The Paris Option - Страница 45

At its most basic, today's computer was simply a set of wires arranged in one direction, a layer of switches, and a second set of wires aligned in the opposite direction. The wires and switches were configured to fabricate logic gates but the kinds of wires and switches made all the difference. Chambord had succeeded in using DNA molecules to function as AND and OR logic gates, the basic computational language of electronic computers. In earlier experimental DNA machines created by other scientists, one of the insurmountable problems had been that the rotaxane molecules, which was what they used for gates, could be set only once, making them suitable for read-only memory, not random-access memory, which required constant switching.

That had been the so-called impossible niche that Chambord had filled: He had created a different molecule with the properties that would make a DNA computer work. The molecule was synthetic, and he called it Francane, in honor of France.

As Chambord turned from his apparatus to make mathematical calculations in his notebook, Thérèse appeared in the archway. "Why do you help them?" Her eyes were angry but she controlled her voice as she studied her father. He looked very tired as he bent over his calculations.

He sighed, looked up, and turned. "What else can I do?"

Her full lips were pale, all the dynamic red lipstick worn off days ago. Unbrushed and uncombed, her black hair no longer hung in a satin sheet. She still wore the slim white evening suit, but now it was torn and dirty. The high-necked, off-white silk blouse was flecked with blood and what looked like grease, and the high-heeled, ivory pumps were gone. Her shoes were bedouin slippers. They were her one concession; she had refused to accept even a change of clothes from her captors.

"You could say no," she told him tiredly. "None of them can operate your molecular computer. They'd be helpless."

"And I'd be dead. More important, so would you."

"They'll kill us anyway."

"No! They've promised."

Thérèse heard the desperation, the grasping at straws. "Promised?" She laughed. "The promise of terrorists, kidnappers, murderers?"

Chambord closed his mouth, refused to answer. He returned to his work, checking the connections of his computer.

"They're going to do something terrible," she said. "People will die. You know that."

"I don't know that at all."

She stared at his profile. "You've made a deal. For me. That's it, isn't it? Your soul in exchange for my life."

"I've made no deal." Still her father did not look up again.

She continued to stare, trying to fathom what he must be feeling, thinking. What he was going through. "But that's what you'll do. You'll make them let me go before you help them accomplish whatever it is they want."

Chambord was silent. Then he said quietly, "I won't let them murder you."

"Isn't that my choice?"

Now her father whirled in his chair. "No! It's my choice."

There were soft footsteps behind Thérèse. She flinched as Mauritania arrived at the archway, gazing from her to her father and back again. Armed and glowering, Abu Auda stood sentry behind.

Mauritania was solemn. "You are wrong, Mademoiselle Chambord. When our mission is accomplished, I have no further need of your father, and we will announce our triumph to the world so the Great Satan can know who brings his downfall. There will be no reason to care what you or your father can tell. No one is going to die, unless they refuse to help us complete the mission."

Thérèse sneered. "Perhaps you can fool him, but not me. I know lies when I hear them."

"It pains me that you do not trust us, but I have no time to persuade you." Mauritania looked at Chambord. "How much longer before you are again ready?"

"I told you I needed two days."

Mauritania's small eyes narrowed. "They are nearly passed." He had not raised his voice since he arrived, but that did not dispel the menace that burned from his gaze.

Paris, France

The towering Tour Montparnasse with its complement of other tall, upscale buildings along the boulevard Montparnasse receded as Smith, Randi, and Hakim Gatta, a terrified lab assistant from L'Institut Pasteur, walked deeper into the back streets of Paris, where the new bohemians worked and lived among the spirits of the old. The sun had set, and the last glowing embers of the day gave the sky a somber gray-and-yellow cast. Black shadows stretched across overgrown spring gardens and cobbled streets, and the scents of liquor, marijuana, and oil paints mingled in the air.

At last the nervous little bottle-washer, Hakim, muttered in French, "This is the street. Can I leave now?" He was a little over five feet tall with a mass of curly black hair, soft brown skin, and furtive black eyes. He lived above Dr. Akbar Suleiman.

"Not yet," Randi told him. She pulled him back into the shadows, where Jon followed in three quick steps. "Which building is it?"

"N-number fifteen."

