The Paris Option

Chapter Twenty-eight

CIA agent Jeff Moussad moved warily through the rubble of South Beirut, an officially denied area. The air was dusty, and the mountains of brick and mortar on either side reflected the sad story of the long civil war that had torn apart Lebanon and destroyed Beirut's reputation as the Paris of the East. Although the downtown heart of the city was rebuilding, and several hundred international firms had returned, little progress was in evidence here in this largely lawless no-man's-land of the grim past.

Jeff was armed and in disguise, on assignment to contact an important asset, whose identity and location had been discovered in the notes of a fellow CIA agent who had died in the infamous attack on the Pentagon of September 11. His difficult mission akin to finding a needle in a silo of needles was largely possible because of new sources of intelligence that the U.S. government had been developing in everything from familiar tools like the U-2 spy planes and the constellation of secret spy satellites orbiting overhead, to commercial satellite photos and remote-controlled spy drones.

Since there were no road markers, Jeff was relying on a specially programmed Palm Pilot to find his way to the right cave carved into the debris of what had once been some kind of building. He paused in dark shadow to check the Palm Pilot again. The viewing screen showed the streets and alleys of this section in live video relayed from one of a new family of pilotless aerial drones. Those upgraded, unmanned aircraft provided real-time images of an area over vast distances through satellite communications. This was a major improvement from when a drone could provide up-to-the-minute intelligence only if a radio signal could be beamed directly back to the base from where it took off.

Because of the changing geographical chaos here in South Beirut, a stranger would be easily confused. But with the live video feed and the directional lines that told exactly which turns to make, Jeff followed a sure path for perhaps a quarter of a mile. But then gunfire exploded nearby, followed by footsteps behind him. His pulse accelerated, and he darted quickly into the shadow of a smoke-blackened tank that had been twisted and burned in some long-ago firefight. Straining to hear, he pulled out his pistol. He needed to get to the asset's lair quickly, before he was discovered.

He checked his Palm Pilot. His destination was not much farther. But as he studied the next turn, the unthinkable happened. The Palm Pilot went dark. He stared at it, stunned, his chest tight. He had no idea where he was. Cursing under his breath, knowing he was lost, he hit buttons, and the usual fake information that he carried in the Palm Pilot appeared phone numbers, appointments. But there was no communication from the drone to tell him where to go later, or how to return to base. The connection had died.

Frantically, he tried to remember the exact location of the next turn. When he was sure he remembered correctly, he moved on past a collapsed building, rounded the corner, and crossed toward what he hoped was his final destination. As he emerged onto a leveled area, he looked nervously for the cave entrance. He never found it. What he did see was the muzzle flashes of four assault rifles and nothing more.

Just south of Washington, D.C., stood historic Fort Belvoir, now a state-of-the-art site for some one hundred tenant organizations a Who's Who of the Department of Defense. Among its most clandestine residents was the main receiving station for satellite information for the National Reconnaissance Office (NRO). Created in 1960 to design, launch, and operate U.S. spy satellites, the NRO was so highly secret that it was not even officially acknowledged until the 1990s. Large and powerful, the NRO's multibillion-dollar annual budget exceeded the yearly spending of any of the nation's three most powerful espionage kingdoms the CIA, the FBI, and the NSA.

Here in the rolling hills of suburban Virginia, the NRO's information-receiving station was a hotbed of cutting-edge electronics and analytical manpower. One of the civilian analysts was Donna Lindhorst, raven-haired, freckle-faced, and exhausted from the last six days of being on high alert. Today she was monitoring a missile-launch facility in North Korea, a country that was not only considered a serious potential threat to the United States and its allies, but one that had made development of longer-range missiles a high priority.

A longtime NRO employee, Donna knew that spy satellites had roamed the skies for some forty years, many orbiting a hundred miles above the planet. Traveling at mach 25, these billion-dollar birds flew over every spot on the face of the Earth twice a day, taking digital snapshots of places that the CIA, government policymakers, and the military-high command wanted to see. At any one time, at least five were overhead. From civil war in the Sudan to environmental disasters in China, America's satellites provided a steady river of black-and-white images.

The missile-launch facility in North Korea that Donna was studying was high-danger priority right now. All the United States needed was for some rogue nation to take advantage of the current uncertain electronic situation. And that was what might be happening right now. Donna's throat was dry with fear, because the images she was monitoring indicated a heat plume like those emitted by rocket launches.

She studied the screen nervously, cuing the satellite to focus on the area longer. Known in the spy trade as an Advanced Keyhole-class satellite, it could take a photo every five seconds and relay it almost instantly through Milstar satellites to her monitor. This placed enormous demands on data relay and image processing, but she had to know whether that plume was real. If it were, it could be an early warning of a missile attack.

She leaned anxiously forward, running digital scans, reading the data, homing in until The screen went blank. All the photos were gone. She froze a moment in utter shock, then pushed her chair back and stared terrified at the wall of screens. All were blank. Nothing was coming through. If the North Koreans wanted to mount a nuclear attack against America, nothing would stop them.

The mood in the offices and all along the corridors of the West Wing was of quiet jubilation, a rare Thanksgiving in May. In the Oval Office itself, President Castilla had allowed himself a smile, unusual these past few harrowing days, as he shared the same measured exultation with his room full of advisers.

"I don't know exactly how you did it, sir." National Security Adviser Emily Powell-Hill beamed. "But you really pulled it off."

"We pulled it off, Emily."

The president stood up and walked from around his desk to sit on the sofa beside her, a casual act of fellowship he seldom indulged in. He felt lighter today, as if a crippling load had been lifted from his shoulders. He peered through his glasses, favoring everyone with his warm smile, gratified to see the relief on their faces as well. Still, this was no cause for real celebration. Good people had died in that missile attack against the Algerian villa.

He continued, "It was everyone here, plus the intelligence services. We owe a great deal to those selfless heroes who work in the lap of the enemy without any public recognition."

"From what Captain Lainson of the Saratoga told me," Admiral Stevens Brose said, nodding to the DCI the Director of Central Intelligence, "it was CIA operatives who finally got those bastards and destroyed that damned DNA computer."

The DCI nodded modestly. "It was primarily Agent Russell. One of my best people. She did her job."

"Yes," the president agreed, "there's no doubt the CIA and others, who must remain nameless, saved our bacon this time." His expression grew solemn as he gazed around at his Joint Chiefs, the NSA, the head of the NRO, the DCI, and his chief of staff. "Now we must prepare for the future. The molecular computer is no longer theoretical, people, and a quantum computer will be next. It's inevitable. Who knows what else science will develop to threaten our defenses, and to help humanity, I might add? We have to start right now, learning how to deal with all of them."

"As I understand it, Mr. President," Emily Powell-Hill pointed out, "Dr. Chambord, his computer, and all his research were lost in the attack. My information tells me no one else is close to duplicating his feat. So we have some leeway."

"Perhaps we do, Emily," the president acknowledged. "Still, my best sources in the scientific community tell me that once a breakthrough like this has been made, the pace of development by everyone else is accelerated." He contemplated them, and his voice was forceful as he continued. "In any case, we must build foolproof defenses against a DNA computer and all other potential scientific developments that could become threats to our security."

There was a general silence in the Oval Office as they solemnly considered the task ahead and their own responsibilities. The quiet was shattered by the sharp ringing of the telephone on the president's desk. Sam Castilla hesitated, staring across the room at the phone that would ring only if the matter were of great importance.

He put his big hands on his knees, stood up, walked over, and picked up the receiver. "Yes?"

It was Fred Klein. "We need to meet, Mr. President."

"Now?"

"Yessir. Now."

In the exclusive private hospital for patients undergoing plastic surgery, Randi, Marty, and Peter had gathered in Marty's spacious room. The muted noises of traffic from outside seemed particularly loud as the painful conversation paused, and tears streamed down Marty's cheeks.

Jon was dead. The news ripped at his heart. He had loved Jon as only two friends of such dissimilar talents and interests could love each other, bound by the elusive quality of mutual respect and seasoned by the years.

For Marty, the loss was so large as to be inexpressible. Jon had always been there. He could not imagine living in a world that had no Jon.

Randi sat down beside the bed and took his hand. With her other hand, she wiped the tears from her own cheeks. Across the room, Peter stood against the door, stone-faced, only his slightly reddened skin betraying his grief.

"He was doing his job," Randi told Marty gently. "A job he wanted to do. You can't ask for more than that."

"He he was a real hero," Marty stammered. His face quivered as he struggled to find the right words. Emotions were difficult for him to express, a language he did not fully have. "Did I ever tell you how much I admired Bertrand Russell? I'm very careful about my heroes. But Russell was extraordinary. I'll never forget the first time I read his Principles of Mathematics. I think I was ten, and it really startled me. Oh, my. The implications. It opened everything to me! That was when he took math out of the realm of abstract philosophy and gave it a precise framework."

Peter and Randi exchanged a look. Neither knew what he was talking about.

Marty was nodding to himself, his tears splashing helplessly out onto the bedclothes. "It had so many ideas that were exciting to think about. Of course, Martin Luther King, Jr., William Faulkner, and Mickey Mantle were pretty heroic, too." His gaze roamed the room as if looking for a safe place to alight. "But Jon was always my biggest hero. Absolutely, positively biggest. Since we were little. But I never told him. He could do everything I couldn't, and I could do everything he couldn't. And he liked that. So did I. How often can anyone find that? Losing him is like losing my legs or my arms, only worse." He gulped. "I'm going to miss him so much."

Randi squeezed his hand. "We all are, Mart. I was so sure he'd get out in time. He was sure. But. " Her chest contracted, and she fought back a sob. She bowed her head, her heart aching. She had failed, and Jon was dead. She cried softly.

Peter said gruffly, "He knew what he was doing. We all know the risk. Someone has to do it so the businessmen and housewives and shop girls and bloody playboys and millionaires can sleep in peace in their own beds."

Randi heard the bitterness in the old MI6 agent's voice. It was his way of expressing his loss. Where he stood he was alone, as in reality he always was, the wounds on his cheek, left arm, and left hand half-healed and unbandaged, livid in his repressed rage at the death of his friend.

"I wanted to help this time, too," Marty said in that slow, halting voice that resulted from his medication.

"He knew, lad," Peter told him.

A sad silence filled the room. The traffic noises rose in volume again. Somewhere far off, an ambulance siren screamed.

Finally Peter said in gross understatement, "Things don't always work out the way we want."

The telephone beside Marty's bed rang, and all three stared at it. Peter picked it up. "Howell here. I told you never to what? Yes. When? You're sure? All right. Yes, I'm on it."

He set the receiver into its cradle and turned to his friends, his face a grim mask as if he had seen a vision of horror. "Top secret. Straight from Downing Street. Someone has taken control of all the U.S. military satellites in space and locked the Pentagon and NASA out. Can you think of any way they could've done that without a DNA computer?"

Randi blinked. She grabbed tissues from the box beside Marty's bed and blew her nose. "They got the computer out of the villa? No, they couldn't have. What the hell does it mean?"

"Damned if I know, except that the danger isn't over. We have to start finding them all over again."

Randi shook her head. "They couldn't have gotten the prototype out. There was nowhere near enough time for that. But. " She stared at Peter. "Maybe Chambord somehow survived? That's the only thing that makes sense. And if Chambord"

Marty sat straight up in the bed, his distraught face quivering with hope. "Jon may be alive, too!"

"Hold on, both of you. That doesn't necessarily follow. The Crescent Shield would've done everything to get Chambord away safely. But they wouldn't have given a ragman's damn about Jon or Ms. Chambord. In fact, you heard automatic fire, Randi. Who else could it have been aimed at? You said in your report that Jon had to have died either in a firefight or when the missile hit. The bloody bastards were cheering. Victorious. Nothing changes that."

"You're right. It doesn't, dammit." Randi grimaced. "Still, it opens a possibility we can't just ignore. If he's alive"

Marty threw back his covers and jumped out of bed, swaying and holding to the frame, suddenly weak. "I don't care what either of you says. Jon's alive!" His pronouncement was firm. He had made up his mind, dismissing the news that was too painful to believe. "We must listen to Randi. He could desperately need us. Why, when I think of what he might be suffering, lying wounded and alone somewhere in the hot Algerian desert or perhaps as we speak those ghastly terrorists are preparing to kill him! We must find him!" His medication was wearing off, and life was looking more possible. A superman armed with a computer and the power of genius.

"Calm down, my boy. You know how you tend to take flight beyond the logical universe."

Marty drew his portly body up to its full height, which brought his indignant eyes on a level with Peter's breastbone. He announced with great restraint, "My universe is not only logical, but far beyond your insignificant powers of comprehension, you ignorant Brit!"

"Quite possibly," Peter said dryly. "Still, remember we're working now in my universe. Say Jon is alive. From what Randi's reported, he's a prisoner. Or at the very least wounded, pursued, and in hiding. The question becomes where is he, and can we get in touch with him? Except possibly for short distances and brief contact, our electronic communications were locked out when the satellites were taken over."

Marty opened his mouth to make some sharp response, then his face screwed up in helpless frustration as he tried to make his still-slowed brain function on the problem as he wanted it to function.

Randi wondered, "If he did manage to escape especially if Chambord is with him the Crescent Shield would've pursued. Mauritania would make sure of that. Probably sent that killer, Abu Auda, after them. From what I've seen, Abu Auda knows what he's doing. So if Jon and any of the others are alive, they're probably still in Algeria."

"But if he didn't escape," Peter reasoned, "if none did and from what just happened to the American satellites I'd say the Crescent Shield still has Dr. Chambord in its hands then Jon's a prisoner. And we have no earthly idea where."

Impatient and more worried than ever, Fred Klein sat on the scarred wooden bench that the president had transferred from his private office in his Taos ranch to this private office in the upstairs residence suite of the White House. He peered around at the massive bookcases, not really seeing them as he thought about what he needed to discuss. He desperately wanted to light his pipe. It was still in the breast pocket of his baggy wool suit jacket, the stem poking up. He crossed his legs, the top one almost instantly swinging like the arm of a metronome.

When the president entered, he saw the agitation of the chief of Covert-One. "I'm sorry for your loss, Fred. I know how much you valued Dr. Smith."

"The condolences may be premature, sir." Klein cleared his throat. "As well as the celebration of our so-called victory in Algeria."

The president's back stiffened. He walked to the old roll-top desk, his favorite from Taos, and sat. "Tell me."

"The team of rangers we sent in right after the missile attack never found the bodies of Colonel Smith, Dr. Chambord, or Thérèse Chambord."

"It's probably too soon. In any case, the bodies could've been either badly burned or blown into fragments."

"Some were, that's true. But we sent in our own DNA experts as soon as I got Agent Russell's report, and the Algerian army and police sent in more people. So far, we have no matches to our three. None. Plus, there were no female parts. If Ms. Chambord survived, where is she? Where's her father? Where's Colonel Smith? If Jon were alive, he would've reported to me. If Chambord and his daughter had survived, they would certainly have been heard from by now."

"Unless they were prisoners. That's what you're getting at, isn't it?" The president could not remain seated. He arose stiffly and paced across the Navajo rugs. "You think there's a chance some of the terrorists escaped, and that they took our three with them?"

"That's what worries me. Otherwise"

"Otherwise, you'd be celebrating Smith's and the Chambords' survival. Yes, I see what you mean. But it's all circumstantial. Speculative."

"I deal in circumstance and speculation, sir. All intelligence services do, if they're going about their jobs properly. It's up to us to see dangers before they occur. Possibly I'm wrong, and their bodies will be found." He clasped his hands and leaned forward. "But for all three to be unaccounted for is too much to be ignored, Sam."

"What are you going to do?"

"Keep searching the ruins and testing, but"

The telephone rang, and the president snapped up the receiver. "Yes?" He grimaced, the lines on his forehead knitting. He barked, "Come up to my private office, Chuck. Yes, now." He hung up and closed his eyes a moment as if trying to wipe away the contents of the call.

Klein waited, his general unease heightened.

Castilla said in a tired voice, "Someone has just readjusted the computer processors aboard all of our military and private satellites so we can't retrieve data. All the satellites. No data. It's a catastrophic systems failure. What's even worse, no one on the ground can get them programmed back to the way they were."

"We're blind from space?" Klein bit off a curse. "It sounds like the DNA computer again, dammit. But how? That's the one thing Russell was sure of. The missile struck the villa, and the computer was inside. Smith told her he and Chambord were about to escape, all three of them, and to call in the strike. Even if Smith and Chambord hadn't destroyed it already, it should've gone up with the building."

"I agree. It should've. It's the logical conclusion. Get into the other room now, Fred. Chuck's going to be here in a moment."

Just as Klein slipped away, Charles Ouray, the president's chief of staff, hurried into the office. "They're still trying, but NASA says whoever readjusted the computers has locked us out. Completely. We can't break through! It's causing problems everywhere."

"I'd better hear what they are."

"For a while, it looked as if the North Koreans were sending off a missile strike, but we had a contact on the ground that said it was just a heavy fog that was masking the heat from a truck that was near the missile silo in question. We lost an agent in South Beirut, Jeffrey Moussad. His 3-D directional finder failed. We believe he's been killed. Also, there was a near-miss in the Pacific with one of our carriers and a submarine. Even Echelon's ears are deaf." In the Echelon program, the United States and Britain intercepted calls handled by satellites as well as tapping intercontinental undersea telephone cables.

The president forced himself to take a deep breath. "Reconvene the Joint Chiefs. They're probably not out of the building yet. If they are, get Admiral Brose and tell him to instruct the others to assume the worst an immediate attack on the United States. Anything from biological warfare to a nuclear missile. Scramble every defense, and everything we don't have, officially."

"The experimental antimissile system, sir? But our allies"

"I'll talk to them. They've got to know, so they can alert their own people. We feed a lot of them information off our satellites anyway. Hell, many buy time, too. Their systems have to be reflecting a loss of data, some of it dramatic. If I don't call them, they're going to call me. I'll put it up to some wild-haired hacker, the best we've ever seen. They'll believe it for a while. Meanwhile, we scramble everything. At least the secret experimental system should be totally secure because no one knows we have it, and it should be able to handle everything short of a massive missile attack, which terrorists won't be able to mount. No one but the Brits and Moscow can do that, and they're on our side this time, thank God. For any other kinds of strikes, we'll have to rely on our conventional military, the FBI, and the police every damn where. And Chuck, this doesn't get leaked to the press. Our allies won't want their media people to get wind of it either. This makes none of us look good. Get going, Chuck."

Ouray ran out, and the president opened the other door. Klein's face was gray with worry as he returned to the room.

"You heard?" the president asked.

"Damn right."

"Find out where the hellish thing is, Fred, and this time finish it!"

Chapter Twenty-nine

When Marty fell asleep again in his hospital room, Peter slipped away to contact local MI6. Randi waited ten minutes and left, too. But her journey was much shorter down to the phone booth she had spotted off the main lobby. She hovered at the top of the fire stairs, waiting as a few employees came and went, serving the rich patients who would soon emerge with new faces or new bodies or both. As soon as the lobby was clear, she padded down to it. Lilacs, peonies, and jonquils were arranged in showy springtime displays in tall cut-glass vases. The place was as fragrant as a florist's, but it was making a lot more money.

Enclosed in the glass booth, she dialed her Langley chief, Doug Kennedy, on a secure undersea fiber-optic cable line.

Doug's voice was grim. "I've got bad news. In fact, rotten news. The surveillance and communications satellites are still offline. Worse, we've lost everything in orbit, both military and civilian. NASA and the Pentagon are working like demons with every tool they have, and they're making up the rest as they go along. So far, we're zilch, kaput, aloha, and good luck. Without those satellites, we're blind, deaf, and dumb."

"I get your point. What do you think I'm working on? I told you the prototype had been destroyed, period. The only thing that makes sense is that Chambord survived, although I still can't figure out how. I also can't figure out how he could've built a new prototype so fast."

"Because he's a genius, that's how."

"Even geniuses have only two arms and ten fingers and need time and materials and a place to work. A stable place. Which brings me to my reason for calling your august self."

"Hold the sarcasm, Russell. It gets you into trouble. What do you want?"

"Check with every asset we have on the ground within a two-hundred-mile radius of the villa and find out if they noticed, heard of, or even suspect any unusual traffic on the roads and in the ports, no matter how small, all along the coast near the villa for twelve hours after the explosion. Then do the same with everything we have, sea and air, over the Mediterranean, in the same time frame."

"That's all?"

She ignored the acid tone. "For now, yes. It could tell us for sure if Chambord survived." She paused. "Or whether we're dealing with some unknown factor, which scares the hell out of me. If he did survive, we need to know that, and where he went."

"I'm convinced."

"Yesterday, okay?"

"If not sooner. What about you?"

"I've got some other leads, unofficial, you understand?" It was total bravado. The only possible leads she had were from Peter's highly developed, far-flung, idiosyncratic private assets, and Marty's brain at its most manic.

"Don't we all. Good luck, Russell." He ended the connection.

Gagged and blindfolded, Jon Smith sat upright in a passenger seat at the back of a helicopter, his hands bound behind him. He was anxious and worried, his wounds aching, but still he was recording in his mind as much information as possible, while twisting his wrists against the ropes. Every once in a while, he felt the bonds loosen a bit more. It gave him hope, but Abu Auda or his men could easily discover what he had been up to when they reached wherever they were going, if he had not broken free by then.

He was in a helicopter, a large one. He could feel the throb of twin, high-powered engines. From their size, the placement of the door through which he had been shoved aboard, and the interior arrangement that he had deduced by stumbling against each row of seats as he was pushed to the rear, he figured the chopper was a Sikorsky S-70 model, known by several names the Seahawk in the navy, Black Hawk in the army, Pave Hawk in the air force, and Jayhawk in the coast guard.

S-70s were troop carriers and logistical aircraft, but they often carried out other duties like medical evacuation and command-and-control. He had flown in enough while in the field and during his command days courtesy of both the army and air force, with a navy chopper or two thrown into remember the details well.

After he had decided all this, he overheard Abu Auda talking nearby with one of his men. Their conversation had confirmed that it was a Sikorsky all right, but it was the S-70A model, the export version of the multimission Black Hawk. Maybe a leftover from Desert Storm, or acquired through some fellow terrorist whose day job was in the procurement division of some Islamic country's army. In any case, it meant the chopper could easily be armed for combat, which made Jon even more uneasy. Shortly after that, Abu Auda had moved out of listening range.

Jon had been straining to hear any other talk for what he figured was nearly three hours, trying to pick up more information over the roar of the motors, but he had learned nothing useful. The chopper must be near the end of its fuel range. Then it would have to land. At the villa in Algeria, Mauritania had decided he could be useful in the future, and he must still think so, or they would have killed him. Eventually, they would get rid of him, or Abu Auda would get tired of dragging him along and kill him. Hostile witnesses made poor long-term companions.

As he was helplessly carried along in the big Sikorsky, he quit working on the ropes for a while, resting. The wound on his arm ached and burned. Still, it was superficial, more an annoyance than a danger, but it should be taken care of before infection set in. On the other hand, a much more pressing goal was simply surviving. Which brought his thoughts back again to Randi. He knew her only too well, and he was worried. Had she made it out of range before the missile hit? She would have waited for him and the Chambords as long as possible. When they had not appeared, her first instinct would have been to try to rescue them.

God in heaven, he hoped she had not. Even if she had finally realized she had to run for it, she might not have escaped in time. His mouth went dry as he recalled how close he and Thérèse had come to dying.

Near the window of the dark villa armed guards all around Jon and Thérèse disarmed.

Emile Chambord tells Mauritania, "The American has called in some kind of missile strike. We must leave. Tell your men to fire their weapons, make it sound like a fight. Then shout. Celebrate loudly as if you've killed Smith and my daughter. Hurry!"

They fire bursts. Scream their slogans. Race from the villa, herding Jon and Thérèse toward the helipad. They reach the barracks, and the world detonates behind them. They are flung into the air. Thrown to the ground. Deafened by an explosive roar that hammers with the rush of a shock wave and tears at their clothes, their hair, their limbs. Tree branches and palm fronds fly. A massive wood door cartwheels overhead and slams down onto one of Abu Auda's men, crushing him to death.

