without realizing it, and that could be why she's been taken. Anyway, it's worth a shot." He hung up.

Alone in the darkened room, he listened to the sound of the rain and of tires on the wet street below. He thought about an assassin, a general, and a band of Basque fanatics who might be back in action with a vengeance. Fanatics with a purpose. With a deep sense of disquiet, he wondered where they would strike next, and whether Thérèse Chambord was still alive.

Chapter Eight

The hypnotic rhythms of a classical Indian raga floated on the hot, heavy air, trapped by the thick carpets and wall hangings that lined Mauritania's apartment. Seated cross-legged in the exact center of the main room, he swayed like a sinuous Buddha to the gentle yet strident sound. His eyes were closed, and a beatific smile wreathed his face. He sensed rather than saw the disapproving look of his lieutenant, Abu Auda, who had just entered.

"Salaam alake koom." Mauritania's eyes remained closed as he spoke in Arabic while continuing to weave back and forth. "Forgive me, Abu Auda, it's my only vice. The classical Indian raga was part of a rich culture long before the Europeans developed what they claim to be classical music. I enjoy that fact nearly as much as the raga itself. Do you think Allah will forgive me for such indulgence and hubris?"

"Better him than me. All it is to me is distracting noise." Large and powerful-looking, Abu Auda snorted contemptuously. He was still in the same white robes and gold-trimmed kaffiyeh he had worn in the taxi when Captain Bonnard turned over to him the research notes of the dead lab assistant. Now, alas, the robes were not only dirty from too many days in the grime of Paris, but wet from the rainstorm. None of his women was in Paris to take care of him, which was irritating but could not be helped. He pushed back his kaffiyeh to reveal his long black face, strong, bony chin, small, straight nose, and full mouth set in stone. "Do you wish my report, or are you going to continue to waste my time?"

Mauritania chuckled and opened his eyes. "Your report, by all means. Allah may forgive me, but you won't, yes?"

"Allah has more time than we," Abu Auda responded, his expression humorless.

"So he does, Abu Auda. So he does. Then we'll have this oh-so-vital report of yours, shall we not?" Mauritania's eyes were amused, but beneath the surface was a glint that turned his visitor from complaints to the business at hand.

Abu Auda told him, "My watcher at the Pasteur Institute reports your person, Smith, appeared there. Smith spoke to Dr. Michael Kerns, apparently an old comrade. My man was able to hear only part of the conversation, when they were speaking of Zellerbach. After that, Smith left the Pasteur, drank a small beer at a caf, and then took the metro, where our miserable incompetent lost him."

Mauritania interrupted, "Did he lose Smith, or did Smith lose him?"

Abu Auda shrugged. "I wasn't there. He did report a curious fact. Smith appeared to wander aimlessly until he reached a bookshop, where he watched for a time, smiled at something, continued on to the metro, and went down into the station."

"Ah?" Mauritania's blue eyes grew brighter. "As if, perhaps, he noticed he was being watched when he left the Pasteur?"

The green-brown eyes snapped. "I'd know more if my idiot hadn't lost him at the metro station. He waited too long to follow him down. By Allah, he'll pay!"

Mauritania scowled. "What then, Abu?"

"We didn't find Smith again until tonight, when he arrived at the daughter's home. Our man there saw him, but we don't believe Smith knew. Smith was upstairs in her apartment nearly fifteen minutes, and then they rode down in the elevator together. As soon as she stepped outside, four assailants attacked. Ah, the fine quality of their work! Would to God they were ours. They eliminated Smith from the action first inside the door, separating him from the woman, and then they dragged the woman away. By the time Smith recovered and came after them, they had her inside the van, even though she fought them hard. He killed one, but the rest escaped. Smith inspected the dead man, took his pistol, and left before the police arrived. He found a taxi at a nearby hotel. Our man trailed him to the Champs Élysées, where he also lost him."

Mauritania nodded, almost with satisfaction. "This Smith doesn't want to become involved with the police, is suspicious of being followed, skilled at eluding a tail, is calm under attack, and can use a pistol well. I'd say our Dr. Smith is more than he seems, as we suspected."

"At the very least, he's got military training. But is Smith our main concern? What of the daughter? What of the five men, for there must've been a driver in the van? Weren't you concerned about the daughter before this happened? Now people we don't know, and who are experienced and well trained, have kidnapped her. It's disturbing. What do they want? Who are they? What danger are they to us?"

Mauritania smiled. "Allah has answered your wish. They're ours. I'm glad you approve of their skills. Obviously, it was wise of me to hire them."

Abu Auda frowned. His gaze narrowed. "You didn't tell me."

"Does the mountain tell the wind everything? You had no need to know."

"With time, even the mountain can be destroyed by the elements."

"Calm yourself, Abu Auda. This was no reflection on you. We have a long and honorable history together, and now, at last, we're in a position to show the world the truth of Islam. Who else would I want to share that with? But if you'd known about these men I hired, you would've only wanted to be with them. Not with me. I need you, as you well know."

Abu Auda's frown disappeared. "I suppose you're right," he said grudgingly.

"Good. Of course I am. Let's return to the American, Jon Smith. If Captain Bonnard is correct, then Smith belongs to no known secret service. For whom, precisely, does he work?"

"Could our new allies have sent him? Some plan of their own they haven't bothered to tell us? I don't trust them."

"You don't trust your dog, your wives, or your grandmother." Mauritania gave a small smile and contemplated his music. He closed his eyes a moment as the raga rhythm subtly altered. "But you're right to be careful. Treachery is always possible, often inevitable. Not only a wily desert Fulani can be devious."

"There's another thing," Abu Auda went on as if he had not heard. "The man I assigned to watch the Pasteur Institute says he can't be certain, but he thinks there was someone else watching not only Smith but him. A woman. Dark-haired, young, but unattractive and poorly-dressed."

Mauritania's blue eyes snapped open. "Watching both Smith and our man? He has no idea who she was?"

"None."

Mauritania uncoiled and stood up. "It's time to leave Paris."

Abu Auda was surprised. "I don't like going away without knowing more about Smith and this unknown female who watches us."

"We expected attention, didn't we? We'll observe and be careful, but we must also move. Relocation is the best defense."

Abu Auda smiled, displaying a dazzling set of white teeth against his black skin. "You sound like a desert warrior yourself. Perhaps you learn after all these years."

"A compliment, Abu?" Mauritania laughed. "An honor indeed. Don't worry about Smith. We know enough, and if he's actually searching for us, we'll deal with him on our terms. Report to our friends that Paris has become too crowded, and we're moving early. It may be necessary to adjust our timetable forward. Beginning now."

The giant warrior nodded as he followed the small terrorist, who glided from the room, his feet seeming barely to touch the carpet, soundless.

The attack began at six p.m. in the headquarters of the California Independent System Operator (Cal-ISO) in the small prison town of Folsom, east of Sacramento. Cal-ISO was an essential component of the state's power system and integral to the movement of electricity throughout California. Although it was May, Californians were already worrying that summer might bring the return of rolling blackouts.

One of the operators, Tom Milowicz, stared at the dials of the big grid. "Jesus Christ," he breathed.

"The numbers are spinning south. Into the toilet!"

"What are you saying?"

"It's too much, too fast. The grid's going to crash! Get Harry!'

In a secret installation across the Potomac River from the nation's capital, the elite computer specialists of the FBI cyber team quickly determined the catastrophe to be the work of a hacker, country of origin still undetermined. Now they battled to bring the California power grid back online and stop the hacker's progress. But as the team discovered, it was already too late.

The hacker had written" compiled" software that allowed him or her to shatter the tough firewalls that usually protected the most sensitive parts of the Cal-ISO power system. He had bypassed trip wires, which were intended to alert security personnel to unauthorized entry, had bypassed logs that pinpointed intruders while they were committing an illegal infiltration, and had opened closed ports.

Then the extraordinarily adept hacker had moved on, invading one power supplier after another, because Cal-ISO's computers were linked to a system that controlled the flow of electricity across the entire state. In turn, the California system was tied into the transmission grid for the whole Western United States. The invader hacked from system to system with phenomenal speed. Unbelievable, to anyone who did not witness it.

Lights, stoves, air conditioners, heaters, cash registers, computers, ATMs, breathing devices all machines, from luxury to life-giving, as long as they required electricity went dead as power to Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego, and Denver suddenly ceased.

The battered old Chrysler Imperial of Ricky Hitomi rocked with the shrieks and laughter of his five best friends as it powered down the rural blacktop through the night. They had met at his girlfriend Janis Borotra's house and smoked a few joints in the barn before all piling into Ricky's heap. Now they were heading for more fun at Justin Barley's place. They were high-school seniors and would graduate in a week.

Occupied with their wild partying, their minds dulled with weed, none saw or heard the fast-moving freight train in the distance. Nor did they notice that the gate at the crossing was still up, the warning lights dark, and the alarm bells silent. When Janis finally heard the screaming train whistle and shrieking brakes, she shouted at Ricky. It was too late. Ricky was already driving onto the rail crossing.

The freight train blasted into them and carried the car and their battered bodies a mile before it could stop.

Panic spread in the secret FBI cyber installation across the Potomac River from the nation's capital. A decade ago, the nation's telephones, power grids, and emergency 911 number and fire dispatches had been separate systems, individual, unique. They could be hacked, but only with great difficulty, and certainly the hacker could not get from one system to another, except under very unusual circumstances.

But deregulation had changed all that. Today hundreds of new energy firms existed, as well as online power traders, and everything was linked through the multitude of telephone companies, whose interconnections also had resulted from deregulation. This vast number of electronically joined entities looked a lot like the Internet, which meant the best hackers could use one system as a door to another.

Defeated by the power and speed of the hacker, the FBI experts watched helplessly as switches flipped and the violent mischief continued. The velocity at which firewalls were breached and codes blown shocked them. But the worst aspect of the nightmare was how quickly the hacker could adjust his access code.

