The Paris Option - Страница 16

Which made him think of Marty. He closed the shutters. As the rain made a rhythmic tattoo, he dialed the hospital. If anyone was listening in, they would hear the concerned friend they expected, using the phone innocently. No suspicions nor subterfuge.

The ICU nurse told him Marty's condition was basically unchanged, but he was still showing small signs of progress. Feeling grateful, he said bonsoir, hung up, and dialed the hospital's security office. The chief was gone for the day, but an assistant reported nothing alarming or suspicious had happened involving either Marty or the ICU since the attempt on his life this morning. Yes, the police had increased the security.

Smith was beginning to relax. He hung up, shaved, and was about to climb into bed when his cell phone gave off its low buzz. He answered it.

Without preamble, Fred Klein reported: "The tree and fire are the emblem of a defunct Basque separatist group called the Black Flame. They were supposedly broken up years ago in a shootout in Bilbao where all their leaders were killed or, later, imprisoned. All but one of those locked up committed 'suicide' in prison. They haven't been heard from for years, and Basque terrorists usually claim responsibility for their acts. However, the more violent groups don't always. They're more focused on real change, not just propaganda."

"So am I," Smith said, and he added, "And I've got one advantage."

"What would that be?"

"They didn't really try to kill me. Which means they don't know what I'm actually doing here. My cover's holding."

"Good point. Get some sleep. I'll see if I can come up with anything more on your Basques."

"One more favor? Dig deeper into Emile Chambord's past, will you? His whole history. I've got a hunch something's missing somewhere, and maybe it's there. Or maybe it's something vital that he could tell us, if he were alive. Thérèse might know it, too, without realizing it, and that could be why she's been taken. Anyway, it's worth a shot." He hung up.

Alone in the darkened room, he listened to the sound of the rain and of tires on the wet street below. He thought about an assassin, a general, and a band of Basque fanatics who might be back in action with a vengeance. Fanatics with a purpose. With a deep sense of disquiet, he wondered where they would strike next, and whether Thérèse Chambord was still alive.

Chapter Eight

The hypnotic rhythms of a classical Indian raga floated on the hot, heavy air, trapped by the thick carpets and wall hangings that lined Mauritania's apartment. Seated cross-legged in the exact center of the main room, he swayed like a sinuous Buddha to the gentle yet strident sound. His eyes were closed, and a beatific smile wreathed his face. He sensed rather than saw the disapproving look of his lieutenant, Abu Auda, who had just entered.

"Salaam alake koom." Mauritania's eyes remained closed as he spoke in Arabic while continuing to weave back and forth. "Forgive me, Abu Auda, it's my only vice. The classical Indian raga was part of a rich culture long before the Europeans developed what they claim to be classical music. I enjoy that fact nearly as much as the raga itself. Do you think Allah will forgive me for such indulgence and hubris?"

"Better him than me. All it is to me is distracting noise." Large and powerful-looking, Abu Auda snorted contemptuously. He was still in the same white robes and gold-trimmed kaffiyeh he had worn in the taxi when Captain Bonnard turned over to him the research notes of the dead lab assistant. Now, alas, the robes were not only dirty from too many days in the grime of Paris, but wet from the rainstorm. None of his women was in Paris to take care of him, which was irritating but could not be helped. He pushed back his kaffiyeh to reveal his long black face, strong, bony chin, small, straight nose, and full mouth set in stone. "Do you wish my report, or are you going to continue to waste my time?"

Mauritania chuckled and opened his eyes. "Your report, by all means. Allah may forgive me, but you won't, yes?"

"Allah has more time than we," Abu Auda responded, his expression humorless.

"So he does, Abu Auda. So he does. Then we'll have this oh-so-vital report of yours, shall we not?" Mauritania's eyes were amused, but beneath the surface was a glint that turned his visitor from complaints to the business at hand.

Abu Auda told him, "My watcher at the Pasteur Institute reports your person, Smith, appeared there. Smith spoke to Dr. Michael Kerns, apparently an old comrade. My man was able to hear only part of the conversation, when they were speaking of Zellerbach. After that, Smith left the Pasteur, drank a small beer at a caf, and then took the metro, where our miserable incompetent lost him."

