“Not anymore they're not,” Smith told her. “Langley's in a hell of a mess right now over this clandestine war against the Lazarus Movement. So is the FBI. Maybe you've heard.”
The CIA officer nodded bitterly. “Yeah, I've heard. Bad news spreads fast.” She frowned down at the table. “That stupid son of a bitch Burke is going to wind up giving the Agency the biggest black eye we've ever had.” Her gaze sharpened. 'But that still doesn't explain who you're working for this time.“ She paused significantly. ”Or at least who you're going to claim you're working for.'
Inwardly Smith cursed the continuing need to keep Covert-One's existence a tightly held secret. Like Peter Howell's, her affiliation with another intelligence outfit meant Smith had to tread carefully around her, concealing whole aspects of his work — even from those who were his closest friends, people to whom he would entrust his life. He and Randi had managed to work together before, in Iraq and Russia, here in Paris, and most recently in China, but it was always awkward dodging her pointed questions.
“It's no great secret, Randi,” he lied. He felt guilty for lying to her but did his best to hide it. “You know I've done some work for Army Intelligence in the past. Well, the Pentagon brass pulled me in again for this mission. Someone is developing a nanotech weapon, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff don't like the sound of that at all.”
“But why you, exactly?” she demanded.
Smith looked her straight in the eye. “Because I was working at the Teller Institute,” he said quietly. “So I know what this weapon can do to people. I saw it myself.”
Randi's face softened. “That must have been terrible, Jon.”
He nodded, mentally pushing away the sickening memories that still haunted his sleep. “It was.” He looked across the table. “But I guess it was even worse here — at La Courneuve.”
“There were many more deaths, and no apparent survivors,” Randi agreed. “From the press accounts, what happened to those poor people was absolutely horrible.”
“Then you should understand why I want a closer look at the men you spotted installing some kind of quote-unquote sensor equipment there the night before the attack,” Smith told her.
“You think the two events are related?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Don't you?”
Randi nodded reluctantly. “Yes, I do.” She sighed. “And we've managed to trace most of the vehicles those guys were using.” She saw the next question in his eyes and answered it before he could speak. “Right, you guessed it: They're all tied to a single address right here in Paris.”
“An address you've carefully avoided naming in any of your cables home,” Smith pointed out.
“For some damned good reasons,” Randi snapped back. She grimaced. “I'm sorry to sound so pissed off, Jon. But I can't fit much of what we've learned into any kind of rational, coherent pattern, and frankly, it's getting on my nerves.”
“Well, maybe I can help sort out some of the anomalies,” he offered.
For the first time, Randi responded with a faint smile. “Possibly. For an amateur spook you do have an uncanny knack for stumbling into answers,” she agreed slowly. “Usually by accident, of course.”
Smith chuckled. “Of course.”
The CIA officer leaned back against the chair, absently studying the people strolling past them on the pavement. Suddenly she stiffened, plainly incredulous. “Jesus,” she muttered in dismay. “What is this… old home week?”
Smith followed her gaze and saw what appeared to be an old, untidy Frenchman in a beret and an often- patched sweater ambling toward them, whistling, with both hands stuck into the pockets of his faded work- ingman's trousers. He looked more closely and hid a grin. It was Peter Howell.
The sun-browned Englishman sauntered across the street separating the restaurant from the square, came right up to their table, and politely doffed his beret to Randi. “A pleasure to see you looking so well, madame,” he murmured. His pale blue eyes gleamed with amusement. “And this is your young son, no doubt. A fine, stout- looking lad.”
“Hello, Peter,” Randi said resignedly. “So you've joined the Army, too?”
“The American army?” Peter said in mock horror. 'Heavens, no, dear girl! Merely a spot of informal collaborating between old friends and allies, you see. Washing the hand that feeds me and all that. No, Jon and I simply popped by to see if you were interested in joining our little pact.'
“Grand. I'm so glad.” She shook her head. “Okay, I surrender. I'll share my information, but that has to work both ways. I want all of your cards on the table, too. Get it?”
The Englishman smiled gently. “Clear as crystal. Fear not. All will be revealed in due course. You can trust your Uncle Peter.”
“Sure I can.” Randi snorted. “Anyway, it's not as if I have much real choice, not under the circumstances.” She pushed herself up slowly, carefully maintaining the illusion that she was an elderly woman somewhere in her mid-seventies. She tugged at the small poodle, dragging him firmly out from under the table where he had been futilely gumming one of Smith's shoes for the past few minutes. She switched back to her raspy, nasal French. “Come, Pascal. We must not intrude further on these gentlemen's company.”
Then she lowered her voice, making sure that only they could hear her instructions. “Now here's how we're going to play this. When I'm gone, wait five minutes and then head over to Number Six — the Victor Hugo house. Pretend you're tourists or literary critics or something. A white Audi with a dent on the right rear door will pull up there. Climb in without making a big fuss about it. Understand?”
Jon and Peter nodded obediently.
Still frowning, Randi moved away without looking back at them. She strolled briskly toward the nearest corner of the Place des Vosges — looking for all the world as though she truly were the epitome of a Paris grande dame out for her morning constitutional with her much-pampered poodle.
Ten minutes later, the two men stood outside the Maison de Victor Hugo, staring curiously up at the second floor, where the great writer, the author of Les Miserables and The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, had spent sixteen years of his long life. “A curious fellow,” Peter Howell remarked meditatively. “Prone to fits of madness in later life, you know. Someone once found him trying to carve furniture with his teeth.”
“Much like Pascal,” Smith suggested.
Peter looked surprised. “The famous philospher and mathematician?”
“No,” Smith said, grinning. “Randi's dog.”
“Dear me,” Peter replied wryly. “The things one learns in Paris.” He glanced casually over his shoulder. “Ah, our chariot awaits.”
Smith turned around and saw the white Audi, complete with its dented rear door, stopping alongside the curb. He and Peter slid into the backseat. The car pulled away immediately, drove around the Place des Vosges, and swung left back onto the rue de Turenne. From there, the sedan began making a series of seemingly random turns, moving ever deeper into the heart of the maze of one-way streets that made up the Marais District.
Jon watched the sallow-faced driver, a heavyset man wearing a cloth cap, for a few moments. “Hello, Max,” he said at last.
“Morning, Colonel,” the other man said, grinning in the rearview mirror. “Nice to see you again.”
Smith nodded. He and Max had once spent a great many hours in each other's company — trailing a group of Arab terrorists all the way from Paris to the Spanish coast. The CIA operative might not be the brightest star in the Agency's firmament, but he was a very competent field agent.
“Are we being followed?” Smith asked, seeing the way the other man's eyes were always in motion, checking every aspect of the environment around the Audi as he drove through the traffic-choked Paris streets.
Max shook his head confidently. “Nope. This is just a precaution. We're being extra careful, is all. Randi's sort of on-edge right now.”
“Care to tell me why?”
The CIA agent snorted. “You'll find out soon enough, Colonel.” He turned the Audi off into a narrow passageway. Tall stone buildings soared on either side, blotting out any real sight of the sun or sky. He parked right behind a gray Renault van blocking most of the alley. “Last stop,” he said.
Smith and Peter got out.
The back doors of the van popped open, revealing a crowded interior crammed full of TV, audio, and computer equipment. Randi Russell, still wearing her disguise as an old woman, was there — along with another