In fact, it seemed almost as if their counterattack caused his code to evolve. The more they fought him and his computer, the smarter his computer became. They had never seen anything like it. It was impossible horrifying. A machine that could learn and evolve far faster than a human thought.

In her penthouse 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 penthouse.

By the time they arrived, Carolyn Helms was dead.

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!"

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.

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!"

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, can 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, predawn 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, bolstered 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 metro.

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 Emile 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 key words into his conversation: Emile 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:

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 Emile 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.

Jon Smith used the old-fashioned knocker. The door was heavy and carved, the brass fittings gleaming.

The man who answered the door wore a paratrooper's uniform with the rank of captain and the insignia of the French general staff. He decided in crisp English, "You must be Lieutenant Colonel Jonathan Smith. You've made good time. Please come in." Short, blond, and compact, he stood aside and gestured Smith to enter. "I'm Darius Bonnard." He was all business, definitely military style.

"Thank you, Captain Bonnard. I guessed as much." As instructed, he had called ahead, and Bonnard gave him directions.

"The general's taking his coffee now. He's asked that you join him."

The captain led him through a spacious entry foyer, where a graceful staircase curved upward to the second and third floors. They passed through a European-style doorway that had no frame and was wallpapered in the same French fleur-de-lis pattern as the grand entry. The room Smith entered was large, with a high ceiling on which were painted life-sized nymphs and cherubs on a pale blue background. There were gilded cornices, handsome moldings and wainscoting, and slender, delicate Louis Quatorze furniture. The place looked more like a ballroom than a coffee room.

A hulking man was sitting by the window, sunbeams dancing above his head. Nodding Smith to a simple straight chair with a brocaded seat, he said in good but accented English, "Sit over there, if you will, Colonel Smith. How do you take coffee?"

"Cream, no sugar, sir, thank you."

General the Count Roland la Porte wore an expensive business suit that would have been large on a defensive end in the NFL, but it fit him perfectly. Besides his great girth, he had a regal bearing, dark, thick hair worn as long and straight as that of a young Napoleon at the siege of Toulon, and a broad Breton face with piercing blue eyes. The eyes were remarkable, as immobile as a shark's. Altogether, his presence was formidable.

"My pleasure," he said, smoothly polite. His oversized hands dwarfed the sterling coffee service as he poured and handed a bone-china cup to Smith.

"Thank you, General." Smith took it and said shamelessly, "It's a privilege to meet one of the heroes of Desert Storm. Your flanking maneuver with the French Fourth Dragoons was bold. Without it, the allies never would've been able to secure the left flank." Smith silently thanked Fred Klein for the thorough briefing he had received before he flew out of Colorado, because while he was in Iraq patching up the wounded on all sides, he had never heard of La Porte, who had been a lieutenant colonel back in those days.

The general asked, "You were there, Colonel?"

"Yessir. With a surgical unit."

"Ah, of course." La Porte smiled at a memory. "Our tanks had not been camouflaged for the western Iraqi desert, so we French stood out like polar bears. But the Dragoons and I held our ground, ate the sand, as we say in the Legion, and turned out to be most lucky." He studied Smith. "But you understand all that, don't you? In fact, you have had combat experience, yes? Line command also, I think."

So La Porte had his people looking into him, as General Henze had warned. "Only briefly, yes. Why do you ask?"

The general's unblinking blue eyes fixed him like a butterfly on a pin and then retreated, still unblinking, but with a small smile. "Forgive me. It's an old soldier's vanity. I pride myself on my judgment of people. I guessed your training and experience from your carriage, your movements, your eyes, and your action at the Pompidou Hospital yesterday." La Porte's unmoving gaze peeled layers from his skin. "Few would have your unusual combination of medical and scientific expertise, and the skills and daring of a soldier."

"You're far too kind, General." Also too nosy, but then, as General Henze had said, La Porte was suspicious that something was up, and he had the interests of his country to protect.

"Now to something far more important. Has there been any change in your friend's condition at the hospital?"

"Not so far, General."

"And what is your honest prognosis?"

"As a friend or as a doctor?"

A tiny furrow of annoyance appeared between the general's hard eyes. He did not like fencing or hair-splitting. "As a friend and as a doctor."

"As a doctor, I'd say that his coma indicates his prognosis must be considered guarded. As a friend, I know he will recover soon."

"Your sentiments as a friend are, I'm sure, shared by all. But I fear it's your medical opinion we value most. And that doesn't give me confidence we can rely on Dr. Zellerbach to help us with information about Dr. Chambord."

"I think that's wise," Smith agreed regretfully. "Tell me, is there any news about Dr. Chambord? I checked the newspaper as I rode over in the taxi, but it said that as of last night, there were no new facts."

The general grimaced. "Unfortunately, they have found a part of his body, alas." He sighed. "I understand there was an arm with an attached hand. The hand wore a ring his colleagues sadly identified, and the fingerprints have been confirmed as a match with those on file at the Pasteur. That won't be in the newspapers for a few days. The officials are still investigating, and they're keeping as much to themselves as they can for now. They hope to find the perpetrators without giving away everything. I'd appreciate your keeping that information to yourself."

"Of course." Smith contemplated the sad confirmation that Emile Chambord was indeed dead. What a pity. Despite every sign to the contrary, he had held out hope that the great scientist had survived.

The general had been silent, as if considering the frailty of the human condition. "I had the honor of meeting your Dr. Zellerbach. Such a shame that he's injured. I'd be devastated if he doesn't recover. I'd appreciate your conveying that to his family in America, should the worst occur."

"I'd be happy to. May I ask how you met Dr. Zellerbach, General? I wasn't aware myself that Marty was even in France or at the Pasteur."

The general seemed surprised. "Didn't you think our military would be interested in Dr. Chambord's research? Of course they were. Intensely interested, in fact. Emile introduced Dr. Zellerbach to me during my last visit to his lab. Naturally, Emile would not allow any of us to just drop by. He was a dedicated and busy man, so an invitation was a grand event. That was two months ago or so, and your Dr. Zellerbach had just arrived. It's a pity about Emile's work being destroyed in that wretched bombing. Do you think any of it survived?"

"I have no personal knowledge, General. Sorry." Two could play the fishing game. "I suppose I'm surprised you'd involve yourself personally. After all, you've got a great many important responsibilities at NATO."

"I'm still French, no? Besides, I knew Emile personally for many years."

"And was he close to success?" Smith asked, careful to keep his voice neutral. "A practical, working DNA computer?"

La Porte tented his fingers. "That's the question, isn't it?"

"It could be the key to who planted the bomb and why. No matter what happens to Marty, I want to do what I can to help catch the bastard who injured him."

"A true friend." La Porte nodded. "Yes, I'd like the miscreant punished, too. But, alas, I can be of little help to you there. Emile was close-mouthed about his work. If he had made a how do you Americans say it? 'breakout,' he didn't inform me. Nor did Dr. Zellerbach or poor Jean-Luc Massenet tell me or anyone else, as far as we know."

"The research assistant? That was terrible. Have the police formed an opinion of why he killed himself?"

"A tragedy, too, to have lost that young man. Apparently, he was devoted to Emile, and when Emile died, he was cast adrift. He could not face life alone. At least that's what I've been told. Knowing the charismatic power of Emile's personality, I can almost understand the lad's suicide."

"So what's your take on the bombing, General?"

La Porte gave the Gallic gesture of confusion a shrug with hands spread and head tilted. "Who knows what raving lunatic would do such a thing? Or perhaps it was some perfectly sane man with some personal hatred of science, or of L'Institut Pasteur, or even of France, to whom the bombing of a crowded building seemed a thoroughly reasonable response." La Porte shook his large head, disgusted. "There are times, Colonel, when I think the patina of civilization and culture we all profess to share is cracking. We return to the barbarians."

"The French police and Secret Service know no more than that?"

La Porte repeated his mannerism of tenting his long fingers. His unblinking blue eyes regarded Smith as if they could dissect his thoughts. "The police and the Second Bureau do not confide everything to a mere general, especially one who is, as you pointed out, on duty at NATO. However, my aide, Captain Bonnard, heard rumors that our police have evidence that the attack on the Pasteur could've been the work of an obscure Basque separatist group thought wiped out years ago. As a rule, the Basques confine their 'events' to Spain, but I'm sure you know there are many Basque people who live in three small regions of Basse-Pyrenees on the Spanish border with France. It was probably inevitable something would spill over across the border, even to Paris, sooner or later."

"Which group, do you think?"

"I believe they were called the Black Flame." He picked up what appeared to be a TV remote control, pressed a button, and Captain Bonnard stepped into the grand room through a side door. "Darius, would you be so kind as to prepare a copy of the file the Sret sent over about the bombing for Colonel Smith?"

"It will be waiting for him whenever he leaves, mon général."

"Thank you, Darius. What would I do without you, eh?"

Saluting, but smiling, the aide left the gilded room. General La Porte picked up the coffeepot. "Now, a second cup, Colonel, and tell me more about your friend. He is, I'm told, a genius, but with some sort of unfortunate affliction."

The general refilled their cups while Smith described Marty's history. "Asperger's Syndrome makes it difficult for him to function in our world. He tends to avoid people, is terrified of strangers, and lives alone in D.C. Still, he's an electronic genius. When he's off his medication and in his manic state, he has insights and leaps of creativity that are dazzling. But if he stays off the meds too long, he borders on incoherence, and eventually he simply starts raving. The medicine allows him to function with people in daily practicalities, but he tells me it feels to him as if he's underwater, and his thinking, while still brilliant, is slow and painful."

General La Porte seemed genuinely affected. "How long has he had this affliction?"

"All his life. It's not a well-known condition, often misdiagnosed and misunderstood. Marty's happiest when he's off his meds, but that's difficult for other people to be around. That's one reason he lives alone."

La Porte shook his head. "Still, he's also a great treasure, eh? But in the wrong hands, a potential danger."

"Not Marty. No one could get him to do what he didn't want to. Especially since they wouldn't know what he was actually doing."