When the ground stops heaving, Jon staggers up, bleeding from a head wound. His left forearm burns with pain. He searches frantically for a weapon.

But Abu Auda trains his British-made assault rifle on Jon. "Don't try, Colonel."

The survivors crawl to their feet. Amazingly, most are still alive. Thérèse is bleeding from her right leg. Chambord hurries to her. "Thérèse! You're hurt."

She pushes him away. "I don't know who you are anymore. You must be mad!" She turns her back and helps Jon.

Chambord watches as she rips off the sleeve of her white suit. "What I do is for the future of France, child," he explains earnestly. "You'll understand soon."

"There's nothing to understand." She binds the wound on Jon's arm and then the one on her leg. The blood on Jon's forehead is a minor scratch.

Mauritania interrupts, "She'll have to understand later, Doctor." He gazes around with the canny expression of a feral animal. He seems to sniff the air as if he can read intelligence on it. "They may strike again. We must leave immediately."

One of the terrorists gives a loud bellow of dismay. Everyone converges, staring at the Huey helicopter. Its rotors have been broken by debris hurled in the blast. The chopper is grounded.

Chambord decides, "There's room for five of us in the scout helicopter. You, of course, M. Mauritania, and your pilot. Plus Captain Bonnard, Thérèse, and I" Mauritania begins to protest. He wants more of his own people. But Chambord shakes his head firmly. "No. I need Bonnard, and I won't leave my daughter behind. If I'm to build another prototype, I need to go where I can work. A new DNA computer is our most pressing priority. I regret there's room for no one else, but there it is."

Mauritania has to agree. He turns to his towering lieutenant, who has heard everything and is glowering with disapproval. "You'll remain behind to lead the others, Abu Auda. Make arrangements to be picked up. I'll have to take our Saudi pilot, Mohammed. He's our best. You'll rejoin us soon."

"What of the American, Smith? May I kill him now? It was he who"

"No. If he's arranged for this missile strike, he must be even more important than I realized. You'll keep him safe, Abu Auda."

Thérèse Chambord protests vehemently, but they force her aboard. The compact helicopter rises, skirts the disaster site, and heads north toward Europe. Abu Auda orders Jon's hands bound, and the group moves at a brisk clip to the distant highway, where they are met by two covered pickup trucks. A long, jolting ride through the wind-swept inland desert finally ends at the noisy docks of Tunis. There they board a motorboat like the converted PT boat on which Jon stowed the day before. The ragtag group is exhausted, but their sense of urgency remains clear.

On the boat, they blindfold him. He sees none of the long trip across the Mediterranean. He falls asleep again despite the slamming of the boat against the waves, but as soon as the boat lands, he is instantly awake, craning his head to listen. They hustle him out on deck, still blindfolded, where he hears many voices speaking Italian and guesses they must be in Italy. They board the Sikorsky helicopter to fly to an unnamed location that could be anywhere from Serbia to France

Now as Jon sat blindfolded in the helicopter, waiting for them to either run out of gas or land, he wrestled with his tormenting thoughts: Was Randi alive? Where were Peter and Marty? From what Thérèse knew, she and her father had been the only prisoners in the villa until Jon arrived. Jon hoped they had not been captured, that Peter had somehow saved Marty, and that they were safe. His only comfort was that the molecular computer had been pulverized in the missile blast.

Now he must stop Emile Chambord before he built another. It had been a shock to learn Chambord had been working with the terrorists all along, apparently the instigator of an elaborate and very successful charade to fool not just national governments but also his daughter. In a perversion of a great scientific achievement, he was scheming to build another molecular computer so he could use it to destroy Israel. Why? Because his mother had been Algerian? Part of Islam? Jon remembered Fred Klein's report: His mother raised him as a Muslim, but he showed little interest in religion as an adult. There had seemed no reason to consider that bit of information salient, since Chambord had never shown religious tendencies.

As Jon thought about it all, he remembered Chambord's stint teaching in Cairo just before he returned to the Pasteur, and that Chambord's wife had died not long ago. A reacquaintance with Islam, plus the life-changing loss of a beloved spouse. Belief shifts in later years had happened to others, and they would happen again. Forgotten faith could reach out and reclaim, especially as one aged and faced personal tragedy.

Then there was Captain Darius Bonnard, who had a similar background: Married to an Algerian woman when he had been in the Foreign Legion. When commissioned, his leaves spent in Algiers with, maybe, a first wife he had never divorced. A double life? It certainly seemed more than possible now. And, too, there was his job within whispering distance of the top echelons of NATO and the French military. He was one of the invisibles — the quiet, efficient aide to a general. Although he had far more access than most, he was seldom in the limelight, unlike his general.

Chambord's and Bonnard's lives made a new kind of sense when looked at with the hindsight of Chambord's shattering revelation: "I'm not with them — they're with me!"

The scientist's prototype was destroyed, but not his knowledge. Unless someone stopped him, he would build another. But that would take time. Smith held on to that morsel of hope. Time to find Chambord and to stop him. But first he had to escape. Behind him, he resumed trying to loosen the ropes that bound him.

Marty was awake, gratefully out of his hospital gown, and dressed in clothes Peter had brought back after making contact with MI6 a pair of shapeless dark brown cord pants, a black cashmere turtleneck despite the warmth of the hospital room, athletic shoes with racing stripes along the sides, and his ubiquitous tan windbreaker. He looked himself up and down and pronounced himself appropriately attired for anything short of a formal dinner with the prime minister.

Randi had returned to the room, too, and the three friends wrestled with the issue foremost in their mind show to find Jon. Without any formal agreement, they had simply decided that Jon was alive. Eyes sparkling, Marty volunteered to go off his meds and devote himself to solving the problem.

Randi agreed. "Good idea."

"Sure you're up for it?" Peter questioned.

"Don't be a dolt, Peter." Marty looked offended. "Does a mastodon have tusks? Does an algebraic equation require an equals sign? Gee."

"Guess so," Peter decided.

The room phone rang. Randi picked it up. It was her boss at Langley, Doug Kennedy, on the secure scrambled surface phone line. He was not encouraging. She listened, asked some pointed questions, and as soon as she hung up, she reported what he had learned: The ground assets in Algeria said there was little unusual activity of any kind, not even smugglers, except perhaps in Tunis, where a known smuggler's high-speed boat had left some five hours after the strike for an unspecified destination with a dozen or so men on board. One of the men, however, was reported to be a European or American. There had been no women among them, which pretty much ruled out Emile Chambord, who was certainly traveling with Thérèse. He would not have left her, or at least Randi and Marty did not think he would. Peter was not so sure.

Marty made a face. "No one like Emile abandons a child, you ridiculous man."

"She's pushing forty," Peter noted dryly. "She's no child."

"To Emile she is," Marty corrected him.

There had been few U.S. ships or aircraft in the eastern Mediterranean at the time, the Saratoga having left its position the instant it launched its missile. It had turned off all surface-to-air radar so as not to allow back-tracing and had run dark, steaming straight north to put as much deniability as possible between it and the Algerian coast before the certain uproar from the Arab countries began.

"That could have been Jon on the smuggler's boat," Randi decided. "It was the kind of craft the Crescent Shield used to cross the Mediterranean to Algeria. On the other hand, the terrorists could have had some Americans among them."

"Of course it was Jon," Marty declared. "There can be no doubt."

Peter said, "We'll wait for what my people tell me, shall we?"

Marty was standing at the window, watching the Paris street below. His mind was in a race against time, soaring through the stratosphere of his imagination as he sought a solution for how to find Jon. He closed his eyes and sighed happily as lights flashed in a variety of vivid colors, and it seemed to him that he was lighter than air. He saw shapes and heard sounds in a kaleidoscope of excitement. His freed self was soaring toward the magical heights where creativity and intelligence joined, and ideas far beyond the scope of ordinary mortals were waiting to be born like infant stars.

When the phone rang, Marty jumped and frowned.

Peter headed for it. "My turn."

He was right. The information was delivered in a crisp London accent: A British submarine, running deep, had surfaced less than ten miles from the Algerian villa moments after the blast. In fact, it was the blast's shock wave, transmitted through the water and picked up by the sub's sonar, that had prompted its rise. With its radar fixed toward the villa, it had identified a small Hughes scout helicopter leaving the vicinity some fifteen minutes after the strike. Five minutes later, the sub dove again, concerned it might be discovered.

Meanwhile, on land, a passing MI6 informant had spotted two pickup trucks exiting the area, driving west toward Tunis. The informant had reported the news to his contact in hopes of being paid, which he had been, and handsomely. It was not cost-efficient to be niggardly in the spy trade. Finally, the captain of a British Airways jet en route from Gibraltar to Rome had observed a small helicopter of the same model flying from the direction of Oran toward the Spanish coast in an area where the captain had never seen a helicopter. Thus, he had entered it in his log. A quick check by MI6 revealed that no scheduled, or even authorized, helicopter flights had been made from Oran or any place near it that night.

"He's alive," Marty boomed. "There's now no doubt."

"Let's assume that's true," Peter said. "But we still have the problem of contacting him, and which course do we pursue? The unauthorized helicopter flying to Spain, or the smuggler's boat out of Tunis that carried a possible American?"

"Both," Randi decided. "Cover all bases."

Meanwhile, Marty had retreated blissfully again into the fertile fields of his mind. He could feel an idea forming. It was almost tactile, as if he could stroke it with his fingers and taste it on the tip of his tongue. His eyes snapped open, and he paced around the room, rubbing his hands with excitement. And skidded to a stop to do a little dance, his plump body as agile as an imp's. "The answer's been in front of us all along. Someday I need to study the nature of consciousness. Such a fascinating subject. I'm sure I could learn a thing or two"

"Marty!" Randi said, exasperated. "What's your idea?"

He beamed. "We've been utter fools. We'll do as we did before place a message on the Asperger's Web site OASIS. After that unpleasant Hades mess, how could Jon forget that's how we stayed in touch before? Impossible for him to not remember. All we need do is compose a message that will baffle everyone but Jon." He screwed his florid face into a knot as he considered.

Peter and Randi waited. It did not take long.

Marty cackled with joy. "I have it! 'Coughing Lazarus: Sex-starved wolf seeks suitable mate. Must have own location. Eager to meet, ready to go. What do you want to do?' " He watched their reaction with eager eyes.

Randi shook her head. "I have no idea what that means."

"I'm at sea, too," Peter agreed, avoiding Marty's gaze.

Marty rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. "If you don't, no one else will either."

"That's all fine," Randi said, "but you'd better tell us the code anyway."

Peter said, "Just a moment, I'm beginning to see part of it. 'Coughing Lazarus' must refer to 'Smith's Cough Drops, of course. And 'Lazarus' is Jon again, because like Lazarus we're hoping Jon's risen from the dead."

Randi chuckled. "So, 'Sex-starved wolf implies a 'randy howl,' yes? Randi and Howell. 'Seeks suitable mate' is easy. A mate's a pal, a friend, and we're looking for our friend Jon. 'Must have own location' means we're asking where he is. 'Eager to meet, ready to go' is obvious. We want to meet him, and we'll go wherever necessary. But I don't quite get 'What do you want to do?' "

Marty arched his brows. "That," he announced, "was the easiest part. I thought better of you both. There's a famous movie line everyone knows: 'What do you want to do tonight' "

"Of course," Peter said, recognizing it. "From the movie Marty, 'What do you want to do tonight, Marty?' So that means you."

Marty rubbed his hands. "Now we're getting someplace. So my message, translated, is simply: 'Jon Smith: Randi and Peter are looking for you. Where are you? They'll meet you wherever you say.' And it's signed Marty. Questions?"

"Wouldn't dare." Peter shook his head.

They hurried downstairs to the office of Peter's friend, Lochiel Cameron, the hospital's owner and chief surgeon. Dr. Cameron listened, left his chair, and Marty took over the desk, where Dr. Cameron's computer sat at the corner. Marty's fingers flew over the keyboard as he quickly found www.aspergersyndrome.org and entered his message. Then he leaped up and paced behind the chair, his eyes fixed on the screen.

Dr. Cameron glanced at Peter as if to ask whether he should administer a new dose of Mideral. Peter shook his head, all the while watching Marty for a sign that he was slipping dangerously near detachment from reality. As time passed, Marty paced faster, grew more agitated, waved his arms wildly, and muttered to himself in a voice that grew louder as the words grew more meaningless.

Peter finally nodded to Cameron. He told Marty, "Okay, lad. We've got to face it. You've had a good run, but it's time to pacify those nerve endings."

"What?" Marty spun around and narrowed his eyes.

"Peter's right," Randi agreed. "The doctor has your pill. Take it, Mart. That way you'll be in good shape if things get tense."

Marty frowned. He looked them both up and down with disdain. But at the same time, his quick mind registered their concern. He did not like it, but he knew that the medication bought him time for when he wanted to soar again.

"Oh, very well," he said grumpily. "Give me that awful pill."

An hour later, Marty had returned to sit quietly in front of the computer screen. Peter and Randi kept watch with him. There had been no answer from Jon.

Chapter Thirty

Outside the old market town of Aalst stood the country estate of the Brabant branch of the La Porte family. Although the town had grown into a bustling suburb of Brussels, the La Porte estate had retained its classic grandeur, an artifact from a long-ago time. It was called Hethuis, "Castle House," in honor of its and the family's medieval heritage. Today the walled courtyard was filled with the chauffeured sedans and limousines of NATO military leaders and members of the Council of European Nations, which was meeting this week in Brussels.

Inside the main house, General the Count Roland la Porte was holding court. Like his pedigreed estate, La Porte appeared large and magnificent where he stood before the walk-in fireplace in the baronial main room. Around him, period weapons, heraldic coats-of-arms, and the canvases of great Dutch and Flemish painters everyone from Jan van Eyck to Peter Brueghelhung from the dark, paneled walls.

EU Commissioner Enzo Ciccione, recently arrived from Rome, was giving his opinion in English: "These satellite problems of the Americans are frightening and have made many of us rethink our views, General La Porte. Perhaps we have indeed become too dependent upon the United States and its military. After all, NATO is essentially the same animal as the United States."

"Still, our relationship with the United States has been useful," La Porte responded in French, despite knowing that Ciccione did not speak the language. He paused as Ciccione's translator, who sat just behind him, finished his nearly simultaneous translation. "We weren't ready to assume our own destiny. Now, however, we've gained much-needed military experience in NATO operations. The point isn't simply to challenge the Americans, but to acknowledge our own growing power and importance. Which, of course, the Americans themselves have been urging us to do."

"Military strength also translates into economic clout in the international competition for markets," pointed out Commissioner Hans Brecht, who did speak French but chose to answer in English in deference to Ciccione. Brecht was from Vienna. "Again, as you've said, General, we're already competitors with the United States for world markets. It's unfortunate that we're so often constrained from going all out because of strategic political and military concerns."

"Your views are encouraging," La Porte acknowledged. "There are times when I fear we Europeans have lost the will to greatness that fueled our conquest of the world. We must never forget that we created not only the United States but all the other nations of the Western Hemisphere. Sadly, they now find themselves locked in the American sphere of ownership." He sighed and shook his large head. "There are times, gentlemen, when I think we, too, will soon be owned by the Americans. Vassal states. To my mind, Britain already is. Who will be next? All of us?"

The others had been listening carefully. Besides the Italian and Austrian commissioners, there were also Belgian and Danish members of the Council of European Nations as well as the same NATO military leaders who had gathered on the Charles de Gaulle just a few nights ago: Spanish general Valentin Gonzalez, with his cautious eyes and the jaunty tilt to his army cap. Italian General Ruggiero Inzaghi of the flinty gaze and no-nonsense mouth. And German General Otto Bittrich, rawboned and thoughtful. Absent, of course, was British General Arnold Moore, whose untimely death had shaken them. Those who made the military their life found accidents offensive; if a soldier did not have the good luck to die at war, then he should be at least at home in his own bed with his medals and memories.

As General La Porte finished, they burst out with both agreements and objections.

General Bittrich was sitting apart, his bony face thoughtful as usual, but there was high intensity in his silence. He was watching no one but La Porte, and he had chosen a chair out of his easy line of sight for that reason. Under his thick, near-white hair, his ruddy face was so focused that he might be peering through a microscope at a specimen he was preparing to dissect.

But La Porte did not notice. He was concentrating on the speakers as they moved closer to seeing what he saw a United States of Europe, or, as the EU organization called itself, Europa. Once more, he made his point: "We can argue forever, but in the end we all know that Europe, from the Baltic to the Mediterranean, from the Atlantic to, yes, the Urals and possibly beyond, must take charge of its future. We must have an independent, united military. We are Europa, we must be Europa!"

The giant room rang with the stirring call, but in the end it fell on wary, pragmatic ears.

Commissioner Ciccione lifted his chin as if his collar were too tight. "In a few years, you'll have my vote, General La Porte. But not now. The EU has neither the wealth nor the will for such an immense step. Besides, it's dangerous. Considering the political instabilities we're facing the Balkans' quagmire, the continuing terrorist assaults everywhere, the shakiness of the Middle East, the problems in the various — stans we can afford no such large risk."

There was a general murmur of agreement, although it was clear that, among some of the other council members and all of the generals, there was more than a little regret about not pursuing the idea.

La Porte's pale eyes flashed fire at the suggestion that he was too soon. "And I say we cannot not afford it! We must take our place militarily, economically, and politically. And now is the time. Soon you must vote. It's a grave responsibility, one that can make life better for everyone. I know when you face that moment of truth and must vote, you'll agree with me. You'll feel the destiny of Europa not as it has been for the past sixty years, but as it can be. Must be."

Ciccione looked around the room, meeting the others' gazes, until at last he shook his head. "I think I can speak for all of us when I say nothing can convince us yet, General. I regret it, but the hard truth is that the continent is simply not ready."

All eyes turned to General Bittrich, who was still studying La Porte. The German general said, "As for this recent attack on U.S. satellites that seems to concern the commissioners and our General La Porte so much, I think we'll find the Americans well prepared to resist and dispose of whoever is behind it."

As another murmur of agreement hummed through the room, General La Porte only smiled. He said mildly, "Perhaps, General Bittrich. Perhaps."

At that instant, the Prussian's gray eyes hardened into points of steel. As the others filed from the room into the sumptuous dining hall adjacent, Bittrich did not move.

Alone with La Porte, he stood and walked toward the Frenchman. "A tragic event, the death of General Moore."

La Porte nodded solemnly. His unblinking eyes studied the German. "I feel most guilty. Such a waste to lose him. If he hadn't come to our meeting on the De Gaulle?" He gave a Gallic shrug of fate.

"Ah, so. Ja. But what was it Moore said before we disbanded? Now I recall. He wondered whether you knew something we did not."

"I believe he expressed a passing thought of that nature. He was, as I told him then, quite wrong." La Porte smiled.

"Of course." Bittrich smiled, too, and murmured as he walked away toward the dining hall with its table groaning with Flemish gourmet dishes, "Perhaps."

The chalet was modern, with a sharply pitched roof and a half-timbered exterior that blended into the majestic scenery beneath the snow-capped Alps. Nestled against sweet-smelling pines, the chalet was perched on a steep slope at the edge of broad fields and meadows in sight of La Grande Chartreuse, a famous Carthusian monastery. From one side of the house, the view was panoramic across the open area that dropped south, still spotted with winter snow and the fresh footprints of deer. The first blades of pale spring grasses were just beginning to show. To the north, thick pine forest rose up the mountainside, embracing the chalet.

All of this was important to Thérèse Chambord, who was locked in a room on the second floor. She gazed up at the only windows, which were placed high, as she pushed an old-fashioned frame bed beneath. Miserable and outraged, she dragged an empty bureau to the bed and wrestled it up onto it. She stepped back, put her hands on her hips, and shook her head, disgusted. Even with the bureau on top of the bed, the windows were still too far above to reach. She was carrying a thronelike chair toward the bed when she heard the door unlock.

Her father entered with a tray of food and stared dumbfounded as she stood up on the bed, preparing to hoist the chair atop the bureau. He set the tray on a side table and closed the door before she could climb down.

He shook his head. "That will do you no good, Thérèse. This house is on the edge of the mountainside, and your room overlooks a steep slope. Even should you manage to get through those windows, the drop is more than three stories. It alone could kill you. In any case, the windows are locked."

Thérèse glared down at him. "Smart of you. But I'll get away yet, and then I'll go to the police."

Chambord's lined face was sad. "I'd hoped you'd understand. That you'd trust me and join us in this crusade, child. I had expected to have time to explain all of this, but then this Jon Smith interfered and forced me to reveal myself. Selfish of me, I suppose, but" He shrugged. "Even though you won't join us, I still can't let you escape. I brought you food. You'd better eat. We'll be leaving again soon."

Thérèse jumped down in fury. "Join your crusade? How can I be with you? You won't tell me what in the devil you're doing even now. All I see is that you're working with criminal terrorists who are planning a massacre using your computer. Murder! Mass murder."

"Our goal is good, child," Chambord said quietly, "and I'm not with these criminal terrorists, as you call them. As I told your friend Colonel Smith, they're with me. Captain Bonnard and I have a far different purpose than they."

"What purpose? Tell me! If you want me to trust you, you've got to trust me."

Chambord stepped to the door, looked back, and seemed to X-ray his daughter with his quick, sharp eyes. "Perhaps later, after it's all over and we've changed the future. Then you'll see, understand, and applaud. But not now. You aren't ready. I was mistaken."

He opened the door and left quickly, closing and locking it behind.

Thérèse swore and returned to the bed. She climbed up onto the bureau and then onto the chair. As the pyramid of furniture wobbled, she steadied herself against the wall. She stopped breathing, waiting for the pile beneath her to grow more solid. At last she summoned courage and straightened. Success. Her head reached the windows.

She looked out and, with a gasp, down. He had told the truth: The ground was too far below, and it dropped precipitously farther down from there. She glanced briefly at the breathtaking view across sweeping meadowlands and sighed. She pulled on the first window sash, but it was secure, with small padlocks attached to latches. Perhaps she could break the padlocks, but even if she did and managed to open a window, the drop was too far. She could not escape this way.

She peered out longingly at the beauty of the pastoral landscape that stretched out before her. In the distance, she could see the eleventh-century Chartreuse monastery, a lovely landmark in a green, beckoning land. Somewhere nearby, she had heard, was the city of Grenoble. It all made her feel like a caged bird, her wings clipped.

But she was no bird. She was a practical woman. She would need all her strength to stop her father from whatever he was planning. Besides, she was hungry. Carefully she climbed down to the bed, jumped to the floor, and carried the tray to another of the old throne chairs with its carved wood and tapestry upholstery. She ate a bowl of some kind of heavy peasant stew, thick with potatoes, cabbage, rabbit, and pork. She dipped dense slices of country bread into the stew and washed it all down with a carafe of red wine. It was light and pleasant, Beaujolais from the taste.

Only when she had finished and was sipping her last glass did she suddenly feel sad. What was her father doing? The terrorists clearly intended to attack Israel somehow, using his DNA computer. But why was he involved? His mother had been a Muslim, but he had never been religious, had never even visited Algeria that she knew, hated terrorists, and had nothing against Jews or Israel. He was a scientist, for heaven's sake. It was all he had ever been. Pure reasoning, logic, and clear thinking were his life. In his world, there was never room for social boundaries, racial barriers, or ethnic or religious distinctions. There was only truth and hard facts.

Then what? What had happened, and what was this great future for France he saw? She was still trying to puzzle it out when she heard what sounded like a pickup arriving. Captain Bonnard and that sinister man they called Mauritania had left in one. Maybe they were returning now. Thérèse did not know where they had gone or why, but when they reappeared, it would be time to leave. Or so her father had told her.

Moments later, the key turned again in the lock, and Captain Bonnard entered. He was dressed in full uniform now, the staff-duty uniform of the French Foreign Legion complete with ribbons and regimental insignia and colors. His square face was grim, the firm chin high, his gaze clear, and his clipped blond hair hidden beneath his cap. He held his service pistol.

"He sent me, mademoiselle, because I'll shoot where he couldn't, you comprehend? I won't, of course, shoot to kill, but I'm an excellent marksman, and you can believe I won't allow your escape, oui?"

