The Paris Option

here, too. Hoping he would find all of them, he circled through more empty rooms, searching.

The Naval Base, Toulon, France

In the spring twilight, Matre Principal Marcel Dalio left the Toulon naval base through the security gate. He was a nondescript man in many ways, of average height and weight, and circumspect in his demeanor. But his craggy face made him a standout. Although he was a virile fifty-year-old, he looked a good twenty years older. It came from the years at sea in the constant sun, wind, and salt air. The elements had etched his face into a Grand Canyon of ravines, crevices, and mesas.

As he walked along, his great face, handsome in its dramatic character, turned to take in all the sights of the Toulon harbor with its fishing boats, private yachts, and cruise ships, which were just beginning the season. Then his gaze swept out to sea where his own ship, the mighty carrier Charles de Gaulle, rode at anchor. He was proud to be a matre principal, similar to a chief petty officer in the American navy, and even prouder to serve on the grand De Gaulle.

Soon Dalio reached his favorite bistro, on a narrow back street off the quai Stalingrad. The proprietor greeted him by name, bowed, and ceremoniously led him to his favorite secluded table at the rear.

'What is best today, Csar?' Dalio asked.

'Madame has outdone herself with the daube de boeuf, Matre Principal.'

'Then bring it, by all means. And a nice

Cotes du Rhone

.'

Dalio sat back and glanced around the provincial bistro. As the naval petty officer had expected, since the season was spring the restaurant was not yet crowded. No one showed interest in him or his uniform. Tourists tended to stare at a uniformed Frenchman in Toulon, since many came principally to see the naval base, hoping to have a good view of the warships and, if very lucky, an onboard tour.

When his food and wine arrived, Dalio ate his daube de boeuf slowly, savoring the heavy flavor of the mutton stew as only the proprietor's wife could create it. He made short work of his

Cotes du Rhone

, its lovely mulberry color glistening like blood in his wineglass. He finished with a tarte au citron and lingered over his demitasse coffee. At last he left for the pissoir at the rear. Like all those near the quai Stalingrad, this bistro catered to tourists most of the year. For the sensibilities of the well-paying American crowd, it had not only installed separate facilities for men and women, it also included stalls in both.

Inside the door, Dalio noted with relief that the pissoir appeared empty. He bent over to check that all the stalls were, too. Satisfied, he locked himself inside the one he had been told to use, lowered his trousers, and sat. He waited.

Moments later, another man entered the next stall and spoke softly in French. 'Marcel?'

'Oui.'

'Relax, old friend, you'll be revealing no state secrets.'

'You know I wouldn't do that anyway, Peter.'

'True,' Peter Howell acknowledged. 'What did you discover?'

'Apparently' Dalio paused as a man entered the men's room. As soon as the fellow washed his hands and left, Dalio continued, 'The official word was that we had orders from NATO to demonstrate our drill for running dark to a committee of EU and NATO generals.'

'Which NATO generals?'

'One was our Deputy Supreme Commander, General Roland la Porte.'

'The others?'

'Didn't recognize them,' the matre principal told him, 'but by their uniforms, they were German, Spanish, English, and Italian.'

Two more men pushed into the facility, laughing raucously while holding a loud, half-drunken conversation. In the stalls, Peter and Marcel Dalio remained silent while they endured the stumbling, slurring inanity.

In Peter's mind, he was gauging whether their behavior was real or an act for his and Marcel's benefit.

When the pair left, having at last worked out who would attempt to seduce the redhead on the barstool next to them, Peter sighed. 'Bloody boors. Very good, Marcel. You've given me the official line. What's the unofficial?'

'Yes, I thought you might ask about that. A couple of the stewards told me the generals never went out on deck. They spent their whole time in a closed meeting below, and then they left the ship right after the meeting ended.'

Peter came alert. 'How'd they get off the ship?'

'Helicopters.'

'They flew to the ship on their own choppers and left in them, too?'

Dalio nodded. Then he remembered Peter could not see him. So he said, 'That's what the stewards thought. I was below most of the cruise so didn't see any of it.'

So that's where General Moore was, Peter thought. But why? 'Did any of the stewards know what the meeting was about?'

'Not that they mentioned.'

Peter stroked his nose. 'See if you can find out, and if you do, contact me through this phone number.' Under the partition he slid a card on which he had written the phone number of an MI6 contact drop.

'All right,' Dalio agreed.

'Merci beaucoup, Marcel. I owe you.'

'I'll remember that,' the matre principal said. 'I hope I never have to collect.'

Peter left first, and then Dalio, who returned to his table to enjoy a second pot of demitasse coffee. He glanced idly around the entire restaurant once more. He saw no one he knew or anyone who looked suspicious. Peter himself, of course, was nowhere to be seen.

The Western Mediterranean, Aboard Missile Cruiser USS Saratoga

The combat information center of the AEGIS Weapons System cruiser was a dark, cluttered cave. It had the almost-odorless, highly filtered smell of all U.S. government locations where millions of taxpayer dollars in electronic equipment were at work. Randi sat behind a communications technician, watching mechanical hands sweep across luminous radar and sonar screens, while she listened to Max's voice on the radio shout above the throb of the Seahawk helicopter's rotors.

The chopper was patrolling along the Algerian coast, and Max had radioed to let her know he had found the boat on which Jon had stowed.

'It's the same boat,' he bellowed.

'You're sure?' Randi pursed her lips and considered the tiny blip on the radar screen relayed from the Seahawk.

'Definite. I spent a lot of time studying it while Jon was swimming out to it and then after he boarded.'

'Any sign of people? Of Jon?'

'No one and nothing,' Max's voice shouted.

'It's getting dark out there. How far away are you?'

'Over a mile, but I'm using binoculars, and I can see it clear. No raft or dinghy on the boat.'

'Where could they have gone?'

'There's a big villa on a finger of land that juts out into the Mediterranean. About a half mile inland are a bunch of low buildings that could be barracks. Looks like there's a parade ground, too. The whole thing's pretty isolated. The main road turns off before it gets near the place, and then it passes far south.'

'You can't see any people? Any activity?'

'Nothing.'

'Okay, come on back.' Randi mulled the information. At last, she turned to the young petty officer who had been assigned to help her. 'I need to talk to the captain.'

She found Captain Lainson having coffee in his quarters with his executive officer, Commander Schroeder. They had been ordered to detach from their carrier group to shepherd what appeared to be a minor clandestine CIA mission, and this had put neither officer in a good mood. But they sat straighter and listened with obvious interest as Randi described her plans and needs.

'I think we can insert you and stand ready easily enough, Agent Russell,' Commander Schroeder assured her.

'This is cleared with Washington and NATO, I presume?' Captain Lainson questioned.