The Paris Option - Страница 68

When he had seen no more sign of the Crescent Shield forces, he had felt secure enough to turn downhill, where he would have better odds of running into a road. He guessed he was in southeastern France. If he were right, it could be anywhere from Mulhouse to Grenoble. Each hour that passed out of touch with civilization made time more pressing. Because he needed to reach a telephone, he had risked reversing course too soon. He had not moved far enough from the chalet, and so the chopper had spotted him.

He must stop playing into their hands. He turned but did not go straight uphill again. Instead, he angled across the face of the slope toward the chalet, hoping to catch Abu Auda by surprise. Also, the chalet must be near some kind of road. The sudden cawing of a flock of crows taking off from the tops of nearby pines was the first hint he had made another mistake. The second was the frantic scurrying of some frightened animal a hundred yards to his left.

He had underestimated Abu Auda. A ground force had trailed the helicopter, in case Jon did exactly what he had done. Jon dove into the crevices of a rock outcropping to his right, where he could watch the entire sweep of the forest ahead. How many men had Abu Auda assigned to the trailing force? Twelve men was all he had, unless reinforcements had arrived from somewhere. High above, the pine tops moaned in the wind. Somewhere in the distance, bees buzzed and birds sang. But no birds sang here. The woods were eerie with quiet, waiting, too. It would not be long.

Then the shadows beneath the lofty pines appeared to vibrate, undulate like a thin fog. Out of the fog, as if floating on the shadows themselves, emerged another Afghan. This one was not alone. Another terrorist materialized some fifty yards to Jon's right and twenty yards farther down the slope. A third was an equal distance away on the other side.

Jon saw no others. He smiled a humorless smile. There had been no reinforcements.

Three against one and how many more from the helicopter coming up the slope behind? Probably six or seven. But if he acted quickly, they would not matter. This time, Abu Auda had miscalculated. He had not expected Jon to backtrack at such a sharp angle, which had brought him to the tailing threesome much sooner than they had estimated. Three against one, when the one was armed with an M16 and under cover, was not impossible.

Jon saw the first terrorist spot the rock outcropping and signal his companions to circle while he investigated. Jon figured they must know by now that he had the M16. Because Abu Auda was a strong commander, a thinker, he would have counted heads before they left the chalet. Which meant he would have discovered that he had an armed man missing. If they found the body, Auda would also be certain the M16 was gone.

Jon peered out carefully. The lead terrorist was advancing straight at the rocks. Jon's main consideration was how fast he could put all of them out of action or at least drive them to ground so he could slip away before they realized he was gone. But the first shot would bring the rest running. In all probability, someone would also alert the helicopter.

He waited until the other two were in line with the rocks, one on either side. By then, the lead man was less than twenty feet away. It was time. On edge, Jon raised up, squeezed off a quick cluster of three two into the first terrorist and, swiftly moving the rifle, one into the man on the east. He shifted the rifle again and squeezed two more at the man on the west. Then he ran.

He had hit the first one dead center. He would not get up. The other two had gone down, too, but he was unsure how badly he had wounded them. As he ran, he listened anxiously for clues. He heard a distant yell and nothing more. No running feet, no crashing through the bushes, no creaking of low tree branches. None of the noises of close pursuit.

Wary, seeking cover wherever he could, he raced on, angling downhill, until he heard the helicopter again. And dropped to a crouch beside a large pine. He watched up through small tunnels among the light-shimmering needles. Soon the chopper swept overhead, and Jon glimpsed a black face leaning out to scan below. Abu Auda.

The Sikorsky continued on. Jon could not remain here, because Abu Auda would not rely on aerial pursuit alone. Some of his men would still be on the ground, and Jon had to make a decision. But so did Abu Auda. He would have to guess which direction Jon ran.

As Jon listened intently for the sound of descent and landing, he tried to put himself in the killer's mind. Finally he decided that Abu Auda would expect him to head straight from his pursuers, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. Which meant, if he were right, that the chopper would land directly south. Jon turned and raced off to the right. Then he slowed and headed west down through the forest, trying to make as little noise as possible.

