Chambord's death and was distraught, actually in tears. Devastating grief. That should give the motivation. He couldn't go on without his mentor.'
'You know nothing more? Not even from your French army headquarters?'
'Not a word.'
Mauritania considered. 'That doesn't worry you?'
'No news is good news.' Bonnard gave a cold smile at the clich.
Mauritania's nose wrinkled with disgust. 'That's a Western proverb as dangerous as it's stupid. Silence in a matter such as this is far from golden. A suicide is difficult to fake well enough to fool police detectives with any brains or experience, to say nothing of the Deuxieme Bureau. I suggest you or your people find out what the police and secret service actually know about the assistant's death, and find out quickly.'
'I'll look into it,' Bonnard agreed grudgingly. He adjusted his weight, preparing to stand.
But Mauritania raised his small hand, and, with a sigh, Bonnard sank back down onto the low, hard chair.
'One more thing, Captain Bonnard. This friend of Zellerbach's What do you know about him?'
Bonnard would soon be missed from work and wanted to leave. He controlled his impatience and said, 'The man's name is Lieutenant Colonel Jonathan Smith. He's an old friend of Zellerbach's, a medical doctor, and was sent here by Zellerbach's family. At least that's what Smith told the hospital, and from what I've been able to learn from my other sources, it's accurate. Zellerbach and Smith grew up together in some place called Iowa.' He had trouble pronouncing it.
'But from what you've also told me about the assassination attempt on Zellerbach at the hospital, this Dr. Smith acted more like a man with combat or police experience. You say he came to the hospital armed?'
'He did, and I agree his actions were far from medical.'
'Possibly an agent? Placed in the hospital by someone who's unconvinced by our charade?'
'If Smith is, he's not CIA or MI6. I'm familiar with all their people in Europe and on the European desks at Langley and London SIS. He's definitely American, so unlikely Mossad or a Russian. And he's not one of ours. That I'd definitely know. My sources within American intelligence say he's simply an army research scientist assigned to a U.S. military medical research facility.'
'Absolutely American?'
'The clothes, the manner, the speech, the attitude. Plus the confirmation by my contacts. My reputation on it.'
'Perhaps he could be a Company man whom you don't know? Langley lies about such things. Their business is to lie. They've grown rather good at it.'
'My contacts don't lie. Plus, he's in none of our files at military intelligence.'
'Could he be an agent from an organization you don't know, or don't have sources to?'
'Impossible. What do you take us for? If the Second Bureau doesn't know any such organization, it doesn't exist.'
'Very well.' Mauritania nodded. 'Still, we'd better continue to watch him, your people and mine.' He rose in a single fluid motion.
With relief, Captain Bonnard struggled to his feet from the low chair. His legs felt nearly paralyzed. He had never understood why these desert people were not all cripples. 'Perhaps,' he said, massaging behind his knee, 'Smith is nothing more than what he appears. The United States thrives on a culture of guns, after all.'
'But he'd hardly be allowed to carry one to Europe on a commercial flight without some predetermined reason, and a very important one at that,' Mauritania pointed out. 'Still, perhaps you're right. There are ways to acquire guns here, too, including for foreigners, yes? Since his friend was the victim of violence, Smith may have come for revenge. In any case, Americans always seem to feel less vulnerable when they have a weapon. Rather silly of them.'
Which left Captain Bonnard with the distinct impression that the enigmatic and occasionally treacherous terrorist chief did not think Bonnard was right at all.
On high alert, Jon Smith strolled toward the boulevard Pasteur, all the while pretending to look for a taxi to hail. He kept turning his head left and right, apparently studying the traffic for a potential ride, but really probing for whoever was out there watching him.
Automotive exhaust filled the air. He looked back toward the institute's entrance, where the guards were checking identifications. Finally he decided on three potentials: A youngish woman, mid-thirties or so, dark-haired, no figure to speak of, lumpy face. Altogether unremarkable in a dull black skirt and cardigan. She had stopped to admire the gloomy brick-and-stone church of Saint-Jean Baptiste de la Salle.
The second potential was a middle-aged, equally colorless man, wearing a dark blue sports coat and corduroy jeans, despite the warm May weather. He stood before a street vendor's cart, poring over the items as if he were looking for a lost masterpiece. The third person was a tall old man, leaning on a black ebony cane. He was standing in the shadow of a tree near the curb, watching the smoke at the Pasteur drift upward.
Smith had close to two hours before the meeting President Castilla had arranged with General Henze, the NATO commander. It would probably not take that long to lose whoever was interested in him, which meant maybe he could get some information first.
All this time, he had continued to pretend to be looking for a taxi. With a dramatic shrug of disgust, he walked onward toward the boulevard Pasteur. At the intersection, he turned right, sauntering toward the bustling Hotel Arcade with its glass, steel, and stucco facade. He glanced into store windows, checked his watch, and finally stopped at a caf, where he chose an outside table. He ordered a demi, and when the beer arrived, he sipped and watched the passing parade with the relaxed smile of a recently arrived tourist.
The first of the trio to appear was the tall old man who had been leaning on his cane in the shadow of a tree, watching the smoke from the bombed building, which could be suspicious in itself. Criminals were known to be drawn back to the scene of an attack, although this man looked too old and disabled to have taken on the duties of a sneak bombing. He limped along, using the cane expertly, and found a seat at a caf directly across the street from Smith. There he took a copy of Le Monde from his pocket and, after the waiter brought coffee and pastry, unfurled it. He read as he sipped and ate, apparently with no interest in Smith. In fact, he never looked up from his newspaper again.
The second to arrive was the lumpy-faced young woman with the dark hair and nondescript appearance, who suddenly was walking past the caf not five feet from where Smith sat. She glanced directly at him and continued on without showing the faintest interest, as if he were simply empty space. Once past, she paused as if considering stopping for a drink, too. She seemed to dismiss the thought and moved on, disappearing into the crowded Hotel Arcade.
The third person, the man who had been shopping with such concentration at the street vendor's cart, did not appear.
As he finished his beer, Smith replayed his observations of the tall old man and the nondescript woman their facial features, the rhythm of their movements, the way they held their heads and used their hands and feet. He did not leave until he was certain he had memorized them.
Then he paid and moved briskly back along the boulevard toward the Pasteur metro station at the intersection with the rue de Vaugirard. The old man with the cane soon appeared behind, moving well for his age and apparent infirmity. Smith had seen him instantly. He monitored the fellow with his peripheral vision and continued to watch for anyone else who appeared suspicious.
It was time to use an old tradecraft trick: He ducked into the metro, watching. The man with the cane did not follow. Smith waited until a train pulled into the station, and then he joined the stream of passengers that was exiting back to the street. A block away, under the leaden sky, the old fellow was still walking along. Smith hurried after, keeping just close enough to observe, until the man turned into a bookstore with a gone to lunch sign in French posted in the glass door. Key in hand, he unlocked the door. Once inside, he turned the sign around to open, dropped his cane into a stand by the door, and shrugged out of his suit coat.
There was no point in pressing the situation, Smith decided. After all, the fellow did have a key. On the other hand, he wanted to make certain. So he stopped outside the big plate-glass window and watched as the man shoved his arms into a beige sweater-vest and methodically buttoned it from the top down. When the man finished, he took a seat on a high stool behind the counter, looked up, saw Smith, and smiled and gestured for him to come