Jon said, "Which apartment?"

"Th-third floor. In back. You promised you'd pay me, and I could go."

"The alley is the only other way out?"

Hakim nodded eagerly. "The front entrance, or the alley. There's no other way."

Jon told Randi, "You take the alley, I'll go in."

"Who put you in charge?"

Hakim started to back away. She grabbed his collar and showed him her gun. He flinched and stopped moving.

Jon watched. "Sorry. You have a better idea?"

Randi shook her head reluctantly. "You're right, but ask next time. Remember that discussion we had about politeness? We'd better move. No telling how long he'll be there if he learns we were inquiring about him at the Pasteur. You've got your walkie-talkie?"

"Of course." Jon patted the pocket of his black trench coat. He hurried off along the narrow sidewalk. The lighted windows of the four-, five-, and six-story apartment houses were beacons above the deep valley of the street. At No. 15, he leaned back casually against the building and watched. Men and women were sauntering off to bars and bistros or perhaps home. A few couples, young and old, held hands, enjoying the spring twilight and each other. Jon waited until no one was close enough to observe him, and he made his move.

The building's outer door was ajar, and there was no concierge. He took out his Walther, slipped inside, and climbed the stairs to the third floor. The door of the rear apartment was closed. He listened and after a moment heard the sound of a radio in a distant room. Somewhere inside, someone had turned on a water tap and he could hear water rushing into a basin. He tried the door, but it was locked. He stepped back and examined it — a standard spring lock. If there were a dead bolt and it was locked, too, he would have a lot harder time getting in. On the other hand, most people were careless, not engaging the dead bolt until they went to bed.

He took out his small case of picklocks and went to work. He was still working when the water stopped running. There was a thunderous noise, and a fusillade from inside tore through the door inches above Jon's head. As needle-like pieces of wood shot through the air, pain seared Jon's side, and he clove to the floor, striking his left shoulder. Damn, he'd been hit. A wave of dizziness swept through him. He scrambled up to a sitting position, leaning back against the wall across from the shattered door, his Walther out and covering it. His side throbbed painfully, but he ignored it. He stared at the door.

When no one came out, he finally unbuttoned his coat and pulled up his shirt. A bullet had torn through his clothes and the flesh above his waist, leaving a purple gouge. It was bleeding, but not badly, and nothing serious had been damaged. He would deal with it later. He left the shirt out; the black fabric of his trench coat hid the blood and bullet holes.

He stood up, the Walther ready, stepped aside, and tossed his case of picklocks against the door. Another fusillade smashed and splintered more of the wood and metal, this time destroying the lock. Screams, shouts, and curses from above and below filled the stairwell.

With his right shoulder, Jon slammed through the door, dove to the side, rolled, and came up with his pistol in both hands. And stared.

A small, attractive woman sat cross-legged on a shabby couch facing the door, a large AK-47 in her hands, the weapon still aimed at the door. In apparent shock, she stared at it as if she had not seen him smash through.

"Put the weapon down!" Jon commanded in French. "Down! Now!"

Suddenly the woman snarled, leaped up, and swung the Kalashnikov toward him. He kicked, knocking the assault rifle from her hands. Grabbing her arm, he turned her around and pushed her ahead of him as he searched the apartment room by room.

There was no one else there. He put the Walther to the tiny woman's head and snarled in French, "Where is Dr. Suleiman?"

"Where you won't find him, chien!"

"What is he, your boyfriend?"

Her eyes snapped. "Jealous?"

Jon took a walkie-talkie two-way radio from his trench coat pocket and spoke low, "He's not here, but he was. Be careful."

He returned the walkie-talkie to his pocket, ripped up a bedsheet to tie the woman securely to a kitchen chair, and hurried from the apartment, letting the door lock behind him. He ran down the stairs and out into the street.

In the cobbled alley behind the apartment building that stank of urine and old wine, Randi stared up at the darkened windows of the third floor, her Beretta ready. Beside her, Hakim Gatta shifted nervously from foot to foot, a frightened rabbit eager to bolt for cover. They were waiting beneath a linden tree where the shadows were pitch-black. Above them, a slice of the night sky was visible, the stars just beginning to show, distant pinpricks among the clouds.