The Paris Option - Страница 50

"What puzzles you?"

"The painting. Well, not really a painting — a print copy of a painting. It was Emile's, and it was missing, too. I wonder why? Why on earth would terrorists want that?"

"What print, Marty?" Peter was impatient. He was already making plans in his mind. "Missing from where?"

"Emile's laboratory. It was his print of the famous The Grand Army Retreats from Moscow painting. You know it. Everyone does. It's the one in which Napoleon is riding his white horse, his chin sunk on his chest, with his ragged troops trudging through the snow behind him. They've been badly beaten. I think it was after the battle for Moscow. Now, why would terrorists steal that? It wasn't valuable. Just a print, after all. Not the real painting."

Peter shook his head. "I don't know, Marty."

"Odd, isn't it?" Marty mused. He stroked his chin, looking for a meaning.

Washington, D.C.

Fred Klein sat in the presidential bedroom, chewing again on the stem of his unlit pipe. There had been moments in the last few days when his jaw had been so tight he had nearly bitten through the stem. He had faced other crises of great magnitude and desperation, but never anything as tense and uncertain as this. It was the sense of impotence, the knowledge that if the enemy wanted to use the DNA computer there would be no defense against it. All their mighty weapons, built so carefully and expensively over the last half century, were useless, although they gave a feeling of security to the uninformed and unimaginative. In the end, all they had were the intelligence services. A few agents following a faint trail, like a single hunter in a planet-sized wilderness.

President Castilla came in from his sitting room, shed his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and flopped into a heavy leather armchair. "That was Pat Remia over at 10 Downing. Seems they've lost a top general — General Mooreand they think it's the doing of our terrorists." He leaned back, resting his head against the chair, his eyes closed.

"I know," Klein said. The light behind him reflected on his face, emphasizing the receding hairline and the deepening ravines in his face.

"Did you hear what General Henze thinks of our tactics? Our progress?"

Klein nodded.

"And?"

"He's wrong."

The president shook his head and pursed his lips. "I'm worried, Fred. General Henze says he's unimpressed by Smith's prospects for finding these people again, and I have to admit from what you've told me I'm concerned myself."

"In clandestine operations, Sam, progress is sometimes hard to see. We've got all our intelligence resources out there working on various aspects of this. Plus, Smith's teamed up with a couple of highly seasoned fellow agents. One from CIA, and one from MI6. It's unofficial, of course. But through them he can tap directly into CIA and MI6 resources. Because of all the communications problems, I haven't been as much help to him as I'd ordinarily be."

"Do they know about Covert-One?"

"Absolutely not."

The president crossed his hands over his wide girth. The room filled with silence. At last he looked across at Klein. "Thanks, Fred. Stay in touch. Close touch."

Klein stood up and headed toward the door. "I will. Thank you, Mr. President."

Chapter Twenty-four

Es Calo, Isla de Formentera

Friday, May 9

From where he lay on the low, sun-bleached hill, Jon raised his head just enough to see the Far de la Mola lighthouse, which loomed to the east on the highest point of this windswept island. All around spread pristine beaches that led down to clear, unspoiled waters. Since the island was not only largely undeveloped but essentially flat, he and Max had used every possible rock and thicket of the tough native brush for cover as they crawled closer to the three terrorists whom they had been following through the long night.

The trio — Dr. Akbar Suleiman, the other man from the Hotel St. Sulpice, and one of the armed guards from the lodge had parked their car above a narrow strip of sand, where they paced impatiently and stared out at a large, fast-looking motorboat that swung at anchor a hundred yards offshore.

In the small hours of the morning, the terrorists' Mercedes had crossed south into Spain, with Jon and Max tailing. It had been a long drive. By dawn, they were heading past Barcelona, the tips of the towers of the great Gaudi church of the Sagrada Familia to the right, and the seventeenth-century castle on the hill of Montjuic to the left. The extremists' car continued on, approaching El Prat Airport, and then past the major terminals. Finally it slowed and turned into an area of corporate, private, and charter facilities, where it parked in front of a helicopter charter service.

As the terrorists entered the heliport terminal, Jon and Max waited, their car far back, its motor idling. There was still no sign of the second car or of Abu Auda.