La Porte chuckled. "Ah, I see. That's reassuring." He glanced at a clock in the shape of a temple that stood on a sideboard green stone and gilded columns and cherubs. He stood up, towering over Smith. "You've been most illuminating, Colonel, but I have a meeting and must leave. Finish your coffee. Then Captain Bonnard will give you that copy of the Black Flame file and see you out."

As Smith watched the massive general leave, his gaze was drawn to all of the paintings, mostly of French landscapes, hung around the room. Many appeared to be of museum quality. He recognized two fine late Corots and a muscular Thodore Rousseau, but he had never seen the large painting of a massive castle built of dark red stone. The painter had rendered it in intense and brooding shades of red and purple, where bright afternoon sunshine illuminated the angles in the stone walls and towers. Smith could not place the painting, and he did not recognize the style of any nineteenth-century French landscapist. Something about it, though, was unforgettable.

He stood up, raising his shoulders to stretch, not bothering to finish his coffee. Instead, he was already thinking about the rest of his day. He had not heard from Fred Klein, so it was time to check whether his cell phone worked.

He started for the doorway through which he had entered, but before he had taken two steps, Captain Bonnard appeared in it, file folder in hand, as quiet and unobtrusive as a wraith. The captain's accurate anticipation that he was leaving gave Smith a chill. Had Captain Bonnard been eavesdropping on the entire conversation? If so, he was a much more trusted employee than Smith had realized, or he wanted to know himself what Smith had told the general.

From the high, paned-glass window of the general's study, Darius Bonnard watched Smith climb into a taxi. He continued to watch until the vehicle blended into traffic and disappeared. Then he walked across the room, through the rectangles of morning sunlight that patch worked the parquet floor. He sat at his ornate desk, dialed his telephone, and tugged impatiently on his lower lip.

Finally a quiet voice answered. "Naam?"

"Smith's gone. He's got the file. And the general is off to one of his meetings."

"Good," Mauritania said. "Did you learn anything new from the general's interview with Smith? Do we have any indication of who Smith truly is and why he's in Paris?"

"He stuck to his story that he was here merely to take care of his friend."

"Is that what you believe?"

"I know Smith's not CIA or NSA."

There was a pause at the other end of the line, and the sounds of a large, echoing space full of hurrying people indicated that Mauritania was on a cell phone. "Perhaps. Still, he's been a bit busier than that, wouldn't you say?"

"He could simply be concerned about avenging his friend, as he told the general."

"Well, I suppose we'll know soon enough." There was a cold smile in the terrorist's voice as he continued, "By the time we've discovered the truth of Jon Smith, it'll no longer matter. He everything will be as irrelevant as a few more grains of sand upon the Sahara. Whoever he is whatever he or any of them intend will be too late."

The dark-haired woman had slowly and meticulously searched Mauritania's entire silent apartment and found nothing. The terrorist and the others she had seen come and go were careful. In fact, she found nothing of a personal nature. It was as if no one actually lived here.

As she turned toward the door to leave, a key turned in the lock. Her heart pounded, and she sprinted away. Across the living room, she slipped into the narrow space behind the rug that covered the far window and listened as the door opened and someone entered. The footsteps stopped abruptly just inside the doorway and remained unmoving for some seconds, as if the newcomer sensed something wrong.

To the woman, it seemed that the breathing of the unseen person was like the slow switch of a rattlesnake's tail. She drew a 9mm Beretta from under her skirt, careful not to touch the rug that hid her. She must not make it move.

She heard a careful footstep. And a second. Coming toward the windows. A man, and small. Mauritania himself? In her narrow space, she listened. Mauritania was good, she had known that all along, but not as good as he thought. A quick, normal walk would have been quieter and more deadly. Harder to react to. He had guessed the best places to hide, but he moved too slowly, giving her time to prepare.

Looking warily around, M. Mauritania studied the room, an old Russian-made Tokarev TT-33 7.62mm pistol in his hand. He heard nothing, saw nothing unusual, but he was sure someone either was here or had been here, because he had seen marks of tampering on the locks to the doors to the building and apartment.

He glided delicately to the first window and quickly drew back a corner of the heavy rug covering it. The space behind was empty. He repeated the maneuver on the second and last carpet, the Tokarev ready to fire. But that space was also empty.

The woman looked down and saw it was Mauritania. Her Beretta was in her hand, ready in case he gazed up. She was hanging in a compact ball from a single titanium hook she had carried under her skirt and, once she realized her danger, had silently implanted over the top frame of the high window. There was no way he could react fast enough to raise his pistol to shoot her before she killed him. She held her breath that he would not look up, as her muscles strained to keep herself in a tight knot. She did not want to kill him, it could be a setback for her investigation, but if she had to

A suspended few seconds passed. One two and he stepped back and allowed the rug to drop into place.

She analyzed his retreating steps, quick now, into the other two rooms. Then there were a few moments of silence, and she heard something heavy being dragged. It sounded as if a floor rug was being pulled back. When a board creaked and clattered, she suspected he had decided whoever had broken into the apartment was gone, and it was safe to retrieve something from a secret hiding place in the floor she had missed.

There were two soft clicks as the apartment door opened and closed. She waited, listening for another sound. For a sense of movement. There was nothing.

She dropped down to the windowsill. Her body was cramped from hanging in the clenched ball, but as she straightened she glanced out the window Mauritania stood alone across the street, watching the building, waiting.

Why was he still here? Why was he watching the building? She did not like that. If he really believed his "visitor" had left, he would be gone, too unless he was particularly security-conscious right now because of whatever he was up to.

She had a sudden, chilling insight: He had retrieved nothing; he had left something behind.

Stiff as she was, she did not hesitate. She raced across the living room to the back room of the bizarre apartment, pulled a rug down to expose the rear window, hurled the window up, and climbed out on the fire escape.

She was almost to the bottom when the floor above exploded in a sheet of flame.

She slid down the rest of the way and ran left through another building to the front where she peered out into the street. Mauritania still stood across the street from the now-burning building. She smiled grimly. He thought he had eliminated a tail. Instead, he had made a mistake.

When he turned and walked away at the first sound of the fire engines, she was not far behind.

Chapter Ten

The Café Deuxième Régiment tranger was on the rue Afrique du Nord, one of the serpentine streets that circled below the great dome of Sacré-Coeur. Smith unbuttoned his trench coat and sat alone at a small table in the corner, taking a long drink of his demi and eating a roast beef sandwich as he studied the Second Bureau's dossier on the Black Flame. The café's owner was a former Legionnaire whose leg Smith had saved in the MASH unit during the Gulf War. Displaying his usual hospitality, he saw to it that no one bothered Smith while Smith read the file from first word to last. Then he sat back, ordered another demi, and mulled what he had learned:

The "small" evidence against the Black Flame was that the Deuxième Bureau, acting on the tip of an informant, had picked up a former member of the terrorist group in Paris just an hour after the Pasteur's bombing. Less than a year ago, the man had been released from a Spanish prison for his part in long-ago crimes attributed to the Black Flame. After he and his associates were arrested, the Black Flame dropped from sight, apparently no longer active.

When the Bureau grabbed him in France, he was armed but swore he was completely out of polities, working as a machinist in Toledo, Spain. He claimed he was in Paris simply to visit an uncle, knew nothing about the Pasteur's bombing, and had been with his uncle all day. There was a Xerox of a photo of him. According to the date, the photo was shot when he was taken into custody. He had heavy black brows, thin cheeks, and a prominent chin.

The uncle confirmed the man's story, and the police's subsequent investigation failed to turn up evidence that directly connected him to the bombing. Still, there were a few holes, since the man had several hours unaccounted for that day. The Bureau was holding him incommunicado and interrogating him around the clock.

Historically, the Black Flame's center of operations was always mobile, never settling in a single spot for longer than a week. The organization favored the Basque provinces of the western Pyrenees: Vizcaya, Guipuzcoa, and Alava in Spain, and, only occasionally, Basse-Pyrenees, France. The most frequent choices were in and around Bilbao and Guernica, where the majority of the Black Flame's sympathizers had lived.

As a movement, the Spanish Basque nationalists had only one goal separation from Spain into a Basque Republic. Failing that, the more moderate groups had occasionally offered to settle for an autonomous region within Spain. The Basques' desire for independence was so strong that, despite their extremely devout Catholicism, they fought against the Church during the Spanish Civil War and supported the secular left-wing Republic, since it promised them at least autonomy, while the Catholic fascists would not.

Smith wondered how the bombing of the Pasteur Institute in Paris might figure into that long-standing goal. Perhaps it was to embarrass Spain. No, probably not. None of the Basque terrorist acts had yet shamed Spain.

It could be that the point was to incite friction between Spain and France, which might ultimately make possible convincing the French government to pressure Spain to accede to Basque demands. That made more sense, since it was a tactic that had been used by other revolutionaries, although with only varying degrees of success.

Or had the French Basques decided to unite with their brothers and sisters south of the border, spreading the terrorism into two countries, in the hope that by carving their new country from small areas of both, they would encourage the French, who would lose less, to force the Spanish to make a deal? Of course, there was the added incentive that the involvement of two nations could trigger the United Nations and maybe the European Union to lean on both Spain and France to find a solution.

Smith nodded to himself. Yes, that might work. And a DNA computer would be invaluable to terrorists, giving them a compelling weapon for many purposes, including convincing governments to capitulate to their goals.

But assuming the Black Flame had Chambord's molecular machine, why attack the United States? It made no sense unless the Basques wanted to force the United States to support their objective and increase the pressure on Spain. But if any of that was true, there should be contact and demands. There had been none.

As Smith continued to consider it all, he turned on his cell phone, hoping to hear a dial tone. There was one. He dialed Klein's secret, secure number in D.C.

"Klein here."

"Are all of the wireless systems back up?"

"Yes. What a mess. Discouraging."

"What exactly did he do?" Smith asked.

