twice. If I got in here, I can get you out. Where did you find that pistol? That may come in handy.'
Chambord gave a humorless smile. 'Everyone thinks I'm a helpless old man. They think that. So they're not as alert as they should be. In one of the many cars they used to transport me, someone left a gun. Naturally, I took it. They've had no reason to search me since.'
Therese put a hand over her mouth. 'What were you going to do with it, Papa?'
Chambord avoided her gaze. 'Perhaps we shouldn't talk about that. I have the gun, and we may need it.'
Jon said, 'Help me dismantle your computer and answer some questions. Quickly.'
As Chambord turned the machine off, Jon asked, 'How many are in the villa? What's the access like? Is there a road out? Cars? What kind of security in addition to the guards outside?'
Analyzing information was familiar territory for Chambord. As they disengaged wires and tubes, he said, 'The only access I saw was a gravel road that connected with the coast highway. The highway runs between Algiers and Tunisia, but it's more than a mile inland. The road ends at what appears to be a small training camp for new recruits. The car that brought us here is parked there with some former British military vehicles. I saw a helipad near the training center, and I believe there were two old helicopters parked on it. I can't say exactly how many men are in the house. At least a half dozen are guarding it, probably more. They're always arriving and departing. Then, of course, there are the new recruits as well as a cadre at the training facility.'
As Jon listened, he controlled his frustration with Chambord, who was working slowly, methodically as they took apart the prototype. Too slowly.
Jon weighed options. Those cars parked near the helipad would work, if they could sneak out to them without being detected. Jon told them both, 'Okay, here's what we're going to do'
Under the high dome of the villa's great hall, spotlights bathed the mosaics in a warm glow as Mauritania interrogated an exhausted Dr. Akbar Suleiman. They spoke in French, since the Filipino did not know Arabic. While Suleiman stood in front of him, Mauritania remained seated on the large table, his short legs dangling and swinging like those of a boy sitting on the limb of a tree. He enjoyed his small size, his deceptive softness, the stupidity of those who believed in the superficiality of physical strength.
'Then what you're saying is that Smith broke into your apartment without warning?'
Suleiman shook his head. 'No, no! A friend at the Pasteur alerted me, but only a half hour earlier. I had to make my emergency calls, tell my girlfriend what to do, and there was no time to escape sooner.'
'You should've been more prepared. Or at least called us, not handled it yourself. You knew the risks.'
'Who would've thought they'd locate me at all?'
'How did they?'
'I don't know for sure.'
Mauritania said thoughtfully, 'The address in your hospital file was incorrect, as instructed?'
'Of course.'
'Then someone knew where you lived and sent them to you. You're sure there was no one else? He was wholly alone?'
'I neither saw nor heard anyone else,' Suleiman repeated wearily. The trip had been long, and he did not sail well.
'You're certain no one followed you once you escaped your apartment?'
Suleiman grumbled, 'Your black man asked me that, and I told him the same as I tell you. My arrangements were foolproof. No one could follow.'
There was a sudden commotion, and Captain Darius Bonnard entered angrily, with two armed bedouins and the towering Abu Auda himself immediately after. Mauritania saw Bonnard's rage and Abu Auda's fierce gaze, which bored across the great room and into Dr. Akbar Suleiman.
Abu Auda snarled, 'His 'black man' asks you no more, Moro. A car followed me all the way to Barcelona, where I was able to lose it at last, but only with difficulty. No one had followed me until then. So where did the car come from, eh? From you, Suleiman. You must've been surveilled when you ran away from Paris, which meant you led them to me at the lodge. And you, fool, didn't even know it!'
Bonnard's anger had built even higher. His face was violent red as he told Mauritania, 'We have evidence Suleiman brought them from Barcelona to Formentera to here. At the very least, he's compromised us!'
As Suleiman blanched, Mauritania asked quickly, 'Here? How do you know this?'
'We don't speak idly, Khalid.' Abu Auda scowled at Suleiman.
Captain Bonnard switched to French. 'One of your men is dead on the motor launch, and he didn't die by stabbing himself. Suleiman brought an extra passenger, who's no longer on the boat.'
'Jon Smith?'
Bonnard shrugged, but his face remained furious. 'We'll know soon. Your soldiers are searching.'
'I'll send more.' Mauritania snapped his fingers, and all of the men poured out of the hall.
In the dark night, the lightless SH-60B Seahawk helicopter hovered low over an open area near plastic greenhouses and citrus groves a mile from the villa. The air whipped Randi's face as she stood in the open doorway and hooked the rescue cable onto her harness. She was wearing night combat camos with a black watch cap covering her blond hair. She carried equipment attached to her mesh belt and wore a backpack with more equipment. She gazed down, thinking about Jon, wondering where he was and whether he was all right. Then her mind moved to the mission itself, because in the end that was most important. More important than either hers or Jon's life. The DNA computer must be destroyed so that whatever madness the terrorists planned was stopped.
She gripped her harness and nodded her readiness. The crewman at the hoist watched the pilot, who finally nodded that he had the chopper in position, hovering. The signal given, Randi jumped into the dark void. The crewman let out the hoist as she descended. She fought the terror of falling, of the failure of equipment, blocked all her fears from her mind until, at last, she bent her knees and rolled onto the ground. Quickly she unhooked the harness. There was no need to bury it. They would know she was here soon anyway.
She bent to the small transmitter. 'Saratoga, do you read me? Come in Saratoga.'
With a clean, clear sound, a voice from the cruiser's combat information center responded, 'We read you, Seahawk 2.'
'This could take an hour, maybe more.'
'Understood. Standing by!'
Randi shut off the radio and stowed it in a pocket of her camos, unslung her MP5K mini-submachine gun from her shoulder, and loped off. She avoided the main road and the beach. Instead, she worked her way through the citrus groves and past the greenhouses, their plastic coverings stirring with the wind. The moon hung low on the horizon, its milky light reflecting eerily on the plastic. In the distance, surf pounded the beach, rhythmic as a heartbeat. Above her, the stars had come out, but the sky seemed more black than usual. Nothing moved on the highway or out at sea, and there were no houses in sight. Only the ghostly-orange and lemon trees, and the shifting glitter of the greenhouses.
At last she heard two cars speeding along the highway, their motors loud assaults in the quiet night. They roared past, and abruptly their tires screeched and burned rubber as they made the sharp turn inland that Max had identified from the air. In a few minutes, the engines stopped, cut off as if a curtain of silence had fallen over them. Randi knew the only residence ahead was the villa. The speed indicated someone had felt an urgent need to get to the villa.
She accelerated into a serious run and soon reached the high white wall, where she discovered it was topped by coils of razor wire. An open space of almost ten yards had been cut between the vegetation and the wall as far as she could see, which meant she would not be helped out by overhanging branches. She unslung the backpack she had loaded on the Saratoga with equipment flown to her by the CIA and pulled out a small air pistol, a miniature titanium barbed dart, and a roll of thin nylon-covered wire. She attached the wire to a miniature ring on the dart, inserted the dart into the pistol barrel, and searched until she found a thick old olive tree some ten feet inside the wall.
She stood back and fired. The dart landed where she wanted into the tree. She returned the pistol to her backpack, put on padded leather gloves, and, grasping the wire, she swarmed hand over hand up to the top of the wall. Once there, she hooked the wire to her belt, returned the gloves to the backpack, and brought out a miniature pair of wire cutters. She clipped a three-foot opening in the razor wire, returned the cutters, and slid over the wall