"You strike me as a man who would happily shoot a woman, Captain. Or a child, for that matter. The Legion is known for such things, oui?" she mocked him.

Bonnard's eyes went flat, but he made no response. Instead, he gestured with the pistol for her to precede him from the room. They went down the stairs to the chalet's timbered living room where Mauritania was leaning over a map spread out on a large table in the corner of the room. Her father stood behind, watching. There was a strange expression on his face that she could not place as well as a subdued excitement she had never seen, even when he made a research breakthrough.

Mauritania continued, "Please show me where this other hideout of yours is. I'll have more of my men meet us there."

Bonnard caught Thérèse's attention and pointed to a chair far from where Chambord and Mauritania stood. "Sit," he told her. "And remain there."

Thérèse settled uneasily into the chair, puzzled, as Bonnard approached the two men. She watched her father draw the same pistol she had seen in the villa. With surprise, she saw him make a quick movement and turn it on Mauritania.

His face and voice were as hard as granite. "You won't need that information, Mauritania. We know where it is. Come along. We're leaving now."

Mauritania had not looked up. "We can't go, Doctor. Abu Auda and my other men aren't here yet. There isn't space for all of us in the Bell helicopter, so we'll have to use their aircraft as well."

"That won't be necessary," Chambord said. "We won't be waiting for them."

Mauritania raised his gaze slowly from where he had been bent over, studying the map. He straightened and turned. When he saw the pistol in Chambord's hand, he went very still. He looked at Captain Bonnard, whose gun was now pointed at him as well.

"So?" Mauritania's brows raised a fraction, betraying only mild surprise at the two Frenchmen.

"You're an intelligent man, Mauritania. Don't attempt something you'll regret."

"I never do anything I'll regret, Doctor. May I ask what you think you're accomplishing?"

"Dispensing with your services. You've been useful. We thank you for all your good work, but from this moment on, you and your people will complicate the situation."

Mauritania seemed to consider that. "I take it you have a different plan. One you suspect we won't like."

"You'd agree to the initial stage. In fact, your brethren in other groups would be enthusiastic. But you, as you have often pointed out, are really guerrillas, not simple terrorists. You have concrete political goals, a narrow focus. Realistically, our focus is not yours, and therefore we need to dispense with you. To be more exact, with your men. You yourself will continue on with us, but as our 'guest' only. Eventually you will be of help to us."

"I doubt it." Mauritania's smooth facade cracked. "And who is to fly the helicopter? My pilot will do nothing unless I order it."

"Naturally. We expected that." Emile Chambord glanced at the French captain. "Bonnard, take Thérèse with you."

Bonnard grabbed her arm, pulled her up, and prodded her out the door.

Mauritania's light-colored eyes followed them. When the door closed, he looked up at Chambord.

Chambord nodded. "Yes, Captain Bonnard is a trained helicopter pilot. He'll fly us out of here."

Mauritania said nothing, but when two gunshots sounded in quick succession outside, he flinched.

Chambord showed no reaction at all. "After you, Mauritania."

He marched Mauritania to the chalet's entry, out the front door into the hazy mountain sunlight, and to a clearing among the pines where the Hughes scout helicopter was parked. Lying on the ground next to it was the body of the Saudi pilot, Mohammed. There were two bullet holes in his chest, and blood was thick on his clothes. Standing above him was Bonnard, who was now pointing his gun at Thérèse. A stricken look on her face, she held her hand over her mouth as if she were going to be sick.

Chambord studied her, searching for a sign that now she understood the seriousness of his purpose. He nodded to himself, satisfied, and turned to Bonnard. "The helicopter is refueled and serviced?"

"He had just finished."

"Bon. We'll be on our way." He smiled, a dreamy expression on his face. "By tomorrow, we will have changed history."

Bonnard climbed in first, followed by the stoic Mauritania and an ashen-faced Thérèse. Chambord entered last. As they buckled themselves in, and the rotors whined and turned, the scientist gave a final searching look across the sky. Moments later, the helicopter lifted off.

Chapter Thirty-one

The key was the hands. Escaping without free hands was possible only under exceptional and desperate circumstances. For the best odds, free hands were necessary. So when the terrorists had bound Jon's wrists behind him in the truck on the road to Tunis, he had placed them side by side in as straight a line as he could manage. In the fanatics' haste to escape the villa, they had not repositioned his wrists, and although they had bound them tight, the ruse had been partly successful. Since then, he had been twisting his arms and hands, expanding and contracting against the rope, over and over. Still, he had not gained enough slack. And time was running out.

The blindfold was another handicap. As he weighed all this, he felt his stomach drop. The Sikorsky was losing altitude, banking in a sweeping curve on the way to what felt like a landing. He had little time. With a sudden, blundering attack, he might destabilize the Sikorsky enough to bring it down, crash it. After all, it was designed to absorb crash-impact velocities, with crash-resistant seats and a crash-resistant, self-sealing fuel system. Still, the chances of his walking away would be only a hair above zero. And to crash the helicopter, he needed free hands.

If he could get free, and if he waited to attack just before landing, the helicopter would be low to the ground. He might survive without immobilizing injuries and be able to escape during the confusion. It was a long shot, but he saw no other option.

As the Sikorsky continued to descend, Jon worked frantically on the ropes, but there was no more give. Abruptly, at the front of the helicopter, Abu Auda said something angrily in Arabic. Others joined in, and the talk grew louder. Jon figured there were more than a dozen terrorists onboard. Soon everyone in the craft seemed to be arguing and comparing ideas about something they saw on the ground. Alarmed, they consulted in their many languages.

One of the voices demanded in English, "What's wrong?"

Above the noise of the rotors, Abu Auda shouted the bad news in French, with an occasional English word for those who did not understand that language: "Mauritania and the others aren't waiting for us at the chalet as planned. He isn't answering his radio either. There's an empty pickup near the chalet, but the scout helicopter's gone. Yes, there's someone lying in the clearing." He paused.

Jon felt tension rush through the vibrating craft as it continued its circling descent.

"Who is it?" someone called out.

"I can see him through my binoculars," Abu Auda told them. "It's Mohammed. There's blood on his chest." He hesitated. "He looks dead."

There was a furious outburst in Arabic, French, and all the other tongues. As Abu Auda shouted, trying to keep them under control, Jon continued to listen carefully. It became clear that Abu Auda had expected to find not only Mauritania but Dr. Chambord, Captain Bonnard, and Thérèse Chambord. The chalet was where Abu Auda was supposed to rendezvous with them, where Chambord would build another DNA computer.

A new voice raged, "You see what comes of trusting infidels, Fulani?"

"We told M. Mauritania not to work with them!"

Abu Auda sneered in his powerful basso voice, "You trusted their money, Abdullah. Our goal is a great one, and for that we needed the Frenchman's machine."

"So what do we have now? Nothing!"

An older voice asked, "Do you think it's a trap, Abu Auda?"

"I don't know what the devil it is. Get your weapons. Be ready to jump out the moment we touch down."

Jon was getting nowhere with the ropes around his wrists. But this could be his chance to escape, a better chance than risking death by crashing the aircraft. When it landed, Abu Auda and his men would have a great deal more on their minds than him. From the front, he appeared motionless. Only his twitching shoulder muscles hinted at the activity behind his back, where his hands and wrists continued their desperate struggle.

The helicopter shuddered and stood still in the air, rocking gently from side to side. He kept pulling and twisting his ropes. His skin burned from the abrasion, but he ignored it. The chopper settled into a straight but slow vertical descent. Abruptly, the whole craft pitched violently to the side. Jon lost his balance and toppled over, his shoulder thudding hard against the seat. Something sharp bit into his back. He heard shouts as the first few men jumped to the ground. More followed, and the chopper found its balance and touched down safely.

As the rotors slowed, Jon searched frantically for the sharp protrusion from the helicopter wall. He rubbed his back against the wall until again he felt the pain, and then a hot spot of blood on his back told him he had found it. Still lying on his side, he wiggled back against the wall, searching until his hands found the spot. He touched it gingerly. The wall's padding had separated, and a piece of sharp metal from the chopper's body was exposed when pressure was applied at the separating crack. Encouraged, he worked the ropes against it. As the engines cut back, a strange quietness settled into the craft and he felt the rope beginning to fray.

He continued rubbing against the knifelike metal until the rope abruptly split apart. He could feel blood on his hands where he had nicked himself. He unwound the rope from his wrists and lay quietly, his ears aching with the strain of listening. How many terrorists were left? They had been so eager to rush out that it seemed most had gone before the chopper actually landed.

Outside, there were more violent bellows and curses. Abu Auda shouted, "Spread out. Look for them. Search everywhere!"

"Here's a map of France!" someone yelled. "I found it in the chalet!"

More bellowed reports, more loud swearing. The hubbub outside moved away.

Jon tried to hear breathing inside the chopper, the smallest movement. Nothing. He inhaled deeply to calm his nerves, stripped off his blindfold, and dropped to the floor among the seats. He peered around. There was no one at the front. Twisting, he glanced behind and around. Again, no one. Still lying on the floor, he ripped off his gag and scanned the chopper for an extra assault rifle. A pistol. A knife someone had dropped. Anything. The stiletto he had Velcroed to his ankle had been taken when he was captured.

But again, there was nothing. He crawled to the pilot's and copilot's seats at the front. That was where he spotted an ungainly-looking pistol in a rack next to the copilot's seat. A flare gun.

Cautiously he raised up and peered out the windows. They had landed on a sloping field at the edge of a thick pine forest, near a half-timbered chalet with a high-peaked roof. The chalet was tall and narrow, which made it less visible from the air and two sides. Pine trees crowded close to the house and stretched away back up the slope toward a low mountain behind. Farther behind were snow-mantled peaks. Someone had said France. The Alps?

Two of the terrorist soldiers, their weapons slung, were picking up the body of Mauritania's dead pilot. Two more were searching out into the sloping meadow, while high above on a second-story deck stood Abu Auda with two older Saudis. They were scanning the distance.

But it was the endless forest that attracted Jon's attention. If he could slip out of the chopper and in among the pines, he would triple his odds of escaping. He needed to make his move now, while the terrorists were distracted. Every second increased the danger that Abu Auda and the others would give up their search, regroup, and remember him.

Low to the floor, he scuttled to the door on the copilot's side, which faced away from the chalet. His wounds forgotten, he slid over the edge and, holding on to a landing strut, he coiled toward the ground like a snake. Lying on his belly, he gazed under the chopper at the terrorists, who remained angrily busy. Satisfied, flare gun in hand, he crawled on his forearms toward the brown grass that edged the pine forest. Spring flowers were beginning to show among the grasses. The fresh scent of the moist mountain soil rose around his head. For a moment he felt dizzy, heady with freedom. But he dared not stop.

Crawling swiftly on, he reached the perimeter of the trees and slithered gratefully into the twilight forest, thick and hushed with fir trees. lie was breathing hard. Beads of sweat had collected on his face. But he had seldom felt better. He crouched behind a tree trunk and studied the terrorists in the clearing and around the chalet. They still had not discovered he was missing. With a cold smile, he jumped up and loped off.

The first time he heard the sound ahead, he dodged behind a tree and dropped flat. His heart pounded as he stared through the lacy forest shadows. When he saw a head emerge from behind a pine tree, his heart pounded faster. The head wore an Afghan puggaree, long cloth tail and all. He had nearly blundered into an armed Afghan, who was still searching through the woods for any sign of Chambord, Mauritania, and the others.

The man turned slowly, his dark gaze examining the shadows. Had he heard Jon? It seemed so, since he lifted an old American M16A1 and aimed it in Jon's general direction. Jon held his breath, the flare pistol gripped in his hand. The last thing he wanted was to fire the thing. If the flare hit the Afghan, he would scream like a banshee. If it missed, the flare would ignite brighter than a Roman candle.

He watched the Afghan step carefully toward where he lay silent. The terrorist should have called for backup, but he had not. Perhaps he was unsure of what he had heard or whether he had heard anything at all. By the expressions playing across the man's face, it seemed as if he were talking himself out of his alarm. He had heard nothing. A rabbit. The wind. His countenance cleared, and his guard lowered. Now that his suspicions were eased, he approached faster. By the time he reached where Jon hid, he was moving at a fast clip.

Jon raised up and was on him before the fellow could react. Instantly, Jon swung the heavy flare pistol, knocking him to his knees. He clamped his hand over the man's mouth and crashed the weapon down onto his head. Blood spurted. The man struggled but was obviously stunned and confused by the initial blow, Jon hit him again, and the extremist collapsed limp into the forest duff. Breathing heavily, Jon stared down. His lungs ached, and his rib cage was tight. He ripped the M16 away and found the man's curved dagger.

He reached down to check the terrorist's pulse. He was dead. Jon stripped the extra M16 clips from the body, turned on his heel, and melted up through the forest again. As he settled into a distance-eating trot, thoughts flooded his mind. He tried to understand what had happened here before the helicopter had arrived. Why was the Saudi pilot murdered? From what Abu Auda had said, Chambord, Thérèse, Bonnard, and Mauritania had been at the chalet. Where had they gone now?

What came echoing back were Chambord's words: I'm not with them, Colonel Smith, they're with me. It stayed in his mind, teasing him with possibilities. The mosaic of odd pieces of what he had learned since Monday began to reassemble in his thoughts until they finally added to a question: Why would Chambord and Bonnard not be waiting? After all, the Crescent Shield was supposedly working for him.

Chambord was not part of the Crescent Shield. He had made a point of it, that they were with him.

As he ran on, Jon continued to puzzle over it all, trying to stretch the ideas out. And then, as if a mist had cleared, it began to make a crazy kind of sense: Just as the Black Flame had been a front for the Crescent Shield, the Crescent Shield could be a front for Chambord and the French captain Bonnard.

He could be wrong, but he did not think so. The longer he considered it, the more sense it made. He must get to Fred Klein and warn him as soon as possible. Klein and half the world's intelligence services were looking for criminals, but the wrong ones. Klein had to know, and Jon had to uncover where Chambord and Bonnard had gone and what devastation they were planning.

The first sign that Jon was in trouble again was explosive gunfire from the S-70A helicopter. It slashed over the treetops as Jon crossed a small clearing. Pine needles rained down, and the chopper banked steeply and climbed, turned, and came back for a second pass. By then, Jon was no longer in the open, and the chopper roared past overhead and down the slope. It was a ruse, Jon figured. They had seen him the first time and would land in another clearing lower on the slope. After that, the terrorists would spread up and out on foot and wait. If there were enough of them to cover a lot of territory, they could hope that he would come to them.

He had spent the last two hours working his way in a wide uphill loop.

When he had seen no more sign of the Crescent Shield forces, he had felt secure enough to turn downhill, where he would have better odds of running into a road. He guessed he was in southeastern France. If he were right, it could be anywhere from Mulhouse to Grenoble. Each hour that passed out of touch with civilization made time more pressing. Because he needed to reach a telephone, he had risked reversing course too soon. He had not moved far enough from the chalet, and so the chopper had spotted him.

He must stop playing into their hands. He turned but did not go straight uphill again. Instead, he angled across the face of the slope toward the chalet, hoping to catch Abu Auda by surprise. Also, the chalet must be near some kind of road. The sudden cawing of a flock of crows taking off from the tops of nearby pines was the first hint he had made another mistake. The second was the frantic scurrying of some frightened animal a hundred yards to his left.

He had underestimated Abu Auda. A ground force had trailed the helicopter, in case Jon did exactly what he had done. Jon dove into the crevices of a rock outcropping to his right, where he could watch the entire sweep of the forest ahead. How many men had Abu Auda assigned to the trailing force? Twelve men was all he had, unless reinforcements had arrived from somewhere. High above, the pine tops moaned in the wind. Somewhere in the distance, bees buzzed and birds sang. But no birds sang here. The woods were eerie with quiet, waiting, too. It would not be long.

Then the shadows beneath the lofty pines appeared to vibrate, undulate like a thin fog. Out of the fog, as if floating on the shadows themselves, emerged another Afghan. This one was not alone. Another terrorist materialized some fifty yards to Jon's right and twenty yards farther down the slope. A third was an equal distance away on the other side.

Jon saw no others. He smiled a humorless smile. There had been no reinforcements.

Three against one and how many more from the helicopter coming up the slope behind? Probably six or seven. But if he acted quickly, they would not matter. This time, Abu Auda had miscalculated. He had not expected Jon to backtrack at such a sharp angle, which had brought him to the tailing threesome much sooner than they had estimated. Three against one, when the one was armed with an M16 and under cover, was not impossible.

Jon saw the first terrorist spot the rock outcropping and signal his companions to circle while he investigated. Jon figured they must know by now that he had the M16. Because Abu Auda was a strong commander, a thinker, he would have counted heads before they left the chalet. Which meant he would have discovered that he had an armed man missing. If they found the body, Auda would also be certain the M16 was gone.

Jon peered out carefully. The lead terrorist was advancing straight at the rocks. Jon's main consideration was how fast he could put all of them out of action or at least drive them to ground so he could slip away before they realized he was gone. But the first shot would bring the rest running. In all probability, someone would also alert the helicopter.

He waited until the other two were in line with the rocks, one on either side. By then, the lead man was less than twenty feet away. It was time. On edge, Jon raised up, squeezed off a quick cluster of three two into the first terrorist and, swiftly moving the rifle, one into the man on the east. He shifted the rifle again and squeezed two more at the man on the west. Then he ran.

He had hit the first one dead center. He would not get up. The other two had gone down, too, but he was unsure how badly he had wounded them. As he ran, he listened anxiously for clues. He heard a distant yell and nothing more. No running feet, no crashing through the bushes, no creaking of low tree branches. None of the noises of close pursuit.

Wary, seeking cover wherever he could, he raced on, angling downhill, until he heard the helicopter again. And dropped to a crouch beside a large pine. He watched up through small tunnels among the light-shimmering needles. Soon the chopper swept overhead, and Jon glimpsed a black face leaning out to scan below. Abu Auda.

The Sikorsky continued on. Jon could not remain here, because Abu Auda would not rely on aerial pursuit alone. Some of his men would still be on the ground, and Jon had to make a decision. But so did Abu Auda. He would have to guess which direction Jon ran.

As Jon listened intently for the sound of descent and landing, he tried to put himself in the killer's mind. Finally he decided that Abu Auda would expect him to head straight from his pursuers, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. Which meant, if he were right, that the chopper would land directly south. Jon turned and raced off to the right. Then he slowed and headed west down through the forest, trying to make as little noise as possible.

After less than an hour, the pine forest began to thin. Sweating, his wounds itching, Jon continued on across an open meadow and stopped in a fringe of trees, excited. A car was cruising past on an asphalt road below. He had heard no pursuit since turning west, and the occasional sound of the helicopter still searching the forest had been far off to his left, the south. He remained among the trees, hurrying north along the edge, hoping the road and the forest would meet or at least come much closer.

When he found a stream, he stopped and hunched beside it. Panting, he untied the white sleeve that Thérèse had used to bandage his arm after the missile strike at the villa. The wound was long but shallow. He washed it and his side, where a bullet had creased the skin; his forehead, where debris from the missile strike had scratched it; and his wrists. Some of the wounds were tinged with red, indicating small infections. Still, none was serious.

He splashed more of the cool spring water onto his hot, sweaty face, and, sighing, moved off again. The forest's sounds were normal here, the hushed quiet one would expect from a single person's moving through, not the utter stillness that told him many were intruding.

And then he paused. Hope filled him. Through the trees he could see a crossroads and a road sign. He looked all around and slipped cautiously from cover onto the asphalt. He tore across the road to the sign. At last he knew where he was: Grenoble 12KM. Not impossibly far, and he had been there before. But if he stayed on the road, he would be conspicuous. If the helicopter searched this far, he would be seen easily.

Making plans, he ran back into the forest and waited. When he heard the noise of a vehicle's engine, he smiled with relief. It was going in the right direction. He watched eagerly as it came around the bend a farm truck this time. He abandoned his M16 with all its ammunition in the pines and kicked duff over them. Then he stuck the Afghan's curved knife into one jacket pocket and the flare gun into the other, and waved both arms.

The farmer stopped, and Jon climbed into the cab, greeting the fellow in French. He explained that he was a stranger in the area, visiting a friend who had gone into Grenoble earlier. They were to meet for dinner, but his car refused to start so he had decided to walk and hope for a Good Samaritan. He had taken a tumble in the woods, and that was why he was so disheveled.

The farmer clucked with sympathy and chatted away about the advantages of the region, pleased for Jon's company in this remote land of soaring peaks, wide open spaces, and few inhabitants. They drove on, but Jon did not relax. His careful gaze kept watch.

Nestled in the French Alps, Grenoble was a stunning city — old and historic, known for its fine winter sports, particularly in downhill skiing, and its medieval landmarks. The farmer dropped Jon on the left bank of the Isre River at the place Grenette, a bustling square lined with sidewalk cafs. Nearby was the place St-Andre, the heart of Grenoble. The warm sunshine had brought people out, and they sat at small, outdoor tables in their crisp shirtsleeves, sipping espresso.

As he studied them, Jon realized again how lousy his own clothes looked. They were dirty and smoke-streaked, and he had no idea whether he had managed to clean his face in the stream. He was already attracting the wrong kind of attention, something he definitely did not want. He still had his wallet, and as soon as he called Fred Klein, he would buy new clothes.

He turned, orienting himself, and walked toward the place St-Andre. That was where he found what he needed first a public phone booth and dialed Fred Klein.

Klein's voice was surprised. "So you are alive?"

"You sound disappointed."

"Don't get sentimental, Colonel," Klein said dryly. "We'll hug later. There are a few things going on that you should know at once." He described the latest electronic disaster the blinded satellites. "I'd hoped the molecular computer was destroyed, and all we had was a nasty malfunction."

"You didn't believe that for a second. The damage is too widespread."

"Call it a naive hope."

"Did Randi Russell get away before the missile hit?"

"We wouldn't have known what really happened in Algeria if she hadn't. She's back in Paris. Where are you? Bring me up to date."

So Randi had made it. Jon slowly let his breath out. He reported the events since the missile strike and what he had learned.

Klein swore. "So you think the Crescent Shield's a front, too?"

"It makes sense. I can't see Darius Bonnard as an Islamic terrorist, no matter his Algerian connection. But he was in the right place at the right time to have made that surreptitious phone call from NATO. He or Chambord must've killed the Crescent Shield pilot at the chalet before we got there, and then they took off with Thérèse. Abu Auda was stunned. Outraged. Worried whether Mauritania was still alive. The way I read it, this was no sudden mutiny of the weak. This was the strong taking over as planned."

"You think Emile Chambord is behind everything?"

"Maybe, or maybe not. It could be Captain Bonnard, and he's holding Chambord and using the daughter as a lever," Jon said, worrying about Thérèse. He stared out at the street, watching for Abu Auda and his men. "Have you heard anything about Peter Howell and Marty?"

"According to my friends at Langley, they're all in Paris. Marty's awake."

Jon smiled. What a relief to know Marty was back. "Did he say anything useful about Emile Chambord?"

"Unfortunately, nothing we didn't already know. I'll have Randi sent to pick you up."

"Tell her I'll be waiting at the Fort de la Bastille at the top of the cable car lift."

Klein was silent again. "You know, Colonel, there could be someone we don't know about yet behind Chambord and Bonnard. It could even be the daughter."

Jon considered the idea. Not Thérèse, no. He did not believe that, but the rest of what Klein had said struck a chord. An idea began to form in his mind. An idea he had to chase down fast.

"Get me out of here, Fred."

Chapter Thirty-two

In naval headquarters on the place de la Concorde, Senior Captain Liberal Tassini toyed with the fine Mont Blanc pen on his desk as his steady gaze took in Peter Howell. "Odd you should be here asking that, Peter. May I inquire exactly what caused your interest?"

"Let's just say MI6 requested I look into the matter. I believe it may have something to do with a small problem involving one of our junior officers."

"And what would that small problem be?"

"Between you and me, Libby, I told them to just go through regular channels, but it appears it involves the son of someone important." Peter ducked his head, pretending embarrassment. "I'm only a messenger boy. One of the reasons I did a bunk from the service, eh? Temperament and all that. Just do me the favor of a simple answer, and I'll be off the hook and out of your sight."