"After he took down the Western utilities grid, our phantom hacker got into the key code of one of our telecommunications satellites, and the next thing our people knew, he'd infiltrated the whole spectrum dozens of satellites. The FBI's forensics team threw everything they had and knew at him, but he broke every code, figured out every password, acted as if firewalls and keylocks were jokes, and zeroed in on the army's wireless transmissions. The speed was blinding. Unbelievable. He cracked codes that were supposed to be uncrackable."

Smith swore. "What in God's name did he want?"

"Our people think he was just playing, building his confidence. The Western grid came back on after a half hour, and so did the wireless communications. Precisely, as if he timed it."

"He probably did. Which means you're right, it was all a test. Also a warning, and to make us sweat."

"He's succeeded. Right now, to say our technology's being outclassed is the understatement of the century. The best defense is to find him and that machine."

"Not just him. This isn't the work of a solitary hacker, not considering the attack on the Pasteur and the kidnapping of Thérèse Chambord. There's still been no contact?"

"None."

Smith looked at his beer. It was a very good beer, and until he had called Klein, he had been enjoying it. Now he pushed it away. "Maybe they don't want anything from us," he said grimly. "Maybe they're planning simply to do something, no matter what we say or do."

He could almost see Klein, wherever he was, staring into space, seeing a vision of apocalypse. "I've considered that, too. A straightforward, no-warning attack, after they've finished testing the prototype enough to get the bugs worked out. It's my nightmare."

"What does the Pentagon think?"

"It's best to serve the brass reality in small doses. But that's my job. What else have you got on your end?"

"Two things. First is news that the police have matched Emile Chambord's fingerprints with a hand that came out of the rubble. General La Porte told me about it this morning."

"Jesus," Klein breathed. "So he's dead. Chambord's really dead. Damnation! I'll have Justice phone over there to see what else they know." He hesitated. "Well, that just makes Zellerbach all the more important. How is he?"

Smith filled him in. "I think there's an excellent chance we're going to get Marty back whole," he concluded. "Anyway, that's the way I'm operating."

"I hope you're right. And I especially hope he recovers in a timely fashion. I don't mean to be crass, Colonel. I know how fond you are of Zellerbach, but what he knows could make all the difference. Is the protection on him secure enough?"

"About as tight as it can be. French special forces guarding, Sret watching. Anything tighter, and they'd be tripping over their own feet." He paused. "I need a reservation on the next flight to Madrid."

"Madrid? Why?"

"To rent a car and drive to Toledo. Toledo's where I pick up the trail of the Black Flame." He described the report Captain Bonnard had acquired from the Sret and copied for him. "Now that you've found out the symbol on the handgrip of the gun was for the Black Flame, Toledo's my best lead. If the Black Flame really is responsible for Thérèse Chambord's kidnapping, then I'm hoping to use them to find her and the DNA prototype." He paused. "I've been to Toledo several times, but I'd like some help on this. Can you get me the Basque's home address and a detailed map of the city? Somebody at the Sret must have it."

"I'll have information, a map, and a flight reservation in your name waiting at De Gaulle."

President Sam Castilla was leaning back in his executive chair, his eyes closed in the unseasonable spring warmth that had settled into the Oval Office already at this early hour, because he insisted on keeping the air-conditioning off and the French doors open. By his own reckoning (he had sneaked a few surreptitious glances at his watch), the National Security Adviser, the admiral, and the three generals had been talking, pointing at charts, and arguing for an hour and twenty-six minutes. Despite the gravity of the situation, he found himself thinking longingly of how the Apaches would stake their enemies spreadeagled in the fierce sun to die very, very slowly.

He finally opened his eyes. "Gentlemen, it's a well-known fact that only an egomaniacal idiot would run for this job that I happen to have, so is there anyone who can tell me in a few words, which I won't need The New York Times or my science advisers to interpret, what's happened now and what it means?"

"Of course, sir." National Security Adviser Emily Powell-Hill took the challenge. "After the break-in to the Western power grid and the shutdown of the army's wireless communications system, the hacker went on to steal all of our command and electronic-surveillance codes. Every one. Nothing is left for us to hide behind. Nothing is left to protect our hardware, software, or people. We can be paralyzed for God knows how long. Completely unable to defend against attack. Blind, deaf, dumb, and toothless."

Despite his earlier levity, the president was stunned by the enormity of the consequences. "I expect that's as bad as it sounds?"

"So far," she said, "what the hacker's done has been of relatively short duration. Hit and run, rather than a sustained attack. But by stealing the codes, he's proved he's capable of not only an attack, but of war. Until the codes are changed, we're no longer in a position to fight or defend. Even after we change the codes, he can steal them again."

President Castilla inhaled sharply. "Exactly what did we lose while he was in our systems?"

"All military wireless communications systems routed through Forts Meade and Detrick," Admiral Stevens Brose explained. "NSA's worldwide surveillance center at Mcwaith Hill in Britain, FBI communications, CIA's worldwide photographic and electronic surveillance. The NRO was literally blind. And of course, Echelon went down."

"None was out of commission for long, sir," Emily Powell-Hill said, rushing to give the president the only good news. "But"

The silence in the Oval Office was thicker than a New Mexico brush patch. NSA's Powell-Hill, the four military leaders, and the president sat silently, contemplating their private arrays of dark thoughts. Anger, panic, determination, worry, and sober calculation played across their faces.

The president fixed each of them in turn with his quiet, too-sober gaze. "To use one of my famous, colorful homespun metaphors so far all we've seen are smoke signals in the Diablos, but the Apache can cut the wires at any time."

Stevens Brose nodded. "I'd say that about sums it up, sir. If we assume they have the DNA computer, the questions are: Why are they doing this? What are they planning? It seems to me there's no reason to hope they're simply applying pressure to make someone do what they want, because they haven't asked for anything. Considering the military and communications targets they've invaded, it seems clear they wanted that molecular computer for some kind of strike on someone or something. Since we've been the major target so far, and we seem to be number one on just about everyone else's hit list, too, then I'd say the odds greatly favor that they're after us."

"We need to know who they are," NSA's Powell-Hill decided.

Admiral Brose shook his head. "At the moment, Emily, in all due respect, that's about the least important question. They could be anyone from the Iraqi government to a Montana militia, from any country or terrorist gang in between. What matters first is to stop them. Later we can exchange calling cards."

"This is all about the DNA computer," the president said, "and it started when the Pasteur lab was bombed. Now we think there's going to be an attack on us, but we don't know what, when, or where."

Admiral Brose said promptly, "Right, sir."

"Then we'd better find the DNA computer." That was Klein's idea. The president had fought him on it, but in the end had acquiesced. With so few options now, it made even more sense.

The military men exploded in talk, Army Lieutenant General Ivan Guerrero in the lead. He complained, "That's ridiculous, not to mention insulting. We're not helpless. We command the most powerful military force on earth."

Air Force General Kelly agreed, "And the most advanced weaponry."

"We can give you ten divisions to root those bastards out, for God's sake," Marine Lieutenant General Oda insisted.

"And none of your divisions, ships, tanks, or aircraft can protect your electronic codes and systems," the president said quietly. "Fact is, anyone with a working DNA computer now, before we've had a chance to even begin developing adequate defenses, makes us impotent."

Admiral Brose shook his head. "Not entirely. We haven't been idle, Mr. President. Each of us has developed backup systems for our services that operate outside the normal command structures and electronics networks. We planned it for an emergency, and this sure as hell is one. We'll deploy them separately and install the most advanced firewalls. We're already changing all the command and communication codes."

"With the help of our British friends, we've got similar backups in place at NSA," Powell-Hill added. "We can be operational within hours."

The president gave a grim smile. "From what I understand, at best that will simply slow this new enemy of ours down. All right, change your codes, military first. Make your tactical electronics systems as self-contained as you can. Also, contact the other NATO governments and coordinate defenses and data with them. Meanwhile, our intelligence community must concentrate on finding the computer. Finally, for God's sake, take our offensive missiles offline as fast as you can, before they start launching them!"

With everyone agreed, they filed out of the Oval Office.

President Castilla waited impatiently until everyone was gone. At last Fred Klein stepped out from behind the closed door that led into the study. Klein looked tired, large circles under his eyes. His suit was even more wrinkled than usual.

The president heaved a worried sigh. "Tell me the truth, Fred. Will any of what they're planning help?"

"Probably not. As you said, we might slow the attackers down. But once they know what they're doing with the DNA computer, there's little we can do. It's simply too powerful. For instance, if you've got a modem on a computer and you e-mail your grandkids once a month, that's enough for a molecular computer to break into your machine, steal every piece of data on it in seconds, and wipe the hard drive clean."

"Seconds? E-mail from grandchildren? Good Lord. No one's safe."

"No one," Klein echoed. "As you and Stevens Brose said, our best chance is to find it. Once we have it, we'll have them. But we've got to do it before they put into effect whatever their master plan is."

"This is like wrestling a grizzly with both arms tied behind your back. The odds stink." The president studied the Covert-One chief. "How are they planning to hit us? How and where?"

"I don't know, Sam."

"But you will, won't you?"

"Yes, sir. I will."

"And in time."

"I hope so."

Chapter Eleven

Smith drove out of Madrid on the N401 express highway, heading south toward Toledo. As promised, the Basque's home address, a map, and directions had been waiting for Smith at De Gaulle airport. The little rented Renault ran smoothly as he drove among green, rolling fields, drenched in the long shadows of afternoon. Sheep grazed in the lacy shade of poplar trees.

Smith rolled down his window, rested his arm on the frame, and a warm wind blew through, rustling his hair. The La Mancha sky, where Miguel de Cervantes's melancholy knight had tilted at his windmills, was wide and blue. But Smith's mind soon turned from the pastoral scenery and the deluded Don Quixote. He had his own windmills to charge, and his were very real.

