The Paris Option - Страница 20

The general had been silent, as if considering the frailty of the human condition. "I had the honor of meeting your Dr. Zellerbach. Such a shame that he's injured. I'd be devastated if he doesn't recover. I'd appreciate your conveying that to his family in America, should the worst occur."

"I'd be happy to. May I ask how you met Dr. Zellerbach, General? I wasn't aware myself that Marty was even in France or at the Pasteur."

The general seemed surprised. "Didn't you think our military would be interested in Dr. Chambord's research? Of course they were. Intensely interested, in fact. Emile introduced Dr. Zellerbach to me during my last visit to his lab. Naturally, Emile would not allow any of us to just drop by. He was a dedicated and busy man, so an invitation was a grand event. That was two months ago or so, and your Dr. Zellerbach had just arrived. It's a pity about Emile's work being destroyed in that wretched bombing. Do you think any of it survived?"

"I have no personal knowledge, General. Sorry." Two could play the fishing game. "I suppose I'm surprised you'd involve yourself personally. After all, you've got a great many important responsibilities at NATO."

"I'm still French, no? Besides, I knew Emile personally for many years."

"And was he close to success?" Smith asked, careful to keep his voice neutral. "A practical, working DNA computer?"

La Porte tented his fingers. "That's the question, isn't it?"

"It could be the key to who planted the bomb and why. No matter what happens to Marty, I want to do what I can to help catch the bastard who injured him."

"A true friend." La Porte nodded. "Yes, I'd like the miscreant punished, too. But, alas, I can be of little help to you there. Emile was close-mouthed about his work. If he had made a how do you Americans say it? 'breakout,' he didn't inform me. Nor did Dr. Zellerbach or poor Jean-Luc Massenet tell me or anyone else, as far as we know."

"The research assistant? That was terrible. Have the police formed an opinion of why he killed himself?"

"A tragedy, too, to have lost that young man. Apparently, he was devoted to Emile, and when Emile died, he was cast adrift. He could not face life alone. At least that's what I've been told. Knowing the charismatic power of Emile's personality, I can almost understand the lad's suicide."

"So what's your take on the bombing, General?"

La Porte gave the Gallic gesture of confusion a shrug with hands spread and head tilted. "Who knows what raving lunatic would do such a thing? Or perhaps it was some perfectly sane man with some personal hatred of science, or of L'Institut Pasteur, or even of France, to whom the bombing of a crowded building seemed a thoroughly reasonable response." La Porte shook his large head, disgusted. "There are times, Colonel, when I think the patina of civilization and culture we all profess to share is cracking. We return to the barbarians."

"The French police and Secret Service know no more than that?"

La Porte repeated his mannerism of tenting his long fingers. His unblinking blue eyes regarded Smith as if they could dissect his thoughts. "The police and the Second Bureau do not confide everything to a mere general, especially one who is, as you pointed out, on duty at NATO. However, my aide, Captain Bonnard, heard rumors that our police have evidence that the attack on the Pasteur could've been the work of an obscure Basque separatist group thought wiped out years ago. As a rule, the Basques confine their 'events' to Spain, but I'm sure you know there are many Basque people who live in three small regions of Basse-Pyrenees on the Spanish border with France. It was probably inevitable something would spill over across the border, even to Paris, sooner or later."

"Which group, do you think?"

"I believe they were called the Black Flame." He picked up what appeared to be a TV remote control, pressed a button, and Captain Bonnard stepped into the grand room through a side door. "Darius, would you be so kind as to prepare a copy of the file the Sret sent over about the bombing for Colonel Smith?"

"It will be waiting for him whenever he leaves, mon général."

"Thank you, Darius. What would I do without you, eh?"

Saluting, but smiling, the aide left the gilded room. General La Porte picked up the coffeepot. "Now, a second cup, Colonel, and tell me more about your friend. He is, I'm told, a genius, but with some sort of unfortunate affliction."