"Can't be done, bon ami. Your question touches on a somewhat delicate and complicated situation of our own."

"You don't say. Well, puts my little query in its place, doesn't it. Sorry, I"

Captain Tassini twirled the pen again on his desk. "On the contrary.

I would actually like to know exactly how this, ah, junior officer came to be concerned with whether a recent meeting on the De Gaulle was authorized or unauthorized."

"Well" Peter chuckled conspiratorially. "All right, Libby. Seems the lad has put in a chit for expenses incurred for having attended such a meeting as a replacement pilot for one of our generals. His paymaster simply wants to know if the claim's legitimate."

Captain Tassini laughed aloud. "Does he, by heaven? What does the general say?"

"Touchy, that. Seems he died. Only a few days ago."

Tassini's eyes narrowed. "Really?"

"Afraid so. Not unusual with generals. Old, you know."

"Quite," Tassini said in English. "All right. At the moment, all I can tell you is that no such meeting was authorized on the De Gaulle, although one may actually have taken place. We're looking into it, too."

"Hmmm." Peter stood up. "Very well, I'll simply give the buggers the old 'can neither confirm nor deny' answer. The paymaster can reimburse the boy, or not. Up to him. But he'll get no official response."

"Hard on the boy," Tassini sympathized.

Peter headed for the door. "What was the De Gaulle doing out there anyway? What does her captain say about the meeting?"

Tassini leaned back and studied Peter again. At last he said, "He claims there was no meeting. Says he was out there to practice single-ship tactics in hostile waters at night, and that the order came from NATO. Rather a large problem for us, since no one at NATO appears to have issued it."

"Ouch. Well, glad it's not my kettle of fish, old man." Peter could feel Tassini's questioning gaze on his back as he left. He doubted that he had fooled his friend, but both of them had preserved face and, even more important, deniability.

The Kurfurstendamm the Ku'damm, as locals called it was a bustling boulevard at the heart of new Berlin. Lined with crowded stores and high-rent offices, it was famous around the world. People in the know swore that the Ku'damm never slept. In one of its elegant restaurants, Pieke Exner wound her way among the white tablecloths and polished silverware toward her lunch date. It was their second in twelve hours, and she knew the young lieutenant was more than ready, he was eager.

That was obvious in the leap to his feet and the Prussian click of his heels that would have gotten him a dry reprimand from his boss, General Otto Bittrich. It was also obvious in his loosened tunic, showing the relaxed familiarity she had worked to produce in him all last evening before going home and leaving him if not panting, then breathing hard. These were the signs she had wanted to see. Still, she had more work to do. It was not his tunic she wanted loosened; it was his tongue.

She smiled and settled down into her chair. With a flourish, he helped her slide to the table. As he sat next to her, she notched her smile up to one of genuine warmth, as if she had been thinking about him ever since they had parted at her door. After he had gallantly ordered an expensive bottle of the best wine from the Rheingau, she resumed her chatter where they had left off, about her dreams of travel and love of all good things foreign.

As it turned out, she quickly saw that she had done her job too well, and the lieutenant was too busy thinking about her to take the bait. Lunch proceeded in that fashion through a schnitzel, a second bottle of the Rheingau, and an excellent strudel to the coffee and brandy. But as much as she plied him with smiles and warm hand holding, he never spoke about his work.

Running out of patience, she looked long and deeply into his eyes, managing to convey an intriguing range of emotions — shy, nervous, slightly frightened, adoring, brazenly eager, and in sexual heat, all at the same time. It was a gift, and older and wiser men than Lieutenant Joachim Bierhof had fallen for it.

He responded by quickly paying for the check, and they left. By the time they reached her apartment beyond the Brandenburg Gate and across the Spree River in the bohemian Prenzlauer Berg section of the former East Berlin, he was in no condition to think of anything but her, her glorious apartment, and her bed.

Once inside, he quickly pulled the shades against the afternoon sun and was soon naked and nuzzling Pieke's breasts, when she sighed and complained of how cold it was. A very cold May in Germany. How she would love to be with him in sunny Italy or Spain, or better yet the glorious South of France.

Too busy with her breasts and pulling off her green thong bikini panties, Joachim muttered, "I was just there, the South of France. God, how I wish you'd been with me."

She laughed playfully. "But you had your general."

"He was out on that French carrier most of the night. Just him and our pilot. I walked on the quays alone. By myself. Had to eat alone. What a great bottle of wine I found. You would have liked it. God, how I wish but we're here now, and"

It was at this point that Pieke Exner fell off the bed, badly twisting her knee and back. She was unable to stand up without the lieutenant's reluctant and rather testy help. As he put her back into bed, she asked prettily to be covered to keep away the chills. She shivered. He turned up the heat and put another blanket over her. She held out her hand sadly.

She was, of course, devastated, and terribly disappointed as well as tearfully guilty: "You poor man. It must be terrible for you. I'm so sorry. Will you be all right? I mean, you were so"

Joachim Bierhof was, after all, an officer and a gentleman. He was forced to soothe her fears, declare he would be fine. She was much more to him than that.

She squeezed his hand and promised to meet him early tomorrow, if she felt up to it, right here in her apartment. "I'll call you tomorrow!" And promptly fell asleep.

There was nothing the lieutenant could do but dress and leave quietly, careful not to awaken her.

The moment the door closed and locked, she jumped out of bed, dressed, and dialed the telephone. She reported, "General Bittrich was in the South of France, just as you suspected. He spent half the night on a French aircraft carrier. Was that all you wanted to know, Peter?"

"You're a wonder, child," Peter Howell pronounced from Paris.

"You remember that."

Peter chuckled. "Hope the price wasn't too high, Angie, old girl."

"Jealous, Peter?"

"At my age, my dear, I'm remarkably flattered."

"At any age. Besides, you're ageless."

Peter laughed. "Not all of me seems to know that all the time. But we must talk further."

"A proposition, Mr. Howell?"

"Angie, you could entice the dead. And thanks again."

Angela Chadwick hung up, remade the bed, picked up her handbag, and left the apartment to return to her own place on the other side of the Brandenburg Gate.

Marty had a new laptop computer, which Peter had used Marty's credit card to buy. Left alone and on his meds, Marty was curled around it in his room in the clinic, sitting cross-legged on top of his bed's patchwork comforter. He had checked the OASIS Web site Online Asperger's Syndrome Information and Support fifteen times in the last two hours with no results.

Vacillating between despair and determined optimism, depressed in the sticky muck of his meds, Marty did not hear Randi or Peter enter the room until they spoke.

"Anything, Mart?" Randi asked before the door had closed.

Peter interrupted, "MI6 has heard nothing. Bloody irritating." He added a shade bitterly, "If we knew for whom Jon actually worked, we could contact them directly and maybe get some straight intelligence."

His gaze solemn, Marty stared at Randi. "What about the CIA, Randi?"

"No news," she admitted.

Marty frowned, and his fingers pounded the keyboard. "I'll check OASIS again."

"How long since you last tried?" Peter asked.

Two red spots of indignation appeared on Marty's cheeks. "If you think I'm obsessing, Peter, what about you? All those phone calls you keep making!"

Peter nodded and showed a brief smile.

Marty grumbled under his breath as he entered the OASIS Web site.

As soon as his screen filled with the opening page, he found himself relaxing a bit. It was like going home. Created for those with Asperger's Syndrome and their families, OASIS was full of information, plus there was a Web ring. Marty checked in often when his life was normal well, normal for him. What the rest of the world considered normal he found painfully boring. He could not imagine why anyone would want to live like that. On the other hand, OASIS seemed to get the point. The folks who ran it knew what they were talking about. What a rarity, he mused to himself. He was looking forward to reading the new book The Oasis Guide to Asperger Syndrome by Patricia Romanowski Bashe and Barbara L. Kirby. It was waiting for him on his desk at home.

He scanned the messages on OASIS, but again there was nothing. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and heaved a big sigh.

"No word?" Peter asked.

"Dam it, no."

They were silent in their discouragement. When the phone rang, Randi snapped it up. It was Doug Kennedy, her Langley boss. As she listened, her eyes began to flash with excitement. "I know the place. Yes. What great news. Thanks, Doug. Don't worry. I'll handle it." As soon as she hung up, she turned to Marty and Peter. They were staring at her, waiting.

"Jon's alive. I know where he is!"

A cold Alpine wind blasted Jon's hair and chilled his face as he leaned over the parapet of the sixteenth-century Fort de la Bastille with other tourists, high above Grenoble. Despite the rising wind, they appeared to be enjoying the startling amalgam of medieval and ultramodern buildings far below. Known for its high-tech industries and fine universities, Grenoble spread out in a casual array from the confluence of the Drac and Isre rivers, while the dramatic Alps towered above, their snowy cloaks glinting in the afternoon sunshine.

Still, it was not the panorama on which Jon's attention had been fixed since he arrived at the old fort. It was the cable cars rising up from the city below.

He had been at the parapet several hours, dressed in new jeans, green pullover sweater, a medium-weight bomber jacket, and dark sunglasses. Inside the deep front pockets of his jacket were the Afghan's curved knife and the helicopter's flare gun, his only weapons. He was still savoring the good news that Randi was alive and Marty was awake and fine.

But he was uneasy. She should have been here by now, and he was increasingly aware that Abu Auda and his men could arrive any moment, too. It was inevitable that they would extend their search to Grenoble, the only major city near the Chartreuse villa. Jon knew far too much, and there was always the chance he had not yet made contact with his superiors. They could even have found the M16 rifle and ammunition he had buried under the duff close to the road that led here.

So now he stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the chilly mountain wind with other sightseers, unobtrusive in the lengthening afternoon shadows, as he leaned his arms on the parapet and studied each of the gondolas that regularly carried passengers up to the fort from the station at quay Stephane-Jay. Designed to please tourists who wanted to see the sweeping views, the gondolas were see-through.

This, of course, also pleased Jon, because he could scrutinize each passenger through the gondolas' transparent shells. It was after five o'clock when he finally spotted not Randi, but one of the Crescent Shield killers. His heartbeat sped.

He wanted to attract no attention, so he continued his relaxed pose, a visitor enchanted like any other, while he quickly analyzed and placed the face: A clean-shaved Saudi who had been with the group of terrorists that had escaped from the villa. He was riding at the front of his gondola as it slowly rose to the fort. Although he was the only terrorist whom Jon recognized in the gondola, Jon doubted he was alone. More members of the Crescent Shield would be around somewhere.

Certain of the man's identity, Jon turned, stuck his hands nonchalantly into his jacket pockets where he could grip his weapons, and sauntered off toward the paths that wound down through the Parc Guy Pape to the city. He did not want to leave, in case Randi showed up. But where there was one Crescent Shield, there would be others, and he had to face the fact that Randi might never come.

Once he was beyond sight of the parapet, he walked faster. The number of tourists was decreasing. It was growing late, and the biting wind that whistled through the afternoon shadows had probably discouraged them. No longer noticing the chill, he left the fort, turned toward a downhill path, and broke into a steady trot. Which was when he saw five more Crescent Shield killers.

He fell back around a high hedge. They had been hiking up the route he was about to take down, and in the lead was Abu Auda himself. They were all wearing ordinary Western clothes. Abu Auda had on a beret and looked uncomfortable, a shark trying to walk on land. Jon reversed course and rushed around the rear of the fort to where there was another park area. He slipped behind a tall oak, scanned the area from where he had just come, and then the city and the rivers below.

He listened intently. Yes, he was right. There were quick footsteps behind, descending from a higher elevation. The steps were light but swift. He pulled out the flare gun and knife and whirled.

Randi flinched. She touched her finger to her lips.

"Randi!" he accused.

"Shhh. Be nice now."

He grinned with relief. "Bossy as ever."

Tall and athletically slender, she was more than a welcome sight. She had changed into dark trousers and a jacket zipped up only a third of the way, which made reaching for her weapons more convenient. There was a black watch cap on her head again, pulled down to her ears to hide her light-colored hair. She also wore dark, wraparound sunglasses secured at the back so they would not fall off if she had to go into action.

As she slipped into the shadow next to him, her face was alert but composed. "Peter's here, too. Two-person job, you know." She took out a mini radio and spoke into it: "I've got him. We're on our way."

"They're coming." He nodded back toward the Fort de la Bastille, where the clean-shaved Saudi was pointing toward where they were hidden. He was talking excitedly to Abu Auda. The men were showing no weapons. Not yet, at least.

"Come on!"

"Where to?"

"No time to explain." She sprinted.

The Crescent Shield broke into a run toward them, spreading out as Abu Auda waved them right and left. Jon counted six, which meant there were five or so others somewhere, perhaps around here. As he rushed after Randi across the park and then higher, he wondered where those other two or three could be.

They ran onward, Randi in the lead, putting more and more distance between themselves and the Fort de la Bastille and the cable cars, as well as between themselves and the Crescent Shield. Breathing hard, he glanced back and could no longer see the terrorists. Then he heard a helicopter. Damn.

"It's their chopper!" he told Randi as he searched the sky. "I knew all of them weren't in the park."

"Keep running!" she yelled back.

They raced on, focused on escape, and then Jon saw it not the Crescent Shield's Sikorsky, but another Hughes OH-6 Loach scout chopper. It looked like an oversized bumblebee as it settled down into an open spot twenty yards ahead and to their right. Randi swerved toward it, waving, as Peter, dressed in a black jumpsuit, dropped from the door. Next to Randi, Jon figured he had never seen a more welcome sight. Peter wore a black cap and reflecting sunglasses and held a British assault rifle up and ready.

Jon's relief was short-lived. There was a shout of anger behind them. From the left, one of the terrorists burst out from among the trees. He had somehow managed to circle more quickly than the others. His raised weapon focused on Randi as she closed in on the vibrating chopper. Peter jumped back onboard.

In a single smooth motion, Jon spun, aimed the flare gun, and fired. It made a huge noise, although it was drowned out by the helicopter. The flare burst out in a trail of smoke and hit the terrorist in the middle of his chest.

The projectile landed with such velocity that it flung the man back into the trees. He dropped his rifle and grabbed for the flare, which protruded from beneath his rib cage. He screamed, and the high-pitched noise sent chills up Jon's spine, because both knew what would happen next. The man's face was contorted in terror.

The flare exploded. As the terrorist's torso shattered, Jon dove into the helicopter after Randi. Peter did not wait for the door to be closed.

He lifted off. Abu Auda and his men abandoned pretense and loosed a fusillade of pistol and submachine gunfire. The bullets slashed around the helicopter, hitting the landing gear and ripping through the walls as Jon lay on his belly, hanging onto the seat legs, trying not to slide out the open door.

Randi grabbed the back of his waistband. "I've got you!"

Jon's hands were cold and sweaty, and he felt his fingers loosen. Even Randi would not be able to save him if he lost his grip. To make matters worse, Peter banked the chopper sharply to the right, trying to avoid the gunfire and get out of range. But the angle sent Jon sliding back toward the open door and certain death.

Randi swore and grabbed him under the arm with her other hand. Jon's slide paused. Still, the inexorable pull of gravity and the wind continued. Gunfire trailing, Peter pushed the chopper out over the rivers. Jon could feel his fingers loosening again. His breath was a raw rasp as he frantically tried to tighten his grip.

"We're out of range!" Peter bellowed.

It was none too soon. As Peter began to level the helicopter, Jon's fingers slipped off the chair struts. He grabbed for them, but all he could find was air. Randi fell on top of him, wrapped her legs around his waist, and seized the struts herself. The helicopter's angle had improved enough that she was able to stabilize him. He was vaguely aware of her on top of him, her weight firm, reassuring, the muscled legs tight, and somewhere in the back of his mind was the thought that under different circumstances he might enjoy this. And then the moment was gone. Terror returned.

Long seconds passed. Gravity shifted, and the pull was no longer on his feet, but along the length of his body. The helicopter was flying level at last. He remained motionless, stunned.

"Thank God that's over." Randi's voice was a hoarse croak as she clambered up, hopped over him, and slammed shut the door. "I'd rather never do that again."

The helicopter's interior was suddenly quieter. Jon's muscles trembled. Feeling weak, he struggled up and fell into the single rear seat. He looked up and saw Randi's face for the first time since he dove into the helicopter. Color was returning to it. She must have been white with fear.

"Strap yourself in," she ordered. And then she smiled a smile so broad and relieved that it lit up her whole face.

"Thank you." His throat was tight, and his heart was pounding like a jackhammer. "That's pretty inadequate, but I really mean it. Thank you." He quickly locked his seat belt.

"Works fine for me. You're welcome." As she started to turn back toward the front, her gaze caught his. For a long moment, they looked into each other's eyes, and understanding and forgiveness passed between them.

Chapter Thirty-three

Heading northwest toward Paris, the helicopter left Grenoble behind. There was an appreciative silence inside as each privately acknowledged how close they had come to death. Alone in the back, Jon was emerging from his exhausted trance. He let out a deep sigh, releasing his mind and body of the stress and near-misses of the last few days. He unsnapped his belt and leaned forward between Peter and Randi, who sat in the twin pilots' seats.

Randi grinned and patted the top of his head. "Nice doggy."

Jon chuckled. She had an amusing way about her, and right now she seemed the most charming person in the world. There was nothing like friends, and two of his best were right here next to him. She had put earphones on over her watch cap, and her sunglasses moved from side to side as she gazed all around, looking for aircraft that might be following.

Peter wore earphones, too, and was watching his fuel gauge and the directional dials through his dark glasses. The lowering sun was off to their left, a fireball whose slanting rays illuminated the treetops and snowy fields below and ahead. Far ahead they could see the first sweep of the magnificent Rhine Valley, marked with its characteristic patchwork of vineyards.

The old OH-6's cabin was cramped, so with Jon leaning forward, the three of them were a cozy knot. lie raised his voice above the noise of the rotors and announced, "I'm ready to be filled in. How's Marty doing?"

"The lad's not only out of his coma, he's chomping at the bit," Peter reported cheerfully. He described their escape to the plastic surgery clinic where he had hidden Marty since. "He's in good spirits now, once we told him you were, in fact, alive."

Jon smiled. "Too bad he wasn't more helpful about the DNA computer and Chambord."

"Yes," Randi said. "Now you. Tell us what happened at the villa in Algeria. When I heard the automatic fire, I was sure you'd been killed."

"Chambord hadn't been kidnapped at all," he told them. "He was with the Crescent Shield from the beginning. Actually, they'd been with him, or at least that's what he claims. It makes sense, knowing what I know now. He also created the deception that he was a prisoner, for Thérèse's benefit. He had no idea Mauritania had taken her, so he was as surprised to see her as she was to see him."

"Explains a lot," Peter said. "But how in blazes did they get the prototype out before the missile hit?"

"They didn't," Jon told them. "The missile destroyed it for certain. What I don't understand is how Chambord could've built another prototype and had it up and running soon enough to take over our satellites."

"I know," Randi agreed. "It's baffling. But our people say no other computer has the power, speed, or capacity to reprogram the satellites through all their codes, firewalls, and other defenses. In fact, most of our safeguards are still classified and supposedly impossible to discover, much less breach."

Peter checked the time, the distance they had come, and the fuel gauge. He said, "Perhaps you're both right. But why couldn't there be a second prototype?"

Jon and Randi exchanged a glance.

"That's an idea, Peter," Randi said.

Jon said slowly, "One already in existence. One that Chambord either had access to, had set up to be programmed remotely, or had trained someone else to operate on his instructions. Also, one that Mauritania appeared to know nothing about."

"Swell," Randi grumbled. "A second DNA computer. Just what we need."

"It makes a lot of sense, especially when combined with what I haven't brought up yet."

"That sounds ominous," Peter said. "Fill us in, Jon."

Jon stared ahead through the helicopter's windshield at the French countryside, threaded with small rivers and canals and dotted with neat farmhouses. "I told you I learned at the villa that Chambord had been part of the terrorism from the start," he said, "and that he probably-helped plan the attack on us."

"Right. And?" Randi prompted.

"Hours ago, before I finally got away from Abu Auda, it began to make sense that not only did the Crescent Shield use the Basques for cover, Chambord and Bonnard have been using the Shield for cover, too. The Shield has a fairly large and flexible organization with terrorist skills, and it could do what Bonnard and Chambord couldn't do by themselves. But I think the Shield gave them something else as well it's their stalking horse. A group to blame for whatever horror they're really planning. Who better to pin it on than an Islamic extremist group led by a man who was once a top lieutenant of Osama bin Laden? Which, by the way, is maybe why they took Mauritania with them. They could be planning to make them the fall guy."

Randi frowned. "So you're saying the two of them, Chambord and Bonnard, are behind all the electronic attacks on the U.S. But why? What possible motive could a world-renowned scientist and a respected French army officer have?"

Jon shrugged. "My guess is, their goal won't turn out to be dropping a mid-range tactical nuclear missile on Jerusalem or Tel Aviv. That makes political sense for the Crescent Shield, but not for a pair of Frenchmen like Chambord or Bonnard. I figure they're planning something else, most likely against the United States, since they've now taken out our satellites. But I still haven't been able to figure out why.

As the wind rushed past, and the helicopter's rotors beat a steady tattoo, the three friends fell silent.

"And the Shield knows nothing about what Bonnard and Chambord are planning?" Randi asked.

"From listening to all their talk, I'd say the idea that Bonnard and Chambord weren't their dupes never occurred to the Crescent Shield. That's what happens to fanatics, they see nothing but what they want to see."

Peter's hands tightened on the controls. "I expect you're right about the stalking horse. Could get nasty for whoever gets the blame for what they've done so far, never mind whatever Armageddon they're planning. Like what happened after the World Trade Center and the Pentagon were attacked. Our soldier and scientist wouldn't want responsibility for something like Afghanistan to come crashing down on their heads."

"Exactly," Jon acknowledged. "I think Chambord anticipates nations may converge again to hunt down the perpetrators this time, too. So he wants a patsy, someone the world is ready to believe would do it. Mauritania and the Crescent Shield are perfect for that. It's a little-known terrorist group, so who'll believe their denials, especially if it looks as if they've been caught red-handed? And then, too, all the evidence makes it look as if they kidnapped Chambord, which he'll swear to. He lies well enough that he'll be believed. Take it from me."

"What about Thérèse?" Randi said. "She knows the truth by now, right?"

"I don't know if she knows the whole truth, but she knows about her father. She's learned too much, which must be worrying Chambord. If push comes to shove, he might sacrifice her to save his plan. Or Bonnard will take the decision out of his hands and handle it himself."

"His own daughter." Randi shuddered.

"He's either unbalanced or a fanatic," Jon said. "They're the only reasons I can see for his doing such an about-face from illustrious scientist to down-and-dirty terrorist."

Peter was gazing out at the land, his leathery face intense as he studied roads. "Going to have to pause our discussion a bit." They were approaching a small city built along a river. "That's Macon, right at the edge of Burgundy. River's called the Sane. Peaceful-looking little place, isn't it? Turns out, it is. Randi and I refueled here on our way to track you down, Jon. No problems, so I'm going to set us down here again. The gas tank's hungry. When was the last time you ate, Jon?"

"Damned if I remember."

"Then we'd best pick up more than petrol."

In the long, undulating shadows of late afternoon, Peter landed the OH-6 at the small airport.

Emile Chambord leaned back in the desk chair and stretched. The stone walls, evil-looking medieval weapons, dusty suits of armor, and high vaulted ceiling of this windowless work area were cheerless, although a thick Berber rug covered the floor, and lamps cast warm pools of light. That he was working here in the armory where there were no windows was the way he wanted it. No windows, no distractions, and whenever worries about Thérèse entered his mind, he pushed them far away.

He gazed lovingly at his prototype on the long table. Although he enjoyed everything about it, he was particularly in awe of its speed and power. It tested each possible answer to any problem simultaneously, rather than sequentially, which was how the largest and fastest silicon-chip computers worked. In cyber terms, the world's fastest silicon supercomputers took a long, long time. Still, they were faster than a human brain. But swiftest of all was his molecular machine, its velocity almost incomprehensible.

