'How long will the electronic communications be compromised?'
'No way to tell. Could be until we find that computer. Meanwhile, we'll switch to couriers and drops, verbal and manual codes, and a dedicated surface phone line over secure diplomatic fiber-optic phone cables where we can monitor for any break-ins and fix them in seconds. We used to get a lot of intelligence accomplished that way in the old days, and we can do it again. The DNA computer won't help them there. That was smart to get to me through Colonel Hakkim. Here's the new secure private phone number they'll have up as fast as they can, so you can call direct next time.'
Klein relayed the number, and Jon memorized it.
Klein continued, 'What about General Henze and that hospital orderly who tried to kill Zellerbach?'
'False alarm. Turns out the 'orderly' was Peter guarding Marty for MI6. He ran because he couldn't taint his operation. He went to Henze's pension to interview Henze's sergeant, not the general.' Jon explained what Peter had wanted with Sergeant Matthias.
'A phone call out of NATO headquarters? Damn, that doesn't sound good to me. How do we know Howell isn't lying?'
'He isn't,' Jon snapped flatly, 'and there are a lot of people at NATO. I'm already wondering about one of them, a Captain Bonnard. The Black Flame expected me in Toledo, so either I was tailed or they were tipped. Bonnard is the personal aide to a French general, Roland la Porte. He's the'
'I know who he is. Deputy supreme commander.'
'Right. Bonnard is the one who gave La Porte the data about the fingerprints and DNA analysis in Chambord's file, proving he was dead. He also brought La Porte the file on the Black Flame and Toledo. His position with the general is ideal. Just where anyone would put a spy if they could. He'd have access to just about whatever he wanted in NATO, France, and most of Europe, in the name of the general.'
'I'll see what I can dig up on Bonnard and on Sergeant Matthias. Meanwhile, you'd better go back to Henze. NATO's got Europe's most complete data on current terrorist groups and alliances. Whatever I can dig up here, I'll shoot over to Henze.'
'That's it?' Jon asked.
'That's all no, wait! Damn. Because of Chambord and the Crescent Shield, I almost forgot. I just got a call from Pans that Marty Zellerbach started talking an hour ago. Out of the blue. Full sentences. Then he fell back asleep. Not much, and he's not completely coherent yet. That could be the Asperger's Syndrome, I suppose. But stop in Paris on your way to Brussels.'
Excitement rushed through Jon. 'I'll be there in two hours or less.' He hung up and turned, almost laughing with relief. 'Marty's out of the coma!'
'Jon, that's wonderful!' Randi flung her arms around his neck in a joyous hug.
He hugged back and swung her up off her feet.
From the sofa, Peter cocked his head, listening closely. And jumped up. 'Quiet!' He ran back to the window and leaned toward it, listening intently. His thin, muscular body was like a coiled spring, taut, nervous.
'Did you hear it again?' Randi's whisper was tense.
He gave one sharp nod. He whispered back, 'That same breathing whistle on the wind in the night. It was there. This time I'm certain. A signal. We'd better'
Above them, there was a faint clink of metal striking stone. Jon padded to the staircase and pressed his ear against the wall, feeling for vibrations.
'Someone's on the roof,' he warned.
And then all three heard it: A strange sound, like a breathy whistle through the teeth of someone in restless sleep. Or perhaps from a lonely night bird far away. Not just from below, but from above. They were surrounded.
Chapter Eighteen
The harsh, splintering sound of a door being forced open below signaled the attack.
Randi jerked her head up. 'The stairs!'
Her weapon aimed ahead of her, she sprinted from the office, her blond hair flashing with white light as she bolted past Jon.
Peter's leathery face was grim as he sped toward the shutters that covered the balcony door, snapping off lights as he ran. 'Check the back windows.'
As gloom descended, Jon raced through the bedroom behind the office to the rear, while at the stairwell Randi peered down and opened up with her HK MP5K in careful bursts of three. There was a scream from below, followed by the sound of feet and two wild shots. She held her fire.
In the sudden vacuum of sound, Jon checked out the windows. Beneath the safe house, the back patio appeared inhabited only by benches and plants awash in moonlight and shadows. He studied the area, looking for movement, but then heard a muted shuffle in the office behind him.
As he tore back to investigate, there was a choking gasp. Jon stopped just inside the door. Peter was crouched over the fallen figure of a man in black street clothes, wearing heavy black gloves, and a flat hat like those worn by Afghan mujahedeen. His head and face were completely hidden by a black balaclava.
'Glad you haven't lost your touch.' Jon stepped past Peter to check the balcony. It was empty, except for a nylon rope that dangled from the roof. 'Not particularly clever, but it got him inside.'
Peter wiped the blood from his old Fairbairn-Sykes stiletto on the attacker's pants. 'Fellow thought he was quiet as a dormouse.' He peeled up the balaclava, revealing brown, sun-dried skin, a beard trimmed short, and an expression of outrage. 'I've got a plan. If I'm right about their plan, it should give us a chance.'
'And if you're wrong?'
There was another burst of gunfire from Randi on the stairs followed by another cry of pain from below. Eerie silence again settled over the safe house.
Peter shrugged. 'Then we're probably cooked, as the goose said to the gander.'
Jon hunched down beside him in the shadows. 'Tell me what you have in mind.'
'We're in a box, true. But they're in a bind, because we've shown sharp teeth, and the gunshots will bring the police. They know that. They must make their move soon. Any forced action leads to carelessness and thus errors. They attacked openly from the street level, which I think was cover to send our dead friend here' he gestured at the corpse at his feet' to hold the balcony, while others would come down from the roof to trap us between them and the bottom assault team.'
'So why don't we hear a charge down the stairs from up top? What are they waiting for?'
'I suspect for a signal from the forward reconnoiterer this poor sod here. A weakness in their plan, and now we can take advantage of that weakness.' Peter put on the dead man's balaclava and flat Afghan hat. He stepped out onto the balcony.
Seconds later, Jon heard the soft night-whistle signal once more. This time it came from Peter. Soon after, a door creaked upstairs. An old door, warped and damaged by the weather where it opened onto the roof, as was true of so many Madrid buildings.
Peter stepped back into the room. 'That should do it.'
Jon ran into the room he had chosen as his bedroom, aimed his Sig Saner at his laptop, and fired. He was going on the run, and the laptop could hold him back. He sped back across the landing and told Randi, 'Fire a burst, and get in here.'
Randi shot one volley, then a second, and bolted back into the office, where she joined Jon on the balcony. Peter was already climbing the rope, while Jon steadied it with both hands, one foot anchoring it.
Randi gazed down warily. The street was deserted, but she could almost feel the eyes of terrified innocents hiding in doorways and behind windows, poised to flee, but also drawn almost hypnotically to witness others' violence and danger. It was that atavistic grip of the hunt, the ancient will to survive that lurked in the Cro-Magnon brain and influenced so many human actions.
Jon looked up and saw that Peter had reached the top. 'You next,' he breathed into her ear. 'Go.'
She slung her submachine gun over her back and jumped up onto the balcony railing. She grabbed the rope,