As he drove, he was constantly aware that a tail might have picked him up. But as time passed, and the few other cars on the road came and went as one would expect, he began to think not. He turned his mind to the newspaper stories of the electronic shutdowns, which he had studied on the flight from Paris. Compared to the details Fred Klein had related, the news articles were cursory and gave no hint that the massive problems appeared to be the result of a futuristic computer at work. So far, the U.S. government had been successful in keeping that under wraps.

Even without the whole story, the articles were shocking and depressing, particularly since Smith knew what they meant. As he thought about them and wondered what he would find in Toledo, the ancient city came into view, rising on the plain ahead, the towers of the Cathedral and the Alcazar standing majestically above the roof tiles of the rugged skyline. He had read that Toledo's origins were so old they were lost in the preroman days of the Celts. When the Romans arrived in the second century b.c., they had made it their city for seven hundred imperial years, until the barbarian Visigoths moved in and took over for the next two hundred, ending in A.D. 712.

That was when, legend had it, King Rodrigo laid lascivious hands on Florinda, daughter of the Count Julian, whom he spotted bathing naked in the Rio Tajo. Instead of taking the matter to the courts, the outraged father idiot that he was promptly rode to the Arabs for help. Since they were already planning to invade, the Arabs were only too happy to oblige. Thus Toledo changed hands once more and grew into a cosmopolitan and enlightened Moorish center. It finally returned to Spanish control in 1085, when the king of Castile conquered it.

Surrounded on three sides by the river, the city was perched high above it on a craggy outcrop. It was a natural fortress, needing only a pair of walls on its exposed north side to be all but impregnable in those long-ago days. More recent growth was beyond those walls and also south, on the other side of the river recent being anything built in the last three or four centuries.

Smith continued through the slightly wider northern streets, nearing the northern walls. Watching all around, at last he drove into the old city through the Puerta de Bisagra, a stone entryway built in the ninth century, and plunged his car into the maze of narrow, twisting streets and alleys that haphazardly spiraled toward the city's great pride, its Gothic Cathedral, and its equally great sorrow, the Alcazar, all but destroyed during the Spanish Civil War, although now rebuilt.

Using the detailed map, he watched carefully for the markers that would lead him to the Basque's home address. He got lost in the twilight that was spreading across the city, reversed course, and discovered many of the streets were so narrow that iron upright posts blocked vehicles from entering. Most were wide enough for a car, but only just. As he plowed ahead in the Renault, people stepped into recessed doorways to give him room to pass. Buildings, monuments, plazas, churches, synagogues, mosques, stores, elegant restaurants, and houses many of them medieval filled every square inch of this rugged promontory. The scenery was breathtaking, but also dangerous. It provided too many opportunities for ambush.

The Basque's address was an apartment building near the Cuesta de Carlos V, in the shadow of the Alcazar itself, just below Toledo's summit. The directions that were included with the map warned that the address was on a particularly steep, sloping lane, where not even the smallest car could pass. He parked two blocks away and walked, keeping to the deepening shadows. A multitude of languages filled the air as sightseers moved through the beautiful old city, taking pictures.

As soon as he saw the house ahead, he slowed. It was a typical flat-front, brick structure of four stories with a shallow-pitched, red-tile roof. The windows and door were unadorned square holes in the brick, set deeply in, only two windows to a floor. As he passed, he saw the front door was open. The narrow foyer was lighted, showing an enclosed staircase. The Basque supposedly rented a room on the second floor.

Smith continued on to the end of the block, where there was a small plaza rimmed with shops and bars. Streets spilled into it from four directions. He stopped at an outdoor caf where he took a table facing back along the street. The air was scented with spices cardamom, ginger, and chiles. From here, he could keep the Basque's apartment building in view. He ordered a beer and tapas, and waited as a band began playing from one of the nearby clubs. It was saucy merengue music from the former Spanish outpost of the Dominican Republic. The vibrant music filled the night, and Smith ate, drank, and watched. No one seemed to show any interest in him.

At last he saw three men enter the open front door of the apartment building, where light spilled out. One of them looked very much like the photo of the Basque that had been in the Sret's file. The same heavy black brows, thin cheeks, and thick chin. Smith paid his bill and returned to the narrow street. Night had fallen, and shadows spilled black and nearly impenetrable down to the cobblestones. As he moved quietly toward the apartment building, he had the sense again that he was being observed. His nerves felt raw, and he paused in the deep shadow of a tree.

The gun seemed to come from nowhere, the cold muzzle pressed into the back of his neck. The voice was a hoarse whisper in Spanish. "We were warned you might show up."

There were a few pedestrians on the narrow street, but he and the gunman were almost invisible where they stood. Streetlights in the old city were few and far between.

"You expected me?" Smith said in Spanish. "Interesting. The Black Flame is back with a vengeance."

The muzzle jammed deeper. "We're going to walk across the street and in through the door you've been watching." He held up a small walkie-talkie that Smith could just make out with his peripheral vision and spoke into it: "Cut the lights. I'm bringing him in."

At that moment, the terrorist's attention was divided, thinking about Smith while relaying his information. As the man clicked off the walkie-talkie, Smith figured he had few options. He had to take a chance.

He slammed an elbow back hard into the man's stomach and ducked. There was a quiet pop as the fellow jerked his weapon's trigger. It was a silenced pistol, the noise lost in the sound of music and traffic out in the plaza. The bullet shot harmlessly over Smith's back and pinged into the cobblestones. Before the terrorist could recover, Smith continued his lunge forward and kicked back with his left foot. He connected with the man's chin. There was a grunt, and the man went down.

Smith checked the man's vital signs: He was alive but unconscious. He picked up the man's Walther, a good German pistol, and slung him over his shoulder. Because the terrorists in the apartment building had been alerted, it would not be long before they came out looking. Smith hurried along the street, carrying the dead weight back to his car. The terrorist shuddered and moaned as Smith dumped him into the front passenger seat.

Smith hurried around to the driver's side and got in, just in time to see a flash of light. It was the man again. He had awakened and was flourishing a knife. But he was weak, and Smith yanked it away and stared into the black eyes in the car's shadows.

"Bastardo!" the man groaned.

"Now we talk," Smith told him in Spanish.

"I don't think so." His face was unshaved, and there was a wild look in his gaze. He blinked rapidly, as if fighting to think.

Smith studied him. He was a little over six feet and muscled, almost hulking. His hair was thick, black, and curly, an inky mass in the shadowy car. He was young. The beard and large size hid his true age. Smith guessed he might be twenty. A young man in middle-class America, but in the world of terrorists, fully grown.

The eyes widened, then narrowed. He reached up unsteadily and rubbed his chin. "Are you going to murder me, too?"

Smith ignored the question. "What's your name?"

The youth thought about it, seemed to decide he could reveal that. "Bixente. My name's Bixente."

No last name, but Smith would tolerate that. While he held his pistol in one hand, he moved the knife up with the other until the blade touched Bixente's chin. He flinched and jerked his head back.

"A name's a good start," Smith told him. "Tell me about the Black Flame."

Silence. Bixente trembled, looking younger.

Smith pressed the flat of the blade along Bixente's cheek. He rolled it back and forth once, and Bixente recoiled.

Smith assured him, "I don't want to hurt you. Let's just have a friendly conversation."

Bixente's face twisted, and it seemed to Smith that he was fighting some internal battle. Smith took the blade away from the young man's skin. It was another gamble, but sometimes psychology was more potent than force. He held the knife up where Bixente could see it and said, "Look, I just want some information. You're too young to be involved in all this anyway. Tell me about yourself. How did you get mixed up with the Black Flame?" He lowered the knife.

Bixente's gaze followed it down. Then he looked up, his expression puzzled. He had not expected that. He admitted, "They killed my brother."

"Who killed your brother?"

"The Civil Guardin prison."

"Your brother was a leader of the Black Flame?"

Bixente nodded.

"So you want to be like your brother. For a Basque homeland."

"He was a soldier, my brother." Pride in his face and voice.

"And you want to be one, too." Jon understood. "What are you nineteen? Eighteen?"

"Seventeen."

Smith repressed a sigh. He was even younger than he had thought. An overgrown kid. "Someday you'll be old enough to make stupid decisions about important matters, but not yet. They're using you, Bixente. I'll bet you're not from Toledo, are you?"

Bixente named a remote village in the north of Spain, a Basque stronghold, known for its sheep, dogs, and high pasture land.

"Are you a shepherd?"

"I was raised for it, yes." He paused, and there was a moment of longing in his voice. "I liked it."

Smith studied him. He was strong and physical, but inexperienced. An attractive candidate for extremists. "All I want to do is talk to the men with you, nothing more. As soon as we're finished, you can head for home and be safe by tomorrow."

Bixente's trembling slackened, although he said nothing.

"When did the Black Flame start up again?" According to the file, they had fallen off the authorities' watch list after their leadership had been killed or imprisoned.

Bixente's gaze dropped, his face guilty. "When Elizondo got out of prison. He's the only one of the old leaders who wasn't killed or still in jail. He got everyone who'd been a member back together and collected a few new ones."

"Why did Elizondo think the bombing of the Pasteur Institute was going to help the cause of Basque independence?"

Bixente still did not look up. "They never told me much, especially not Elizondo. But I heard them talking about working for someone who would give them a lot of money to fight again."

"Someone paid them to bomb the Pasteur and kidnap Thérèse Chambord?"

"I think so. At least that's what I figured from what I heard." The youth heaved a sigh. "A lot didn't want to do it. If they were going to go into action again, they wanted it to be for Fiskadi. But Elizondo said it took a lot of money to fight a war, and that's why we lost the first time. If we wanted to fight for Euskadi again, we had to have money. Besides, it'd be good for us to bomb a building in Paris, because many of our people live in France now. That would tell our brothers and sisters across the mountains that we wanted them with us, and we could win."

"Who hired Elizondo to bomb the Pasteur? Why?"

"I don't know. Elizondo said it didn't matter why the bomb was to be planted. It was better that way. It was all for money anyway, for Euskadi, and the less we understood of it, the better. It wasn't our problem. I don't know exactly who he's been doing business with, but I heard a name the Crescent Shield or something like that. I don't know what it means."