Mauritania interrupted, "Did he lose Smith, or did Smith lose him?"

Abu Auda shrugged. "I wasn't there. He did report a curious fact. Smith appeared to wander aimlessly until he reached a bookshop, where he watched for a time, smiled at something, continued on to the metro, and went down into the station."

"Ah?" Mauritania's blue eyes grew brighter. "As if, perhaps, he noticed he was being watched when he left the Pasteur?"

The green-brown eyes snapped. "I'd know more if my idiot hadn't lost him at the metro station. He waited too long to follow him down. By Allah, he'll pay!"

Mauritania scowled. "What then, Abu?"

"We didn't find Smith again until tonight, when he arrived at the daughter's home. Our man there saw him, but we don't believe Smith knew. Smith was upstairs in her apartment nearly fifteen minutes, and then they rode down in the elevator together. As soon as she stepped outside, four assailants attacked. Ah, the fine quality of their work! Would to God they were ours. They eliminated Smith from the action first inside the door, separating him from the woman, and then they dragged the woman away. By the time Smith recovered and came after them, they had her inside the van, even though she fought them hard. He killed one, but the rest escaped. Smith inspected the dead man, took his pistol, and left before the police arrived. He found a taxi at a nearby hotel. Our man trailed him to the Champs Élysées, where he also lost him."

Mauritania nodded, almost with satisfaction. "This Smith doesn't want to become involved with the police, is suspicious of being followed, skilled at eluding a tail, is calm under attack, and can use a pistol well. I'd say our Dr. Smith is more than he seems, as we suspected."

"At the very least, he's got military training. But is Smith our main concern? What of the daughter? What of the five men, for there must've been a driver in the van? Weren't you concerned about the daughter before this happened? Now people we don't know, and who are experienced and well trained, have kidnapped her. It's disturbing. What do they want? Who are they? What danger are they to us?"

Mauritania smiled. "Allah has answered your wish. They're ours. I'm glad you approve of their skills. Obviously, it was wise of me to hire them."

Abu Auda frowned. His gaze narrowed. "You didn't tell me."

"Does the mountain tell the wind everything? You had no need to know."

"With time, even the mountain can be destroyed by the elements."

"Calm yourself, Abu Auda. This was no reflection on you. We have a long and honorable history together, and now, at last, we're in a position to show the world the truth of Islam. Who else would I want to share that with? But if you'd known about these men I hired, you would've only wanted to be with them. Not with me. I need you, as you well know."

Abu Auda's frown disappeared. "I suppose you're right," he said grudgingly.

"Good. Of course I am. Let's return to the American, Jon Smith. If Captain Bonnard is correct, then Smith belongs to no known secret service. For whom, precisely, does he work?"

"Could our new allies have sent him? Some plan of their own they haven't bothered to tell us? I don't trust them."

"You don't trust your dog, your wives, or your grandmother." Mauritania gave a small smile and contemplated his music. He closed his eyes a moment as the raga rhythm subtly altered. "But you're right to be careful. Treachery is always possible, often inevitable. Not only a wily desert Fulani can be devious."

"There's another thing," Abu Auda went on as if he had not heard. "The man I assigned to watch the Pasteur Institute says he can't be certain, but he thinks there was someone else watching not only Smith but him. A woman. Dark-haired, young, but unattractive and poorly-dressed."

Mauritania's blue eyes snapped open. "Watching both Smith and our man? He has no idea who she was?"

"None."

Mauritania uncoiled and stood up. "It's time to leave Paris."

Abu Auda was surprised. "I don't like going away without knowing more about Smith and this unknown female who watches us."

"We expected attention, didn't we? We'll observe and be careful, but we must also move. Relocation is the best defense."

Abu Auda smiled, displaying a dazzling set of white teeth against his black skin. "You sound like a desert warrior yourself. Perhaps you learn after all these years."

"A compliment, Abu?" Mauritania laughed. "An honor indeed. Don't worry about Smith. We know enough, and if he's actually searching for us, we'll deal with him on our terms. Report to our friends that Paris has become too crowded, and we're moving early. It may be necessary to adjust our timetable forward. Beginning now."