The Paris Option - Страница 66

Only when she had finished and was sipping her last glass did she suddenly feel sad. What was her father doing? The terrorists clearly intended to attack Israel somehow, using his DNA computer. But why was he involved? His mother had been a Muslim, but he had never been religious, had never even visited Algeria that she knew, hated terrorists, and had nothing against Jews or Israel. He was a scientist, for heaven's sake. It was all he had ever been. Pure reasoning, logic, and clear thinking were his life. In his world, there was never room for social boundaries, racial barriers, or ethnic or religious distinctions. There was only truth and hard facts.

Then what? What had happened, and what was this great future for France he saw? She was still trying to puzzle it out when she heard what sounded like a pickup arriving. Captain Bonnard and that sinister man they called Mauritania had left in one. Maybe they were returning now. Thérèse did not know where they had gone or why, but when they reappeared, it would be time to leave. Or so her father had told her.

Moments later, the key turned again in the lock, and Captain Bonnard entered. He was dressed in full uniform now, the staff-duty uniform of the French Foreign Legion complete with ribbons and regimental insignia and colors. His square face was grim, the firm chin high, his gaze clear, and his clipped blond hair hidden beneath his cap. He held his service pistol.

"He sent me, mademoiselle, because I'll shoot where he couldn't, you comprehend? I won't, of course, shoot to kill, but I'm an excellent marksman, and you can believe I won't allow your escape, oui?"

"You strike me as a man who would happily shoot a woman, Captain. Or a child, for that matter. The Legion is known for such things, oui?" she mocked him.

Bonnard's eyes went flat, but he made no response. Instead, he gestured with the pistol for her to precede him from the room. They went down the stairs to the chalet's timbered living room where Mauritania was leaning over a map spread out on a large table in the corner of the room. Her father stood behind, watching. There was a strange expression on his face that she could not place as well as a subdued excitement she had never seen, even when he made a research breakthrough.

Mauritania continued, "Please show me where this other hideout of yours is. I'll have more of my men meet us there."

Bonnard caught Thérèse's attention and pointed to a chair far from where Chambord and Mauritania stood. "Sit," he told her. "And remain there."

Thérèse settled uneasily into the chair, puzzled, as Bonnard approached the two men. She watched her father draw the same pistol she had seen in the villa. With surprise, she saw him make a quick movement and turn it on Mauritania.

His face and voice were as hard as granite. "You won't need that information, Mauritania. We know where it is. Come along. We're leaving now."

Mauritania had not looked up. "We can't go, Doctor. Abu Auda and my other men aren't here yet. There isn't space for all of us in the Bell helicopter, so we'll have to use their aircraft as well."

"That won't be necessary," Chambord said. "We won't be waiting for them."

Mauritania raised his gaze slowly from where he had been bent over, studying the map. He straightened and turned. When he saw the pistol in Chambord's hand, he went very still. He looked at Captain Bonnard, whose gun was now pointed at him as well.

"So?" Mauritania's brows raised a fraction, betraying only mild surprise at the two Frenchmen.

"You're an intelligent man, Mauritania. Don't attempt something you'll regret."

"I never do anything I'll regret, Doctor. May I ask what you think you're accomplishing?"

"Dispensing with your services. You've been useful. We thank you for all your good work, but from this moment on, you and your people will complicate the situation."

Mauritania seemed to consider that. "I take it you have a different plan. One you suspect we won't like."

"You'd agree to the initial stage. In fact, your brethren in other groups would be enthusiastic. But you, as you have often pointed out, are really guerrillas, not simple terrorists. You have concrete political goals, a narrow focus. Realistically, our focus is not yours, and therefore we need to dispense with you. To be more exact, with your men. You yourself will continue on with us, but as our 'guest' only. Eventually you will be of help to us."

"I doubt it." Mauritania's smooth facade cracked. "And who is to fly the helicopter? My pilot will do nothing unless I order it."

"Naturally. We expected that." Emile Chambord glanced at the French captain. "Bonnard, take Thérèse with you."

Bonnard grabbed her arm, pulled her up, and prodded her out the door.