"Did you hear anything about why they kidnapped the woman? Where they've taken her?"

"No, but I think she's somewhere around here. I'm not sure."

"Did any of them say anything about me?" Smith asked.

"I heard Zumaia say you'd killed Jorge in Paris, and they figured you might come to Spain because Jorge had made a mistake. Then Elizondo got word from somebody you might come to Toledo itself. We should be prepared."

"Jorge's gun had the hand-tooled grip?"

"Yes. If you hadn't killed him, Elizondo might've. He wasn't supposed to put our symbol on anything, especially a gun grip. Elizondo wouldn't have known, except that Zumaia told him afterward."

Which meant they had not been worried about him, or maybe even known about him, until he appeared at the scene of Thérèse Chambord's kidnapping. He frowned at Bixente, who still had not raised his gaze. His shoulders were slumped.

"How did you recognize me?" Smith asked.

"They sent your photo. I heard them talking. One of our people in Paris saw you or heard about you or followed you. I'm not sure. He's the one who sent the photo." His expression was stricken. "They're planning to kill you. You're too much trouble. I don't know anything more than that. You say you'll release me. Can I go now?"

"Soon. Do you have money?"

Bixente looked up, surprised. "No."

Smith took his wallet from his jacket and handed him one hundred American dollars. "This will get you back to your family."

Bixente took the money and shoved it into his pocket. More of his fear was gone, but his shoulders were still slumped, and guilt filled his face. That was a danger Smith did not want. He might decide to warn his friends.

Smith made his voice hard. "Remember, the bombing and kidnapping were for money only, not for a Basque homeland. And because you didn't take me into that house, you've got a lot more to fear from them than you do from me. If you try to go back to them, they'll suspect you. If they suspect you enough, they'll kill you. You've got to hide for a while."

He swallowed hard. "I'll go into the mountains above my village."

"Good." Smith took nylon rope and electrician's tape from his suitcase. "I'm going to tie you up, but I'll leave the knife behind so you can cut yourself free. This is just to give you some time to think. To see that my advice is good." And to give Smith time to get away, in case Bixente changed his mind and tried to return to the terrorists.

The youth was unhappy with the solution but nodded. Smith tied him up, taped his mouth, and buried the knife under the backseat. He figured it would take the teenager at least a half hour to work himself over the seat, dig out the knife, and cut himself free. Smith locked the car, stowed his suitcase, laptop, and trench coat in the trunk, pocketed the keys, and moved quickly off. If Thérèse Chambord was somewhere

Chapter Twelve

Night had turned the beautiful little city into an atmospheric scene from history, with black shadows and yellow lamplight and Spanish music floating on the summery air. Smith entered the small plaza where he had stopped before to watch the house, planning to swing around a side street that would give him a different approach. Now that the hour was later, and the crowds had dwindled, Toledo had become a different city. Quiet and serene, it resembled one of El Greco's moonlit paintings, strategic pieces of its rich architecture glowing in floodlights.

But as he left the plaza, he saw four men emerge from the chaos of streets and alleys. He recognized one, thick and pockmarked, from the night Thérèse Chambord was kidnapped. There was also the man who resembled the photo of the Basque who had been taken into custody in Paris. The Black Flame. They were looking for him.

As the four Basque killers circled Smith, he raised his voice just enough so that he knew they could hear. He said in Spanish, "Which of you is Elizondo? All I want is to talk. I'll make it worth your while. Let's talk, Elizondo!"

None responded. Their expressions deliberate, they continued to close in, guns low at their sides, ready to raise and fire in the blink of their dark eyes. Around them, the historic buildings loomed like evil spirits from another world.

"Stop where you are," Smith warned, and flashed his silenced 9mm.

But the gun was not enough to stop them. They tensed but never broke stride, their circle tightening like a garrote. They did, however, glance for orders to a wiry older man who wore the red Basque beret.

Smith studied the four a second longer, figuring the odds. As the merengue music pulsed in the shadowy night, he spun around and took off. As he ran, a fifth man, older, suddenly stepped out of another alley some ten yards ahead to block his path. Behind him, the terrorists' feet hammered closer over the cobblestones. Heart pounding, Smith skidded around the corner of the first alley he came to and raced headlong down it, away from his pursuers.

A tall, elderly Anglican priest was hiding in the recessed doorway of a closed estanco, a tobacco shop, from which the faint, sweet odors of its wares seeped. In the night, he was all but invisible in his black clerical suit, only the faint reflection of light from his white, turned collar hinting at his presence.

He had tailed the men from the house of the Basque who had been arrested in Paris. When they had ducked into hiding, any passersby near enough to hear would have been astonished, perhaps offended, by a most unclerical mutter: "Shit! What the hell are they up to now?"

The faux cleric had hoped to observe a meeting that would give him what he had come to Toledo to learn. But what he saw now was no meeting. The Basque militant he had recognized in Paris, Elizondo Ibarguengoitia, had led him first to San Sebastian and then here to Toledo, but there was no sign of the kidnapped woman. Nor of any corroboration of the suspicions of the cleric's bosses.

He was growing irritated by so much nonsense. Dangerous nonsense, at that. Which was why he held an even more unclerical item a silenced 9mm Glock.

This time his wait was brief. A rangy, athletic man appeared from the plaza.

"Bloody damn!" the faux cleric grumbled, surprised.

Shortly afterward, the five Basques also emerged onto the street, one by one. Each carried a pistol, held discreetly down at their sides, convenient for use but only barely visible to anyone else. The cleric left the shelter of the corner.

Halfway down the alley, Smith flattened back against the building, Sig Sauer steady in both hands. He focused on the mouth of the alley where he had just entered. A trio of tourists a well-dressed man and two young women danced past on the street, in rhythm with the throbbing music. They were having a good time, oblivious to the tense drama around them.

As they disappeared from sight, Smith continued to wait, And wait. It was only a few seconds, but it seemed like an hour. As a new tune began, the thickset Basque peered around the corner, weapon and face at the same time. Smith squeezed off a silenced round, aimed carefully-high; he wanted to hit no innocent bystander. The noise was lost in the loud music, and the bullet bit just where he wanted — into the wall above the Basque's head.

With an explosion of smoke, sharp-edged pieces of brick hailed down on the killer. He made a guttural sound and fell back, as if yanked by a leash. Which made Smith smile grimly. Then he ran.

No gunshots followed him, and he swerved into an intersecting alley. Threw himself back against the wall again, flat. No head or gun followed around the corner. Relieved, he ran again, now steeply uphill, surveying everywhere as he dodged through a jungle of deserted passageways, and his path leveled. As the music faded in the background, the last few notes sounded foreboding, somehow menacing.

Sweating, he sprinted on, encountered a man who was walking along, kicking a stone ahead of him, weaving as if he'd had too much vino. The man looked up and stared at Smith's harried appearance as if he were looking at an apparition. He turned abruptly and scrambled away.

When Smith saw no more of the terrorists, he began to hope he had lost them. He would have to wait, then he would double back to their house. He looked behind once more, expecting the passageway to be empty. Then he heard the distinctive pop-pop of a silenced pistol, and simultaneously a bullet burned past his cheek. Chips burst out from the wall where the bullet struck. Another silenced gunshot followed, and a piercing whine echoed as the bullet ricocheted off walls, hit the cobblestones, and clattered into a corner, trapped.

By that time, Smith was flat on his belly, raised up on his elbows. He squeezed off two rounds at two indistinct shapes in the night.

There was a loud, bloodcurdling scream. And he was alone again. The street dark, claustrophobic. He must have hit one.

But he was not quite alone. A shadow as dark as the night, the walls, and the cobblestones lay on the empty street not a hundred feet away. He rose to his haunches and, staying low, approached cautiously. The thick figure of a man took shape arms flung wide, blood spreading, making the cobblestones gleam liquidly with moonlight. Blank eyes stared up, sightless. Smith recognized him the squat, pockmarked man he had seen first in Paris. Now he was dead.

He heard a faint crunch on the cobblestones and looked up from where he crouched. There were the remaining men. Moving toward him.

Smith leaped up and ran through another confusion of streets and alleys, up and down among the densely packed buildings, where even the narrowest streets seemed to have to fight their way through architecture for room. He crossed a broader street where tourists craned to look upward, admiring a row of unadorned houses built for ordinary townspeople in the Middle Ages. Near them were two of the terrorists, their gazes sweeping the area. Because they were not looking at the houses, too, they stood out like wolves against the snow.

Smith turned and ran again. Their shouts followed as he accelerated away along another street just as a car turned into it from the other end. A family group hopped into recessed doorways to let the sporty Fiat pass. The Basques were too close. Desperate, he raised his free hand over his eyes and dashed straight toward the car, its headlights almost blinding him.

Smith bellowed a warning. He heard brakes screech. The Fiat laid rubber in its effort to halt, the stink nasty in the air. The vehicle slammed to a stop less than ten feet before it would have hit him, and Smith never broke stride. He leaped up onto the hood. His athletic shoes struggled for traction, caught on the shiny paint, and he raced across the roof and over the trunk. He was drenched in sweat when he landed. He kept running.

Gunshots whined past as the terrorists tried to get a bead on him. He wove back and forth, panting, his whole body straining. Window glass shattered above him from a stray bullet. A woman shouted, and a baby cried. Smith heard the Basques yelling as they stormed up over the Fiat, too, slipping and scrambling. The last sound he heard from the alley was their thundering feet. And he was neither safe, nor had he found out a damn thing about Thérèse Chambord or the molecular computer.

Angry, he changed direction again, this time weaving through new slumbering streets. He watched frantically all around. Finally he saw an open area of bright light ahead and heard the sounds of people laughing and talking.

