The Paris Option - Страница 42

The countryside was green, flat, and bleak through the sheets of early May rain. Well-tended farms stretched into the distance to a horizon flatter than the great prairie of the American West or the steppes of Russia. In this low-lying land, the various roads crossed many small rivers and canals. Traffic was relatively heavy as he drove in the general direction of the French border not as thick as in Los Angeles or London at rush hour, but far more than the wide-open interstates of Montana or Wyoming.

From time to time he stopped at a country inn or simply pulled off into a grove of trees to search the sky for helicopters or light aircraft that might be tracking him. When he was satisfied no one followed, he drove on using the same tactics until at last he reached the outskirts of Mons, fifty-five kilometers southwest of Brussels. Wars and soldiers had been part of the history of Mons, or "Bergen" in Flemish, for more than two thousand years, since the days Roman legions first established a fortified camp here on their empire's northern border. Here, too, the generals of Louis XIV engaged in one of their long series of bloody battles against their perpetual nemesis, John Churchill, duke of Maryborough. Mons had also been a bruising battlefield for the armies of the French Revolution, as well as for the heavily outnumbered British Expeditionary Force, which fought its first major engagement of World War I here.

All in all, this was a fitting location for the Supreme Headquarters of Allied Powers in Europe (SHAPE)the military arm of NATO, and the main office of the Supreme Allied Commander of Europe, the SACEUR himself, General Carlos Henze, U.S.A. Located a few kilometers outside the historic town, the entrance to the parklike campus was a simple kiosk standing before an array of flagpoles flying the banners of all the NATO member nations, plus the United Nations. In the background was a flat-roofed, two-story pale brown building, and behind that rose more unprepossessing buildings.

When Smith presented his credentials at the kiosk, he stated his business as reporting to the chief medical officer. Because of the heightened security of the twenty-first century, one of the military policemen on duty called the chief medical officer's office to confirm the appointment, while another scrutinized Jon, his army uniform, and especially his photo ID and army medical credentials.

When the guards were satisfied, Smith drove onto the right arm of the V-shaped road, parked in the designated lot, and walked to the main entrance, where a steel-beamed marquee like those on a no-frills hotel announced proudly: supreme headquarters allied powers Europe. Above that was SHAPE'S green-and-gold official shield. Inside, the receptionist directed him to the second floor, where Master Sergeant Matthias met him with a sharp salute. Dressed in full uniform, with rows of stripes and battle ribbons, Matthias escorted him through endless corridors to General Carlos Henze's office.

The wiry general was as blunt as ever: "Is all this damned cloak-and-dagger necessary, Colonel?"

Smith saluted and said, "Don't look at me, sir. It's not my idea." Henze glared, returned the salute, and grumbled, "Civilians." He waved Smith to a leather chair that faced his desk. "The president's people filled me in. Here's the data they sent over." He pushed file folders toward him, holding back one file. "My staff couldn't locate damn all about any Crescent Shield. Even the CIA knew zip. Looks like you've found a brand-new gang of Arab thugs, Colonel. I had my doubts, but maybe you know what you're doing. Now what?"

"Not Arabs alone, sir. Militants from all parts of the Muslim world: Arabs from many countries, Afghans, a Fulani from northern Nigeria who knows who else. Their leader appears to have been originally from Mauritania. Islam is a world of many nations and ethnic groups, and I'm not even certain they're all Muslims."

As the rail-thin general listened, the four stars on his uniform seemed to glint belligerently as if to defy the terrorists, the bleak day outside his rain-swept windows, and the fruit salad climbing from his pocket nearly to his shoulder. His gaze was intense, as if he were seeing every country, every ethnic group, analyzing every implication. This was no longer a potential threat. It was real. So real and worrisome that Henze rotated his chair around to face his window in his usual back-turned act. "Indonesia? Malaysia?" the general's voice rumbled. "Turkey?"

"Not so far. But I wouldn't be surprised if there were recruits from all of them, and we have indications some of the Central Asian tribes and countries could be involved as well."

Henze whipped his chair back around to stare at Smith. "Indications?"

"An MI6 man I know identified an unusual auditory night signal as being from Central Asia, similar to the night signals of our woodland Indians."

