all of the highly mechanized, cyber-smart armies of the member nations at his disposal. Yet he was feeling powerless in the face of this new enemy little known, without territory or tribe, with hardly a way of life to protect. Only an apocalyptic vision and impossible-to-satisfy grievances.
He rubbed his eyes, looking tired. 'I went through one kind of 'new' war, Colonel Smith, and it damn near destroyed me. After Vietnam, I'm not sure I can handle another 'new' one. Maybe it's just as well. Time for a new kind of commander.'
'We'll get it done,' Jon said.
Henze nodded. 'We have to win.' Looking drained, he indicated Jon should pick up the file folders.
Jon took them, saluted, and left. In the corridor, he paused and decided to take the files to Brussels, where he was to meet Randi. He could study them there. As he walked off, he heard his name called. He turned to see General the Count Roland la Porte striding toward him with a broad smile.
'Bonjour, General La Porte.'
Doors seemed to rattle on their hinges as the massive general cruised past. 'Ah, Colonel Smith. The man who's given us all the great shock. We must speak at once. Come, my office is near. We will have coffee, non?'
Jon agreed they would have coffee, and he followed La Porte into his office. The general sat in a large red leather armchair in the style of a British club chair. It looked as if it were the only piece of furniture besides the desk chair that would not crumble under his oversized body. He assigned Jon another delicate occasional chair from the Louis Quinze period. Soon a nervous young French lieutenant served coffee.
'So, our Emile is alive after all, which is magnifique, but the kidnappers have him, which is not so magnifique. You could not be mistaken, Colonel?'
'Afraid not.'
La Porte nodded, scowling. 'Then we've been duped. The remains found in the bombed Pasteur building were not there by accident, nor the fingerprints and DNA profile in his Sret file, and the Basques were only a front, a charade to hide the real terrorists. Is that so?'
'Yes,' Jon acknowledged. 'The actual perpetrators call themselves the Crescent Shield. A multiethnic, multinational Muslim extremist group led by a man who calls himself M. Mauritania.'
The general gulped angrily at his coffee. 'The information I was given, and then gave to you, appears to have misled you on many counts. I apologize for this.'
'Actually, it was following the trail of the Basques that revealed most of what we know now, so in the end you turned out to be of great help, General.'
'Merci. I take comfort in that outcome.'
Jon put down his cup. 'May I ask where your aide, Captain Bonnard, is?'
'Darius? I sent him on a mission to the South of France.'
Not far from Spain. 'Where exactly, General?'
La Porte stared at Jon, frowned. 'Our naval base at Toulon and then on to Menorca for an errand. Why? What are these questions about Darius?'
'How well do you know Captain Bonnard?'
'Well?' La Porte was astonished. 'You suspect Darius of? No, no, that's impossible. I can't think such a treason.'
'He gave you the information you gave me.'
'Impossible.' The general glared in anger. 'How well do I know Darius? As a father knows his son. He's been with me six years. He has a spotless record with many decorations and commendations for courage and daring from before the first time we were together when he was a platoon commander for me in the Fourth Dragoons in the Iraq War. Earlier, he was a poilu in the Second Foreign Legion Infantry Regiment operating in North Africa at the request of nations that were our former colonies and still called on us from time to time for aid. He was commissioned from the ranks. How can you suspect such an honored man?'
'An enlisted man in the Legion? He's not French?'
'Of course he's French!' La Porte snapped. His broad face seemed to freeze, and a look of discomfort took hold on it, squeezing his features. 'It's true his father was German. Darius was German-born, but his mother was French, and he took her name when he was commissioned.'
'What do you know of his private life?'
'Everything. He's married to a fine young woman from a good family with many years of service to France. He's a student of our history, as am I.'
La Porte swept his arm in a wide circle to encompass the entire office, and Jon saw that the walls were covered with paintings, photographs, drawings, maps, all of great moments in French history. There was one exception, a photograph of the painting of the red-stone castle Jon had seen first in the general's Paris mansion.
But the general was still talking. 'History is more than the story of a nation, a people. Real history chronicles a country's soul, so that to not know the history is to not know the nation or the people. If we do not know the past, Colonel, we are doomed to repeat it, non? How can a man devoted to his country's history betray it? Impossible.'
Jon listened with a growing sense that La Porte was talking too much, defending Bonnard too hard, as if to convince himself. Was the general realizing deep down that what he saw as impossible might just be possible? There was more than a little doubt in the general's final few words. 'No, I cannot believe it. Not Darius.'
But Jon could, and as he left the office, he glanced back at the general in his great, thronelike chair. La Porte was brooding, and there was dread in his unfocused gaze.
Peter Howell dozed on the narrow cot he had insisted the hospital move into Marty's private room, when a bee or wasp or some kind of annoying flying stinger buzzed his ear. He slapped hard and awakened to the pain in his head where he had clouted himself and the harsh, insistent ringing of the room telephone on the stand next to his pillow.
Across the room, Marty stirred, mumbling.
Peter glanced at him and grabbed the phone. 'Howell.'
'Sleeping were we, Peter?'
'An unfortunate necessity at intervals even for a field operative, no matter how inconvenient for you nine-to- five civil servants who get to spend every night in your own bloody beds, or your mistress's.'
In London, Sir Gareth Southgate chuckled. But there was no real amusement in the sound, for it had been his unenviable task, as the head of MI6, to manage Peter Howell long past when he should have seen the maverick's backside. But nothing about the retired agent was normal, including his pleasure in being troublesome. The fact was, Peter Howell was a brilliant operative, which made him useful in emergencies. Therefore, jocularity and a very rigid lip were the methods Southgate had chosen to deal with him.
But now Southgate's chuckle died in his throat. 'How is Dr. Zellerbach, Peter?'
'Unchanged. What the devil do you want?'
Southgate kept his voice light, but added an overtone of gravity: 'To give you some disturbing information, and to ask your oh-so-insightful opinion on the matter.'
In the hospital room, Marty stirred again. He appeared restless. Peter looked at him hopefully. When Marty seemed to fall back into slumber, Peter returned his attention to the conversation with Southgate. Once he knew he had gotten under any of the bosses' skins, he became quite civil. Noblesse oblige. 'I am, as we say in California, all ears.'
'How nice of you,' Southgate commented. 'This will be ultrasecret. PM's eyes only. In fact, I'm making this call using a brand-new scrambler and encryption code, to make bloody damn sure the terrorists haven't had a chance to break through it yet. And I'll never use it again, not until we get that monstrous DNA computer under our control. Do you read me clearly, Peter?'
Peter growled, 'Then you'd best not tell me, old boy.'
Southgate's testmess rose closer to the surface. 'I beg your pardon?'
'The rules haven't changed. What I do on an assignment is my decision. Should I, in my judgment, need to share the information to achieve the goal, then I will. And you may tell the PM that.'
Sir Gareth's voice rose. 'Do you enjoy being an arrogant bastard, Peter?'
'Immensely. Now tell me what you want me to know or push off, right?' Peter figured it was only logical that