And the basis was in the gel packs, in the special DNA sequence he had created. The spiral string of DNA that curled inside every living cell the natural chemistry underlying all living things had been his artist's palette. And the result was that intractable problems such as those that cropped up in artificial intelligence systems, in fashioning complex computer networks like the information superhighway, and in conducting intricate games such as three-dimensional chess, which were impossible for the most powerful supercomputer, could easily be digested by his molecular marvel. After all, it was merely a matter of selecting the correct path through an enormous number of possible choices.

He was also fascinated by his brainchild's ability to continually alter its identity while using only one-hundredth of its power. It simply maintained a firewall that changed its access code faster than any conventional computer could crack it. In essence, his molecular machine "evolved" while being used, and the more it was used, the more it evolved. In the cold stone room, he smiled as he recalled the first image he had seen in his mind when he conceived this attribute. His prototype was like the Borg on the American television show Star Trek, which evolved instantly to find a fresh defense against any attack. Now he was using his constantly unfolding machine to counter the most insidious attack of all on the soul of France.

For inspiration, he gazed again at the reproduction of the noble painting above his desk, and then with a determined heart, he resumed searching for clues to where Marty Zellerbach was hiding. He had easily entered Marty's computer system at his home in Washington and waltzed in seconds through the computer geek's specially designed software defenses. Unfortunately, Marty had not visited it since the night of the Pasteur attack, so Chambord found no clue to his whereabouts there. Disappointed, he left a little "gift" and moved on.

He knew the name of Marty's bank, so it was a simple matter to check his records. But again, there was no new activity. He thought for a moment and had another idea Marty's credit card.

As a record of Marty's purchases appeared on the screen, Chambord's austere face smiled, and his intense eyes flashed. Oui! Yesterday, Marty had bought a laptop in Paris. He picked up the cellular telephone on the table beside him.

Carved out of the lush countryside between Switzerland and Austria, the small principality of Liechtenstein was often overlooked by ordinary tourists, while prized by foreigners who needed a safe place to transport or hide money. Liechtenstein was known for both its breathtaking scenery and absolute secrecy.

In the capital, Vaduz, twilight had cast dark shadows across the thoroughfare that edged the Rhine River. This suited Abu Auda. Still dressed in his Western clothes, he moved briskly along, avoiding eye contact, until he arrived at the door to the small, undistinguished private residence that had been described to him. He knocked three times, waited, and knocked four times.

He heard a bolt disengage inside, and the door cracked open.

In Arabie, Abu Auda spoke into the small space: "Breet bate." I want a room.

A man's voice answered, "May-fah-hem-tiksh." I don't understand.

Abu Auda repeated the code and added, "They have Mauritania."

The door swung open, and a small, dark man stared worriedly up. "Yes?"

Abu Auda pushed his way in. This was a major European stop for hwalala, an underground Arab railroad for moving, banking, laundering, and investing money. Unregulated and completely secret, with no real accounts that regulators could track, the network financed not only individuals but causes. This past year, nearly a billion U.S. dollars had moved through the European system alone.

"Where did Mauritania get his money?" Abu Auda continued in Arabic. "The source. From whose purse did the financing come?"

"You know I can't tell you that."

Abu Auda removed the pistol from the holster under his arm. He pointed it, and as the man stepped backward, Abu Auda followed. "Mauritania is being held by the people with the money. They are not of our Cause. I know the money was paid by a Captain Bonnard or a Dr. Chambord. But I do not believe they are alone in this. So now you will speak, and you will be thorough."

A half hour after taking off again from Macon, Jon, Peter, and Randi finished the sandwiches they had bought at the small airport, and continued their analysis and discussion of the situation.

Peter said, "Whatever we decide to do to find Chambord and Bonnard, we'd best do it quickly. Time's not on our side. Whatever they're planning, they'll want to make it happen very, very soon."

Jon nodded. "Mauritania had planned to attack Israel this morning. Now that we know there's still a working molecular computer out there somewhere, and that Chambord and Bonnard are free and traveling, my guess is that we've bought ourselves some time, but not much."

Randi shivered. "Maybe not enough."

The sun had set, and darkness was creeping across the land. Ahead, an ocean of lights sparkled in the gray twilight. Paris. As they stared at the great city's sprawl, Jon's mind went back to the Pasteur Institute and the initial bombing that had brought him to Paris and Marty. It seemed a long time ago, although it was just last Monday that Fred Klein had appeared in Colorado to ask him to take on this assignment, which had led across two continents.

Now the focus was narrowed, and the price for failure was still unknown, except, they all agreed, it would be high. They must find Emile Chambord and his molecular computer. And when they found them, they were going to need a healthy and alert Marty.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Dr. Lochiel Cameron could see that Marty was irritated and frustrated. Marty was coming off his meds, pacing the room in his stiff, awkward gait as Dr. Cameron observed from a comfortable armchair, a bemused smile on his face. He was an upbeat, easygoing man who had seen enough war and devastation to find turning back the clock for aging beauties of both sexes in his exclusive plastic surgery clinic a not-unpleasant career.

"So you're worried about your friends," Dr. Cameron prompted.

Marty stopped and waved his chubby arms with aggravation. "What could they possibly be doing? While I decompose in this plush and I'm sure usuriously if not criminally overpriced butcher shop of yours, where are they? How long can it take to reach Grenoble and return? Is it located on Pluto? I don't think so."

He resumed his rolling prowl across the room. The curtains were drawn against the night, and the place was cozy with nice furniture and warm lamplight none of that overhead fluorescent glare that made most hospital rooms seem harsh. There was even the refreshing scent of a bouquet of newly cut peonies. But the comforting atmosphere was lost on Marty. He was thinking about only one thing: Where were Jon, Randi, and Peter? He was afraid that they had gone to Grenoble not to rescue Jon from possible death, but to all die together.

Dr. Cameron said mildly, "So you're upset."

Marty stopped in mid-step and turned to the doctor in horror. "Upset? Upset! Is that what you think I am? I am distraught. They are in trouble, I know it. Injured. Lying somewhere desolate in their own blood!" He clasped his hands together and shook them in front as his eyes gleamed with an idea. "I'll rescue them. That's it. I'll swoop down and pluck them from the talons of evil. But I must know exactly where they are. It's so frustrating "

The door opened, and Marty turned, a sharp remark ready to be flung at whoever dared interrupt his misery.

But it was Jon standing there, tall, muscular, and imposing in his dark bomber jacket. Although his dusky face was battered, a grin as wide as the Atlantic Ocean was aimed at Marty. Crowded behind were Peter and Randi, also grinning. As he was growing up, Marty had not been good at reading people's emotions. Learning that the corners of an upturned mouth were a smile, which meant happiness, and that a frown could mean sadness, anger, or a range of other less joyful feelings had taken some time. But now Marty saw not only that his three friends were happy to be here, but they also had a sense of urgency about them, as if they had arrived only to leave again. Things were not good, but they were putting a brave face on the situation.

They strode into the room, Jon talking: "We're all right here, Mart. Great to see you. No need to worry about us."

Marty let out a whoop and then drew back and scowled. "Well, it's about time. I hope you three have been enjoying yourselves." He pulled himself up to his full height. "I, however, have been vegetating in this boring abattoir with no one but that" he glared at Dr. Cameron in the armchair" Scottish barber."

Cameron chuckled. "As you can see, he's in fine shape. Tiptop and well on his way to complete recovery. Still, best keep him from any more injuries. And of course, if he gets nauseated or dizzy, he'll need to have his head examined."

Marty started to protest, but Jon laughed and threw an arm around Marty's shoulders. Marty grinned and looked Jon, Randi, and Peter up and down. "Well, at least you're back. You appear to be all in one piece."

"That we are, lad," Peter agreed.

Jon added, "Thanks to Randi and Peter."

"Fortunately, Jon was in a mood to be saved," Randi explained.

Jon started to release Marty's shoulder, but before he could, Marty turned quickly and hugged him. As he gave Jon one last little squeeze and moved away, Marty spoke in a low voice: "Gosh, Jon. You scared the willies out of me. I'm so glad you're safe. It just wasn't the same without you. For a long time, 1 really thought you were dead. Couldn't you start living a more sedentary life?"

"You mean like you?" Jon's navy-blue eyes twinkled. "You're the one who got the concussion from the bombing at the Pasteur Institute, not me."

Marty sighed. "I thought you might bring that up."

As Dr. Cameron said his good-byes and left, the disheveled and weary trio sank into chairs. Marty returned to his bed, punched and patted his pillows into a white mound, and settled back against them, a plump sultan on a cotton throne. "I sense urgency," he told them. "Does that mean it's not over? I'd hoped you'd tell me we could go home now."

"I wish," Randi said. She pulled off the band that held her ponytail and shook her hair free. She massaged her scalp with both hands. Blue half-circles of weariness showed under her black eyes. "We think they're going to try to strike again soon. I just hope there's time for us to stop them."

Marty asked, his eyebrows knit, "Where? When?"

To save time, Jon described only the high points of what had happened since his capture at the villa in Algeria, ending with their conclusion that Emile Chambord and Captain Bonnard had been using the Crescent Shield not only to do most of their dirty work, but to hide their complicity in a scheme to use the DNA prototype. Now the pair had disappeared with Thérèse Chambord.

"My thought is," Jon concluded, "that they've got to have a second prototype. Is that possible?"

Marty sat upright. "A second prototype? Of course! Emile had two so he could test various molecular sequences for efficiency, speed, and capacity at the same time. You see, molecular computers work by encoding the problem to be solved in the language of DNA the base-four values are A, T, C, and G. Using them as a number system, the solution to any conceivable problem can be encoded along a DNA strand and"

Jon interrupted. "Thanks, Marty. But finish what you were saying about Chambord's second prototype."

Marty blinked. He looked at the blank expressions on Peter's and Randi's faces and sighed dramatically. "Oh. Very well." Without missing a beat, he picked up where he had left off. "So, Emile's second setup vanished. Poof! Into thin air! Emile said he'd dismantled it because we were so close to the end that there was no need for another system. It didn't make a lot of sense to me, but it was his decision to make. All the bugs were ironed out, and it was only a matter of fine-tuning the prime system."

"When did the second one disappear?" Randi asked.

"Less than three days before the bombing, even though all the remaining big problems had been ironed out more than a week earlier."

"We've got to find the second one right away," Ranch told him. "Was Chambord missing from the lab for any length of time? A weekend? A holiday?"

"Not that I remember. He often slept on a bed he had put into the lab."

"Think, lad," Peter pressed. "A few hours perhaps?"

Marty screwed up his face in concentration. "I usually went to my hotel room for a couple of hours' sleep every night, you see."

But he continued to think, summoning memory the way a computer does. From the hour the bomb had exploded at the Pasteur, his mind screened back minute by minute, day by day, his neural circuits connecting in a remarkably accurate reverse chronology until at last he nodded vigorously. He had it.

"Yes, twice! The night it disappeared he said we needed pizza, but Jean-Luc was off somewhere, I don't recall exactly where, so I went. I was gone perhaps fifteen minutes, and when I returned Emile wasn't there. He came back in another fifteen minutes or so, and we zapped the pizza in our microwave."

"So," Jon said, "he was gone at least a half hour?"

"Yes."

"And the second time?" Randi urged.

"The night after I noticed the second setup was gone, he was gone nearly six hours. He said he was so tired he was driving home to sleep in his own bed. It was true he was pooped. We both were."

Randi analyzed it. "So the night it disappeared, Chambord wasn't gone long. The next night, he was gone about six hours. It sounds to me as if the first night he probably just took it home. The second night, he drove it somewhere within three hours of the city, probably less."

"Why do you think he drove?" Peter asked. "Why not fly or go by rail?"

"The prototype's too big, too clumsy, with too many parts and pieces," Jon told him. "I've seen one, and it's definitely not portable."

"Jon's right," Marty agreed. "It would've required at least a van to transport, even dismantled. And Emile would've trusted no one but himself to move it." He sighed sadly. "This is all so incredible. Horribly incredible. Incredibly horrible."

Peter was frowning. "He could've driven anywhere from Brussels to Brittany in three hours. But even if we're looking for a place less than two hours away, we're talking hundreds of square miles around Paris." He considered Marty. "Any way you could use that electronics wizardry of yours to solve our problem? Locate the bloody prototype for us?"

"Sorry, Peter." Marty shook his head. Then he picked up his new laptop from his bedside table and put it on his crossed legs. The modem was already connected to the phone line. "Even assuming Emile left the security software we designed for it in place, I wouldn't have the power to break through. Emile has had plenty of time to change everything, including the codes. Remember, we're up against the fastest, most powerful computer in the world. It evolves its codes to adapt to any attempt to locate it so swiftly that nothing we have today can track it."

Jon was watching. "So why have you turned your laptop on? Looks to me as if you're going online yourself."

"Clever of you, Jon," Marty said cheerfully. "Yes, indeed. As we speak, I'm logging onto my supercomputer at home. I'll simply operate it from this laptop. With the use of my personally designed software, I hope to make a lie out of what I've just told you was impossible. Nothing to lose, and it'll be fun to try" He stopped speaking abruptly, and his eyes grew large with astonishment. Then dismay. "Oh, dear! What a rotten trick. Dam you, Emile. You've taken advantage of my generous nature!"

"What is it?" Jon asked as he hurried to the bed to look at Marty's screen. There was a message in French on it.

"What's happened?" Randi asked worriedly.

Marty glared at the monitor, and his voice rose with indignant outrage. "How dare you enter the sanctity of my computer system. You sinister satrap! You'll pay for this, Emile. You'll pay!"

As Marty ranted, Jon read the message aloud to Peter and Randi in English:

Martin,

You must be more careful with your defensive software. It was masterful, but not against me or my machine. I've taken you offline, closed your back door, and blocked you out totally. You are helpless. The apprentice must yield to the master.

Emile

Marty raised his chin, defiant. "There's no way he can defeat me. I'm the Paladin, and the Paladin is on the side of truth and justice. I'll outwit him! II"

As Jon moved away, Marty's fingers flew over the keyboard, and his gaze grew hard and focused as he tried to convince his home system to power itself back on. Glumly, Jon, Peter, and Randi watched. Time seemed to be passing much too swiftly. They needed to find Chambord and the prototype.

Marty's fingers slowed, and little spots of sweat appeared on his face. He looked up, miserable. "I'll get him yet. But not this way."

In his quiet, windowless workroom, Emile Chambord inspected the message on his monitor. As he suspected he would, Zellerbach had contacted his home computer system in Washington, at which point he had received Chambord's message and the system had shut itself off. This made Chambord laugh out loud. He had outwitted the arrogant little American. And now that he had a trace on him, he would also be able to find him. He typed quickly, beginning the next stage of his search.

"Dr. Chambord."

The scientist looked up. "You have news?"

Brisk and compact, Captain Bonnard took the chair beside Chambord's desk. "I just received a report from Paris." His square face was unhappy. "Our people showed your photo of Dr. Zellerbach to the store clerk. He said Zellerbach wasn't with the man who used the credit card to buy the laptop. However, it did sound as if he could be one of Jon Smith's accomplices. But when my man checked the records for the sale, the address given was for Washington, D.C. There were no notations of any Paris address or phone number. Of course, since Zellerbach could merely have sent this man into the store, our people canvassed with the photo. Bad results again. No one recognized Zellerbach."

Chambord gave a small smile. "Don't give up, my friend. I've just learned a lesson the power of the DNA computer is so limitless that one must readjust one's thinking of what's possible."

Bonnard crossed his legs, swinging one foot impatiently. "You have another way to locate him? We must, you know. He and the others understand too much. They won't be able to stop us now. But later ah, yes. That could be catastrophic to our plans. We must eliminate them quickly."

Chambord hid his annoyance. He knew the stakes better than Bonnard. "Fortunately, Zellerbach visited his home system. I anticipate that he took precautions first, probably bouncing the signal around from country to country, from whatever phone number his modem is using. He may also have tried to further disguise his path by going through a large number of servers and an equal number of aliases."

"How can you trace through all that?" Bonnard asked. "That's standard to disguise an electronic trail. It's standard, because it works."

"Not against my molecular machine." With confidence, Dr. Chambord returned to his keypad. "In minutes, we'll have the phone number in Paris. And then it'll be a simple matter to discover the address that goes with it. After that, I have a little plan that'll put an end completely to anyone's pursuit."

Chapter Thirty-five

"So here's our situation." Jon was telling Randi, Peter, and Marty. "All of our agencies are working on this. Our governments are standing at highest alert. Our job is to do what they can't. From what Marty's told us about the second prototype, Chambord and Bonnard have to be somewhere two hours or so from Paris. Now, what else do we know, and what don't we know?"

"They're an ivory-tower scientist and a junior French officer," Randi said. "I wonder whether they did it all alone."

"Me, too." Jon leaned forward in his armchair, his face intense. "The whole operation smacks of someone else pulling the strings. We've got Captain Bonnard, who was operating around Paris with no apparent connection to the attack on the Pasteur, while the Pasteur was bombed and Dr. Chambord was 'kidnapped' by the Basques. The Basques spirit Chambord to Toledo, where they deliver him to the Crescent Shield. Then they turn right around and return to Paris, snatch Thérèse, and deliver her to Toledo, too. Meanwhile, Mauritania is sometimes in Paris, sometimes in Toledo, while Dr. Chambord and Captain Bonnard apparently don't contact one another until the villa in Algiers. Mauritania believes he's in equal partnership with Bonnard and Chambord until Grenoble. So who's watching over the whole thing, orchestrating, coordinating all the various people and aspects? It has to be someone close to both Frenchmen."

Peter added, "Someone with money. This is obviously an expensive operation. Who's paying for it?"

"Not Mauritania," Randi told them. "Langley says that ever since he left Bin Laden, Mauritania's resources have been sharply limited. Besides, if Chambord and Bonnard were using the Crescent Shield, they were certainly the initiators of the collaboration, so it's likely they were picking up the bills, too. I doubt that either an army captain or a pure scientist like Chambord would have that kind of money."

Marty came to life. "Certainly not Emile." He shook his round head. "Oh, dear, no. Emile's far from wealthy. You should see how modestly he lives. Besides, he has trouble keeping a desk drawer organized. I seriously doubt he could systematize that many people and activities."

"For a while, I thought it might be Captain Bonnard," Jon said. "After all, he came up through the ranks. That's both difficult and admirable. Still, he doesn't appear to be a true organizing leader, a mastermind. Certainly, he's no Napoleon, who also worked his way up the ranks. According to his file, Bonnard's current wife is from a prominent French family. There's wealth there, but not the kind we're looking for. So unless I've missed something, he strikes out on both counts, too."

As Jon, Randi, and Peter continued to talk, Marty crossed his arms and burrowed back into his pillows. Eyes closed, he allowed his mind to wing back over the past few weeks, flying high through a three-dimensional patchwork of sights, sounds, and odors. From the springboard of memory, he reexperienced the past, recalling with joyful clarity working with Emile, the excitement of one small success after another, the brainstorming sessions, the meals ordered in, the long clays and longer nights, the odors of chemicals and equipment, the way the lab and office had grown on him, had felt more and more like home

And he had it. Abruptly he uncrossed his arms, sat upright, and opened his eyes. He had remembered exactly what the lab and office looked like.

"That's it!" he announced loudly.

All three stared at him. "What's it?" Jon asked.

"Napoleon." Marty spread his arms grandly. "You mentioned Napoleon, Jon. That's what reminded me. What we're really looking for is an anomaly, something that doesn't fit. An oddity that points to what's missing in the equation. Surely you know that if you keep looking at the same information in the same way you'll keep coming up with the same answers. Utter waste of time."

"So what's missing, Mart?" Jon asked.

"Why," Marty said. "That's what's missing. Why is Emile doing this? Maybe the answer is Napoleon."

"He's doing it for Napoleon?" Peter said. "That's your priceless gem, lad?"

Marty threw a frown at Peter. "You could've remembered, too, Peter. I told you about it." As Peter tried to recall the mystery to which Marty referred, Marty shook his hands excitedly over his head. "The print. It didn't seem important at first, but now it looms large. It is, in fact, an anomaly."

"What print?" Jon asked.

"Emile had an excellent print of a painting hanging on his wall at the lab," Marty explained. "I think the original oil was by Jacques-Louis David, a famous French artist around the turn of the nineteenth century. The title was something like Le Grande Arme's Return from Moscow. I can't remember all the French. Well" he moved the laptop onto the table and bounced to his feet, unable to sit still" this one showed Napoleon in a big blue funk. I mean, who wouldn't be, after capturing Moscow, but then having to retreat because someone's burned down most of the city, there's nothing to eat, and winter's arrived? Napoleon started out with more than four hundred thousand troops, but by the time he got home to Paris, he had less than ten thousand left. So the painting shows Napoleon with his chin sunk down on his chest." Marty demonstrated. "He's riding his big white horse, and the gallant soldiers of his Old Guard are stumbling miserably through the snow behind like total ragamuffins. It's so sad."

"And that print was missing from Chambord's lab?" Jon said. "When?"

"It was gone the night of the bombing. When I arrived to pick up my paper, my first shock was the corpse. Then I noticed that the DNA prototype was gone. And finally I saw that the print was missing, too. At the time, the print's whereabouts seemed unimportant. Incidental, as you can imagine. Now, however, it seems glaringly strange. We must pay attention."

Randi puzzled, "Why would the Black Flame Basques steal a print about a French tragedy some two centuries ago?"

Marty rubbed his hands together excitedly. "Maybe they didn't." He paused for effect. "Maybe Emile took it with him!"

"But why?" Randi wondered. "It wasn't even the original painting."

Jon said quickly, "I think that Mart's saying the reason he took the print could tell us what was on Chambord's mind when he left with the terrorists, and maybe about why he's doing what he's doing."

Peter strode to the window. He peeled back the drape and studied the dark street below. "Never told you about another little problem MI6 dumped on me. We lost a bigwig general a few days ago Sir Arnold Moore. Bomb in his Tornado, I'm afraid. The general was flying home to report information to the PM so hush-hush that he would only hint at it."

"What was the hint?" Jon said quickly.

"He said that what he knew might bear on you Americans' communications problems. The first attack, that is, that you Yanks told only us about." Peter let the drape fall back into place. He turned, his face grave. "I backtracked Moore through various contacts, you see. Their intel all toted up to a clandestine meeting of highly placed generals on the new Frenchie carrier, Charles de Gaulle. There was Moore, of course, representing Britain, plus generals from France, Italy, Spain, and Germany. I know the identity of the German Otto Bittrich. So here's the knobby part: Seems the meeting was terribly sub rosa. Not unusual on the face of it. But then, come to find out, it was organized by the top French muckity muck at NATO himself, Jon's 'friend' General Roland la Porte, and the order to sail that big, expensive warship apparently originated at NATO, but no one has been able to find the original signed order."

Jon said, "Roland la Porte is the deputy supreme commander of NATO."

"That he is," Peter said, his face both strained and solemn.

"And Captain Bonnard is his aide-de-camp."

"That, too."

Jon was silent, turning the new information over in his mind. "I wonder. I thought Captain Bonnard might be using La Porte, but what if it's the reverse? La Porte himself admitted the French high command, and presumably himself among them, had been keeping close tabs on Chambord's work. What if La Porte kept much closer tabs than anyone else, and then kept what he knew to himself? He did say he and Chambord were personal friends as well."

Marty stopped pacing. Slowly Peter nodded.

"Makes a terrible kind of sense," Randi said.

"Roland la Porte has money," Marty added. "I remember Emile talking about General La Porte. He admired him as a true patriot who loved France and saw its future. According to Emile, La Porte was mind-bogglingly rich."

"So rich he could've financed this operation?" Jon asked.

Everyone looked at Marty. "Sounded like it to me."

"I'll be a duck's uncle," Peter said. "The deputy supreme commander himself."

"Unbelievable," Randi said. "At NATO, he'd have access to all kinds of other resources, including a big warship like the De Gaulle."

Jon recalled the regal Frenchman, his pride and suspicion. "Dr. Chambord said La Porte was a 'true patriot who loved France and saw its future,' and Napoleon was, and still is, the peak of French greatness. And now it seems that the only thing other than the DNA prototype that Chambord took with him from his lab that night was a print of the beginning of the end for Napoleon. The beginning of the end for French 'greatness.' Are you all thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I expect we are," Peter said, his lean face solemn. "The glory of France."

