person or a group, has enormous resources. You can't design and produce hundreds of billions of nanophages without access to serious money. At least a hundred million dollars and probably a whole lot more. If you spent even a fraction of that on bribes, I'll bet you could buy the loyalty of quite a few people inside the Lazarus Movement.”
He stood up suddenly, unable to bear just sitting still any longer. Then he walked over to Randi. He put his hand gently on her arm. “Can you think of any other way to make the pieces we've got come together?” he demanded quietly.
The CIA officer was silent for a long, painful moment. Then, slowly, she shook her head and sighed. All her pent-up energy and irritation seemed to drain away.
“Well, neither can I,” Smith said softlv. “That's why we have to get inside that building. We have to discover what those sensor arrays were gathering at La Courneuve. Maybe even more important, we have to find out what happened to the information they collected.” He frowned. “Your technical people haven't been able to pick up anything being said inside, have they?”
Reluctantly she shook her head again, admitting defeat. “No. The place seems to be remarkably bug-proof. Even the windows are set to vibrate slightly to defeat laser surveillance.”
“Every window?” Peter asked curiously.
She shrugged. “No. Just those on the top floor and in the attic spaces.”
“Nice of them to hang out a sign for us,” the Englishman murmured, looking across the room at Jon.
Smith nodded. “Very convenient.”
Randi frowned at the two men. “Maybe too convenient,” she suggested. “What if it's a setup?”
“Chance we have to take,” Peter said lazily. “Ours is not to reason why, and so forth.” Before she could snap back at him, he donned a more suitably serious expression. “But I doubt it. That would mean these Lazarus chaps deliberately allowed you and your people to spot them setting up those little gray boxes of theirs. Why go to all that trouble and expense and risk just to nab a couple of broken-down old soldiers?”
“Plus one top-notch CIA field officer,” she said, after a brief hesitation. She looked down modestly. “That would be me, of course.”
Smith raised an eyebrow. “You're planning on coming along?”
Randi sighed. “Somebody responsible has to keep an eye on you two overaged kids.”
“You know what'll happen to your career if we get caught?” Smith asked quietly.
She shot him a lopsided grin. “Oh, come on, Jon,” she said, forcing herself to sound cheerful. “If we get caught inside that building, you know that saving my career will be the least of our worries!”
Now that she had made her decision, Randi busied herself by spreading a set of still photos of the Lazarus Movement's Paris headquarters out on the floor in front of them. The pictures showed the old stone building at 18 rue de Vigny from almost every angle, taken at different hours of the day and night. She also unfolded a detailed map depicting the Movement headquarters in relation to its nearest neighbors and the surrounding streets and alleys.
The three of them knelt down, closely scrutinizing the photos and the map — each looking for a way in that would not lead to immediate discovery and certain disaster. After a few moments, Peter sat back on his haunches. He regarded Randi and Jon with a slight smile. 'There's only one realistic option, I'm afraid,“ he said, shrugging. ”It may not be particularly elegant or original, but it should serve.'
“Please tell me you're not planning a head-on charge through the front door and straight up four or five flights of stairs,” Randi begged.
“Oh, no. Not my style at all.” He tapped the map gently with one finger. It came to rest on one of the apartment blocks adjoining 18 rue de Vigny. “To mangle Hamlet, there are more ways into a building, dear girl, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
Smith looked at the map more closely and saw what the other man intended. He pursed his lips. “We'll need some specialized gear. Know anyone who can provide them for us, Peter?”
“I might just have a few bits and pieces of equipment stashed around Paris,” Peter admitted calmly. “The remnants of my old and wicked life in the service of Her Majesty. And I'm sure Ms. Russell's friends at the CIA station here can provide us with anything else we need. If she asks nicely, that is.”
Frowning, Randi studied the map and the pictures again. Her eyebrows rose. “Oh, great, let me guess,” she said, sighing under her breath. “You're planning one of those 'defying the laws of gravity' deals again, aren't you?”
Peter looked at her in pretended shock. “Defying the laws of gravity?” he repeated, shaking his head. “Not at all. In point of fact, we shall be obeying gravity's imperious demands,” he said with a sly grin. “After all, what goes up must come down.”
Chapter Forty
It was after midnight, but there were still quite a few revelers and pleasantly sated late-night diners strolling home through the well-lit streets of Paris. Set apart from most of the bustling cafes, brasseries, and clubs of the Marais District, the rue de Vigny was quieter than most, but it, too, had its share of pedestrians.
One, a wrinkled old woman well bundled up against the chill of the autumn night, hobbled painfully up the street. Her high heels echoed on the worn cobblestones. She kept her large cloth handbag clutched tightly under one arm, clearly determined to defend her property against any lurking thieves. Footsore and weary, she paused briefly outside Number 18, resting for a moment to catch her breath. Lights glowed in the upper-floor windows beneath the old stone building's steeply angled slate roof. Those facing the street on the lower floors were dark.
Muttering under her breath, the old lady limped on to the adjoining four-story block of flats at Number 16. She stood in the recessed entryway outside the front door for a long, painful moment — first fumbling inside her enormous handbag and then apparently having trouble fitting her key into the lock. At last, she seemed to manage it. The lock clicked. With an effort, she pulled the heavy door open and tottered slowly inside.
The street was quiet again.
Minutes later, two men, one dark-haired, the other gray-headed, walked up the rue de Vigny. Both men wore dark-colored overcoats and carried heavy duffel bags slung over their shoulders. They walked side by side, chatting amiably in colloquial French about the weather and the absurdities of airport security these days — looking for all the world like two travelers returning home after a long weekend away.
They turned off the street at Number 16. The younger, dark-haired man pulled the door open and held it for his older companion. “After you, Peter,” he said quietly with a wave.
“Age before beauty, eh?” the other man quipped. He moved into the small, dark foyer beyond, murmuring a polite greeting to the elderly woman who stood there waiting.
Jon Smith ducked into the apartment building himself, but not before casually removing a strip of duct tape the “old woman” had stuck there to prevent the door lock from engaging. He balled it up, shoved it into his coat pocket, and allowed the door to close gently behind him.
“That was a nice piece of lock picking,” Smith complimented the bundled-up old lady standing beside Peter Howell.
Randi Russell grinned back at him. Beneath the disguise of wrinkles and lines that added forty years to her apparent age, her eyes were bright with nervous energy and excitement. “Well, I did graduate at the head of my class at the Farm,” she said, referring to Camp Perry, the CIA training facility near Williamsburg, Virginia. “It's nice to know my time there wasn't a total waste.”
“Where to now?” Smith asked.
She nodded toward a hallway leading out of the foyer. 'Through there,“ she said. ”A central staircase runs all the way to the top. There are landings at each floor with doors leading to the separate flats.'
“Any restless natives?” Peter wondered.
Randi shook her head. “Nope. There are lights showing under a few doors, but otherwise it's pretty quiet. And let's try to keep it that way, shall we, guys? I'd rather not spend the next twenty-four hours answering