He slowed, trying to catch his breath. He approached the area cautiously and realized it was the Plaza del Conde. On the other side was the Casa y Museo del Greco. This was the old Jewish quarter, the Juderia, in the southwest part of the city, just above the river. Although he saw no one immediately suspicious, he knew the terrorists could not be far away. Elizondo would not give up easily, and in the end, although Toledo was not small, it was compact. No place was all that far from another.

He needed to slip past the plaza. Hurrying would draw attention. In the end, exhaustion made him decide. He worked his way slowly, trying to be casual as he hugged shadows wherever he could. At last he reached a line of tourists who were staring appreciatively at the closed museum that housed some of El Greco's famous paintings. It was a reconstruction of a typical Toledan home of the period, and they murmured and pointed out interesting features while he moved past behind them.

He had caught his breath by the time he reached the Calle San Juan de Dios, where there were fewer tourists, but at the same time he knew he could not continue at this furious pace much longer. Running up and down the hills was brutal even for someone like himself, who kept in shape. He decided he had to risk staying on this larger street. He studied each intersection before he crossed it and then he had an idea.

Ahead, a man with a camera slung around his neck and a flash in his hand seemed to be in search of local color. He ambled into one of the alleys, head craning from right to left, up and down, searching for just the right shot. They were about the same height and build.

It was an opportunity. The fellow headed down another street, this one not much wider than the alley. It was quiet, no one else in sight. At the last second, he seemed to hear Smith come up behind.

He half-turned. "Hey!" he protested in English. "Who are you? What the?"

Smith pressed the silencer into the man's spine. "Quiet. You're American?"

"You're damned"

Smith jammed the pistol again. "Quiet."

The man's voice dropped to a whisper. But his anger did not decrease. "right I am! You better remember that. You'll regret"

Smith interrupted, "I need your clothes. Take them off."

"My clothes? You've got to be crazy. Who do. " He turned to face Smith. He stared at the Sig Sauer, and fear flashed across his face. "Jesus, what are you?"

Smith lifted the silencer to the man's head. "The clothes. Now."

Without another word, his eyes never leaving Smith, the tourist stripped to his underwear. Smith stepped back and took off his own shoes, shirt, and trousers, keeping the man covered with the Sig Sauer the whole time.

Smith advised him, "Put on only my pants. Your T-shirt will do for a shirt. That way, you won't look too much like me."

The man paled as he zipped up Smith's trousers. "You're scaring the hell out of me, mister."

Dressed in the man's running shoes, gray slacks, blue Hawaiian sport shirt, and Chicago Cubs baseball cap, Smith said, "When you walk back to your hotel, use routes where you can see other people. Take pictures. Act normal. You'll be fine." He loped off. When he looked back, the man was still standing in the shadows of the buildings, staring after him.

It was time for the hunted to become the hunter. Smith continued at a slow, even gait that covered territory but did not exhaust him, until again he heard noise. This time he found himself at the Monasteno de San Juan de los Reyes, built as a sacred burial spot for the kings and queens of Castile and Aragon. Visitors who had paid for a nighttime tour of the city stood outside the church, fascinated by the exterior, which was bizarrely decorated with chains worn by Christian prisoners held by the Moors until the Reconquista.

Smith angled around and entered a taberna that had a wide opening onto the street. He took a table just inside where he had a sweeping view, the church dominating part of it. Grabbing a handful of paper napkins, he blotted his sweaty face, ordered caf con leche, and settled in to wait. The terrorists knew his general direction of movement, and they would have been guarding against his doubling back. Eventually they would find him.

He had barely finished his coffee when he saw the wiry older man who wore the red Basque beret walking past in the company of a second man. Their heads moved constantly, scanning for him. Their gazes passed over him. They did not even hesitate. It was the blue Hawaiian shirt, Smith decided with satisfaction.

He stood up, dropped euros onto the table for his coffee, and followed until he lost them on the other side of the church. Swearing under his breath, he padded onward warily. They could not be far.

Finally he stepped out onto a grassy slope high above the meandering Rio Tajo. He hunched down, low and unobtrusive, allowing his eyes to adjust. Off to his left, back in the town, he could see the silhouettes of the Sinagoga del Transisto and the Sephardic Museum. Across the river, in the more modern part of the city, the lighted rooms of the elegant Parador hotel winked at him. Around him, bushes dotted the grassy bank, while the river, still swollen by winter rains, flowed below, its quiet rushing sound warning of its power.

His sense of urgency was growing. Where were they? Then to his left and slightly below, he heard a low conversation. Two men. A rattle of small stones beyond the voices, and then another, different, voice joined in. Three men now, and as Smith listened, trying to catch what was being said, he felt both a chill and a surge of excitement they were speaking Basque. Even at this distance, he recognized his name. They were talking about him, searching for him now. They were a scant hundred feet away on an incline that was relatively open.

A fourth man scrambled up toward the three from the direction of the river below, and when he reached them, he said Smith's name again. And conversed in Spanish: "He's not down there, and I know I saw him leave the taberna and follow Zumaia and Iturbi. He's got to be here somewhere. Maybe closer to the bridge."

There was further discussion, this time in a mixture of Basque and Spanish. Smith was able to gather that the ones called Zumaia and Iturbi had searched through the edge of the city, which was where he had lost them. Their leader, Elizondo, joined them from farther upstream. They decided Smith could still be nearby.

As they spread out in a pattern to do a thorough search, Smith scrambled across grass and sand and slid under the low branches of a willow tree that curled down over the hill toward the river. His nerves edgy, he lay close to the trunk, barely breathing, holding his Sig Sauer, safe for the moment.

After eating his dinner at La Venta del Alma, a charming inn across the Rio Tajo from the old city, M. Mauritania walked out onto the terrace of Toledo's most luxurious hotel, the Parador Conde de Orgaz. He checked his watch. He still had time: The departure would not be for nearly an hour.

Mauritania indulged himself by raising his gaze to marvel at the night view. Old Toledo was perched above the moonlit river in a sparkling display of lights and shadows, so lovely that it might have come to life from a poetic Arabian Nights stanza or a magnificent Persian love poem. The crass Western culture with its narrow concept of God and insipid savior did not understand Toledo. But then, they would turn a woman into a man, corrupting both the truth of woman and the truth of man. Nowhere was this more visible than in the great city of the Prophet, where every monument, every glorious memory, was viewed as a bauble and lie for money.

He drank in the sight of Toledo, reveled in it. It was a divine place, a living reminder of that glorious era nearly a thousand years ago when Arabs ruled, creating a benevolent center of Muslim learning here in the midst of ignorance and savagery. Scholars had thrived, and Muslims, Christians, and Jews had lived in harmony and cooperation, learned each other's tongues, and studied each other's cultures and beliefs.

But now, he thought angrily, the Christians and the Jews called Islam barbaric and wanted to wipe all traces of it from the earth. They would fail, and Islam would rise again, rule again. He would show them that.

He turned the collar of his leather jacket up against the growing night chill and contemplated the riches of this city, now decadent. Everyone came to photograph it and buy cheap relics of its past because they had more money than soul. Few came to learn from it, to contemplate what Toledo had been, to understand what the light of Islam had brought here when Christian Europe was going through its intolerant Dark Ages. He thought bitterly of his own poor, starving country today, where the sands of the Sahara were slowly smothering the life out of the land and the people.

And the infidels wondered why he hated them, planned to destroy them, wanted to bring back the enlightenment of Islam. Bring back a culture where money and greed were nothing. Bring back the power that had ruled here for centuries. He was no fundamentalist. He was a pragmatist. First he would teach the Jews a lesson. Then the Americans. While the Americans waited, they would sweat.

Mauritania was aware he was an enigma to Westerners. He counted on it, with his delicate hands and face, his round body, apparently so weak and ineffectual. But inside, to himself, he knew the truth: He was heroic.

For some time he stood silent in the night on the terrace of the palatial hotel, studying the spire of the great Christian Cathedral and the hulking mass and stubby towers of the al-Qasr, built nearly fifteen hundred years ago by his own desert people. While his face remained impassive, he raged inwardly. His fury burned and grew, banked by centuries of outrage. His people would rise again. But slowly, carefully, in small steps that would begin with the blow, he would strike soon against the Jews.

Chapter Thirteen

On the slope above the moonlit Rio Tajo, Smith lay hidden beneath the willow tree, listening. The terrorists had quit talking, and behind him, the city was growing quiet. Below, a waterbird shrieked, and something splashed in the river.

Smith swung the Sig Sauer toward the river as a swimmer emerged and scrambled up, a gray wraith in the moonlight. Another was patrolling past on the hill below Smith. The one from the river muttered something in Basque, joined his comrade, and the pair continued out of earshot.

Smith slowly let out his breath, rose to his haunches, and followed, staying low to the ground as the men continued to search the slope. There were a half dozen of them now, heading in the general direction of the Puente de San Martin bridge. When the man at the top of the slope neared the bridge road, the group exchanged a series of hand signals, and all turned abruptly and swept down toward the moving water. Smith rolled behind boulders, scraping his elbows, before they could spot him.

At the riverbank, they crouched, consulting. Smith heard the names Zumaia, Iturbi, and Elizondo. He could see none of their faces. They were speaking quietly in rapid Basque and Spanish, and Smith caught the gist: Elizondo decided that if Smith had been here, he had somehow evaded them and was now heading back into the city, where he might contact the local police. That would be bad for them. Although Smith was a foreigner, the police would be less friendly to a Basque group.

Zumaia was not convinced. All argued the point and eventually compromised. Because of the time factor, Zumaia, a man called Carlos, and the others would stake out various places around the city in hopes of spotting Smith. Elizondo would give up the chase, since he was supposed to be at some farmhouse across the river for a meeting that was vital.

It was two words about the appointment that riveted Smith Crescent Shield. If he understood correctly, Elizondo was going to that farmhouse to meet the group's representatives. He would walk, since their cars were too distant now to fetch.