"In which case, I may have an anomaly, too," Jon went on. "I noticed it in passing, but it never seemed significant. But now, I wonder."

"What is it?" Marty said.

"A castle," Jon told him. "It's a burnt-red color probably constructed with some kind of red stone. I saw an oil painting of it when I was in General La Porte's Paris mansion. Then I saw a photograph of it, this time in his office at NATO. It's obviously important to him. So important he likes to keep a likeness nearby."

Marty hurried to his bed and grabbed his laptop. "Let's see if I can find it, and find if Emile was right about le general's financial health."

Randi looked at Peter. "What was the meeting aboard the De Gaulle about? That could also tell us a lot."

"Should find out, don't you think?" Peter said, heading to the door. "Would you be so kind, Randi, as to brace Langley for anything new? And, Jon, why don't you do likewise with your people?"

As Marty logged onto the Internet using the room's only line, the three rushed out to find telephones.

In Dr. Cameron's office, Jon dialed Fred Klein's secure scrambled line.

"You've found Emile Chambord and his damnable machine?" Klein asked without preamble.

"I wish. Tell me more about Captain Darius Bonnard and General La Porte. What exactly is the nature of their relationship?"

"It's long. Ongoing. Just as I described."

"Is there any indication that Captain Bonnard may have co-opted General La Porte? That Bonnard may be the power behind the general?"

Klein paused, thinking about the question. "The general saved Bonnard's life in Desert Storm when Bonnard was still whatever they call a top sergeant. Bonnard owes the general everything. I told you that before."

"What haven't you told me about them?"

There was a thoughtful pause, and Klein added details.

As Jon listened, the situation began to make more sense. Finally Klein finished.

"What's going on, Jon? Dammit, time's closing in on us. I can feel it like a noose. What's this sudden interest in Bonnard's connection to General La Porte? Have you found out something I don't know? Are you planning something? I hope to hell you are."

Smith told him about the second prototype.

"What! A second molecular computer?" Klein raged. "Why didn't you kill Chambord when you had the chance?"

The tension was getting to Jon, too. He snapped back, "Dammit, no one guessed about a second prototype. I figured I could save Chambord so he could go on working for the good of everyone. I made a judgment call, and with what we knew, I thought it was the right one. I had no idea it was all a charade to keep us from knowing Chambord was running the show, and neither did you."

Klein calmed down. "All right, what's done is done. Now we've got to get that second DNA machine. If you have an idea where it is and have a plan, I want to know."

"I don't have a plan, and I don't know where exactly the damn thing is except that it's in France somewhere. If there's a strike, it's going to be soon. Warn the president. Believe me, I'll be in touch the instant I have something concrete."

Jon broke the connection and sprinted back to Marty's room.

In the office of the hospital's accountant, Peter was exasperated as he tried to maintain his grip on his stilted German. "General Bittrich, you do not understand! This is"

"I understand that MI6 wants information I don't have, Herr Howell."

"General, I know you were at the meeting on the De Gaulle. I also know that one of our generals who died a few days ago, Sir Arnold Moore, was with you. What you may not know is his death was no accident. Someone meant to kill him. And now I believe that the same person means to use a DNA computer to render the U.S. defenseless and then attack. It's urgent you tell me what General La Porte's secret meeting was about."

There was silence. "So Moore was murdered?"

"A bomb. He was on his way to fill in our PM about something vital he learned at the meeting. That's what we need to hear from you. What did General Moore learn? What was so devastating that his jet was bombed to stop him from relaying it?"

"You're certain of the bomb?"

"Yes. We have the jet's fuselage. It has been tested. There is no doubt."

There was a long, anxious pause.

At last, Otto Bittrich said, "Very well." He spoke carefully, making certain each word carried the proper weight. "The French general, La Porte, wants a totally integrated European army independent of, and at least equal to, America's. NATO's inadequate for his purposes. So is the EU's small rapid deployment force. Me envisions a truly United Europe Europa. A continental world power to eventually surpass the United States. He's adamant that the United States's hegemony must be stopped. He argues that Europe is already positioned to become a contending superpower. If we don't take this place of prominence that's rightfully ours, he claims we'll end up as just another U.S. dependent a large and favored colony at best, but ultimately still slaves to America's interests."

"Are you saying he wants to go to war against America?"

"He claims we're already at war with the United States in many, many ways."

"What do you say, General?"

Again Bittrich paused. "There's much I agree with in his ideas, Herr Howell."

Peter heard a faint hesitation. "I hear a but, sir. What did General Moore want to tell my prime minister?"

Bittrich was silent again. "I believe he suspected that General La Porte was planning to prove his point that we must not depend on America by showing the Americans unable to defend themselves."

"How?" Peter asked. He listened to the answer with growing alarm.

Downstairs in the same public phone booth she had used earlier, Randi slammed down the receiver. She was angry and worried. Langley had nothing new about General La Porte or Captain Bonnard. As she hurried through the lobby and back upstairs, she hoped the others had done better. When she reached Marty's room, Jon was standing sentry at the only window, watching the street, while Marty was still sitting on his bed, working at his laptop.

"Nada," she told them and closed the door behind her. "Langley was no damn help."

"I got something useful," Jon said from the window. "General La Porte saved Captain Bonnard's life in Desert Storm. As a result, Bonnard's utterly loyal and exhibits an exaggerated sense of the general's greatness." Again he gazed at the street. For a moment, he thought he saw a figure moving furtively a block away. "Bonnard will do anything the general asks, and then be panting for the next opportunity to please him." He looked into the distance for the figure. He or she had disappeared. He studied the traffic and few pedestrians closer to the private hospital.

"My, my. Such largesse." Marty looked up from his computer screen. "Okay, the answer is that General La Porte and his family are worth hundreds of millions, if you figure it in U.S. dollars. Altogether, approaching a half-billion dollars."

Jon exhaled. "A fellow could put together a nice little terrorist assault with that."

"Oh yes," Marty agreed. "General La Porte fits our profile perfectly, and the more I think about it, the more I remember how Emile had begun talking on and on about France. That it didn't get the respect it deserved. What a magnificent history it had, and its future could be even greater than the past if the proper people were put in charge. Every once in a while, he'd forget I'm American and say something particularly irritating about us. I remember once when he was talking about what a fine leader General La Porte was, really too big for his current position. He said it was disgusting that the great General La Porte had to work under an American."

"Yes," Jon told him. "That would be General Carlos Henze. He's NATO's Supreme Allied Commander."

"That sounds right. But it didn't matter that it was General Henze. The point was, he's American. See? My anomaly explains a lot. It's obvious now that Emile took the print of Napoleon with him because it's his inspiration France will rise again."

"You found those financial details online?" Randi wondered.

"Easy as cracking an egg," Marty assured her. "It was a simple matter to determine his bank French, of course. Then I tweaked some software programs I'm familiar with. With them souped up, I broke through the firewall and did a fast hit-and-run and escaped with quite a few records."

"What about the red castle?" Jon asked.

Marty was stricken. "Forgot. La Porte was so fascinating. I'll do it now."

Peter strode into the hospital room, almost running. His angular face was tight. "Just talked to General Bittrich. The meeting on the De Gaulle was called by La Porte himself to press his case for a completely integrated European military. Eventually, Bittrich thinks, a united Europe. One nation Europa. Bittrich was damned cautious, but when I told him our General Moore had been murdered, he finally spilled it. What had alarmed Mooreand, it turns out, Bittrich, too was that La Porte hammered at the electronic and communications failures the American military was having and strongly suggested there'd be more, proving that the American military could not defend even its own country."

Jon's eyebrows rose. "When they met on the De Gaulle, there was no way General La Porte could've heard about our utility grid and communications problems. Only our people and the top Brit leaders were in the loop."

"Exactly. The only way La Porte could've known was because he was behind the attacks. At the time, Bittrich dismissed his misgivings as an overreaction and also because he was concerned he was being influenced by the fact that he can't stand La Porte personallya swaggering Frog, he called him." His gaze searched their faces. "In essence, Bittrich is saying he suspects La Porte is going to launch an attack on you Yanks, when all your defenses are down."

Jon asked, "When?"

"He suggested," Peter's voice became hard and bitter, "that 'if such an impossible thought could be in any way true, which, of course, I don't believe for a second,' it'd be what we feared tonight."

"Why does he think that?" Randi asked.

"Because there's a crucial vote coming up in a special secret session of the Council of European Nations on Monday about whether to create a pan-European military. La Porte was instrumental in making this clandestine session happen so the issue could be voted on in secret."

The only sound was the ticking of the clock on Marty's bedside table.

Looking out the window to the street below, Jon noticed two men. It seemed to him he had seen them walk past the hospital twice.

Randi asked again, "But when tonight?"

"Aha!" Marty announced from the bed. "Chateau La Rouge. 'Red Castle.' Is this it?"

Jon strode from the window to check the monitor. "That's the castle in La Porte's painting and photo." He returned to the window and looked back at the others. "You want to know when? If I were La Porte, here's what I'd do. When it's six o'clock Saturday night in New York, it's three o'clock in the afternoon in California. Sports and on-the-town time on the East Coast, the same on the West, plus crowded beaches if the weather's good. The freeways are congested, too. But here in France, it's midnight. Quiet. Dark. The night hides a lot. To hurt the United States the most, and to conceal what I was doing, I'd launch the strike from France sometime around midnight."

Peter asked, "Where's this Chateau la Rouge, Marty?"

Marty was reading the screen. "It's old, medieval, made of Normandy! It's located in Normandy."

"Two hours from Paris," Peter said. "Within range of where we decided the second computer would be."

Randi looked at the wall clock. "It's nearly nine o'clock. If Jon's right"

"We'd best hurry," Peter said quietly.

"I said I'd call army intelligence." Jon started to turn from the window. He needed to alert Fred instantly, but he glanced down at the street just once more. He swore. "We've got visitors. They're armed. Two are walking in the hospital's front door."

Randi and Peter grabbed their weapons, and Randi sprinted to the door.

"Oh, my!" Marty said. His eyes grew large and frightened. "This is terrible. I've just lost the connection to the Internet. What's happened?"

Peter popped out the modem's hookup and tried the telephone. "It's dead!"

"They've cut the phone lines!" Marty's face paled.

Randi cracked open the door and listened.

Chapter Thirty-six

Outside the door to Marty's room, the hallway was quiet. "Come on!" Randi whispered. "I saw another way out when I was looking for the phone booth downstairs."

Marty found his meds, while Jon snapped up the laptop. With Randi in the lead, they slipped quietly from the room and along the corridor past the closed doors of other hospital rooms. A nurse in a starched white uniform had just knocked at one. She paused, startled, her hand on the doorknob. They rushed past, unspeaking.

From the open stairwell, they heard Dr. Cameron's outraged voice float up in French: "Halte! Who are you? How dare you carry guns into my hospital!"

They increased their speed. Marty's face was bright red as he hurried to keep up. They passed a pair of elevators, and at the end of the hall Randi pushed her way through the fire-exit door just as footsteps pounded up the stairs behind them.

"Oh, oh! Wh-where to?" Marty tried.

Randi shushed him, and the four of them ran down the gray stairwell. At the bottom, Randi started to open the door, but Jon stopped her.

"What's on the other side?" he asked.

"We're below the first floor, so 1 assume it's some kind of basement."

He nodded. "My turn."

She shrugged and stepped back. He handed the laptop to Marty and pulled out the curved knife he had taken from the Afghan. He opened the door a few inches, waiting for the hinges to creak. When they did not, he pressed it farther and saw a shadow move. He forced his breathing to calm. He looked back and touched his fingers to his lips. They nodded silently back.

He studied the shadow again, saw where the overhead light must be that had cast it, gauged the movement once more, and eased out.

There was a faint smell of gasoline. They were in a small underground garage packed with cars. The elevators were nearby, and a man with pale skin, dressed in ordinary clothes, was circling away from them, an Uzi in his hands.

Jon released the door, and as it swung back, he sprinted. The man turned around, blue eyes narrowed. It was too soon. Jon had hoped to slip up behind. His finger on the trigger, the man raised his weapon. No time. Jon threw the knife. It was not meant for throwing, not balanced properly, but he had nothing else. As it spun end over end, Jon lunged.

Just as the man compressed the trigger, the knife's handle hit his side, ruining his aim. Three bullets spit into the floor next to Jon's feet. Concrete chips sprayed the air. Jon slammed his shoulder into the gunman's chest, propelling him back into the side of a Volvo. Jon reared back and crashed a fist into his face. Blood spurted from the fellow's nose, but he merely grunted and swung the Uzi toward Jon's head. Jon ducked and dodged back, while behind him silenced gunfire spit.

As Jon looked up from his crouch, the man's chest erupted in blood and tissue. Jon spun around on his heels.

Peter stood off to the side, his 9mm Browning in his hands. "Sorry, Jon. No time for a fistfight. Must get the hell out of here. My rental car's outside. Used it to get Marty out of the Pompidou Hospital, so I doubt anyone's made it. Randi, grab everything in the poor bloke's pockets. Let's find out who the bloody hell he is. Jon, take the man's weapon. Let's go."

There are moments that define a man, and General Roland la Porte knew deep within himself that this was one. A massive man of muscle and determination, he leaned on the balustrade of the highest tower in his thirteenth-century castle and gazed out through the night, counting the stars, knowing the firmament was his. His castle was perched on a hill of red granite. Meticulously restored by his great-grandfather in the nineteenth century, the castle was illuminated tonight by the light of a three-quarter moon.

Nearby stood the crumbled, skeletal ruins of a ninth-century Carolingian castle, which had been built on the site of a Prankish fort, which in turn was on the remains of the fortified Roman camp that had preceded it. The history of this land, its structures, and his family were entwined. They were the history of France itself, including its rulers in the early days, and it never failed to fill him with pride and a sense of responsibility.

As a child, he longed for his periodic visits to the castle. On nights like these, he would eagerly close his eyes in sleep, hoping to dream of the bearded Prankish warrior Dagovic, honored in family lore as the first of the unbroken line that eventually became the La Portes. By the age of ten, he was poring over the family's Carolingian, Capetian, and illuminated medieval manuscripts, although he had yet to master Latin and Old French. He would hold the manuscripts reverently on his lap as his grandfather related the inspiring tales that had been handed down. La Porte and France, France and La Porte they had been the same, indistinguishable in his impressionable mind. As an adult, his belief had only strengthened.

"My General?" Darius Bonnard emerged through the tower door onto the high parapet. "Dr. Chambord says he will be ready in an hour. It's time for us to begin."

"Any news of Jon Smith and his associates?"

"No, sir." Bonnard's firm chin lifted, but his gaze was troubled. He was bareheaded, his short, clipped blond hair almost invisible in the moonlight. "Not since the clinic." He thought again of the murder of his man in the underground garage.

"Unfortunate that we lost one," La Porte said, as if reading his mind. But then, good commanders were all alike in that respect. Their men came second only to the mission itself. He made his voice kind, magnanimous, as he continued, "When this is over, I'll write the family personally to express my gratitude for their sacrifice."

"It's no sacrifice," Bonnard assured him. "The goal is noble. It's worth any price."

Once they were safely out of Pans and certain they were not being followed, Peter stopped the car at a large petrol station. In the bright fluorescent lights, Jon, Peter, and Randi ran to phone booths to report their suspicions about La Porte, Chambord, the castle, and the strike to their bosses. They had learned nothing from the pockets of the man whom Peter had shot. He had carried no identification, just cigarettes, money, and a package of MM's. But on one of his fingers had been a telling detail a ring with the insignia of the French Foreign Legion.

Jon arrived first and lifted the phone to his ear. There was no dial tone. He dropped in coins. No dial tone again. He tapped the tongue of the phone, but still the line gave no response, just as there had been no response from the phone in Marty's room. Puzzled, beginning to worry, he stepped away. Soon Peter and Randi joined him.

"Did you get a line out?" But even as he asked the question, Jon knew the answer from their concerned faces.

Randi shook her blond head. "My line was dead."

"Mine, too," Peter said. "Silent as a graveyard at four a.m. Don't like this one bit."

"Let's get daring." Randi took out her cell phone, turned it on, and entered a phone number. As she lifted it to listen, her face seemed to crumble. She shook her head angrily. "Nothing. What's going on!"

"Best if we could report in," Peter said. "A bit of help from our various agencies would be pleasant."

"Personally," Randi said, "I wouldn't object if someone high up sent an army battalion or three to meet us at La Porte's castle."

"Know what you mean." Jon trotted toward the station's shop. Through the plate-glass window he could see a clerk inside. Jon entered. Hanging from a wall was a television set. It was not turned on, but a radio was playing. As he approached the clerk, who was working behind the counter, the music stopped, and an announcer identified the local station.

Jon told the youth in French that he had tried to use the telephone outside. "It's not working."

The young man shrugged, unsurprised. "I know it. Lots of people have been complaining. They stop here from all over, and they don't have phone reception either. TV's off, too. I can get local stations on it and the radio, but nothing else. Cable's not working. Awful boring, you know."

"How long have you had the problem?"

"Oh, since about nine o'clock. Almost an hour now."

Jon's face showed no change in expression. Nine o'clock was when Marty's phone line in Paris had died. "Hope you get it fixed soon."

"Don't know how. Without the phones working, there's no way to report it."

Jon hurried back through to the car, where Randi had just finished pumping gas. Peter was opening the trunk, and Marty was standing beside him, looking a little giddy as he stared all around. He was staying off his meds, with the hope that they would find the molecular prototype and he would be in creative shape to stop whatever Chambord was setting in motion.

Jon told them what he had discovered.

"Emile!" Marty said instantly. "That despicable rat! Oh, dear. I didn't want to mention it, but I was very worried. This means it's finally happened. He's shut down all communications, wireless and regular."

"But won't that backfire on him?" Randi asked. "If we can't get online, how can he?"

"He has the DNA computer," Marty said simply. "He can talk to the satellites. Open a quick window to use them if he needs to."

"Must get a move on," Peter said. "Come here. Choose your poison."

Marty looked down into the trunk and jumped back with surprise. "Peter! It's an arsenal."

They gathered around. Inside was a polyglot cache of rifles, pistols, ammunition, and other supplies.

"Hell, Peter," Jon said. "You've got a whole armaments depot in here."

"Be prepared is my motto." Peter removed a pistol. "Old warhorse, you see. We learn a few things."

Jon already had the Uzi, so he chose a pistol, too.

Marty shook his head vehemently. "No."

Randi ignored him for now. "Do you have anything like a CIA climbing rig and air gun, Peter? That castle wall looked high."

"The very thing." Peter showed her a twin of the rig she had gotten from Barcelona CIA. "Borrowed it some time back, forgot to return it, tsk-tsk."

They climbed quickly back into the car, and Peter peeled it away, heading toward the highway again that would take them west toward the castle, where they fervently hoped they would find General La Porte and the DNA computer.

In the backseat, Marty was wringing his hands. "I assume this means we're on our own."

"We can't count on any help," Jon agreed.

"I'm very nervous about this, Jon," Marty said.

"Good that you are," Peter told him. "Keeps one alert. Buck up though. It could be worse. You could be sitting right smack in the middle of whatever unfortunate piece of terra firma those maniacs have targeted."

Emile Chambord hesitated at the heavy, iron-studded door to the room where his daughter was confined. No matter how much he had tried to explain his views to Thérèse, she had refused to listen. This pained Chambord. He not only loved Thérèse, he respected her, admired her work and her struggle to excel at her art, without thought of financial reward. She had steadfastly resisted all invitations to go to Hollywood. She was a stage actress with a vision of truth that had nothing to do with popular success. He recalled an American editor saying, "A good writer is a rich writer, and a rich writer is a good writer." Substitute "actor" or "scientist" and one saw the shallow ethos of America, under which, until now, the world was doomed to live.

He sighed, took a deep breath, and unlocked the door. He stepped inside quietly, not bothering to lock it again.

Wrapped in a blanket, Thérèse was sitting at the narrow window across the small room in one of the high-backed baronial chairs that La Porte favored. Because the general prized historical authenticity, the castle offered few amenities beyond thick rugs on the stone floors and tapestries hanging from the stone walls. A fire was alight in the big fireplace, but its warmth did little to offset the cold that seemed to radiate from every surface in the cavelike chamber. The air smelled dank and musty.

Thérèse did not even glance at him. She gazed steadily out the window at the stars. He joined her there, but he looked down. The ground was awash in the moon's snowy glow, showing the dark grass on the filled-in moat and, beyond that, the rolling Norman farms and woodlands that spread out and around. A shadowy orchard of old, gnarled apple trees hugged the castle.

He said, "It's nearly time, Thérèse. Almost midnight."

At last she looked up at him. "So midnight is when you do it. I'd hoped you'd come to your senses. That you were here to tell me you've refused to help those unconscionable men."

Chambord lost his temper. "Why can't you see that what we're doing will save us? We're offering a new dawn for Europe. The Americans are crushing us with their crass, cultural desert. They pollute our language, our ideas, our society. With them in charge, the world has no vision and little justice. They have only two values: How much can a man consume for the highest possible price, and how much can he produce for the least possible pay?" His upper lip curled in loathing.

Thérèse continued to stare at him as if he were an insect under one of his own microscopes. "Whatever their faults, they're not mass murderers."

"But they are! What about the effect of their policies in Africa, Asia, and Latin America?"

She paused, considering. Then she shook her head and laughed bitterly. "You don't care about any of that. You're not operating on altruism. You just want their power. You're just like General La Porte and Captain Bonnard."

"I want France to rise. Europe has the right to rule its own destiny!" He turned away so she would not see his pain. She was his daughter how could she not understand?

Thérèse was silent. At last she took his hand, and her voice softened. "I want one world, too, but where people are simply people, and no one has power over anyone else. 'France?' 'Europe?' 'The United States?' " She shook her head sorrowfully. "The concepts are anachronisms. A united world, that's what I want. A place where no one hates or murders anyone in the name of God, country, culture, race, sexual orientation, or anything else. Our differences are to be celebrated. They're strengths, not weaknesses."

"You think the Americans want one world, Thérèse?"

"Do you and your general?"

"You will have a better chance of it with France and Europe than with them."

"Do you remember after World War Two how the Americans helped us rebuild? They helped us all, the Germans and the Japanese, too. They've helped people all around the globe."

That far Chambord could not go. She refused to see the truth. "For a price," he snapped. "In exchange for our individuality, our humanity, our minds, our souls."

"And from what you tell me, your price tonight could be millions of lives."

"You exaggerate, child. What we do will warn the world that America cannot defend even itself, but the casualties will be relatively low. I insisted upon that. And we are at war with the Americans. Every minute, every day, we have to fight, or they will overwhelm us. We are not like them. We will be great again."

Thérèse released his hand and again stared out the window at the stars. When she spoke, her voice was clear and sad. "I'll do everything I can to save you, Papa. But I must also stop you."

Chambord remained motionless for another moment, but she did not look at him again. He walked out of the room, locking the door behind him.

Chapter Thirty-seven

They stopped again, this time at a small petrol station outside the village of Bousmelet-sur-Seine. The attendant nodded in answer to Jon's question: "Oui, bien, the count is at Chateau la Rouge. I filled the tank of his limousine earlier today. Everyone's glad. We don't see all that much of the great man since he took over NATO. Who could be better, I ask you?"

Jon smiled, noting that local pride had raised La Porte one more notch in the command structure at NATO.

"Is he alone?" Jon asked.

"Alas." The attendant removed his cap and crossed himself. "The countess passed away these many years." He glanced around at the night, even though there was no one else here. "There was a young lady at the castle for a while, but no one has seen her for more than a year. Some say that's good. That the count must set an example. But I say counts have been taking women not their wives up there for centuries, yes? And what of the peasant girls? It was a tanner's daughter who produced the great Duke William. Besides, I think the count's lonely, and he's still young. A great tragedy, yes?" And he roared with laughter.

Randi smiled and looked sympathetic. "Soldiers are often married to the army. I doubt Captain Bonnard brought his wife with him either."

"Ah, that one. He has no time for anyone but the count. Devoted to his lordship, he is. I'm surprised to know he's married at all."