Jon asked, "The Company has a presence in Barcelona, right?"

"Possibly," Max acknowledged.

"Then get a chopper here and fast," Jon told him.

Soon after that, Dr. Suleiman and the others lifted off in a chartered civilian Bell 407. When a Seahawk helicopter arrived, Jon and Max had pursued the Bell across the Mediterranean to here, the southernmost main Balearic Island, where they were now lying among rocks and brush above the strip of beach.

As Jon watched, a large rubber raft splashed over the side of the motorboat that was anchored offshore. Jon had only minutes to decide what to do. If he lost the terrorists, it could take days, maybe weeks, to track the destination of the fast craft, which looked like a converted PT boat. Tailing a helicopter in another helicopter was not in itself inherently suspicious. After all, that was how they had followed the extremists here. More than one chopper could be going to the same place, and the tailing craft could hang far enough back in a clear sky to be almost invisible. Plus, the noise of distant engines would be drowned out by the quarry's own engines, and the question of fuel would not come up. But a helicopter following a boat, forced to fly circles because of its far greater speed, would instantly cause alarm. And there was no certainty the tracking helicopter would have enough fuel.

"I'm getting aboard that boat," he told Max. "You cover me, and wait for Randi to show. If she doesn't, fly back to Barcelona and contact her wherever she is. Tell her what I'm doing, and that she should throw out a dragnet for the boat. If she can't find it, sit tight, and I'll contact her."

Max gave a short nod. Then he resumed studying the speedboat swinging lazily on the swell of the blue water. "It looks damn chancy to me."

"Can't be helped."

Jon crawled backward until out of sight of the shore. Running, he circled to the far side of a rocky promontory, stripped to his shorts, and tied his trousers, Walther, and stiletto around his waist with his belt. From there, he trotted down to the sand and out into the shimmering sea. The water was cool, not yet as warm as it would be in summer. He dove in and swam underwater as far as he could, surfaced carefully, and looked around. The raft was to his left, halfway to shore, with a single crew member steering the small outboard motor toward the waiting trio on the beach. From what Jon could see, the deck of the old PT boat appeared deserted. He took a deep breath and submerged.

As he swam below the blue surface, came up, and submerged again, he considered options. The boat would be operated by no more than a crew of five, plus a captain. At least one crew member was on his way ashore, and no one else had appeared on deck. Where were the others? He had to get aboard and find clothes and a safe hiding place. It was not going to be easy, but there was no alternative.

He surfaced beside the boat, its white hull rising and falling with the swell. The stern slapped the water as it came down again, the power of it creating a small wake that pushed Jon off. He took a deep breath, dove again, and came up on the vessel's ocean side, hidden from shore. He paddled to where a rope-and-board ladder hung and treaded water as he strained to hear voices or movement aboard, but the only sounds anywhere were the excited cries of seagulls heading in to the island and the regular slapping of the boat's stern.

His nerves were on edge. Although there was no indication anyone was on the boat, he had no guarantee of that. His stiletto in his teeth, he timed the rhythm of the swell and caught the ladder as the boat slammed down. It was a balancing act, but he scrambled up the ladder, reached the deck, and raised his head.

No one was visible. He listened to his heart thunder, and then he climbed higher, crawled onto the deck, and fell prone, trying to be un-noticeable both on the boat and from the island. As he waited, he took his bearings. What he noted first was that not only was the large rubber raft gone, so was the usual dinghy. That was good news.

Watching and listening, he crab-walked, bare feet padding quietly on the wood, to the main hatch, where he slipped below. In the dim light, he worked his way forward along a narrow gangway between small rooms like the officers' quarters on a submarine. He was aware of every creak of the boat, of every groan of a joist, as he waited for the sound of a human voice or footstep.

There were five identical cubicles, one for each crewman, and a sixth at least twice as large for the captain. He found a pair of athletic shoes that would fit him. By the personal items lying around, all the cubicles appeared occupied. Individual quarters were a luxury afforded to few on a small, narrow boat built for speed. This many could mean long periods at sea and hazardous duty. Which also could mean a laundry. Even terrorists needed to wash their clothes, especially Muslims, for whom cleanliness was a commandment.