He blinked harder, forced himself to concentrate, and saw they had forced Therese Chambord into the van. He ran again, his feet pounding, fury shaking him. He raised his Sig Sauer and fired a warning shot into the ground at the feet of one of the men who were trying to kidnap Therese.
'Stop!' Smith bellowed. 'Stop, or I'll kill you all!' His head throbbed. He kept blinking his eyes.
Two of the attackers spun expertly, crouched, and squeezed off rounds, forcing Smith to hit the ground again.
As he raised up, aiming the Sig Sauer, the pair leaped into the van next to Therese, while the third jumped into the passenger seat. The man in the passenger seat struggled to close the door as the van ground gears and sped backward out of the driveway. The side door was still open.
Smith aimed for the tires, squeezing off careful rounds. But there was a fourth man. As he ran alongside the van, preparing to leap inside through the open sliding door, the man fired back at Smith.
Two of the kidnapper's shots bit into the pavement, sending chunks of concrete thudding into the back of Smith's head. He swore, rolled away, and fired. His bullet hit the fourth man in the back just as he had turned to jump inside the van. Blood sprayed out into the dark air, and the man's body arched in a bow. His hand slid off where he gripped the door handle, and he fell screaming as the rear wheel powered over him.
Tires screeching, the van sped on out into the street and away. Smith chased after it, panting. As his feet hammered, his muscles began to ache. He ran and ran until his heart thundered and the van turned the corner and disappeared, a pair of red taillights the only sign that it existed and had not been part of some twisted nightmare.
He stopped and leaned over, gasping for breath. He propped his empty hand and his gun hand on his thighs as he tried to fill his lungs. He hurt all over. And Therese Chambord was gone. At last he caught his breath. He filled his lungs and stood upright in a pool of yellow lamplight. His gun hand dangled at his side. He closed his eyes and inhaled, mentally testing his head. His mind. It did not hurt, and he was no longer dizzy.
He was beginning to think he did have a mild concussion from the gunman this morning at the hospital. He would have to be more careful, but he was not going to stop.
Cursing, he ran back to where the fourth attacker lay face down and unmoving on the dark Seine-St-Denis driveway, blood oozing out beneath. Smith checked him. He was dead.
Sighing, he searched the man's pockets. He found French coins, a wicked-looking clasp knife, a package of Spanish cigarettes, and a wad of loose facial tissues. No wallet, no identification. The dead man's pistol lay on the pavement near the curb. It was a battered, old-model Glock, but well oiled and cared for. He examined it, focusing on the butt. A leather skin had been shrunk around the original grip, for comfort or silence, or maybe just as a mark of individuality. Smith looked closer. A design had been tooled faintly into the leather: It was a spreading tree with three points of flame rising over the base of the trunk, consuming it.
Smith was studying it when police klaxons began to wail in the distance. He lifted his head, listening. He must not be found here. Pocketing the dead man's Glock, he hurried away.
The Hotel Gilles was on the Left Bank, not far from the colorful shops and restaurants of the boulevard Saint-Germain. A discreet little hotel, it was where he had stayed many times when visiting Paris. He entered the tiny lobby and headed to the nineteenth-century registration desk, set in a hand-crafted, wrought-iron gilt cage. With every step, he worried more about Therese Chambord.
The manager greeted him with a Gallic cry of recognition, an emotional hug, and a stream of rapid English. 'Colonel Smith! So much delight! I am without speech. You will be with us for long?'
'It's good to see you, too, Hector. I may be here for weeks, but I'll be in and out. Keep the room in my name whether I'm here or not until I officially check out. Okay?'
'It is done. I refrain from examining the reservations, they are as nothing for you.'
'Merci beaucoup, Hector.'
In the pleasant although far-from-modern hotel room, he slung his bag and laptop onto the bed. Using his cell phone with its built-in scrambler, he dialed Fred Klein, waiting as the call bounced off innumerable relays around the world to finally be picked up wherever Fred was.
'So?' Fred Klein said.
'They've kidnapped Therese Chambord.'
'I just got the news. One of her neighbors saw quite a bit of it, including some crazy man who tried to stop the kidnapping. The French police relayed the information. Fortunately, the neighbor didn't get a good look at the man's face.'
'Fortunately,' Smith agreed dryly.
'The police have no clue who the kidnappers are, or why, and it's got them mighty unhappy. Why kill Chambord but only kidnap his daughter? If the bombers have full data for the molecular computer, why kidnap her at all? Was she taken by the same people who blew up the Pasteur and killed Chambord, or by other people entirely? Are there two groups involved — one that has the data and another that wants it, so they've snatched Mile. Chambord in the hope she has something to tell them?'
'That's an unpleasant thought. A second group. Damn.'
'Hope I'm wrong.' Klein sounded frustrated.
'Yeah. Swell. But we've got to keep it in mind. What about the police report about me and Therese Chambord? Do I need to take a new cover?'
'So far you're clear. They've questioned a taxi driver who took a man fitting your description to the Champs Elysees, where he got out and went into a nightclub. Luckily for us, no one in the nightclub recalls exactly what you look like, and of course you didn't give your name. The police have no other leads. Nice work.'
'Thanks,' Smith said tiredly. 'I need some help with the meaning of a symbol I found: It's a tree with a broad canopy, and there are three flames burning at its base as if fire is about to consume it.' He explained how he had found the picture tooled lightly into the kidnapper's leather pistol grip.
'I'll check on the image. How did your meetings with Mike Kerns and General Henze go?'
Smith relayed what he had learned from both men, including the black Citron that periodically was seen picking up Chambord. 'And there's something else you need to know. I hope it's not what it could be.' He told the head of Covert-One about the 'hospital orderly' who had been welcomed by the master sergeant into the highly secure pension where General Henze was staying.
Klein swore under his breath. 'What the devil's going on? It can't mean the general's mixed up in anything. Not with his record. If it's anything more than some bizarre coincidence, I'd be shocked. But it's got to be looked into. I'll handle it from my end.'
'Could the sergeant be a security problem? A mole of some kind?'
Klein's voice hardened. 'That's unthinkable, too. You stay away from it. We don't want anything to hurt your cover. I'll have Sergeant Matthias investigated from this end, too, and I'll find out about that tree symbol.' Klein clicked off.
Smith sighed, exhausted. He hoped an explanation of the tree graphic would lead him to Therese. With luck, the terrorists would not be far away. He moved his suitcase from the bed and pushed down on the familiar mattress. The bed was springy but firm in the French way, and he looked forward to spending some quality time in it, sleeping.
In the bathroom, he stripped off his clothes and plunged into the shower. It had been installed in the ancient tub since he was here last. Once he had washed off the trip and the exertions of the day, he wrapped himself in a terry-cloth robe, sat at the window, and pushed open the shutters so he could gaze out across the steepled rooftops of Paris.
As he sat there, his mind wandering and weary, the black sky suddenly split open with a bright bolt of lightning. Thunder crashed, and rain poured down. The storm that had threatened all day had finally arrived. He lifted his face outside his window and let the cool raindrops splash him. It was difficult to believe that only yesterday he had been in his laboratory at Fort Collins, the dawn rising over the sweeping prairies of eastern Colorado.
Which made him think of Marty. He closed the shutters. As the rain made a rhythmic tattoo, he dialed the hospital. If anyone was listening in, they would hear the concerned friend they expected, using the phone innocently. No suspicions nor subterfuge.
The ICU nurse told him Marty's condition was basically unchanged, but he was still showing small signs of progress. Feeling grateful, he said bonsoir, hung up, and dialed the hospital's security office. The chief was gone for