"The old Soviet Republics? Tajiks? Uzbeks? Kirghiz and Kazak?"

Jon nodded, and Henze stroked his nose, deep in thought. He picked up a thinner file from his desk and tossed it across the desk. "The president wanted you to have this, too. It's the complete official NATO dossier on Captain Darius Bonnard, plus what the Oval Office dug up from the French. You're suspicious of General La Porte's top aide? A trusted man who works right here? Practically in my lap?"

"I'm suspicious of everyone, General."

"Even me?"

Remembering his earlier suspicions about the "orderly's" visit to Henze's pension in Paris, Jon's smile was thin. "Not so far."

"But I'm not above suspicion?"

Jon hesitated, then decided to be as blunt as the general. "No, sir."

"God in heaven," Henze breathed. He leaned back and studied Jon, his fierce focus reminding Jon of a laser beam. "Yesterday when you and I talked, we knew zip. Now we know the doohickey is for real, the big Kahuna who created it is alive and kicking, and the gang that has them and the daughter is both multinational and multiethnic. So answer what I asked earlier: Now what?"

"Now we find them."

"How?"

"I don't know yet."

"You don't know yet?" Henze stared at Smith. "When the hell will you know?"

"When I do."

Henze's mouth opened, his bony face turned almost purple. "Is that supposed to satisfy me?"

"It's that kind of war, General. I wish I could give you more, a lot more. I have ideas, leads, hunches, but nothing I can honestly say will do the job, much less how and when."

The general continued to stare at Smith, but his high color receded. "I don't like this kind of war. I don't like it one damn all."

"Neither do I. But it's the way it is right now."

Henze nodded to himself, his focus turned inward. He was the supreme commander of NATO in Europe, with all of the highly mechanized, cyber-smart armies of the member nations at his disposal. Yet he was feeling powerless in the face of this new enemy little known, without territory or tribe, with hardly a way of life to protect. Only an apocalyptic vision and impossible-to-satisfy grievances.

He rubbed his eyes, looking tired. "I went through one kind of 'new' war, Colonel Smith, and it damn near destroyed me. After Vietnam, I'm not sure I can handle another 'new' one. Maybe it's just as well. Time for a new kind of commander."

"We'll get it done," Jon said.

Henze nodded. "We have to win." Looking drained, he indicated Jon should pick up the file folders.

Jon took them, saluted, and left. In the corridor, he paused and decided to take the files to Brussels, where he was to meet Randi. He could study them there. As he walked off, he heard his name called. He turned to see General the Count Roland la Porte striding toward him with a broad smile.

"Bonjour, General La Porte."

Doors seemed to rattle on their hinges as the massive general cruised past. "Ah, Colonel Smith. The man who's given us all the great shock. We must speak at once. Come, my office is near. We will have coffee, non?"

Jon agreed they would have coffee, and he followed La Porte into his office. The general sat in a large red leather armchair in the style of a British club chair. It looked as if it were the only piece of furniture besides the desk chair that would not crumble under his oversized body. He assigned Jon another delicate occasional chair from the Louis Quinze period. Soon a nervous young French lieutenant served coffee.

"So, our Emile is alive after all, which is magnifique, but the kidnappers have him, which is not so magnifique. You could not be mistaken, Colonel?"

"Afraid not."

La Porte nodded, scowling. "Then we've been duped. The remains found in the bombed Pasteur building were not there by accident, nor the fingerprints and DNA profile in his Sret file, and the Basques were only a front, a charade to hide the real terrorists. Is that so?"

"Yes," Jon acknowledged. "The actual perpetrators call themselves the Crescent Shield. A multiethnic, multinational Muslim extremist group led by a man who calls himself M. Mauritania."

The general gulped angrily at his coffee. "The information I was given, and then gave to you, appears to have misled you on many counts. I apologize for this."

"Actually, it was following the trail of the Basques that revealed most of what we know now, so in the end you turned out to be of great help, General."

"Merci. I take comfort in that outcome."

Jon put down his cup. "May I ask where your aide, Captain Bonnard, is?"

"Darius? I sent him on a mission to the South of France."