As Jon took out euros to pay, the attendant studied them. "You needed little gas. What do you folks want with the count?"

"He invited us to drop in and tour the castle if we were ever in the area."

"Guess you got lucky. He's sure not here much. Funny, too. Had another guy asking about an hour ago. A big, black guy. Said he was in the Legion with the count and Captain Bonnard. Probably was. Wore the green beret, except he wore it sort of wrong, you know, more like the English wear berets. Kind of arrogant. Had funny greenish eyes. Never saw eyes like that on a black."

"What else was he wearing?" Jon asked.

"Like you, pants, jacket." The attendant eyed Randi. "Except his looked new."

"Thanks," Jon said, and he and Randi climbed back into the car. As Peter drove away, Jon asked him and Marty, "You heard?"

"We did," Peter said.

"Is the black man the one you called Abu Auda?" Marty asked.

"With those eyes, sounds like him," Randi said. "Which could mean the Crescent Shield also thinks Bonnard and Chambord are here. Maybe they're looking for Mauritania."

"Not to mention possibly getting their hands on the DNA computer if they can," Peter guessed, "and getting revenge on Chambord and Captain Bonnard."

"Having the Crescent Shield here is going to complicate matters," Jon said, "but they could turn out to be useful, too."

"How?" Randi said.

"Distraction. We don't know how many of his renegade Legionnaires La Porte has with him, but I bet it's a substantial number. It'll be good if they're worried by someone else."

They drove on in silence for another ten minutes through the moonlight, the road a pale pathway in the silent, rural night. There were no other cars on the road now. The lights of farmhouses and manor houses sparkled intermittently through the apple orchards and the outbuildings and barns that probably housed equipment to make the cider and Calvados for which the region was famous.

At last, Randi pointed ahead and upward. "There it is."

Marty, who had been mostly silent since they left the highway, suddenly said, "Medieval! A baronial bastion! You do not, I trust, expect me to scramble up those ridiculous walls?" he worried. "I'm no mountain goat."

The Chateau la Rouge was not the fine country estate the name would have implied around Bordeaux or even in most of the Loire Valley. It was a brooding medieval castle boasting battlements and two towers. Moonlight had turned the granite an inky blood-red. Set high on a craggy-hill beside what looked like the jagged, gap-toothed ruins of a far older castle, this was the Chateau la Rouge that Jon had seen in the painting and photograph.

Peter studied the massive structure with a critical eye. "Send for the siege train. It's a bloody old one, it is. Late twelfth or early thirteenth century, I should say. Norman-English, from the look of it. The French tended to like their fortresses a bit more elegant and stylish. Possibly as old as Henry the Second, but I doubt it"

"Forget the history, Peter," Randi interrupted. "What makes you think we can climb up those walls without being spotted?"

"I don't climb," Marty announced.

"Shouldn't be difficult," Peter enthused. "Looks as if she's been updated sometime in the last century or so. The moat's filled in, the portcullis is gone, and the entryway is wide open. Of course, tonight they'll have that entrance guarded. They've manicured the hill up to the walls, which is an advantage for us. And my guess is we won't have to worry about boiling oil, crossbows, and all that rigmarole from the battlements."

"Boiling oil." Marty shuddered. "Thanks, Peter. You've cheered me enormously."

"My pleasure."

Peter turned off the headlights, and they cruised to the base of the rocky hill where he paused the car. There in the moonlight they had a clear view of a curved drive that led up to the front and in through the tunnel-like entryway. As Peter had guessed, there was no gate or barrier, and spring flowers grew in well-kept beds on either side. The nineteenth- and twentieth-century La Portes had obviously been unworried about attack. But a pair of armed men in civilian clothes at the open front portal showed that the twenty-first-century La Porte was.

Peter eyed the two guards. "Soldiers. French. Probably the Legion."

"You can't possibly know that, Peter," Marty rebuked. "More of your superior man-of-action hyperbole again."

"Au contraire, mon petit ami. Every nation's military has its traditions, methods, and drill, which produce a different appearance and manner. A U.S. soldier shoulders arms on the right shoulder, the British on the left. Soldiers move, stand at attention, march, stop, salute, and generally hold themselves differently, according to the country. Any soldier can tell instantly who has trained the army of a Second- or Third-World nation by simply observing. Those guards are French soldiers, lad, and I'd bet the wine cellar on the Legion."

Exasperated, Marty said, "Poppycock! Even your French stinks!"

Peter laughed and rolled the car onward along the country road that curved out and around.

Jon spotted a helicopter. "Look! Up there!"

The chopper was perched on a squat barbican fifty feet up, its rotors protruding over the stone balustrade. "I'll bet that's how Chambord and Bonnard got in and out of Grenoble and flew here. Add in the military guards, La Porte's being here, and the Crescent Shield, and I'd say the DNA computer is here."

As Peter continued the car's circle of the castle, Randi said, "Swell. Now all we have to do is get into it."

Jon stared up the slope. "With our equipment, we'll be able to climb it. Pull off here, Peter."

Peter cut the motor and coasted the car off the road into a grove of old apple trees. The car bumped along until it stopped at a spot where the steep hillside met the wall at a higher point. Jon, Peter, and Randi got out. Peter pointed silently up to where the head and shoulders of a sentry moved along the parapet in the moonlit night.

They conversed in whispers. Sound carried far in the rural night.

"Anyone see any others?" Jon asked.

After studying the wall in both directions, they both shook their heads.

"Let's time that one," Peter said.

They clicked the timer function on their watches and waited. More than five minutes elapsed before they saw the head of the sentry return and disappear in the other direction. They waited again, and the man passed more quickly this time. Less than two minutes.

"Okay," Jon decided. "When he heads off to our right, we've got five minutes. That should be enough for at least two of us to make the top."

Peter nodded. "Should do."

"Unless," Randi said, "he hears us."

"We'll hope he doesn't," Jon said.

"Look!" Peter whispered, pointing to their left.

In the distance, hunched dark shapes were moving up the incline, heading to the castle's entry. The Crescent Shield.

Using arm and hand signals, Abu Auda urged his men through the old apple orchard and up the incline toward the wide gateway between two low towers. It had taken him most of the day since returning from Liechtenstein to assemble his reinforcements, many from other Islamic cells and even splinter groups. He had called ahead for help when he had discovered where this General La Porte and his lackey, the devious snake Bonnard, had taken the lying Dr. Chambord and his longtime comrade-in-arms, Mauritania.

Now his people numbered more than fifty rifles. He and his small cadre of veteran warriors herded the new men up toward the entrance. His scouts had counted the guards and sentries and reported only two were stationed at the gate, while fewer than five patrolled the entire rampart wall. What concerned him was his lack of information about how many French soldiers were hidden away inside the castle itself. In the end, he had decided it did not matter. His fifty fighters could defeat twice-three times their number, if need be.

But that was the lesser of Abu Auda's worries. If the battle went against them, these French renegades might murder Mauritania before he could be reached. Therefore, Abu Auda decided, it would be necessary to reach Mauritania first. For that, he would take a strong small party, scale the walls where the French sentries were thinnest, and rescue Mauritania as soon as the battle was well engaged by the bulk of his troops.

"Let's go," Jon said as Peter opened his trunk again.

The three readied their equipment, while Marty remained rooted inside the car. Randi shoved the climbing rig and another HK MP5K submachine gun into an SAS fanny pack, and Peter loaded a small cube of plastique explosive, some manual fuses, and a pair of grenades into another. He saw Jon watching him. "Handy for locked doors, thick walls, the like. Are we ready?"

Marty rolled down his window. "Have a pleasant climb. I'll guard the car."

"Out you come, Mart," Jon said. "You're our secret weapon."

Marty shook his head stubbornly. "I use doorways to enter structures, especially very high structures. In a dire emergency, I might consider a window. Ground floor, of course."

Randi said nothing. With her climbing equipment, she scrambled quietly up the steep grade. Jon exchanged a look with Peter and nodded to the other side of the car. Peter padded around to it.

"No time to play coy, Marty," Jon said cheerfully. "There's the wall. You're going up it one way or another." He opened the door and reached in to grab Marty.

Marty recoiled directly into the bear hug of Peter, who dragged him protesting, but not too loudly, out of the car. Randi was already at the base of the castle, preparing her climbing rigs and the harness she would use to haul Marty to the top. Jon and Peter hustled the still reluctant and complaining Marty up the slope.

Randi checked to be sure they were coming, saw they were, and nodded acknowledgment. She stepped back, ready to shoot her grappling hook over the wall. But at the base of the castle, Marty stumbled over her gear, knocking her against the wall. The grappling hook clanged in the night. They all froze.

Above them sounded the unmistakable noise of running boots.

Peter whispered, "Everyone flatten to the wall!" He drew his SAS high-power Browning 9mm pistol. He screwed on the silencer.

Above them, a face appeared, trying to see who or what had disturbed the quiet night. But they were close to the wall, in a blind, shadowed area. The sentry leaned farther and farther over until he was half beyond the parapet. He saw them at the same instant Peter, taking careful aim with both hands, fired.

There was a soft pop from the silenced weapon, and then a faint, sharp grunt. The guard spilled noiselessly over the wall and landed with a thud almost at their feet. His pistol drawn, Jon bent over the fallen man.

He looked up. "Dead. French insignia on his ring."

"I'm going up," Randi told them, not looking at the dead soldier.

With careful aim, she shot the mini-grappling hook up. It made a small clang as its titanium points caught in the stone and held. She swarmed up on her automatic ratchet, and seconds later she leaned over and waved the all-clear.

The harness flew down. Peter and Jon quickly buckled it around a silent Marty, who had stopped protesting, his round face pale and serious as he stared at the body.

His voice shook a little, but he tried to smile as he said, "I'd really prefer an elevator. Perhaps a cable car?"

Seconds later, the first shots shattered the night at the entryway.

"Now!" Jon said. "Up you go!"

Chapter Thirty-eight

The president's secretary, Mrs. Estelle Pike, poked her head into the airborne conference room, her frizzy hair wilder than usual. She arched an eyebrow and said, "Blue."

She lingered a second or two as the president swung around in his chair, away from the startled eyes of Charles Ouray, Emily Powell-Hill, the Joint Chiefs, and the DCI, who were sitting around the long conference table, to pick up the receiver of a blue radio phone that stood beside the ever-menacing red one.

"Yes?" He listened. "He's sure? Where is he? What!" Tension filled his voice. "The whole country? All right. Keep me posted."

President Castilla rotated back to face the eyes focused on him. They were the front line now, all of them aboard the flying White House. The Secret Service had insisted that going mobile in Air Force One was the prudent course, considering the volatile situation. The public was still in the dark. Everything possible was being done, but unless there was some kind of concrete way to warn and evacuate, the president had made the tough decision that the continuing communications problems be passed off to the media as a dangerous virus that was being corrected, and that the perpetrators would be found and the full force of the law brought down upon them.

Fully briefed and in constant touch by radio, the vice president and backups for everyone here were safely deep in bunkers in North Carolina, so that if the worst happened, the national government would go on. Spouses and children had also been evacuated to various secret underground sites. Although the president knew that there were no such provisions for the rest of the country, that it would be simply impossible, he agonized anyway. They must find a way to prevent what he feared.

He spoke calmly to his assembled advisers. "I'm informed the attack could be today or tonight. We have nothing more definite than that." He frowned and shook his head, sorrowful, frustrated. "And we don't know what or where."

The president saw a question behind all those eyes staring at him: What was his source of information? To whom had he been talking? And if they did not know, how reliable could this source or sources be? He had no intention of satisfying them: Covert-One and Fred Klein would remain utterly clandestine until he passed them on to his successor with the strong recommendation to maintain both the organization and the secrecy.

Finally, Emily Powell-Hill, his NSA, asked, "Is that a confirmed fact, Mr. President?"

"It's the most informed conclusion we have or are likely to have." Castilla studied their bleak faces, knowing they were going to hold up. Knowing he was. "But we're generally now aware where the DNA computer is, and that means there's a good chance we can still destroy it in time."

"Where, sir?" Admiral Stevens Brose asked.

"Somewhere in France. All communications in or out of the country have just been shut down there."

"Damnation!" White House chief of staff Ouray's voice shook. "All communication? All of France? Incredible!"

"If they've shut communications down," Powell-Hill said, "then they must be very close to doing it. It sure sounds to me as if it's got to be today, too."

The president's gaze swept the group. "We've had several days to prepare our best defenses. Even with all the cyber attacks, we should be ready. Are we?"

Admiral Stevens Brose cleared his throat, trying to keep an uncharacteristic note of dread from his voice. The admiral was as brave and resolute under fire as any other professional soldier, and a soldier could handle the uncertainty of when and where. Still, this blind dealing with an unstoppable computer against an unknown target was wearing on him, as it was on everyone else.

He said, "We're as ready as we can be, considering all our satellites and other communications are down, and our command codes compromised. We've been working around the clock, and ten hours more than that, to bring everything back online and change our codes." He hesitated. "But I'm not sure it'll really help. With what the DNA machine can do, even our latest encryptions will likely be broken, and we'll be out of commission again in minutes, perhaps seconds." He glanced at his fellow commanders. "Our one advantage is our new covert, experimental antimissile defense system. Since they don't know we have it, that may be enough." The admiral glanced at his fellow flag officers. "If the attack is going to be by missile."

The president nodded. "Based on what the DNA computer can do, and what little we know of the terrorists, it's most likely."

Air Force chief of staff Bruce Kelly's voice was decisive as he agreed, "No single ICBM from anywhere is going to get through the new antimissile system. I guarantee it."

"You're sure they don't know we have it?"

Around the packed room, the Joint Chiefs and the DCI nodded affirmative.

Admiral Brose answered for them all: "We're certain, Mr. President."

"Then we have nothing to worry about, do we?" the president said. He smiled around the silent room, but no one looked him in the eyes.

In the windowless armory at the top of the castle, where chain mail coats hung next to empty suits of armor, Dr. Emile Chambord raised his head and listened. There was gunfire outside. What was happening? Was someone shooting at the castle? The noise was muffled by the thick walls, but still, it was unmistakable.

Abruptly, the computer screen in front of him went blank.

Hurriedly he made adjustments and regained control. The prototype had never been easy to keep steady, and it had been drifting under his fingers. Twice he'd had a lock on the command codes of the old Soviet missile that General La Porte had selected, still in its silo thousands of miles away, and twice he had lost the codes as the temperamental apparatus of optical cables and gel packs destabilized. He needed every ounce of concentration and dexterity to do the job, and the nerve-racking gunfire did not help.

Was it growing louder? Coming closer? Who could it be? Maybe it was that Colonel Smith with American and English soldiers.

Worried, he glanced up at his favorite print, which he had hung above his desk. There was the beaten Napoleon and the remnants of the pride of France, marching back from Moscow only to be beaten again, this time by the English jackals who were lying in wait. He had bought the print as a young man and kept it with him, a reminder of how great his country had once been. For him, everything had changed with his wife's death. Everything but his devotion to France. Everything became the future of France.

He decided the gunfire might be coming from the Crescent Shield, here to rescue Mauritania. But maybe this time they would really steal the molecular computer and kidnap him as well.

He shrugged. It did not matter. They were all too late.

As he returned to his work, the door opened. Roland la Porte ducked his imposing body and entered. "Is the missile programmed?" he demanded. He straightened up, and his large size and personality seemed to fill the room. He was dressed casually in pleated trousers, a good Breton shirt, and a safari jacket. His black boots were polished to a high shine, and his dark, thick hair was smoothed back.

"Don't rush me," Chambord said, irritated. "That gunfire makes me nervous. Who is it?"

"Our old Islamic friends, the Crescent Shield. They're of no consequence. Bonnard and the Legionnaires will beat them off, and then we'll use the Islamics' dead bodies to help guarantee that it's they who're blamed and hunted. It's too bad you were interrupted before you could launch their strike against Israel. That would've provided additional cover for us."

Chambord said nothing. Both knew there had not been time to move their whole operation from Algeria, regroup, and send the missile against Jerusalem. Not when the attack against the United States was the primary goal. Everything must be wrapped up now, so La Porte could spend Sunday making phone calls to solidify support for the EU council vote on Monday.

Chambord was having problems. This was when he could have used Zellerbach's expertise. "The codes are more difficult to break into than the missile I reprogrammed for Mauritania;" he complained. "This missile is as old, but its codes are new—"

General La Porte interrupted, "Put that aside for the moment. I have another assignment for you."

Chambord glanced at his watch. "We have only a half hour! I have to time the Russian satellite precisely to keep my window small. It's no easy matter to open communications to the satellite so I can do its work."

"Plenty of time for your miraculous machine, Doctor. I came to tell you that the Americans have a secret, experimental antimissile defense system. I didn't expect them to deploy it, but I've just learned they've brought it online. It hasn't been approved, but I know it's had success in tests. We can't risk the possibility it'll work, or that our project will fail. You must shut down this new antimissile system, as you have all their other defenses."

"How do you know so much?"

"We all spy on each other, even supposed allies," La Porte said with a shrug. "There are no friends among nations, only interests."

Up on the bare battlements, moonlight reflected off the walls of the castle proper and made the stone walkway along the top seem to flow with a river of blood. Through the mirage, Jon, Randi, and Peter scouted quickly. Marty went with Peter. There were two other sentries on top, and they were quickly dispatched, then the four rendezvoused.

Holding one of the FAMAS assault rifles he had picked up, Peter said simply, "Nothing."

Jon and Randi reported the same. "It's twenty-two minutes to midnight," Randi added. "So little time."

They sped to the long, dark curving stairwell that seemed to drop into dark infinity. Behind them, Marty hung back, a twin of Ranch's HK MP5K in both hands as if he were clinging to it for dear life. His gaze darted nervously.

"The Legionnaires are busy at the entrance," Jon told them. "That's why there aren't any more up here. We've got four stories and the towers to search. Let's split up. We can each take a floor. If anyone needs help, use the walkie-talkies."

"That's dangerous, Jon. Dividing our force," Randi objected.

"I know, but right now losing time is more dangerous. Mart?"

"I'll go with Peter."

Jon nodded. "Take the ground floor. I'll do the second, and Randi the third. We'll meet at the top. Let's go."

They ran down the spiral stone staircase, Peter and Marty leading. Randi peeled off, then Jon.

On the bottom floor, Peter slipped into the corridor first, Marty following. Dim electric lights were spaced widely apart and did little to dispel the dark. There were a few doors on both sides, all set into recesses in the thick walls. Marty opened each door carefully, while Peter waited, weapon up. They found no one. There was no furniture in the first rooms, an indication that at least part of the enormous historic castle was permanently unused.

"You have any idea how much it costs to heat one of these medieval monsters?" Peter whispered rhetorically.

Marty did not believe in rhetorical questions. "No, but if I had a computer, I'd calculate it in seconds." He freed one hand from his heavy rifle and snapped his fingers.

Peter snorted, and they continued their search. Occasionally, the noise of rapid bursts of gunfire penetrated the castle, and it seemed to them that another assault had occurred outside. Then there would be a period of silence, followed by more sporadic shots. In here, it was difficult to tell where the battle was and impossible to know whether there was an outcome, or what it was.

At last, having seen no signs of Dr. Chambord, his DNA machine, General La Porte, or Captain Bonnard, and ducking into rooms to avoid the few sentries patrolling the corridors, they ran back up to the top floor, where Jon and Randi joined them.

The quartet was moving down the hall, checking doors, when two soldiers rounded a corner and almost collided with them. The Frenchmen grabbed their assault rifles off their shoulders in seconds. While Marty stumbled back, his menacing submachine gun ready in case the soldiers broke loose, Randi and Jon swarmed the first one to the floor, and Peter was all over the second with his Fairbairn-Sykes stiletto. There was a sharp gasp, a silenced and muffled pistol report, and neither renegade French soldier moved again.

Marty swallowed hard, gulping air. He detested violence, but his round, gentle face was resolute as he guarded the corridor while the others dragged the corpses into an empty room. The door closed, and the foursome hurried on until Jon, who was in the lead now, stopped at a corner and raised a silencing hand.

He gestured to the others. They padded forward and stopped. Ahead a single sentry was posted outside the usual iron-reinforced wood door, lounging lazily against the stone wall, smoking a cigarette. His gaze was aimed away from them, focused on the door that it appeared he was guarding. Dressed in casual civilian clothes, he wore army boots and a dark green beret pulled down on the left side. His FAMAS assault rifle was slung over his shoulder. All of this indicated he was another French Legionnaire.

As the sentry smoked and yawned, Jon signaled the others again. They waited as he slid softly up behind the man and struck hard with the barrel of his Uzi. The guard dropped like a stone, unconscious. Peter and Jon dragged him into an empty room, gagged him, and tied him up with his own clothing and belt. But not before Randi thought to look and found an oversized iron key in his pocket. Jon appropriated the FAMAS assault rifle and extra ammunition, and they returned to the door that had been under guard.

Peter listened at it. "Someone's moving around inside," he whispered. He tried the door and shook his head. Locked. "They wouldn't guard Chambord."

"Unless it was for protection," Randi said.

"What would they protect him against?" Marty wondered.

"The Crescent Shield attack down below," Randi explained.

"Let's find out." Jon put the key into the lock. The lock had been freshly oiled and turned easily.

Randi pressed the door just wide enough and edged through. Peter slipped after her, while Jon and Marty stayed in the hall, guarding the rear.

Inside, the room was warmer than most, with a fire burning in a large fireplace. Furnished with an odd mixture of heavy medieval pieces and mundane modern, the small room appeared empty. Randi and Peter trained their weapons right and left, standing nearly back to back inside the doorway. Seeing no one, they advanced warily.

Thérèse Chambord arose like a white apparition from behind a long, massive chest of drawers, a heavy candlestick in her hand.

She said in surprised English, "Agent Russell?"

Randi demanded brusquely, "Where's your father? The DNA computer?"

"In the armory. I can take you." She put down the candlestick and hurried forward, tugging a blanket around her shoulders, still dressed stubbornly in her tattered white evening suit. Her bruised face was dirtier. "I heard gunfire. Was that you? Have you come to stop La Porte and my father?"

"Yes, but the gunfire isn't us. The Crescent Shield's outside."

"Oh, dear." Thérèse looked quickly around. "Jon? Is he"

Jon stepped into the room. "What time's the attack planned for?"

"Midnight. We don't have much time."

"Eight minutes," Jon agreed grimly. "Tell us what you know."

"From what I've overheard, and what my father hinted, they're going to shoot a missile at the United States. I don't know the exact target."

"That'll do for now. Here, take this."

He handed her a FAMAS assault rifle, and they ran from the room.

Inside the conference room, President Castilla listened to the steady throb of the four powerful jet engines and checked the clock on the wall. Set to the Naval Observatory Master clock, which was based on fifty-eight atomic clocks, it was phenomenally accurate to within ten nanoseconds. As the president stared at it, the numbers changed to 0552. When were the killers going to strike? The long day had worn them down, grinding nerves raw.

"So far, so good," he announced lightly to no one in particular, although the faces of his military and staff advisers were weary and anxious as they watched him.

"Yessir." Admiral Stevens Brose managed a wan smile. He cleared his throat as if he were finding it difficult to swallow. "We're prepared. STRATCOM is aloft, all our aircraft are on alert, and the new antimissile system's in place and ready to attack the instant there's a target. Everything's been done."

Samuel Castilla nodded. "Everything that can be done."

Through the hush that descended like a shroud over the long table, the National Security Adviser, Emily Powell-Hill, who carried the name of one of the greatest and most tragic Confederate generals of the Civil War, answered, "That's all anyone can do, Mr. President."

Chapter Thirty-nine

In the old armory with its ancestral swords, maces, and battle axes, General La Porte stood beside Emile Chambord, his large hands grasped behind his jacket, as he stared at the computer screen where rows of numbers scrolled. La Porte's broad face was intense, his immobile gaze focused, although he understood nothing that Chambord was doing.

"Is the Americans' antimissile system down yet?" he asked impatiently.

"Another minute." Chambord touched more keys. "Yes there we are. Got it." He leaned back, flushed and exultant. "One very annoying antimissile system shut off and locked up tight."

