elevators were nearby, and a man with pale skin, dressed in ordinary clothes, was circling away from them, an Uzi in his hands.
Jon released the door, and as it swung back, he sprinted. The man turned around, blue eyes narrowed. It was too soon. Jon had hoped to slip up behind. His finger on the trigger, the man raised his weapon. No time. Jon threw the knife. It was not meant for throwing, not balanced properly, but he had nothing else. As it spun end over end, Jon lunged.
Just as the man compressed the trigger, the knife's handle hit his side, ruining his aim. Three bullets spit into the floor next to Jon's feet. Concrete chips sprayed the air. Jon slammed his shoulder into the gunman's chest, propelling him back into the side of a Volvo. Jon reared back and crashed a fist into his face. Blood spurted from the fellow's nose, but he merely grunted and swung the Uzi toward Jon's head. Jon ducked and dodged back, while behind him silenced gunfire spit.
As Jon looked up from his crouch, the man's chest erupted in blood and tissue. Jon spun around on his heels.
Peter stood off to the side, his 9mm Browning in his hands. 'Sorry, Jon. No time for a fistfight. Must get the hell out of here. My rental car's outside. Used it to get Marty out of the Pompidou Hospital, so I doubt anyone's made it. Randi, grab everything in the poor bloke's pockets. Let's find out who the bloody hell he is. Jon, take the man's weapon. Let's go.'
There are moments that define a man, and General Roland la Porte knew deep within himself that this was one. A massive man of muscle and determination, he leaned on the balustrade of the highest tower in his thirteenth-century castle and gazed out through the night, counting the stars, knowing the firmament was his. His castle was perched on a hill of red granite. Meticulously restored by his great-grandfather in the nineteenth century, the castle was illuminated tonight by the light of a three-quarter moon.
Nearby stood the crumbled, skeletal ruins of a ninth-century Carolingian castle, which had been built on the site of a Prankish fort, which in turn was on the remains of the fortified Roman camp that had preceded it. The history of this land, its structures, and his family were entwined. They were the history of France itself, including its rulers in the early days, and it never failed to fill him with pride and a sense of responsibility.
As a child, he longed for his periodic visits to the castle. On nights like these, he would eagerly close his eyes in sleep, hoping to dream of the bearded Prankish warrior Dagovic, honored in family lore as the first of the unbroken line that eventually became the La Portes. By the age of ten, he was poring over the family's Carolingian, Capetian, and illuminated medieval manuscripts, although he had yet to master Latin and Old French. He would hold the manuscripts reverently on his lap as his grandfather related the inspiring tales that had been handed down. La Porte and France, France and La Porte they had been the same, indistinguishable in his impressionable mind. As an adult, his belief had only strengthened.
'My General?' Darius Bonnard emerged through the tower door onto the high parapet. 'Dr. Chambord says he will be ready in an hour. It's time for us to begin.'
'Any news of Jon Smith and his associates?'
'No, sir.' Bonnard's firm chin lifted, but his gaze was troubled. He was bareheaded, his short, clipped blond hair almost invisible in the moonlight. 'Not since the clinic.' He thought again of the murder of his man in the underground garage.
'Unfortunate that we lost one,' La Porte said, as if reading his mind. But then, good commanders were all alike in that respect. Their men came second only to the mission itself. He made his voice kind, magnanimous, as he continued, 'When this is over, I'll write the family personally to express my gratitude for their sacrifice.'
'It's no sacrifice,' Bonnard assured him. 'The goal is noble. It's worth any price.'
Once they were safely out of Pans and certain they were not being followed, Peter stopped the car at a large petrol station. In the bright fluorescent lights, Jon, Peter, and Randi ran to phone booths to report their suspicions about La Porte, Chambord, the castle, and the strike to their bosses. They had learned nothing from the pockets of the man whom Peter had shot. He had carried no identification, just cigarettes, money, and a package of MM's. But on one of his fingers had been a telling detail a ring with the insignia of the French Foreign Legion.
Jon arrived first and lifted the phone to his ear. There was no dial tone. He dropped in coins. No dial tone again. He tapped the tongue of the phone, but still the line gave no response, just as there had been no response from the phone in Marty's room. Puzzled, beginning to worry, he stepped away. Soon Peter and Randi joined him.
'Did you get a line out?' But even as he asked the question, Jon knew the answer from their concerned faces.
Randi shook her blond head. 'My line was dead.'
'Mine, too,' Peter said. 'Silent as a graveyard at four a.m. Don't like this one bit.'
'Let's get daring.' Randi took out her cell phone, turned it on, and entered a phone number. As she lifted it to listen, her face seemed to crumble. She shook her head angrily. 'Nothing. What's going on!'
'Best if we could report in,' Peter said. 'A bit of help from our various agencies would be pleasant.'
'Personally,' Randi said, 'I wouldn't object if someone high up sent an army battalion or three to meet us at La Porte's castle.'
'Know what you mean.' Jon trotted toward the station's shop. Through the plate-glass window he could see a clerk inside. Jon entered. Hanging from a wall was a television set. It was not turned on, but a radio was playing. As he approached the clerk, who was working behind the counter, the music stopped, and an announcer identified the local station.
Jon told the youth in French that he had tried to use the telephone outside. 'It's not working.'
The young man shrugged, unsurprised. 'I know it. Lots of people have been complaining. They stop here from all over, and they don't have phone reception either. TV's off, too. I can get local stations on it and the radio, but nothing else. Cable's not working. Awful boring, you know.'
'How long have you had the problem?'
'Oh, since about nine o'clock. Almost an hour now.'
Jon's face showed no change in expression. Nine o'clock was when Marty's phone line in Paris had died. 'Hope you get it fixed soon.'
'Don't know how. Without the phones working, there's no way to report it.'
Jon hurried back through to the car, where Randi had just finished pumping gas. Peter was opening the trunk, and Marty was standing beside him, looking a little giddy as he stared all around. He was staying off his meds, with the hope that they would find the molecular prototype and he would be in creative shape to stop whatever Chambord was setting in motion.
Jon told them what he had discovered.
'Emile!' Marty said instantly. 'That despicable rat! Oh, dear. I didn't want to mention it, but I was very worried. This means it's finally happened. He's shut down all communications, wireless and regular.'
'But won't that backfire on him?' Randi asked. 'If we can't get online, how can he?'
'He has the DNA computer,' Marty said simply. 'He can talk to the satellites. Open a quick window to use them if he needs to.'
'Must get a move on,' Peter said. 'Come here. Choose your poison.'
Marty looked down into the trunk and jumped back with surprise. 'Peter! It's an arsenal.'
They gathered around. Inside was a polyglot cache of rifles, pistols, ammunition, and other supplies.
'Hell, Peter,' Jon said. 'You've got a whole armaments depot in here.'
'Be prepared is my motto.' Peter removed a pistol. 'Old warhorse, you see. We learn a few things.'
Jon already had the Uzi, so he chose a pistol, too.
Marty shook his head vehemently. 'No.'
Randi ignored him for now. 'Do you have anything like a CIA climbing rig and air gun, Peter? That castle wall looked high.'
'The very thing.' Peter showed her a twin of the rig she had gotten from Barcelona CIA. 'Borrowed it some time back, forgot to return it, tsk-tsk.'
They climbed quickly back into the car, and Peter peeled it away, heading toward the highway again that would take them west toward the castle, where they fervently hoped they would find General La Porte and the DNA