After less than an hour, the pine forest began to thin. Sweating, his wounds itching, Jon continued on across an open meadow and stopped in a fringe of trees, excited. A car was cruising past on an asphalt road below. He had heard no pursuit since turning west, and the occasional sound of the helicopter still searching the forest had been far off to his left, the south. He remained among the trees, hurrying north along the edge, hoping the road and the forest would meet or at least come much closer.

When he found a stream, he stopped and hunched beside it. Panting, he untied the white sleeve that Thérèse had used to bandage his arm after the missile strike at the villa. The wound was long but shallow. He washed it and his side, where a bullet had creased the skin; his forehead, where debris from the missile strike had scratched it; and his wrists. Some of the wounds were tinged with red, indicating small infections. Still, none was serious.

He splashed more of the cool spring water onto his hot, sweaty face, and, sighing, moved off again. The forest's sounds were normal here, the hushed quiet one would expect from a single person's moving through, not the utter stillness that told him many were intruding.

And then he paused. Hope filled him. Through the trees he could see a crossroads and a road sign. He looked all around and slipped cautiously from cover onto the asphalt. He tore across the road to the sign. At last he knew where he was: Grenoble 12KM. Not impossibly far, and he had been there before. But if he stayed on the road, he would be conspicuous. If the helicopter searched this far, he would be seen easily.

Making plans, he ran back into the forest and waited. When he heard the noise of a vehicle's engine, he smiled with relief. It was going in the right direction. He watched eagerly as it came around the bend a farm truck this time. He abandoned his M16 with all its ammunition in the pines and kicked duff over them. Then he stuck the Afghan's curved knife into one jacket pocket and the flare gun into the other, and waved both arms.

The farmer stopped, and Jon climbed into the cab, greeting the fellow in French. He explained that he was a stranger in the area, visiting a friend who had gone into Grenoble earlier. They were to meet for dinner, but his car refused to start so he had decided to walk and hope for a Good Samaritan. He had taken a tumble in the woods, and that was why he was so disheveled.

The farmer clucked with sympathy and chatted away about the advantages of the region, pleased for Jon's company in this remote land of soaring peaks, wide open spaces, and few inhabitants. They drove on, but Jon did not relax. His careful gaze kept watch.

Grenoble, France

Nestled in the French Alps, Grenoble was a stunning city — old and historic, known for its fine winter sports, particularly in downhill skiing, and its medieval landmarks. The farmer dropped Jon on the left bank of the Isre River at the place Grenette, a bustling square lined with sidewalk cafs. Nearby was the place St-Andre, the heart of Grenoble. The warm sunshine had brought people out, and they sat at small, outdoor tables in their crisp shirtsleeves, sipping espresso.

As he studied them, Jon realized again how lousy his own clothes looked. They were dirty and smoke-streaked, and he had no idea whether he had managed to clean his face in the stream. He was already attracting the wrong kind of attention, something he definitely did not want. He still had his wallet, and as soon as he called Fred Klein, he would buy new clothes.

He turned, orienting himself, and walked toward the place St-Andre. That was where he found what he needed first a public phone booth and dialed Fred Klein.

Klein's voice was surprised. "So you are alive?"

"You sound disappointed."

"Don't get sentimental, Colonel," Klein said dryly. "We'll hug later. There are a few things going on that you should know at once." He described the latest electronic disaster the blinded satellites. "I'd hoped the molecular computer was destroyed, and all we had was a nasty malfunction."

"You didn't believe that for a second. The damage is too widespread."

"Call it a naive hope."

"Did Randi Russell get away before the missile hit?"

"We wouldn't have known what really happened in Algeria if she hadn't. She's back in Paris. Where are you? Bring me up to date."

So Randi had made it. Jon slowly let his breath out. He reported the events since the missile strike and what he had learned.

Klein swore. "So you think the Crescent Shield's a front, too?"

"It makes sense. I can't see Darius Bonnard as an Islamic terrorist, no matter his Algerian connection. But he was in the right place at the right time to have made that surreptitious phone call from NATO. He or Chambord must've killed the Crescent Shield pilot at the chalet before we got there, and then they took off with Thérèse. Abu Auda was stunned. Outraged. Worried whether Mauritania was still alive. The way I read it, this was no sudden mutiny of the weak. This was the strong taking over as planned."