La Porte's face radiated pleasure. He nodded. Still, his mouth was set in a hard, grim line, and his voice was harsh and demanding: "Finish programming the missile, Doctor. I want it activated and ready to launch."

Chambord glanced up at La Porte and resumed working, although he felt uneasy. He decided that the great general was not merely impatient, he was agitated. Chambord understood impatience and respected it. After all, it arose from eagerness. But agitation was another matter. Something about the general had changed, or perhaps it had been there all along, and now that they were so close to success, the general was revealing himself.

Jon and Randi raised their heads from the tower stairwell and studied the landing outside the armory. The air was less ventilated here, full of the dank odors of mold and old stone that seemed to permeate the castle. In the dim lighting, anyone watching would not see them unless their eyes were drawn by the faintest of movements among the shadows.

Jon checked his watch. Seven minutes until midnight. Too little time.

Impatiently he studied the door to the armory, which Thérèse Chambord had described. It was about twenty feet away. Two soldiers guarded there, but they were unlike the bored, careless sentry at Thérèse's door. Alert and ready, they stood with their feet spread and their weapons two more stubby FAMAS assault rifles conveniently in their hands as they watched all around and glanced periodically back at the door. They would be a lot harder to surprise, and there could be more soldiers inside the armory.

Jon and Randi lowered themselves and ran down the steps. Outside the stairwell on the floor below, the others were gathered, waiting anxiously.

Jon described the layout for them. "The stairs continue circling up into the tower. The landing outside the armory is deep, about twenty feet. It's lit by electric lights, but there aren't enough of them. There are a lot of shadows."

"Any way to flank them?" Peter asked.

Randi answered, "No way to get behind them."

Her words were almost obliterated by a violent escalation of the distant gunfire. It sounded closer, loud and echoing, as if the Crescent Shield had finally broken through some important defense. Perhaps they had finally fought their way into the castle itself.

Jon continued, "From the way the two guards kept looking at the door to the armory upstairs, my guess is that the general is in there with Chambord."

"I agree," Randi said.

"Might be just Captain Bonnard," Peter said. "Or both."

"Someone has to be leading the resistance against the Crescent Shield," Randi said. "Captain Bonnard's the logical one to do that."

"Right," Peter said. "My big worry is those two guards could retreat inside and hold it all night. After all, it's an armory. Armories always had the best defense in a castle. Let's reconnoiter. We've got to find some way to get into that room without alarming them."

"It's six minutes to midnight," Randi said worriedly.

"Oh, dear!" Marty whispered.

With nods all around, they dashed along the corridor toward the moonlight of the far window and a cross corridor. There was movement ahead where the corridors met. Jon saw it just in time to save them from being discovered.

His whisper was a bark, "Down!"

Ahead, figures began to move through the intersection, two and three at a time. Moonlight illuminated their faces as they crossed. One shone like ebony.

"Abu Auda," Randi said in a low voice. "It's a small group. They're being quiet, but I can hear doors opening and closing. They're looking for someone or something."

"Mauritania," Jon decided.

"Yes, Mauritania," Randi agreed. "They're a cutting-out party to free Mauritania."

"But first they've got to find him," Peter said. "That's why they're checking rooms."

Jon paused. "This can work to our advantage. If there were a firefight, it'd bring La Porte and maybe all his other men who aren't already battling the Crescent Shield."

"Once they're gone, getting into the armory will be a cinch," Randi said.

Peter nodded. "Let's give the buggers a firefight."

With Marty following gamely, they ran on toward the intersection. Jon peered around the corner. Far down the hall, just before it turned, Abu Auda worked with what looked like picklocks to open a door, while his men guarded the corridor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

La Porte's voice was calm, calculating. "Move away from the keyboard, Doctor."

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

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

Dr. Chambord frowned again. "But you said you told me"

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

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

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

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

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

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

General La Porte shrugged. "It's necessary."

"Armageddon." Chambord could barely breathe.

"From the ashes, the phoenix of France of Europe will rise again."

"You're mad, La Porte."

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

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

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

"Our dream was a lie."

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

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

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

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

"Back!" Jon warned over the din and flying bullets.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What does it mean?" Marty wanted to know.

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

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

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

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

"Oh, dear. Oh, dear." Marty followed and patted her shoulder.

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

"Is he alive, Jon? Tell me whether he's alive!"

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

Marty shook his round head as if to clear it. "Okay, Jon." He fell into Emile Chambord's chair and went to work on the keyboard.

Peter ran toward the door. "Let's go, Randi. Somebody has to watch their backs."

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

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

She nodded and wept.

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

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

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

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

"Something's happened, Marty. Tell me what it is!"

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

Jon's chest tightened. His mouth went dry. "Where's it going, Mart? What's the target?"

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

Chapter Forty

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

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

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

"How are you holding up, Brandon?"

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

"Tolerable. Starting to sweat though. Could use a shower."

"I know."

"Ready to take over, Brandon?"

"There won't be any need for that."

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

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

"On my way."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bonnard held up his hand. "Stop. Report."

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

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

Bonnard panted. "Colonel Smith's here, General. In the castle. He's got three people with him."

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

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

"What is it, mon General?" Bonnard was watching him weakly, puzzled.

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

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

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

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

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

The first voice, rising now, returned: "I can't get a lock. I can't"

Abu Auda cocked his head, listening. The electric wall lamps had been shot out, and the corridor was in smoky twilight. Slowly he arose behind the barricade, and his desert-trained eyes studied the opposing wall of furniture.

"They're gone, Khalid," he told Mauritania. "Inshallah!" he celebrated.

The men of the Crescent Shield, weary and wounded, shouted a cheer and clambered over the barricade.

Mauritania raised a hand for silence. "Do you hear it?"

They listened. For the moment, there was no gunfire anywhere in the castle. But there was the noise of running feet. Boots. It had to be the Legionnaires of the French general, running not toward them, but the other way toward the keep.

Mauritania's cold blue eyes flashed. "Come, Abu Auda, we must collect the rest of our men."

"Good. We'll leave this accursed castle to fight another day against the enemies of Islam."

Mauritania, still wearing the tattered bedouin robes he'd had on since Algeria, shook his head. "No, my warrior friend. We don't leave this castle without what you came for."

"We came for you, Mauritania."

"Then you're a fool. For our cause, we need Chambord and his miraculous machine. I won't go without it. We'll find the rest of our men, and then the French general. The pig, La Porte. Where he is, the computer will be."

In the dimly lit armory with its musty weapons and chilly air, Marty let out another raging monologue as he struggled to abort the nuclear missile as it closed in on its target.

On the carpet near his feet, Thérèse Chambord stirred. Ever since Jon had pronounced her father dead, she had sat motionless beside him, weeping quietly, holding his hand, almost in a trance.

Now as Marty suddenly resumed ranting, she lifted her head, listening

"You cannot win, you unenlightened beast! I don't care how difficult that diabolical Emile's codes are. I will flay you alive and hang your scaly skin on my walls with all the other fire-breathing dragons I've bested in mortal combat. There, you feeble creature, take that! Yes, there goes another defense take this Aha!"

Meanwhile, outside on the tower landing, Peter and Randi crouched in long shadows, guarding the armory. The air smelled of dust and cordite floating up from below, stinging their noses.

"Hear that, Peter?" Randi asked in her low, throaty voice.

Her weapon was trained on the enclosed stairwell, which descended from here all the way to the castle's first level as well as rising into the east tower above them. There was an opening the size of a large door at each level.

"Indeed I do hear it. Buggers just won't quit. Annoying." Peter's gun was trained on the opening to the stairwell, too.

They listened to boots climbing up toward them, trying to be quiet on the stone steps. As soon as the first of the Legionnaires appeared, Randi and Peter fired. There was a spray of blood as a bullet shattered the fellow's temple. He fell back. There was a sudden scramble as the rest of the Legionnaires retreated.

Peter turned and called an urgent warning into the armory: "Heads up. La Porte's men have arrived!"

"Hurry it up in there!" Randi shouted. "It sounds as if there are a lot more than we expected!"

Thérèse, still seated on the floor beside her father's corpse, seemed to rally. "I'll help." She squeezed her father's hand and rested it on his chest. She laid his other hand on top of the first. She sighed, picked up the FAMAS rifle Jon had given her, and stood. She looked frail and distraught in the armory's musky light.

Jon said, "Are you all right?"

"No. But I will be." It was almost as if a wave of energy coursed through her, and she seemed to gather herself. She gazed down at her father, a sad smile on her face. "He lived a good life and did important work. At the end, he was betrayed by a delusion. I'll always remember him as a great man."

"I understand. Be careful out there."

She nodded. With her free hand, she collected the ammunition Jon had given her and moved off toward the landing. She broke into a trot as she disappeared out the door.

Almost immediately Jon heard her FAMAS open fire to help repel another attack up the stairs. The responding fire was blistering. La Porte's renegade soldiers were fighting back this time. The noise echoed through the armory, sending chills up Jon's spine. He wanted to be out there, helping them.

Jon said, "Mart? How are you doing? Are you making any progress? Is there anything I can do to help?" If they had little time to escape, America had less.

Marty was leaning intently over his keyboard. There was an air of expectation about him, perhaps even hope. His portly body was almost doubled over, coiled tight as a spring. "Die! Die! Die! You monstrous monster of. " He sprang up.

"What is it?" Jon asked. "What's happened!"

Marty pirouetted, raised his arms above his head, and pumped his fists up and down with excitement.

"Dammit, Marty. Tell me what's happened!"

"Look! Look!" Marty pointed at the monitor.

As the gunfire lessened again out on the landing, Jon stared. Instead of the monotonous lines of numbers and letters, the black monitor sparkled with silver-white stars, a rendition of the night sky. On the right side was an outline of the French coast, while on the left were landmarks indicating the United States as far west as Omaha, Nebraska. A dotted red line was moving in an arced path toward Omaha. At the end of the line, seemingly pulling it along, was a tiny red arrow.

"Does this show the progress of the missile Chambord launched?" Jon asked. "The one with the nuclear warhead?"

"Yes. Keep your eyes on the screen." Marty looked at his watch and counted, "Five-four-three-two-one!"

The red arrow exploded in a small white burst, like a puff of whipped cream.

Jon stared, hoping he understood correctly. "Is that the missile?"

"Was the missile!" Marty did a wobbly dance on the stone floor. "It's gone!"

"That's it? You're sure, Mart?" Jon stared, allowing himself the first tendrils of excitement. "Absolutely sure?"

"I made it blow itself up! While it was still over the ocean. It never even reached our coast!" He twirled and listed over to kiss the monitor, nearly losing his balance. "Wonderful machine! I love you, machine!" A tear appeared at the corner of his eye. "America's safe, Jon."

Chapter Forty-one

In the old armory, Marty skipped in a circle, celebrating his triumphant destruction of the nuclear missile that would have killed millions of Americans.]on watched his joy for a few seconds, still absorbing the great news himself, while outside on the landing, occasional bursts of gunfire told him that Peter, Randi, and Thérèse were holding on, defending the tower from being overrun by the Legionnaires.

But they could not stop them forever. They were badly outnumbered. Now that the missile threat was over, they needed to escape.

Marty stopped to face Jon. His voice was breathy and filled with relief, as if he could hardly believe it himself. "America's safe, Jon. America's safe!"

"But we're not, Marty." Jon ran to the door to check on the activity on the landing. "Can you restore all the satellite communications?"

"Of course."

"Do it."

Marty swung back to the computer and resumed work.

Jon leaned out to where Peter, Randi, and Thérèse guarded the stairs. They were kneeling and lying flat, finding cover where they could in the large, shadowy space.

"Can you hold them a few more minutes?" he asked.

"Make it damned few," Randi warned, her face worried.

He nodded and rushed back to Marty. "How much longer?"

"Wait there!" Marty grinned up at him. "Compared to stopping the missile, this was a stroll on the beach. The communications are clear."

"Good. Send this." Jon rattled off a series of numbers, a code that guaranteed his message would reach Fred Klein. "Then add: La Porte, Normandy, Chateau la Rouge, now."

Marty's fingers flew. He was bouncing in his chair, still excited, radiating optimism. "Done. What next?"

"Next we run."

Marty looked shocked. He frowned and shook his head. "No, Jon. We can't just leave the computer. We'll dismantle it. That way we can take it with us."

"Wrong," Jon snapped. He had tried that already, and the firing outside the armory was growing louder. "We don't have time."

Marty wailed, "But, Jon, we have to take the prototype. What if General La Porte's people recapture it?"

"They won't," Jon grabbed the protesting genius and dragged him toward the door.

"Let go, Jon," Marty said huffily. "I can walk by myself."

"Run."

On the landing, Peter, Randi, and Thérèse had beaten the renegade Legionnaires back down the steps once more. Thérèse had ripped up her last remaining sleeve and used it to bind a bloody flesh wound on Peter's thigh. Randi had been hit in the upper arm, the bullet going clean through without any major damage. A tight bandage stemmed the bleeding.

"What happened?" Randi asked. "Did you stop the strike?"

"You bet," Jon assured them. "Marty did it again."

"Took you bloody long enough," Peter grumbled, but his leathery face was spread in a large smile as he continued to watch the stairwell.

Jon crouched beside Peter. "Give me a grenade."

Peter, old soldier that he was, asked no questions. He removed a hand grenade from his backpack and passed it over to Jon without a word.

"I'll be right back."

Jon ran back into the armory, laid the grenade on top of the tray of gel packs, and pulled the pin. He hurtled away as if all the hounds of Hades were on his heels.

As he burst back out onto the landing, he shouted, "Everyone down!"

They fell flat onto the stone floor. The grenade exploded behind them, sending steel fragments and wood splinters flying past in a deadly hail. At the top of the stairs, a Legionnaire cried out, blood spurting from his face where shards cut him. He fell back down out of sight.

"What in hell did you do that for, Jon?" Randi demanded.

"The gel packs," Jon explained. "They're the key to the molecular computer. They contain the DNA sequence that Chambord created. Any scientist near his level of expertise could've used just one of them to reproduce Chambord's work."

Marty nodded, his expression miserable. "They wouldn't have needed even a full gel pack. All anyone had to do was scrape up some residue to get a sample."

Jon said, "The gel packs had to be completely destroyed in case they fell into the wrong hands."

They stopped talking as the sound of booted feet making another charge up the stairs echoed toward them. Peter, Randi, and Jon ran to the stairwell and fired down. No Legionnaires were in sight. The bullets ricocheted below, and they heard angry curses and the noises of a retreating scramble.

Marty had been looking around the tower landing, beginning to grasp the desperate struggle out here, while he had been at work inside the armory on the DNA computer. He gazed at them and swallowed hard. He tried to make his voice cheerful.

"Isis this a 'grand' battle, Peter?"

"Grand," Peter said, "but probably short. Those stairs down, I fear, are the only way out of the tower. And the Legionnaires don't seem willing to give us safe passage."

"We're trapped?" Marty's face stretched in terror.

"Unless we figure something else out," Randi agreed.

As if to echo the dire pronouncements, General La Porte's booming voice shouted up in French, "You must surrender, Colonel Smith! We outnumber you three to one, and more of my men arrive every minute.

You can't escape past us."

Randi said, "The general isn't going to be in a forgiving mood when he learns we blew his scheme."

"Not to mention that he can't leave any of us alive if he plans to get away clean," Peter pointed out.

Randi said, "That's probably why he shot Dr. Chambord, and I don't hear Captain Bonnard's voice down there. Do any of you?"

Heavy gunfire interrupted her. It sounded as if it were coming from the floor below. They readied themselves, but this time there was no charge up the stairwell. Instead, the firing moved farther away, growing louder and more intense. They heard shouts in Arabic, Pashto, and other languages.

"The Crescent Shield's very near," Thérèse realized.

"They're attacking La Porte's group from the rear," Peter decided. "And while dying for one's country may have its points, let's hope our Islamic friends have made that option less necessary for us."

Marty had been watching Jon, who had been studying the stairwell, his weapon grasped at the ready. "You have a plan, Jon, I hope?"

"No reason to go down," he decided. "We'll go up into the tower. With Randy's climbing gear, Peter's plastique, and a few more grenades, it's our best chance."

"And there's that pleasant little chopper sitting out there on the barbican we spotted when we arrived," Peter reminded them.

"Stupendous!" Marty started up the stairs in his awkward gait. "The race is to the swift, o paladins. Let us be very swift."

As the others raced after Marty, Peter and Jon sent a final long volley down the stairs.

"Two stories, I should think," Peter said as he turned and ran upward.

But a sudden draft of heat made Jon stop. He stepped back onto the landing. Smoke rolled out from the armory door, and then flames. All that old, oversized wood furniture that La Porte favored must have caught fire from the grenade explosion.

He hurried up the stone stairs, remembering the crates of ammo he had also seen in the armory, stacked in the back. The boots of La Porte's men hammered behind him, closing in. Jon caught up with the others, and he and Peter grabbed the wobbling Marty by each arm and propelled him along between them.

Thérèse had pulled out ahead, running like a gazelle, while Randi dropped back to cover the rear. She turned frequently to slow the pursuit with bursts of her MP5K.

"Across the tower!" Thérèse was breathing hard, a white streak in the darkness.

"Randi and I'll hold off the Legionnaires here," Jon told them. "Thérèse, you take Marty and run ahead and pick a window. Not one of the archers' windows. Get something we can crawl through, as close to the barbican as you can get. Peter, fuse some plastique and plant it ten yards or so away."

Peter nodded, while Jon and Ranch dropped to the stone floor to open fire on the lead pursuers. Their bullets felled the first two quickly, while the third plunged back down the circular stairs. The injured two did not move. For a moment, there was no pursuit, while the gunfire grew heavier from what was now far below. Apparently La Porte and his men were being kept so busy by the Crescent Shield that they could spare only a few for this pursuit, but that could change quickly.

The faint sound of voices drifted up the stairs, followed by footsteps trying not to be heard. There was also the vague odor of smoke from a wood fire, not only the gun smoke one would expect. Jon debated whether to tell the others about the flames and the boxes of ammo in the armory.

In the end, he decided against it. There was nothing they could do about it now, except accelerate every action. Escape as quickly as possible. Which was what they were doing already.

"Done," Peter called out softly.

Jon and Randi fired another volley at the first Legionnaire who came into sight, sending him scurrying back.

Then they ran after Peter. The three had reached a cross corridor at the far side of the tower when Peter's plastique exploded in a shattering blast that flung them forward hard, onto their faces. Behind them, the corridor collapsed in a tangle of stone and smoke. Ahead, Thérèse stood in the doorway to one of the tower's rooms, gesturing them to come ahead.

Coughing, Peter picked a grenade from his web belt and crouched where he could watch the smoking stone rubble.

Again, Randi and Jon ran. The room had three narrow windows as well as a good-sized one, which was where Thérèse and Marty were waiting anxiously.

"We can see the helicopter from here," Marty told Randi. Then he worried: "It looks very small."

"It'll do, if we can get to it." Randi hooked her mini-grappling hook into a crevice on the tower wall outside the window, threw the coiled nylon-covered wire down to the ramparts seven levels below, slid into the harness, and dropped.

As soon as she had landed, Jon said, "You next, Marty."

"Oh, very well." Marty sat on the windowsill and shut his eyes. "I'm inured to danger."

The harness was back almost instantly, and Thérèse and Jon strapped him into it and lowered him over the side. Marty landed, the harness sped back up, and Thérèse followed him down just as a grenade exploded out in the passageway.

Screams and yells followed as Peter sprinted into the room. His face was looking particularly grim. "I'm here, Jon. Let's bunk."

Jon motioned to the window. "You first, Peter. Age before beauty."

"For that remark, my boy, you can stay." Peter tossed the last grenade to Jon and glided over the edge just as the harness returned.

As Peter buckled himself in and disappeared, Jon waited, his gaze on the door. His heart was pounding.

When the harness reappeared, he snared it and quickly crawled inside. Just then, two Legionnaires stormed into the room. As he dangled high above the parapet, Jon pulled the pin, lobbed the grenade, and released the lock so he could drop down the castle's wall.

As he sped downward, the detonation made the wire swing violently, and he felt the hook slip. He inhaled and increased his speed dangerously, hoping he had time to reach the bottom before the hook broke free. His rib cage tightened as he realized how much gray smoke was drifting out of some of the tower's windows.

At last, just as his feet touched the rampart, the hook burst out and fell, nearly hitting him. With relief, he saw that Peter, Marty, and Thérèse were already running off toward the barbican where the little scout helicopter was parked.

Shouts erupted not from above, but from along the rampart wall.

"It's the Crescent Shield tin's time!" Ranch' shouted. "Faster!"

Jon and Randi tore after their friends. Peter was already behind the controls of the shuddering helicopter, its rotors spinning, and Thérèse and Marty were strapped into passenger seats. Jon and Randi leaped in, too.

Peter lifted off, banking the chopper violently away from the castle as the first Crescent Shield soldiers came into view, firing as they ran.

Bullets pierced the walls and pinged off the landing struts. Everyone was breathing hard. They looked at one another silently, unable to speak, as Peter pushed the chopper farther and farther away from La Porte's red-stone castle. The stars were a glittery display in the smooth night sky, untouched as if nothing unusual had just happened. Jon thought about General La Porte, about the Crescent Shield, about all the havoc and terror of the last few days, and wondered again at how so much evil could be done in the name of good.

Nearly a mile from the castle, they were just beginning to relax when they heard a volcanic roar. It shook the air around them, and the helicopter shuddered.

They whipped around in their seats just in time to see the east tower of Chateau la Rouge disappear in a violent outburst of fire and stone. Smoke billowed. Red and gold flames shot up against the night sky. Debris shimmered as it flew through the air.

"Good God, Jon," Peter said. "I'm impressed. What happened?" He turned the helicopter around so it faced back at the castle. He hovered there so they could watch.

"Yes. Well, I meant to mention that," Jon said.

"Mention what?" Randi asked instantly. "What've you been holding back?"

Jon shrugged. "Ammunition. Crates of ammo stored at the back of the armory."

Peter's voice rose. "You exploded a grenade in a room where there were ammo supplies? And you didn't warn us?"

"Hey, so you didn't notice the crates," Jon said huffily. "Do I have to point everything out to you? Besides, the ammo was pretty far away."

"Don't feel bad, Peter," Marty said helpfully. "I didn't see the ammunition either."

Thérèse's face had blanched white. "Neither did I, for which I'm now very grateful."

"The whole point of this long, dangerous exercise was to stop the threat of the DNA computer." Randi was staring at Jon, fighting a smile at the guilty look on his handsome face. "You succeeded, Jon. You blew it up with the grenade."

"We succeeded," Jon agreed, "despite everything."

Peter nodded gruffly. Then he smiled. "Are we ready to go home now?"

For another minute, they continued to study the display as the fire spread through the great old castle in the distance. Then Peter banked the chopper in a long slow circle, preparing to resume their flight southeast toward Paris. Jon and Randi pulled out their cell phones to make full reports to their bosses. Thérèse leaned back in her seat and sighed wearily.

"See those little bright specks in the sky?" Marty asked no one in particular, peering east. "They look like lightning bugs. Can anyone tell me what they really are?"

Everyone stared as the points of light grew larger.

"NATO helicopters," Jon said at last. "I count twenty of them."

"They're heading for the castle," Randi decided.

"Guess your message got through, Jon." Marty described how Jon had given him a code to alert his superiors to the castle at Chateau la Rouge. "I sent it just before Jon destroyed the prototype."

Suddenly the dark night air seemed full of the aircraft large, troop-carrying helicopters that dwarfed their little Bell scout. The newcomers were flying in a pack, passing to the north in perfect formation. Moonlight made them glow like otherworldly beasts, and their rotors looked like spinning silver swords.

The accumulation of so many was breathtaking. The big choppers landed across the moonlit Norman farmland, still in formation. NATO soldiers jumped out, spread out, and moved at a fast trot toward the burning castle, where the flames licked higher and had spread into what appeared to be half the castle. There was a precision and decisiveness about the troops that was reassuring.

"Pleasant to see NATO in action," Jon said in vast understatement.

Marty nodded and sighed. "Peter, we've seen enough. Take us back to Paris. I want to go home."

"Right you are," Peter said, and they resumed the journey.