its predetermined end.
He jumped to his feet and ran toward Jon and Randi, dodging around the worktables and bullet-smashed electronics gear. “Out!” he yelled, pointing to the windows. “Get out now!”
They stared at him, plainly mystified by the sudden urgency in his voice.
Peter skidded to a stop beside the two perplexed Americans. “There's at least one ruddy great bomb set to go off in this building — and probably more!” he explained fast, the words tumbling out of his mouth. Then he grabbed each of them by a shoulder and shoved them toward the two windows they had smashed open to get inside. “Go on! If we're lucky, we might have thirty seconds!”
Horrified understanding at last dawned on Jon's and Randi's faces.
They each grabbed one of the three ropes still dangling in through the windows. “No time to waste trying to clip into a harness,” Peter told them. “Just use the bloody rope!”
Smith nodded. He jumped up onto the stone window ledge, whipped a length of the rappel rope around behind his hip, brought it diagonally up and over the opposite shoulder, back across to the same hip, and then along his arm down to the hand he would use as a brake. He saw Peter and Randi doing the same thing with their own ropes.
“Ready?” Peter asked.
“Set!” Jon confirmed. Randi nodded.
“Then go! Go! Go!”
Smith leaned out, turned sideways toward the ground, and simply let gravity do most of the work, plunging down the side of the building in huge bounds. The ground rushed up at him at a dizzying pace. He could smell the nylon rope scorching through his leather gloves and feel it burning across his shoulder and hip.
He was aware of Peter and Randi keeping pace with him. All three of them came hurtling down the wall at high speed.
When he judged he was just twenty feet or so above the little cobblestone alley running behind the Movement headquarters, Smith tightened the grip of his braking hand and pulled that same arm sharply across his chest in a hard, fast movement. He did not want to risk hitting the ground at that speed, and going that fast there was no way he could brake gently or slowly. He slammed to a stop, dangling only ten or twelve feet above the ground.
In that instant, a series of enormous explosions tore through the upper floors of the building soaring above him — rippling from one end of Number 18 rue de Vigny to the other in a growing fury of flame and glowing superheated air. Hellish tongues of fire burst through every window, scorching the night and turning the darkness as bright as da}' in one blinding, awful moment. Broken pieces of stone and slate and other debris tumbled high into the air, lit from beneath by the inferno consuming the Lazarus Movement headquarters.
Smith felt his rope give way — ripped apart by the blast. He dropped, hit the ground hard, and rolled. Randi and Peter thudded down beside him. They scrabbled to their feet and ran for it, streaking down the darkened alley as fast as they could go, slipping and skidding on the dank, smooth cobblestones. Huge chunks of rubble were falling all around them — smashing onto nearby roofs or crashing down into the tight confines of the alley with killing force.
The trio burst out of the mouth of the alley and turned onto a wider cross street. Still running at full speed, they ducked into the recessed door of a small tobacco shop, seeking cover. A new wave of white-hot debris cascaded down across the surrounding streets and buildings, punching craters in roofs and pavements and setting new fires in its wake. The shrill anti-theft alarms going off in parked cars pummeled by the falling wreckage only added to the unholy din rising on all sides.
“Anyone have any brilliant ideas?” Randi said quickly. They could all hear sirens in the distance, drawing nearer with every passing second.
“We need to get clear of this area and drop out of sight,” Smith said grimly. “And fast.” He looked at her. “Can you call for help on that radio of yours?”
She shook her head. “My radio's kaput.” She yanked off the headset with a disgusted look. “I must have landed right on the damned thing when those bombs cut my rope. It sure feels like I did, anyway!”
A blue Volvo sedan came screeching around the corner from the rue de Vigny. It swung sharply in their direction and came roaring ahead. They were caught in its glaring twin headlights, silhouetted against the locked and barred door of the little tobacco shop. They were trapped, with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
Wearily Smith turned, fumbling for his SIG-Sauer, but Randi caught his arm and shook her head. “Believe it or not, Jon,” she said in amazement, “that's actually one of ours.”
The sedan braked hard, skidding to a stop just a few feet away. A window rolled down. They saw Max's astonished face peering up at them from behind the wheel. He grinned weakly. “Man! When that building blew up, I never thought I'd see you folks again — not in one piece anyway.”
“I guess it's just your lucky day, Max,” Randi told him. She scrambled into the front seat while Jon and Peter piled into the back.
“Where to?” the CIA agent asked her.
“Anywhere for now,” Randi said tersely. “Just put some distance between us… and that!” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the blazing pillar of fire roaring high into the night sky.
“Sure thing, boss,” Max replied quietly. He spun the steering wheel through a half-circle and pulled back onto the street. Then, keeping a wary eye on his rearview mirror, he drove away at a sedate but steady pace.
By the time the first fire trucks and police cars pulled up outside the blazing, bomb-gutted ruins of Number 18 rue de Vigny, they were already more than a mile away and heading for the outskirts of Paris.
The Forest of Rambouillet lay roughly thirty-five miles southwest of the city. It was a lovely expanse of woods, lakes, and ancient stone abbeys tucked away amid the tall trees. The elegant mansion and beautiful grounds of the chateau of Rambouillet stood in the heart of this rolling woodland. The chateau itself, more than six centuries old, had once been a weekend country retreat for several French kings. Now it served the same purpose for presidents of the French Republic.
The northern fringes of the woods, however, were miles removed from the glories of the chateau and mostly deserted — a haven for herds of skittish deer and a few wild boars. Narrow roads wandered here and there under the trees, providing access for hikers and for the occasional government forester.
In a small clearing just off one of those rough woodland tracks, Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith sat on a tree stump, bandaging the reopened knife wound on his left forearm. Finished, he put aside the tape and unused gauze. Then he tested his new field dressing, rotating his arm back and forth to make sure it would stand the strain of sudden movement.
Smith realized that at some point, the wound would need new stitches, but at least this bandage should stop the worst of the bleeding. With that accomplished, he pulled on a fresh shirt, wincing slightly as the cotton knit slid over fresh cuts, bruises, and knotted muscles.
He stood up, stretching and twisting as he did so in an effort to clear away some of the fatigue crowding in on his exhausted mind. A half-moon hung low in the west, barely visible above the canopy of the surrounding forest. But a small hint of pale gray light on the eastern horizon signaled the slow approach of dawn. The sun would be up in a couple of hours.
He glanced across at his companions. Peter was sleeping on the front seat of the Volvo, snatching whatever rest he could with the practiced ease of a veteran soldier. Randi stood next to a small black Peugeot parked at the far end of the clearing, quietly conferring with Max and another CIA agent — a junior officer named Lewis who had just driven out from Paris to deliver the new civilian clothes they needed. She was undoubtedly arranging for the immediate disappearance of their assault gear, weapons, and old clothing — of anything that might tie them to the carnage inside 18 rue de Vigny.
No one was in earshot.
Smith took out his encrypted cell phone, took a deep breath, and punched in the code for Covert-One headquarters.
Fred Klein listened to Smith's report of the night's events in silence. When he finished, Klein sighed heavily. “You're riding an awfully narrow rail between disaster and utter catastrophe, Colonel, but I suppose I can't argue much with success.”
“I sure hope not,” Smith said drily. “That would smack of rank ingratitude.”
