all back. But Sophia was gone, and what mattered now was Marty.
'What the hell was he doing at the Pasteur?'
Klein took his pipe from his pocket and brought out his tobacco pouch. 'Yes, we wondered about that, too.'
Smith started to speak again then hesitated. Invisible to the public and to any part of the government except the White House, Covert-One worked totally outside the official military-intelligence bureaucracy and far from the scrutiny of Congress. Its shadowy chief never appeared unless something earthshaking had happened or might happen. Covert-One had no formal organization or bureaucracy, no real headquarters, and no official operatives. Instead, it was loosely composed of professional experts in many fields, all with clandestine experience, most with military backgrounds, and all essentially unencumbered without family, home ties, or obligations, either temporary or permanent.
When called upon, Smith was one of those elite operatives.
'You're not here because of Marty,' Smith decided. 'It's the Pasteur. Something's going on. What?'
'Let's take a walk outside.' Klein pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and tamped tobacco into his pipe.
'You can't light that here,' Smith told him. 'DNA can be contaminated by airborne particles.'
Klein sighed. 'Just one more reason to go outdoors.'
Fred Kleinand Covert-One trusted no one and nothing, took nothing for granted. Even a laboratory that officially did not exist could be bugged, which, Smith knew, was the real reason Klein wanted to leave. He followed the intelligence master out into the hall and locked his door. Side by side, they made their way downstairs, past dark labs and offices that showed only occasional light. The building was silent except for the breathy hum of the giant ventilation system.
Outside, the dawn sunlight slanted low against the fir trees, illuminating them on the east with shimmering light while on the west they remained tarry black, in shadows. High above the campus to the west towered the Rocky Mountains, their rough peaks glowing. The valleys that creased the slopes were purple with night's lingering darkness. The aromatic scent of pine filled the air.
Klein walked a dozen steps from the building and stopped to fire up his pipe. He puffed and tamped until clouds of smoke half-hid his face. He waved some of the smoke away.
'Let's walk.' As they headed toward the road, Klein said, 'Talk to me about your work here. How's it going? Are you close to creating a molecular computer?'
'I wish. The research is going well, but it's slow. Complex.'
Governments around the world wanted to be the first to have a working DNA computer, because it would be able to break any code or encryption in a matter of seconds. A terrifying prospect, especially where defense was concerned. All of America's missiles, secret systems at NSA, the NRO's spy satellites, the entire ability of the navy to operate, all defense plans anything and everything that relied on electronics would be at the mercy of the first molecular computer. Even the largest silicon supercomputer would not be able to stop it.
'How soon before the planet sees an operational one?' Klein wanted to know.
'Several years,' Smith said without hesitation, 'maybe more.'
'Who's the closest?'
'Practical and operational? No one I've heard of.'
Klein smoked, tamped down his burning tobacco again. 'If I said someone had already done it, who'd you guess?'
Precursor prototypes had been built, coming closer to practicality each year, but an actual, complete success? That was at least five years away. Unless Takeda? Chambord?
Then Smith knew. Since Klein was here, the clue was the Pasteur. 'Emile Chambord. Are you saying Chambord is years ahead of the rest of us? Even ahead of Takeda in Tokyo?'
'Chambord probably died in the explosion.' Klein puffed on his pipe, his expression worried. 'His lab was completely destroyed. Nothing left but shattered bricks, singed wood, and broken glass. They've checked his home, his daughter. Looked everywhere. His car was in the Pasteur parking lot, but they can't find him. There's talk.'
'Talk? There's always talk.'
'This is different. It comes from top French military circles, from colleagues, from his superiors.'
'If Chambord were that near, there'd be more than talk. Someone knew.'
'Not necessarily. The military checked in with him regularly, but he claimed he was no farther along than anyone else. As for the Pasteur itself, a senior researcher of Chambord's stature and tenure doesn't have to report to anyone.'
Smith nodded. This anachronism was true at the renowned institute. 'What about his notes? Records? Reports?'
'Nothing from the last year. Zero.'
'No records?' Smith's voice rose. 'There have to be. They're probably in the Pasteur's data bank. Don't tell me the entire computer system was destroyed.'
'No, the mainframe's fine. It's located in a bomb-proof room, but he hadn't entered any data in it for more than a year.'
Smith scowled. 'He was keeping longhand records?'
'If he kept any at all.'
'He had to keep records. You can't do basic research without complete data. Lab notes, progress sheets. Your records have to be scrupulous, or your work can't be verified or reproduced. Every blind alley, every mistake, every backtrack has to be chronicled. Dammit, if he wasn't saving his data in the computer, he had to be keeping it longhand. That's certain.'
'Maybe it is, Jon, but so far neither the Pasteur nor the French authorities have found any records at all, and believe me, they've been looking. Hard.'
Smith thought. Longhand? Why? Could Chambord have gotten protective once he realized he was close to success? 'You figure he knew or suspected he was being watched by someone inside the institute?'
'The French, and everyone else, don't know what to think,' Klein said.
'He was working alone?'
'He had a low-level lab assistant who's on vacation. The French police are searching for him.' Klein stared toward the east, where the sun was higher now, a giant disk above the prairie. 'And we think Dr. Zellerbach was working with him, too.'
'You think?'
'Whatever Dr. Zellerbach was doing appears to have been completely unofficial, almost secret. He's listed only as a 'general observer' with Pasteur security. After the bombing, the police immediately went to his hotel room but found nothing useful. He lived out of one suitcase, and he made no friends either there or at the Pasteur. The police were surprised by how few people actually recalled him.'
Smith nodded. 'That's Marty.' His reclusive old friend would have insisted on remaining as anonymous as possible. At the same time, a molecular computer that was near fruition was one of the few projects that might have seduced him from his determined isolation in Washington. 'When he regains consciousness, he'll tell you what Chambord's progress was.'
'If he wakes up. Even then it could be too late.'
Jon felt a sudden anger. 'He will come out of the coma.'
'All right, Colonel. But when?' Klein took the pipe from his mouth and glared. 'We've just had a nasty wake- up call that you need to know about. At 7:55 Washington time last night, Diego Garcia Island lost all communications with its aircraft. Every effort to revive them, or trace the source of the shutdown, failed. Then precisely five minutes later, communications were restored. There were no system malfunctions, no weather problems, no human error. Conclusion was it had to be the work of a computer hacker, but no footprints were found, and every expert short of heaven says no existing computer could've pulled it off without leaving a trace.'
'Was there damage?'
'To the systems, no. To our worry quotient, one hell of a lot.'
'How does the timing compare to when the Pasteur was bombed?'
Klein smiled grimly. 'A couple of hours later.'