The general refilled their cups while Smith described Marty's history. "Asperger's Syndrome makes it difficult for him to function in our world. He tends to avoid people, is terrified of strangers, and lives alone in D.C. Still, he's an electronic genius. When he's off his medication and in his manic state, he has insights and leaps of creativity that are dazzling. But if he stays off the meds too long, he borders on incoherence, and eventually he simply starts raving. The medicine allows him to function with people in daily practicalities, but he tells me it feels to him as if he's underwater, and his thinking, while still brilliant, is slow and painful."

General La Porte seemed genuinely affected. "How long has he had this affliction?"

"All his life. It's not a well-known condition, often misdiagnosed and misunderstood. Marty's happiest when he's off his meds, but that's difficult for other people to be around. That's one reason he lives alone."

La Porte shook his head. "Still, he's also a great treasure, eh? But in the wrong hands, a potential danger."

"Not Marty. No one could get him to do what he didn't want to. Especially since they wouldn't know what he was actually doing."

La Porte chuckled. "Ah, I see. That's reassuring." He glanced at a clock in the shape of a temple that stood on a sideboard green stone and gilded columns and cherubs. He stood up, towering over Smith. "You've been most illuminating, Colonel, but I have a meeting and must leave. Finish your coffee. Then Captain Bonnard will give you that copy of the Black Flame file and see you out."

As Smith watched the massive general leave, his gaze was drawn to all of the paintings, mostly of French landscapes, hung around the room. Many appeared to be of museum quality. He recognized two fine late Corots and a muscular Thodore Rousseau, but he had never seen the large painting of a massive castle built of dark red stone. The painter had rendered it in intense and brooding shades of red and purple, where bright afternoon sunshine illuminated the angles in the stone walls and towers. Smith could not place the painting, and he did not recognize the style of any nineteenth-century French landscapist. Something about it, though, was unforgettable.

He stood up, raising his shoulders to stretch, not bothering to finish his coffee. Instead, he was already thinking about the rest of his day. He had not heard from Fred Klein, so it was time to check whether his cell phone worked.

He started for the doorway through which he had entered, but before he had taken two steps, Captain Bonnard appeared in it, file folder in hand, as quiet and unobtrusive as a wraith. The captain's accurate anticipation that he was leaving gave Smith a chill. Had Captain Bonnard been eavesdropping on the entire conversation? If so, he was a much more trusted employee than Smith had realized, or he wanted to know himself what Smith had told the general.

From the high, paned-glass window of the general's study, Darius Bonnard watched Smith climb into a taxi. He continued to watch until the vehicle blended into traffic and disappeared. Then he walked across the room, through the rectangles of morning sunlight that patch worked the parquet floor. He sat at his ornate desk, dialed his telephone, and tugged impatiently on his lower lip.

Finally a quiet voice answered. "Naam?"

"Smith's gone. He's got the file. And the general is off to one of his meetings."

"Good," Mauritania said. "Did you learn anything new from the general's interview with Smith? Do we have any indication of who Smith truly is and why he's in Paris?"

"He stuck to his story that he was here merely to take care of his friend."

"Is that what you believe?"

"I know Smith's not CIA or NSA."

There was a pause at the other end of the line, and the sounds of a large, echoing space full of hurrying people indicated that Mauritania was on a cell phone. "Perhaps. Still, he's been a bit busier than that, wouldn't you say?"

"He could simply be concerned about avenging his friend, as he told the general."

"Well, I suppose we'll know soon enough." There was a cold smile in the terrorist's voice as he continued, "By the time we've discovered the truth of Jon Smith, it'll no longer matter. He everything will be as irrelevant as a few more grains of sand upon the Sahara. Whoever he is whatever he or any of them intend will be too late."

* * *

The dark-haired woman had slowly and meticulously searched Mauritania's entire silent apartment and found nothing. The terrorist and the others she had seen come and go were careful. In fact, she found nothing of a personal nature. It was as if no one actually lived here.

As she turned toward the door to leave, a key turned in the lock. Her heart pounded, and she sprinted away. Across the living room, she slipped into the narrow space behind the rug that covered the far window and listened as the door opened and someone entered. The footsteps stopped abruptly just inside the doorway and remained unmoving for some seconds, as if the newcomer sensed something wrong.