Mauritania's light-colored eyes followed them. When the door closed, he looked up at Chambord.

Chambord nodded. "Yes, Captain Bonnard is a trained helicopter pilot. He'll fly us out of here."

Mauritania said nothing, but when two gunshots sounded in quick succession outside, he flinched.

Chambord showed no reaction at all. "After you, Mauritania."

He marched Mauritania to the chalet's entry, out the front door into the hazy mountain sunlight, and to a clearing among the pines where the Hughes scout helicopter was parked. Lying on the ground next to it was the body of the Saudi pilot, Mohammed. There were two bullet holes in his chest, and blood was thick on his clothes. Standing above him was Bonnard, who was now pointing his gun at Thérèse. A stricken look on her face, she held her hand over her mouth as if she were going to be sick.

Chambord studied her, searching for a sign that now she understood the seriousness of his purpose. He nodded to himself, satisfied, and turned to Bonnard. "The helicopter is refueled and serviced?"

"He had just finished."

"Bon. We'll be on our way." He smiled, a dreamy expression on his face. "By tomorrow, we will have changed history."

Bonnard climbed in first, followed by the stoic Mauritania and an ashen-faced Thérèse. Chambord entered last. As they buckled themselves in, and the rotors whined and turned, the scientist gave a final searching look across the sky. Moments later, the helicopter lifted off.

Chapter Thirty-one

Aloft Somewhere over Europe

The key was the hands. Escaping without free hands was possible only under exceptional and desperate circumstances. For the best odds, free hands were necessary. So when the terrorists had bound Jon's wrists behind him in the truck on the road to Tunis, he had placed them side by side in as straight a line as he could manage. In the fanatics' haste to escape the villa, they had not repositioned his wrists, and although they had bound them tight, the ruse had been partly successful. Since then, he had been twisting his arms and hands, expanding and contracting against the rope, over and over. Still, he had not gained enough slack. And time was running out.

The blindfold was another handicap. As he weighed all this, he felt his stomach drop. The Sikorsky was losing altitude, banking in a sweeping curve on the way to what felt like a landing. He had little time. With a sudden, blundering attack, he might destabilize the Sikorsky enough to bring it down, crash it. After all, it was designed to absorb crash-impact velocities, with crash-resistant seats and a crash-resistant, self-sealing fuel system. Still, the chances of his walking away would be only a hair above zero. And to crash the helicopter, he needed free hands.

If he could get free, and if he waited to attack just before landing, the helicopter would be low to the ground. He might survive without immobilizing injuries and be able to escape during the confusion. It was a long shot, but he saw no other option.

As the Sikorsky continued to descend, Jon worked frantically on the ropes, but there was no more give. Abruptly, at the front of the helicopter, Abu Auda said something angrily in Arabic. Others joined in, and the talk grew louder. Jon figured there were more than a dozen terrorists onboard. Soon everyone in the craft seemed to be arguing and comparing ideas about something they saw on the ground. Alarmed, they consulted in their many languages.

One of the voices demanded in English, "What's wrong?"

Above the noise of the rotors, Abu Auda shouted the bad news in French, with an occasional English word for those who did not understand that language: "Mauritania and the others aren't waiting for us at the chalet as planned. He isn't answering his radio either. There's an empty pickup near the chalet, but the scout helicopter's gone. Yes, there's someone lying in the clearing." He paused.

Jon felt tension rush through the vibrating craft as it continued its circling descent.

"Who is it?" someone called out.

"I can see him through my binoculars," Abu Auda told them. "It's Mohammed. There's blood on his chest." He hesitated. "He looks dead."

There was a furious outburst in Arabic, French, and all the other tongues. As Abu Auda shouted, trying to keep them under control, Jon continued to listen carefully. It became clear that Abu Auda had expected to find not only Mauritania but Dr. Chambord, Captain Bonnard, and Thérèse Chambord. The chalet was where Abu Auda was supposed to rendezvous with them, where Chambord would build another DNA computer.

A new voice raged, "You see what comes of trusting infidels, Fulani?"

"We told M. Mauritania not to work with them!"