'Could be a test of Chambord's prototype, if he had one. If someone stole it.'
'No kidding. The way it stands, Chambord's lab is gone. He's dead or missing. And his work is destroyed or missing.'
Jon nodded. 'You're thinking the bomb was planted to hide his murder and the theft of his records and prototype.'
'An operational DNA computer in the wrong hands is not a pretty picture.'
'I was already planning to go to Paris, because of Marty.'
'I thought so. It's a good cover. Besides, you'll have a better chance of recognizing a molecular computer than anyone else in Covert-One.' Klein raised his anxious gaze to stare out across the enormous prairie sky as if he could see ICBMs raining down. 'You've got to find out whether Chambord's notes, reports, and data were destroyed, or whether they were stolen. Whether there really is a functional prototype out there somewhere. We'll work the usual way. I'll be your only contact. Night or day. Whatever you need from any part of the government or military on both sides of the pond, ask. But you must keep a lid on it, understand? We don't want any panic. Worse, we don't want an eager Second or Third World country cutting a unilateral deal with the bombers.'
'Right.' Half the non advanced nations had little love for the United States. Neither did the various terrorists who increasingly targeted America and Americans. 'When do I leave?'
'Now,' Klein said. 'I'll have other Covert-One experts on it, of course. They'll be following other leads, but you'll be the main thrust. The CIA and FBI have sent people out, too. And as for Zellerbach, remember I'm as concerned as you. We all hope he regains consciousness quickly. But there may be damn little time, and many, many other lives are at stake.'
Chapter Two
It was the end of his shift and nearly six P.M. when Farouk al Hamid finally peeled off his uniform and left
Worn out and depressed from his long day of mopping floors, carrying great hampers of soiled linen, and performing the myriad other back-breaking jobs of a hospital orderly, he took a seat at a table neither outside nor inside, but exactly where the series of front glass doors had been folded back and the fresh outside spring air mingled with the aromatic cooking odors of the kitchen.
He glanced around once, then ignored his fellow Algerians, as well as the Moroccans and Saharans, who frequented the caf. Soon he was drinking his second glass of strong coffee and shooting disapproving glances at those who were indulging in wine. All alcohol was forbidden, which was a tenet of Islam ignored by too many of his fellow North Africans, who, once they were far from their homelands, felt they could leave Allah behind, too.
As Farouk began to seethe, a stranger joined him at the table.
The man was not Arabe, not with those pale blue eyes. Still, he spoke in Arabic. 'Salaam alake koom, Farouk. You're a hardworking man. I've been watching you, and I think you deserve better. So I have a proposition to make. Are you interested?'
'Wahs-tah-hahb?' he grumbled suspiciously. 'Nothing is for free.'
The stranger nodded agreeably. 'True. Still, how would you and your family enjoy a holiday?'
'Ehs-mah-lee. A holiday?' Farouk asked bitterly. 'You suggest the impossible.'
The man spoke a higher-class Arabic than Farouk did, if with some odd accent, perhaps Iraqi or Saudi. But he was not Iraqi, Saudi, or Algerian. He was a white European, older than Farouk, wiry and darkly tanned. As the stranger waved for the waiter to bring more coffee, Farouk al Hamid noted that he was well dressed, too, but again from no particular nation he could identify, and he could identify most. It was a game he played to keep his mind from his weary muscles, the long hours of mindless labor, the impossibility of rising in this new world.
'For you, yes,' the old stranger agreed. 'For me, no. I am a man who can make the impossible possible.'
'La. No, I will not kill.'
'I haven't asked you to. Nor will you be asked to steal or sabotage.'
Farouk paused, his interest growing. 'Then how will I pay for this grand holiday?'
'Merely by writing a note to the hospital in your own hand. A note in French saying you're ill and you've sent your cousin Mansour to take your place for a few days. In exchange, I'll give you cash.'
'I do not have a cousin.'
'All Algerians have cousins. Haven't you heard?'
'That is true. But I have none in Paris.'
The stranger smiled knowingly. 'He has only now arrived from Algiers.'
Farouk felt a leap inside him. A holiday for his wife, for the children. For him. The man was right, no one in Paris would know or care who came into work at the mammoth Pompidou Hospital, only that the work was done and for small money. But what this fellow, or someone else, wanted would not be good. Stealing drugs, perhaps. On the other hand, they were all heathens anyway, and it was none of his affair. Instead, he concentrated on the joy of going home to his family to tell them they would be holidaying where?
'I would like to see the Mediterranean again,' Farouk said tentatively, watching the man closely for a sign that he was asking too much. 'Capri, perhaps. I have heard Capri's beaches are covered by silver sand. It will be very expensive.'
'Then Capri it is. Or Porto-Vecchio. Or, for that matter, Cannes or Monaco.'
As the place names rolled off the stranger's tongue, magical, full of promises, Farouk al Hamid smiled deep into his tired, hungry soul and said, 'Tell me what you wish me to write.'
A few hours later, the telephone rang in a shabby rooming house tucked among the wine warehouses on the banks of the Garonne River outside the southern city of Bordeaux. The only occupant of the room was a small, pasty-faced man in his mid-twenties who sat on the edge of his cot, staring at the ringing phone. His eyes were wide with fear, his body trembling. From the river, shouts and the deep braying of barge horns penetrated the dismal room, and the youth, whose name was Jean-Luc Massenet, jerked like a plastic puppet on a string as each loud noise sounded. He did not pick up the telephone.
When the ringing finally stopped, he took a notepad from the briefcase at his feet and began to write shakily, his speed accelerating as he rushed to record what he remembered. But after a few minutes, he thought better of it. He swore to himself, tore off the sheet of paper, crumpled it into a wad, and hurled it into the wastebasket. Disgusted and afraid, he slapped the notepad down onto the little table and decided there was no other solution than to leave, to run away again.
Sweating, he grabbed the briefcase and hurried toward the door.
But before he could touch the knob, a knock sounded. He froze. He watched the door handle turn slowly right and left, the way a mouse watches the swaying head of a cobra.
'Is that you in there, Jean-Luc?' The voice was low, the French a native's. Surely whoever spoke was no more than an inch from the door. 'Captain Bonnard here. Why don't you answer your phone? Let me in.'
Jean-Luc shuddered with relief. He tried to swallow, but his throat was as dry as a desert. Fingers fumbling, he unlocked the door and flung it open onto the dreary hallway.
'Bonjour, mon Capitaine. How did you?' Jean-Luc began.
But with a gesture from the brisk, compact officer who strode into the room, he fell silent, respectful of the power of the man who wore the uniform of an elite French paratroop regiment. Captain Bonnard's troubled gaze took in every detail of the cheap room before he turned to Jean-Luc, who was still standing motionless in the open doorway.
'You appear frightened, Jean-Luc. If you think you're in such great danger,' he said dryly, 'I suggest you close the door.' The captain had a square face, reassuring in its strong, clear gaze. His blond hair was clipped short around his ears in the military way, and he exuded a confidence to which Jean-Luc gratefully clung.
Jean-Luc's ashen face flushed a hot pink. 'I'm sorry, Captain.' He shut the door.