Smith's luck had improved. Lying motionless, he tried to control his impatience as the men made their final plans and moved up toward the city. If he tried to follow Elizondo across the bridge, which was well lighted by street lamps, he would likely be seen. He had to find another way. He could tail at a distance, but that risked losing the terrorist leader, and he was in no position to ask too many questions of the locals. The solution was to be on the other side of the river before Elizondo crossed.

As the terrorists moved off, Smith stripped off the shirt and trousers he had taken from the American tourist. He jumped up and ran down to the shore as he rolled the clothes into a tight bundle. Using his belt, he tied the roll to the back of his head and waded in, careful to avoid splashing. The water was cold, and it smelled of mud and rotting vegetation.

He slipped into the black river. Head held high, he struck out in a powerful breaststroke. His hands dug in, pushed back water, and he thought about Marty lying unconscious in the Pompidou Hospital. About the men and women who had died at the Pasteur. About Thérèse Chambord. Was she even still alive?

Angry and worried, he pulled the water in mighty strokes. When he looked up at the bridge, he could see Elizondo, illuminated by the street lamps, his red beret easy to spot. He and Elizondo were making about the same speed. Not good.

Smith was weary, but there was no getting around it. He needed to go faster. The molecular computer was out there somewhere. Adrenaline jolted him. He pulled and kicked harder, slicing through the murky river, battling a slow current. He glanced up. The terrorist was still there, walking steadily but not so rapidly as to call attention to himself.

Smith was ahead. He continued his sprint, working his muscles, until at last he stumbled up onto the shore, panting, his legs rubbery. But there was no time to rest. He shook off the worst of the water, yanked on his clothes, and combed his fingers through his hair as he ran up onto the street and across. He ducked between two parked cars.

He had made it just in time. Elizondo was striding off the bridge. Beneath his beret, his sun-darkened face held a somber, angry expression. He looked like a man with a problem. When he turned left, Smith slipped from between the cars and trailed behind, keeping him in sight. Elizondo led him past an area of gracious country houses, cigarrales, where rich professionals lived, on up a hill and beyond the Parador hotel and past tract like modern housing. Eventually they were in the countryside, with only the stars, the moon, and the fields for company. Somewhere cattle lowed.

At last Elizondo turned left again, this time onto a dirt road. During the long hike, he had looked back several times, but Smith had been able to use trees, bushes, and vehicles to hide from the probing gaze. But this dirt road was too lonely and isolated, too little cover. Smith slipped into a woodland windbreak and wove through it parallel to the road.

Because his Hawaiian shirt had short sleeves, bushes scratched his exposed arms. He could smell the cloying odor of some night-blooming flower. At last he plowed to the end of the windbreak, where he stayed back in the woods, studying the large clearing that spread before him. There were barns, chicken coops, and a corral that formed an L with a farmhouse, all bathed eerily in moonlight. This was his lucky night just one house to choose from.

He studied the vehicles. Three cars were parked at the edge of the open area near the L. One was an old Jeep Cherokee, but the two others were what held his attention a sleek, late-model black Mercedes sedan and an equally large new black Volvo station wagon. The farm appeared modest, not wealthy enough to support two new, expensive cars. All of which made Smith think that Elizondo was meeting more than one member of the Crescent Shield.

When Elizondo reached the front door, it opened before he could knock. As Smith watched, the terrorist hesitated, took a quick breath, and disappeared inside. Low to the ground, Smith left the cover of the windbreak and moved toward a lighted window on the right side of the house. When he heard the brittle crunch of shoes on gravel, he slid into the cover of an old oak, his nerves taut. The sound came from his left.

A craggy black man emerged from around that corner of the house, silent and phantom like, dressed in the white robes of a desert Arab. He stopped there, barely twenty feet from Smith, cradling a British-made L24A1 5.56mm assault rifle as he scanned the night. He looked like a man accustomed to weapons and distances. A desert warrior, but not an Arab, or even a Tuareg or Berber. Perhaps a Fulani from the tribe of fierce nomads who once ruled the southern edge of the Sahara.

Meanwhile, a second man materialized around the house's other corner, the right side, farther from Smith. He was carrying an old Kalashnikov assault weapon. He moved into the farmyard.

Huddled beneath the tree, Smith tightened his grip on his Sig Sauer as the guard with the Kalashnikov turned and advanced toward the corral. He would pass within ten feet of Smith. At the same time, the tall bedouin said something in Arabic. The one with the Kalashnikov responded and stopped, so close to Smith that he could smell the onions and cardamom on him. Smith lay motionless as the two men talked more.

Suddenly it was over. The Kalashnikov-armed guard turned and retraced his steps, passed the lighted window that had been Smith's goal, and disappeared, perhaps to a post at the back of the house. But the bedouin in the white robes remained a statue, his head rotating like a radar antenna, searching the night. Without realizing it, he was preventing Smith from approaching the house. Smith imagined this was how the deep-desert warriors of the Sahara had always stood night watch, but on a high sand dune waiting for the foreign troops that had made the mistake of marching into their desert.

At last the white-robed bedouin patrolled out into the yard and around the corral, chicken coops, and cars, still watching everywhere. Then he returned to the farmhouse, his head oscillating, until he reached the front door. He opened it and backed inside. It was a remarkable display and warning of two highly trained sentries at work. They would miss little.

On his belly, Smith crawled quickly back from the tree until he was in the cover of the windbreak again. He circled wide through the vegetation and once more left its shelter, this time to hurry across the open space toward the rear of the farmhouse, where the light was less, the windows fewer only three and all were barred. Thirty feet away, he dropped onto his back, cradled his Sig Sauer against his chest, and slithered toward the left window. Above him, gray clouds scudded across the night sky, while beneath him, an occasional rock bit into his flesh. He gritted his teeth.

Near the house now, he raised up and peered around, checking for the guard with the old Kalashnikov. The man was nowhere to be seen. Smith searched wider in the night, heard voices, and saw the glow of a pair of cigarettes. They were in the field behind the house, two men, and beyond them the bulky shadows of three helicopters. The Crescent Shield was both well organized and well supplied.

Smith saw no other guards. He crawled closer and raised up to peer in through the first window. What he saw was an ordinary sight: a lighted room, and through an open door across from him, a second lighted room. In the more distant one, Elizondo was seated in a stiff armchair, his nervous gaze following a figure who paced, appearing and disappearing across the open doorway.

Short and thickset, the pacer wore an impeccable dark gray business suit of English cut. His face was soft, round, and somehow enigmatic. Not an English face despite the suit, but of no particular ethnicity Smith could identify. Too dark for a northern European, lighter than many Italians or Spanish, with neither Oriental nor Polynesian features. Nor did he appear to be Afghan, Central Asian, or Pakistani. Possibly Berber, Smith decided, recalling the bedouin robes on the statue like sentry he had first seen.

Straining to hear, Smith realized he was listening to a polyglot from many countries — French, Spanish, English, others. He heard "Mauritania," "dead," "no more trouble," "excellent," "in the river," "count it," and, finally, "I trust you." The last phrase was spoken by Elizondo in Spanish as he rose to his feet.

The small, round-faced man stopped pacing and extended his hand. Elizondo shook it. It appeared that some kind of transaction had been completed amicably. As Elizondo disappeared, and Smith heard the front door open and close, he wondered about the word Mauritania. Had they been talking about someone from Mauritania? Smith thought that might be it. He also thought Elizondo had been the one who had spoken the name, and his tone indicated that whatever it meant, it was good news for him.

On the other hand, Smith decided, Mauritania might be where the Crescent Shield, if that was who they were, or even the Black Flame, was headed next.

Still thinking about Elizondo and the other man, Smith dropped low and crept through the night's shadows to the second window, which was also barred. He raised up and looked inside.

This time the room was small and empty, a bedroom with a simple iron cot made up for sleeping. There was a side table and chair, and on the cot lay a wooden tray that held an untouched meal. Smith heard a noise in the room, but from off to the side, out of sight. It sounded as if a chair had scraped across the floor. He moved to the side of the window and listened as footsteps sounded.

Someone was walking slowly, heavily, toward the cot. Excitement surged through him. It was Thérèse Chambord. He had been afraid she was as dead as her father. Air seemed to catch in his throat as he studied her.

She was dressed as he had last seen her, in her white satin evening suit, but it was smudged with dirt, and one sleeve was torn. Her lovely face was bruised and dirty, too, and her long black hair was snarled. It had been at least twenty-four hours since she was kidnapped, and judging by her appearance, she had fought her kidnappers more than once. Her face looked older, as if the last day had stolen her youth and enthusiasm.

As he watched, she sat heavily on the edge of the iron cot. She shoved away her dinner tray with a gesture of disgust and leaned forward, her head falling into her hands, her elbows resting on her knees, the picture of despair.

Smith checked the night, concerned one of the sentries might surprise him. The only sound was the low sighing of the wind through the distant woods. Above him, clouds drifted over the moon, and darkness deepened over the farmyard. A welcome help against discovery.

He started to tap on her window. And stopped. The door to the room opened, and in walked the short, stout man Smith had seen pace the front room as he spoke with Elizondo. His Savile Row suit was elegant, his face composed, and his demeanor certain. He was a man who led, who had opinions that mattered to himself. There was a smile on his face, but it was a cold smile that had no impact on his eyes. Smith studied him. This nameless man was important to the group in the house.

As the man stepped into the room, another appeared behind. Smith stared. An older man, several inches over six feet tall. He was stooped, as if he had spent his lifetime talking to much shorter people or hunched over a desk or a laboratory bench. In his early sixties, he had thinning black hair that was more than half gray, and a long, lean face aged into sharp planes and ridges. A face and characteristic stoop that Smith knew only from the photographs Fred Klein had supplied him, but had been burned into his mind forever by the bombing of the Pasteur Institute.

Thérèse Chambord stared up as he walked into the room. Her right hand searched blindly behind until she grabbed the end of the iron bed for support. She, too, was shocked. But the tall man was not. Eagerness filled his face, and he rushed to Thérèse. The great French scientist Dr. Emile Chambord pulled his daughter to her feet and enfolded her in his arms.